K8 the GR8

Let me introduce you to Murgatroyd.

I found him in Amsterdam.  I was walking through a purple haze in the city and fell into a hole.  Inside the hole was a shop.  The shop had many strange and wonderful things for sale;  mystical figures hung from the ceiling, wizards and dragons leered from behind glass cages.  A battle scene in full flight was arranged on a large table in the centre of the room.  The floor was paved with daggers and jewels which glinted in spite of the shop’s dark and musty atmosphere. 

I ventured deep into the bowels of the shop and found Murgatroyd standing on a rock near the back wall.  I was instantly drawn to his friendly smile and his amber eyes which seemed to be brimming with hysteria.  I saw a lot of myself in him.  I approached the old salesman to enquire about his price. 

“Ahh.” he said… “So you are the fabled chosen one.”

Enough said!  I whisked Murgatroyd from his perch and completed the sale, gleaming with joy at my find.  As I left the shop I heard the old man shout something about a warning and feeding after midnight but he didn’t follow me so it couldn’t have been that important.

Murgatroyd is now firmly at home in my living-room.  He is a brilliant conversation-starter and has never been beaten in a staring match.  I also have strong suspicions that he comes to life at night-time and gets up to mischief, then places evidence in clever ways to frame my toddler.  I don’t mind.  He has his uses.   He seems to bring me good luck, if there is such a thing, and once he even turned a canvassing politician to stone right there on my front doorstep when I asked him to.  It took me a long time to smash the statue up and arrange him in the garden, but it was worth it.

I don’t talk to him or anything, don’t get me wrong here… I’m not completely mad.  Anyway I don’t need to.  I understand him and he understands me.  He’s low maintenance, he’s house-trained, and he doesn’t answer back.  Every weirdo should have one. 

This is the troll family which Murgatroyd bravely left behind

Here was me, sitting on the bog and reading blurbs on packaging, as you do - when lo and behold, I noticed that the blurb on my sanitary towel packet not only told me that there was aloe vera on the product, but avocado as well! 

I had no idea that you could ingest nutrients that way. 

Just think, if you don’t enjoy cucumber or carrot for example, now you have other options too! 

Speaking of creepy stuff,  I thought I’d let you in to another of my weird fascinations.  This is your official warning.  If you’re squeamish about enclosed spaces or being buried alive, you really don’t need to read the following.

* * *

I’ve never been to Paris.  When I do someday get a chance, one of the first places I’ll be visiting will be “les carrières de Paris” or “the quarries of Paris.”  I saw a programme once (Scariest Places on Earth) which highlighted the immensity of the area underneath the city.  From their sensationalist point of view, they aired a tape which was found deep inside the vast warren of catacombs and crypts, apparently belonging to some poor schmuck who had long before dissapeared.  The footage was of the panicked journey undertaken by this amateur explorer.  You watched this chap wander further and further through small chambers, breathing quickly, obviously very spooked by the crunching of bones underfoot, macabre skulls decorating the walls and obscure graffiti.  You watched him walk faster and faster, facing too many turns and crevices which may or may not lead him back to the surface.  You see him arranging arrows made from bones, only to find minutes later that he was circling and utterly lost. 

The empathy you feel for this chap is overpowering.  The last few seconds on the tape show our man finally losing the plot.  He panics, screams, and drops the camera.  An ominous thud is heard, and we are left with nothing but a brief flash of a creature of some sort screeching past the lens.  We jump as we have never jumped before.

This is the only thing I’ve ever watched (and I’ve seen them all - Saw I, II, III, bah!) that has left me with nightmares.

Have I lost you?  Let me give you a brief history of this sordid tourist attraction.

In the first century BC, limestone was quarried from the site of Paris City, and used to make sarcophagi, and later the buildings of Paris. The Romans, being the resourceful type, constructed 300 km of tunnels and caverns.  In the 1700s, excavation ceased, and Paris began to have problems.  Cemeteries became overcrowded.  Waste was dumped into the Seine causing epidemics.  So, it was decided that the cemetaries would have to go, and all exhumed bodies would be placed in this underground tunnel system.  All 6 million bodies, representing 30 generations of Parisians.

 ”The remains of some six million people are collected here, and although individuals can’t be identified, it’s ironic that members of the French nobility have ended up side by side with the revolutionaries who exterminated them. The catacombs are said to house victims of the Reign of Terror, including Robespierre himself,executed on 27 July 1795, and Louis XVI’s sister, Mme Elisabeth, who went to the guillotine exactly a year earlier. Other illustrious inhabitants include comedian Scaramouche, and poet and academician Jean de la Fontaine, who both died in 1694, and Madame de Pompadour, courtesan to Louis XV and friend of Voltaire, who died in1764.” (ref)

Louis-Etienne Héricart de Thury, engineer-in-chief of the mines from 1776 to 1854, had the bones arranged in a ‘decorative way’, so that the catacombs could be opened to tourists in 1804.  Several brave people went to explore the tunnels to try to map the place, but so many people dissapeared, that in 1955 access was limited to just a small portion of the tombs.  There are however so many entrances to this warren, it is impossible to stop people wandering in to host weird parties, or to do a spot of cataphilia.  The tourist entrance in Montparnasse was once dubbed ‘Hells Gate’, and leads to a staircase which brings you down 130 steps, spiralling 20 feet into the caverns.

Arête! C’est ici l’Empire de la Mort - Stop! This is The Kingdom of the Dead.

* * *

The idea of getting lost in the miles of tunnels down there gives me night terrors, but it’s still a morbid fascination of mine.  It’s like a dark secret harboured by a well-loved city, full of legend, horror and ghoulishness.   Who wouldn’t want to brick themselves on a nice romantic holiday?

There are certain books that can read you better than you can read them.

A prime example of this would be your typical Medical Dictionary.  Every single time you open this book, it always flicks onto the same page.  The one with the large blown-up colour photograph of anal warts.  Yeaauch.

I have a book that gets me every single time.  It’s called Arthur C. Clarke’s World of Strange Powers.  It’s a fascinating book where Mr. C examines various supernatural anomalies, and gathers evidence or material fact to support them with regards to their authenticity.  For example, he rates under ‘highly probable’ things like Maledictions (voodoo), Apparitions, Firewalking  and Stigmata.  Under the heading ‘Almost certainly untrue’, he groups Survival after death, and Reincarnation.

Anyway, whenever I open this book, I always come across the page with this photograph first:

The story behind the picture:

There are a few photographs, apparently of ghosts, taken by reputable people, which have not been explained away.  One was snapped by the Rev. Kenneth Lord in Newby Church in North Yorkshire in the summer of 1954.  The church is in an exceptionally picturesque setting in the leafy grounds of one of England’s stately homes, Newby Hall, near Ripon.
Mr Lord had been appointed vicar of the parish and wanted some photographs of his church to send to some friends.  Of the 12 photographs Kenneth Lord took with his Rolleicord 4 that day, the most striking was frame 5, which showed the inside of the church and, by the altar, something else: a tall cloaked and hooded figure with a skull-like face.  The Rev. Lord is certain that there was no one else in the church during the photo session and that the place appeared quite normal through the viewfinder.  When he found the weird apparition on the printed film, he sought the opinions of experts.  ‘The film went to Kodak,’ said his wife, ‘because it was a Kodak film.  It went to an independent photographer - and various other bodies - and they could find no possible way in which it could have been faked.’

Creepy, isn’t it?  I’m a realist, and a skeptic, so I know there must be some explanation for it, but nonetheless… *shudder*

Today is a day for mooching around.  I mooched a sandwich together, and began farting around in storage boxes.  We have many ‘coudn’t be arsed unpacking this because sure we’ll be moving house soon anyway’ boxes, and to my delight I found an old diary of mine dating back to 1990.  I was ten years old.  Every single day was filled in, which is pretty unusual for me.  I had doodled little pictures on every page, and written addresses at the back relating to very old kid’s tv shows.  One of which was the address for the ‘Risk-a-Crisp’ competition on a Saturday morning kid’s magazine show.  The idea was that you were to package a single crisp (potato chip if you prefer) with as much padding as possible, then post it to England.  If it arrived on the show in tact (it can’t be a Burger-Bite or a Monster Munch because obviously that would be cheating and technically those are corn snacks as opposed to crisps), you won a prize.  Pure genius if you ask me.

I mooched through the pages looking for clues as to what I was up to on this day 17 years ago, and found this entry:

Only eight more days to my birthday!!! Daddy went to work.  I got up early.  I watched TV.  I watched “STRANGERS” again TWICE.  I went to the shops to get a paper, and a can of drink for mummy.  I met Maria, Sharon (her cousin) Karen (her cousin), and Laura Byrne.  I came home.  Daddy came home with Mr. Munelly.  With THEM, was mummy’s new motor bicycle.

*Bless*

I was delighted to see this entry, as I never get tired of ragging Ma about this bike.  It was less of a motor bicycle, more of a moped ‘bedoing-ga-mobile’.  It was blue, and came with full leathers.  The purpose of this moped was to give mum a bit more independance and mobility.  She’s never owned a car, nor does she have a licence, as a jippier motorist you will not meet.  Some people have the skills and temperament to drive, others don’t.  Simple as that really.

The moped sat in the front porch in a menacing stance for a long time.  I would sit on it wistfully and imagine bombing up and down our road on it, making brrrm noises and bouncing up-and-down.  It was such a fascinating piece of machinery to a young kid, accessible in ways that cars could never be.  I nagged mum about it, begging her to bring me for a short hop somewhere, but she was having none of it. 

Finally one day, the planets aligned into position, and mum jumped out of her seat and ordered me to get her driving gear.  Delighted beyond reason, I ran to fetch the cycling helmets and gloves, and hopped onto the moped behind her.  We drove at 8mph to the local supermarket on the footpath of our quiet suburban road without complications.

Upon reaching the carpark of the busy supermarket however, mum’s disposition changed.  A car had entered the carpark a few yards away and was circling towards us.

“Oh good mother of… oh fuck!  Fuck.  Mary and the saints preserve us!  Jesus!” was muttered in panicked tones from underneath her helmet.  Maybe those weren’t her exact words, but I know my mum and stressful situations so let’s presume it’s accurate.  She came to a halt in the centre of the carpark and froze.  I nudged her and pointed out the gathering posse of cars behind us, but to no avail.  She was panic-stricken.  My moment of glory had arrived!  We swapped positions, and I finally got to take control of the moped, scooting it around the gathered traffic and into a parking space.  

Despite my protests, we left the poor moped in the carpark and walked home.  Mum sold it as soon as the valium took effect.

She didn’t complain about lack of independance and mobility for a long time after that incident.

I found this painting I did years ago when I got a brand new set of oils.  It’s a bit shite, I know that, but I found it gas analysing it, what with the flames licking up the side of the bed and that.   I must have been going through a Bewick phase.

Nice Arse!

Now you know what The Accidental Terrorist looks like.

It’s like being back at school, this blogging business.  Sixty just passed me a note.  I’ll have to scribble this quickly before the teacher sees me.  Then I have to figure out exactly what are the differences between tagging and memeing. 

Here are 8 random facts about yours truly:

1. I’ve always wanted to be a pilot

2. If I won a stash of money and got to buy a swish car, it would be a souped-up mini cooper.

3. Clowns scare the bejeezus out of me.

4. Every time I see a magpie, I have to wave at it with my left hand. (Tradition, not superstition.)

5. I sing They Might Be Giant’s ‘Birdhouse in your Soul’ when I’m in the shower.  Nobody else seems to know this song!

6. I have nasty habit of leaving disposable contact lenses in for weeks at a time.

7. I am a very hairy girl.  I even have to wax my fingers.

8. My index toe is longer than my big toe.  Apparently that’s a Greek thing.

All right fockers!  It’s your turn…

Baino!! (my virtual drinking buddy)

Bertie’s Third Nipple (A truly mad fecker)

Me Aul’ Lad

Daz (Whiter than white in his new uniform)

Stupid Irish Daddy (When he gets back from his holliers)

Brian F (A teddybear with a dirty great big gun)

Me Mammy

Kate (She and I have a LOT in common)

I was considering mememeing Grannymar too, but I know she really HATES these things, and she’s feeling a little bit poorly at the moment.  So go on over there and give her a big virtual hug.

The darnedest thing happened earlier on…

My wee two year old was out in the street playing with our dog.  She was wearing her tatty pink princess dress, which is an item of clothing she obsesses about and has worn for the last three days.  She wore wellington boots, and her brother’s over-sized grey sweater.  Her hair was un brushed and wild.  She looked like a tiny orphan, caught in her own little imaginary world, dancing in puddles and blowing washing-up-liquid bubbles from an old plastic jar. 

Suddenly, her presence on the road was noticed by the other kids on the street, who swarmed outside to her.  She’s a bit of a novelty on the road. I don’t let her out there much because of the weather, and the fact that she has a tendency to invite herself (or just walk in) to other folk’s houses.  As the road became suddenly busier with the sounds of laughter, shouting and heavy footsteps jumping in puddles, I focussed on my kid.  She was oblivious to anything other than her jar of bubbles and her dog.  Every time she blew a bubble, the dog would leap into the air and snap loudly in an attempt to eat it.  This could go on for hours… days, if you’d let them.  Each bubble popped by the dog would be accompanied by peals of mini laughter from the little girl.

Every now and then, however, a bubble would escape and soar upwards over the rooftops and into the sky.  I caught myself staring at these bubbles in horror.  I felt an overwhelming need, like an obsessive compulsion to catch those drifting bubbles filled with the small child’s breath.  It felt like a little part of her innocence was being lost with each inaudible pop above the chaos and curses below.  If I could, I would’ve trapped those bubbles in a jar to keep forever, but I couldn’t, and it felt like my heart was about to break.

But then she came back in to me and hugged my leg before asking for a biscuit, and I found out that all of those lost bubbles were inside of me anyway.   

A ’snot gobbler’ is a phrase coined by my father, to describe any young lad/gurrier, the type of kid who has a perpetual stream of green goo running from nose to upper lip.

This particular snot-gobbler is aged 7, and was sitting on a wall, watching me unpack groceries from the car. 

S.G.: “D’you want a turtle?”

Me: “Say what?”

SG: “I have two turtles buh I’m givin them away ‘cos one bit me.  Me uncle gave them to me for free but I’ll sell them to you for 60 euros.”

Me: “You have a lot to learn about marketing, son.  Why did the turtle bite you?”

SG: *shrugs*  after a long pause; “I was poking its nose.  I wanted to see if its face turned inside out.”

Me: “Did it?”

SG: “Nah, it bit me.  I don’t want it anymore.”

Me: “I’m sure the feeling is mutual.”

SG: “Wha?”

Me: “So have you nothing better to be doing with yourself on a nice day like today?”

SG: ”I’m grounded outside.”

Me: “That’s an oxymoron kid.  What did you do to deserve that?”

SG: “Me mammy went shopping in Tescos and dropped me and me friend into a building site nearby until she was finished.  We were there for ages and got bored so we broke loads o’ windows in the buildings.  Nobody seen us though,  ‘xept mammy.”

Me: “That was kind of stupid, wasn’t it?  A lot of people are going to be very angry about the amount of money they’re going to have to fork out to repair those windows.”

SG: “Don’t care.”

Me: “I would if I were you.  Your fingerprints will be all over that building site.  The police’ll be able to catch you in no time at all, then it’s jail-time for you, kiddo.  You’ll get 25 years for that.”

SG: *wide-eyed*  Shoiyh!!!

This is how it goes down in our house.

To set the scene, it is 10.30am Sunday morning.  I and the A.T. are fast asleep in bed.  A.T. had been out the night before, and had called me at 5.30am (instead of the arranged 1.30am plan) looking for a lift home.  I had politely told him to stick the idea somewhere unpleasant, and told him to wait for a few hours.  I got another call at 9.00am, pleading had turned to begging, as the party sounded like it was still going and the sofa was getting sticky.  Like I say, an hour later we were both home, back in bed, leaving the children to their own devices.

A.T.’s mobile phone rings.
My brain made my arm reach for the phone to fling it at A.T.
A.T. sits bolt upright.

“Bollocks!!  I forgot all about that!  Here!!!” he shouts as he flings the phone back at me, still ringing. 
“Forgot what?  Who is it? Meh?” I wake up in a groggy haze, trying to remember what day it is and where I am. A.T. is fast asleep again.
“Hello!” I say in my brightest ‘I’m wide awake, I swear!’ voice, while simultaneously trying to regain control of an escaped contact lens.
“Hiya, it’s Mellissa, are you coming over later?”

I give A.T. a dig.  Thus follows a double conversation, one half mumbled from a pillow, the other being the phone inquiring about the day’s plans.  I get confused at this stage, and a heap of verbal diarrhoea follows.  The speech function of my brain is only booting up at this point.

“What?  Yeah, sure!” I say.  “He mentioned..is… um yesterday.. but he forgot to tell.. what?  Yeah.  I mean yeah because I’d… I’m not sure.”
“….birthday…” The phone said.

“What?  I forgot.  Oh.  What?  Birthday did you say? Nobody didn’t tell me.  Well he did but I forgot.  Sorry.  What?”  With every word followed a little ‘D’OH!’ noise in my head. 

*Got to regain control of brain*

Luckily though…

“Hello?  The signal’s very bad, I can hardly hear you!  Can you hear me?”  Then followed 5 minutes of “Hello?, Hello?, Are you there?!?!” Until I ran in the semi-nip to the front room thus giving the neighbours an unneccesary eyeful over breakfast.  Mobile phone reception improved instantly.

“Did I wake you up?” The phone enquired politely.
“Fu.. I mean God no!  Sure I’ve been up for hours finishing the ironing!”
“Oh good, so anyway, are you coming to Aoife’s party later?”  The penny drops.  Daughter.  2nd birthday.  Party.  Lots of children and chaos with a half-life of six hours.
“Yeah!  Of course!  When do you want us?”
“4?”
“Sound.  Laters!”

*groan*
Back to bed.

Resurface at 1.30pm.  Mental slap across own face: No present!!! No card!!!!  What do do?  Where to go on a Sunday?!?

*Minor panic ensues for 30 minutes*

William Tell’s overture plays loudly in my head as I drive to the nearest town to buy DVDs and Dora the Explorer shoes.  Thank you Heatons.  You rock.

The rest is a blur of coffee, cocktail sausages, cigarettes and a lot of rain.

I bet I wake up and it’s 10.30am and I’ll have dreamed it all.  I’ll run in to the computer to blog about it and find that it has already been written and I am in a parallel universe where computers control reality.  Or I’ll wake up and find that I’m really on the planet Zovirax where I’ve been all along.

What?!?

I can’t function without sleep.  I’m going mad again.

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