(1 - Paperboy)
Monday, January 23, 2006
MESSY WESSY
The Yahtzee Nazi herself, Miss Donna Wescott, has taken her very wee body away from Ireland, leaving a Donna-shaped hole in Cork City. No more would I hear her intermittently screech lyrics from her iPod as she potters around the kitchen. No longer would I hear the expression "too bright" whenever we entered anywhere where the lighting level was a few degrees above pitch. No longer would I have her getting dressed and then asking me if she looked like a boy, or if she's going to work. No longer would I have her to ask me to refrain from looking at her arse. No longer would I look into her little sad face and hear her say "aw I was holding out Kev" whenever she heard of any of my romantic escapades. No longer would I hear hear her girly farts followed by a cheeky "oops!". No longer would I dance with her whilst making our way up ballyhooley road,her iPod earphones split between us. No longer would she call me Buddha whilst rubbing my year-round christmas belly for luck. No longer would I hear that classic joke :"What did the Leprechaun say to the rabbit?... f*ck off!" No longer would I get my arse kicked in scrabble, atupidly allowing Donna to include "wog" as a valid word. No longer will I hear that deeply philosophical musing: "would you rather do a donkey or a dead person?" No longer would I have trouble distiguishing between the names "Alan" and "Ellen" throught her thick Melbourne accent (or is that Malbourne?"
And no longer will the expression "f*ckin c*nts" seem as socially acceptable (I once suggested "fornicating vaginas" as a substitute, to which Donna's response was: "Keep it clean Kev..."
Poor Donna was a little emotional when we parted ways. Emotional and drunk. The dirfference bewteen drunk Donna and sober Donna is demonstrable through these two text messages she sent me, one on her last night and the next the morning of her departure.
Drunk Donna:
"kev I'm actually crying typing this. I'm going to miss you so much. I hope you come to Aus. I can't imagine not having you around"
Sober Donna:
"Hey Buddha. Just about to board. Take it easy and ya better get to Aus! Ya c*nt!"
Charming girl. I'm glad she's f*cked off.
The Yahtzee Nazi herself, Miss Donna Wescott, has taken her very wee body away from Ireland, leaving a Donna-shaped hole in Cork City. No more would I hear her intermittently screech lyrics from her iPod as she potters around the kitchen. No longer would I hear the expression "too bright" whenever we entered anywhere where the lighting level was a few degrees above pitch. No longer would I have her getting dressed and then asking me if she looked like a boy, or if she's going to work. No longer would I have her to ask me to refrain from looking at her arse. No longer would I look into her little sad face and hear her say "aw I was holding out Kev" whenever she heard of any of my romantic escapades. No longer would I hear hear her girly farts followed by a cheeky "oops!". No longer would I dance with her whilst making our way up ballyhooley road,her iPod earphones split between us. No longer would she call me Buddha whilst rubbing my year-round christmas belly for luck. No longer would I hear that classic joke :"What did the Leprechaun say to the rabbit?... f*ck off!" No longer would I get my arse kicked in scrabble, atupidly allowing Donna to include "wog" as a valid word. No longer will I hear that deeply philosophical musing: "would you rather do a donkey or a dead person?" No longer would I have trouble distiguishing between the names "Alan" and "Ellen" throught her thick Melbourne accent (or is that Malbourne?"
And no longer will the expression "f*ckin c*nts" seem as socially acceptable (I once suggested "fornicating vaginas" as a substitute, to which Donna's response was: "Keep it clean Kev..."
Poor Donna was a little emotional when we parted ways. Emotional and drunk. The dirfference bewteen drunk Donna and sober Donna is demonstrable through these two text messages she sent me, one on her last night and the next the morning of her departure.
Drunk Donna:
"kev I'm actually crying typing this. I'm going to miss you so much. I hope you come to Aus. I can't imagine not having you around"
Sober Donna:
"Hey Buddha. Just about to board. Take it easy and ya better get to Aus! Ya c*nt!"
Charming girl. I'm glad she's f*cked off.
A very Messy Wessy takes some quiet time on Christmas day
Saturday, January 14, 2006
PANZERS AUF DER UNIVERSCHEN
This Christmas, the planets were aligned in a peculiar way, not only did it give me a feast of North American-ness as has been mentioned, but also resulted in a rare meeting of the "Panzies of the Universe," a group of Portmarnock vagabonds that fancy themselves as intrepid superheroes in another plane of existence. Hayman, Crapman and I met up, along with the Crapwife and the Crapcousins, for a long night of silliness. I'm not sure where the name for our little group "the panzies of the universe" came about, but I'd like to think it's a contraction of the more masculine and fearsome "Panzers of the universe" after the German tank thingy (an easy way to make anything scary is simply to translate it into German, suddenly "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" takes on all sorts of sinster overtones). The title of "Panzies" would make it sound like a homosexual love-in, but we're all as straight as a Roman road I can assure you. Okay, so Hayman and I shared a double-bed. Okay so we talked long into the night about our dreams to set up a gay club in Portmarnock called "Port-My-Cock" (Get it?). Okay, so at certain points of the night there was almost definitley spooning, and okay, so I got random pokes from the ample Haywilly (tm). But I can assure you we're all-belching all-farting all-FHM-reading sport-watching your-mothers-a-something-joke telling bunch of chisled iron archetypes of butchness. Well, except Crapman. Me and the Hayman having been trying to drag him out of the closet for years.
It was with a weary head that I arose the next morning to make my way back to Cork. And sitting comfortably was very difficult for many hours afterwards. Thanks a lot Hayman you smelly Feckit.
This Christmas, the planets were aligned in a peculiar way, not only did it give me a feast of North American-ness as has been mentioned, but also resulted in a rare meeting of the "Panzies of the Universe," a group of Portmarnock vagabonds that fancy themselves as intrepid superheroes in another plane of existence. Hayman, Crapman and I met up, along with the Crapwife and the Crapcousins, for a long night of silliness. I'm not sure where the name for our little group "the panzies of the universe" came about, but I'd like to think it's a contraction of the more masculine and fearsome "Panzers of the universe" after the German tank thingy (an easy way to make anything scary is simply to translate it into German, suddenly "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" takes on all sorts of sinster overtones). The title of "Panzies" would make it sound like a homosexual love-in, but we're all as straight as a Roman road I can assure you. Okay, so Hayman and I shared a double-bed. Okay so we talked long into the night about our dreams to set up a gay club in Portmarnock called "Port-My-Cock" (Get it?). Okay, so at certain points of the night there was almost definitley spooning, and okay, so I got random pokes from the ample Haywilly (tm). But I can assure you we're all-belching all-farting all-FHM-reading sport-watching your-mothers-a-something-joke telling bunch of chisled iron archetypes of butchness. Well, except Crapman. Me and the Hayman having been trying to drag him out of the closet for years.
It was with a weary head that I arose the next morning to make my way back to Cork. And sitting comfortably was very difficult for many hours afterwards. Thanks a lot Hayman you smelly Feckit.
Saturday, January 07, 2006
I GOT MY MONEY BACK
In October I wrote a Flog entry that utterly backfired."RID YOUR HOME OF CANADIANS OR YOUR MONEY BACK", referred to two Canadian friends of mine Kara and clim (or is that Clara and Kim? their teedle-dum and tweedle-dee aspect can result in a morphing of their identies) It read: "Now that that double-act have again departed, Cork is more serene place. No longer is there a whiney north-American drawl to razor-blade through the silence, no longer does the beamish-and-dogshit Cork air have to carry the impossibly-loud octave of a people who must all live very far apart from one another 'cause all they seem to do is shout." Not long after I get an email with "sneak attack" in the subject line. "Hey dude, just when you thought you'd gotten rid of the canadian girls we go for a sneak attack when you least expect it. We've booked flights into cork dec 21 and fly out on the 30th. and it's all your fault. we we're listening to the Pogues christmas song you burnt for kim, got tiery eyed [sic]and booked flights all within the course on 30 min."
Sketch lads.
Suddenly the stock of Megasleep Earplugs Ireland went up four hundred percent, the pubs of Ireland ordered an emergency shipment from Diageo, and the Dail passed a rushed bill to make an Hiberno-Canadian sexual coupling a finable offence. The hatches were bolted down, the airport police were put on high alert, and the nervous popuation quickly readied itself. The cattle huddled hodgepodge in the corner of their fields, the more vunerable woodland rodents scurried to their dens and burrows, and the birds - for the moment at least - had silenced their carefree chirps.
The storm was coming.
I reread the email as I sat in the internet call-shop, imagining this pre-apocolyptic scenario when something extraordinary happened. This attractive twinkle-eyed young girl came in and asked me for my contact details. But wait - that wasn't the extraordinary thing: from her lips there came an unmistakable North-American inflection that was - amazingly - soft spoken.
Lindsey, a cherubine Missourian seduced me into an entirely new North American world, to the beer-swill and bubble of the energetic U.S population. And there - typically - I found myself again, surrounded by the storm.
And then hurricane Clim hit. It was like tag-team-North-Americans: As Lindsey's plane landed in Kansas, Clara and Kim were boarding theirs in London ready to visit their home away from home. Cork was ready for 'em and so was I. I hoped. I had missed them, accents and all, and they were just the fun-and-frolicks tonic I needed after my all-too-brief exposure to Lindsey. So bring-it-on, what-up, yee-haw and rootin-tooin etc. American dollars welcome here, me love you long time.
In October I wrote a Flog entry that utterly backfired."RID YOUR HOME OF CANADIANS OR YOUR MONEY BACK", referred to two Canadian friends of mine Kara and clim (or is that Clara and Kim? their teedle-dum and tweedle-dee aspect can result in a morphing of their identies) It read: "Now that that double-act have again departed, Cork is more serene place. No longer is there a whiney north-American drawl to razor-blade through the silence, no longer does the beamish-and-dogshit Cork air have to carry the impossibly-loud octave of a people who must all live very far apart from one another 'cause all they seem to do is shout." Not long after I get an email with "sneak attack" in the subject line. "Hey dude, just when you thought you'd gotten rid of the canadian girls we go for a sneak attack when you least expect it. We've booked flights into cork dec 21 and fly out on the 30th. and it's all your fault. we we're listening to the Pogues christmas song you burnt for kim, got tiery eyed [sic]and booked flights all within the course on 30 min."
Sketch lads.
Suddenly the stock of Megasleep Earplugs Ireland went up four hundred percent, the pubs of Ireland ordered an emergency shipment from Diageo, and the Dail passed a rushed bill to make an Hiberno-Canadian sexual coupling a finable offence. The hatches were bolted down, the airport police were put on high alert, and the nervous popuation quickly readied itself. The cattle huddled hodgepodge in the corner of their fields, the more vunerable woodland rodents scurried to their dens and burrows, and the birds - for the moment at least - had silenced their carefree chirps.
The storm was coming.
I reread the email as I sat in the internet call-shop, imagining this pre-apocolyptic scenario when something extraordinary happened. This attractive twinkle-eyed young girl came in and asked me for my contact details. But wait - that wasn't the extraordinary thing: from her lips there came an unmistakable North-American inflection that was - amazingly - soft spoken.
Lindsey, a cherubine Missourian seduced me into an entirely new North American world, to the beer-swill and bubble of the energetic U.S population. And there - typically - I found myself again, surrounded by the storm.
And then hurricane Clim hit. It was like tag-team-North-Americans: As Lindsey's plane landed in Kansas, Clara and Kim were boarding theirs in London ready to visit their home away from home. Cork was ready for 'em and so was I. I hoped. I had missed them, accents and all, and they were just the fun-and-frolicks tonic I needed after my all-too-brief exposure to Lindsey. So bring-it-on, what-up, yee-haw and rootin-tooin etc. American dollars welcome here, me love you long time.
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