The hills are cold in these parts…
Our house wasn’t broken into last night thank Jehovah, but instead I was robbed today in broad daylight at work.
You might be imagining poor K8 the Gr8 wrestling for dear life with a scumbag and a handbag full of takings, but no, I’m learning a more sinister truth lately… it’s the Toffs in the hills surrounding Bray that are the real scoundrels.
I was sent to a large modern house on Nouveau Riche Avenue in the suburbs of Bray to pick up Mr and Mrs Toff. I was supposed to be bringing them to Blacklyon (in Bray or Greystones or wherever the hell it is), but soon found out that they wanted to go to Knocklyon, which is near Firhouse on the M50. CHA-CHING!- thinks me, as I radio the correction in.
-o-
Base: Ok, go ahead K8, That’ll be €48.
Mr Toff: (who is sitting beside me) No. No no no no no. That’s too much. That would bring me to the airport! No no no, €30.
I am stuck in a really nasty spot. I now have to radio in the complaint to see if Base will drop the price, when I know they won’t. I dither on the CB for a few seconds, then Mr Toff decides to ring the base himself.
He argues loudly and gives Headquarters hell, screaming about rates and distance and time and reports to management, then he orders me to bring him back home. His wife supports her husband by repeating the last word of each sentence back to him, which bugged the shit out of me.
Mr. Toff: This is absolutely ridiculous (now off the phone) behaviour from a reputable company. We shall never call this company again besides the call they’ll get from me tomorrow morning with proof that their rates are extortionate. Blah blah blah blah rant rant rant, all the way home. In my face, too, which was really bloody distracting.
-o-
When I dropped Mr and Mrs Toff back to their house (may it burn to the ground), they gave me absolutely no money for my time at all, even though I was polite throughout the whole ordeal. I had just wasted 40 minutes of my workday on two wankers just for the sake of being nice. I should have kicked them out of the car the second I realised they weren’t going to pay!!!
Curse this fucking need to please!!!!
I’m absolutely fucking raging that I didn’t kick them out right there on the N11 and get to bask in the image of their angry lost faces getting smaller and smaller in my rear-view mirror as I drove away for a proper fare.
I have most definately learned my lesson for the next time this happens.
“Sorry mate, pay up or stay here. It’s not personal, it’s business!”
(MOSTLY FOUND AT WARNING LABEL GENERATOR.COM)
Dodgy
I was alone in the house last night, and was doing what I usually do after work… I had let the dog in and fed him, had then turned off all the downstairs lights and toddled on up to the computer room to stare at the screen for a few hours before bed.
Thing is, while I was lost in cyberland, a noise from downstairs entered my consciousness. The front door handle was rattling. I froze and listened. There was silence for about 10 seconds, then suddenly a fierce growling began, followed by ‘RAWR RAR RAR RAR RAWR!!!!’ which was the comforting sound of Wouldye going mental. I went downstairs, found the door unlocked but closed, had a good look up and down the street, then came back inside to calm the mutt (who I had presumed had seen a cat and had tried to open the front door himself to chase it).
Tonight after work, TAT told me that Mrs. Two Doors Down had been broken into… last night!
He told me that the Gardee had been up earlier that day to take fingerprints, and that they had an eyewitness account of a man looking in MY front window and attempting to enter the premises while I was upstairs.
Atta boy, Wouldye.
Did I ever tell you I absolutely love my dog?
Yes, I have indeed inserted the sharp contents of my kitchen drawers into many hidden nooks and crevices around the house for easy access, and there is a souvenir police baton hidden under my coat-rack in the hall. He can fuck right off if he thinks me and my dog are easy victims.
I’ll let you know tomorrow if I was broken into tonight or not, and whether I kicked ass or let Wouldye do all the work. Stay tuned!
6 Cromulent Words
Grandad maimed me elaborately.
I’ve to describe meself in 6 words, which would be -
Moody; Loyal; Misinterpreted; Lazy; Ditzy; Strange
You know what? I’m going to save you all the ball-ache of doing this or explaining to me that you’ve already done it, thank you very much, and I’m going to go off and trawl the internet for random blogs as a random curiosity project for myself instead.
Here’s who I found:
My Strange Blog… Rick Gottlieb’s Blog… RealFake… Stalking with the stars… Truckdriver Blog
(You don’t know me, but I just maimed you. My dad made me do it.)
Ogham my…
I got more hard-earned payment for my webdesign efforts today! I burned candles from all ends working on Celt Clan Ink, and it’s pretty much finished, barring a few tweaks and a more involved forms page. There are now some pretty excellent photos in there.
So anyway, back to my payment:
What’s that all about then?
Ogham was carved and read from BOTTOM to TOP.
(Also carved, occasionally, right to left).Also written as ogam or ogum, it is pronounced “AHG-m” or “OH-ehm.” Ogham served as an alphabet for one of the ancient Celtic languages. Its origin is uncertain: it may have been adapted from a sign language.
Current understanding is that the names of the main twenty letters are also the names of 20 trees sacred to the druids.
Some authors have suggested the existance of a 13 month calendar which shared some of these names.A 15th century treatise on Ogham, The Book of Ballymote, confirms that ogham was a secret, ritualistic language.
However, there is no direct evidence that the Ogham alphabet was used [in antiquity] for divination or any other magical purposes. (Taken from http://ogham.lyberty.com/oghamintro.html)
The first third of the tattoo is the name of my firstborn. The numbers show the date of his birth, and the infinity symbol represents his place in this world.
The latter part is the name of my little girl, with a smiley face slyly hidden to represent her infectious happiness.
I used the following alphabet (there are many different versions) and added my own tweaks and scribbles to add more information:
I’m aware that I’m going to have to explain all of this many many times during my life, but it’s ok. It’ll give my taxi punters a good conversation start, I’m sick of talking about the weather.
The Accidental Terrorist has gone a bit mental regarding the website contract, he is planning a portrait of Wouldye on his shoulderblade, and has already gone for some celtic warrior inking:
Pretty amazing art, innit?
What was that website again? Oh yeah… Celt Clan Ink! Great design, isn’t it? I wonder who wrote that site…
Infinity… a not-so-short story
Mr O’Boyle was in his senior years and lived alone in a quiet cul-de-sac in the suburbs of an unforgiving town. His cupboards were bare, his house was cold, and few lights were lit to burn a hole in his solitude.
Atta had grown up in a different environment, a world apart spoilt by ample means. Her family lived in an era where their planet was on the brink of a crisis – lords fought for land and fuel and gained neither, for both were being rapidly depleted. Paranoia sulked on every corner and leaders passed their problems around like viruses, each problem mutating cleverly and rapidly becoming immune to old fashioned common sense.
Mr O’Boyle shivered. He eyed his coal basket with a similar gaze to that of a lost soul for a bottle of gin. The old clock by the fridge ticked stubbornly and argued time with each echo that bounced from the cold stone walls. Mr O’Boyle listened and remained still in the warmth of his decrepid chair.
Several hundred years passed on Atta’s planet. Her great-great-great grandchildren grew without knowing of the hardships their predecessors had battled through, and were genetically sound, intelligent and resourceful. Commerce had grown clever in its old age, and had thrown its resources into science and learning. Tolerance of material value had melted away and revealed bright young tendrils of self-sufficiency underneath.
Mr O’Boyle slowly stood and his bones (dismissive of his longing for pain relief and warmth) slowed his crossing to the fireplace. He stooped slowly to pile the tinder and charcoal together into a flammable tent, then reached for a box of matches which he slowly slid open. His tremors reverberated through the tips of his fingers making the simple act of lighting a match pure torture.
A small child played under an apple tree, turning leaves to pure energy with her new birthday toy; She watched each glow and fizzle with mild amusement while her grandmother still regarded the effect with pure unbridled disbelief. The third sun was rising rapidly and reminded them of dinner and avoidance of evening heat. They stretched their hands towards each other and stood up, brushing fibres from their clothes. They walked home and chatted about the way things were.
The match connected and snapped in half as the last one had done before it. Mr O’Boyle sighed and removed another, sucking his breath in an attempt to quiet his shuddering hands. This third match connected and burst into life. It travelled rapidly to the wood in the fire and was nested underneath, its energy enveloping everything above it so that Mr O’Boyle himself was bathed in a warm pool of flickering heat.
Atta’s world imploded, a fact unknown to its occupants who had by this time grown scarce. The old world ceased to exist in the blink of a sparrow’s eye, and a new one was born of parallel molecular structure. Atta’s world soon learned the skills of simple cell creation and began to adapt.
Mr O’Boyle basked in the fiery glow, and decided to make a cup of tea in the spirit of self-indulgence. By the time it was made, Atta’s world had invented the car.
Meanwhile the fire burned incomprehensibly slowly turning it’s dissolving carbon flakes to dust.
Self help for bloggers
Rest easy ladies and gentlemen, for it has arrived:
We all knew it would be created, that it was a matter of inevitability, and now here it is.
Sign up and take part in what will soon be the biggest blogging forum in the world!
*cue fireworks*
Remember, you heard it from me first.
Thanks Roy :)
A sunny evening incident
I picked up a few Galweigans from Johnny Fox’s today, let them out for a quick ice-cream at the Spar in Enniskerry, then brought them up to the Ritz-Carlton where they were staying. I asked them what it was like, being that these seemed a particularily un-snobberly bunch of people.
Betsy- Ah, it’s graaand… you know, don’t go in if you have dirty shoes though!
Me- So how long are you staying in this neck of the woods?
Betsy- Just the one night, home tomorrow.
Betsy’s son (leans forward from back)- We saved for two years for this holiday!
I throw my head back and laugh heartily until I realise that they aren’t laughing with me. I picture a sad-looking penny jar much like my own.
Me- I hope they wipe your bum for you?
Betsy (with complete agreement from son)- They don’t have toilets in there!
Me- Huh?
Betsy- Sure nobody in there has an anus! *collapses in laughter*
Betsy’s son- *sighs contentedly* Ahhh… the guinness in Johhny Fox’s goes a long long way…
This is what you shall do:
Here is something I Stumbled upon that pleased the tiny hairs on the back of my neck. I hope it pleases yours too.
This is what you shall do: Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labour to others, hate tyrants… have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body.
-Walt Whitman
(source: http://www.rfincher.com/)
Posh Spa
I’m the tiredest person in the world. From being unemployed (or a ‘Home Engineer’ as I like to put it) to a full-time cabby in less than 60 seconds has taken it’s toll a bit! Me poor blog has taken to the backburner, but I’ll try to keep her ticking over – at least until I’ve finished programming photos into me Celtclanink.com, which is a task that hangs over me like a box of Acme TNT. Pardon me if I’m a bit quiet.
I love being a cabby, me. Bray is full of diversity… it’s only been a week and I’ve already met the village idiot and the new Messiah! Seriously though, taxiing is a rich farm of interesting conversations. Everyone wants to talk to a stranger, as Pedro rightly pointed out during a game of Colin McRae after work today.
I made my first taxi-punter regular! A girl and her fella took a shine to me last week and by coincidence, got me again today. When her boyfriend hopped out, she got me to drive her to the top of the town, then back down to the bottom again in rush hour traffic. She was in the car for almost an hour but we spent it happily burning our each other’s ears off (with matches!-it’s so nice to meet a fellow sado-masochist) and comparing tattoos. She gave me a small fortune of a tip and asked me to stick around! Sweet.
A little old lady likened me to James Bond for my driving skills, and a younger Austrian lady informed me that it costs €55 (FIFTY FIVE SQUIDS?!?!?) to have one’s nails varnished at the Ritz-Carlton hotel in Enniskerry. My, but isn’t that one posh spa. I hope she buffs first!
-o-
Jefferson has me tagged with one of his own nifty inventions-
“Bring to your consciousness those memoriesof the things you’ve seen and the places you’ve been over the last twenty-four hours. Good. Now select a one-minute sequence of events and try to replay it over and over again in your mind.��?
From “The Three Bears“, by Derec Jones.
Whoa… which minute?! How to choose?!?! Ok here goes:
I’m sitting on the Putland Road with the door open and the sun shining strong, having a smoke (shhhh!). The CB radio has been quiet, and the lads out on the streets are getting bored.
- *cchhh* 21, Tommy?
- *cchhh* Yeah go ahead Pa’.
- *cchhh* Do you have a number for this fella? What does he look like?
- *cchhh* 28, K8 – have you got details for this lad?
- *cchhh* Umm, no. He’s in his sixties, long scruffyish hair. (I release the button and curse loudly – bad rookie!)
- *cchhh* Heh.. sounds like you, Pa’!
- *cchhh* Rrrrrodge.
- *cchhh* Car 11 is clear.
- *cchhh* Yeah clear. Ehhh… 28, uh.. ehhh. Whatsit ehhhhhh.. K… uuuuhhhh.. um.. (etc for 12 seconds of forgetful torture while I scream RELEASE THE BUTTON SO I CAN TELL YA!!! at the radio.) uhhhh… Kate!
- I pause to quash a bad dose of giggles… *cchhh* snif – Yeah, go ahead *ahem*
- *cchhh* Sorry there. Brain blocked. Could you go up to Dunnes there and pick up a Missuz Whotsit with her shopping for 14 Backageegee street?
-*cchhh* Sure thing. And Tommy?
-*cchhh* Yeah go ahead
-*cchhh* Keep your ‘uuuhhs’ to yourself next time, ok?
-*cchhh* Wha?
-*cchhh* tee hee hee!
I couldn’t believe that someone actually pressed their mike button just to giggle. How great this job is!
I like this one. Fair play Jeffo :)
Passing the pencil to: The Benster, Resident Alien, Doc (The Accidental Terrorist may or may not be on to you… he’s being very furtive about penguins lately), Sam Problemchildbride, and Thriftcriminal.
Head. Pillow. Hit. Zzzzzzzz.
Observed stuff
My, but aren’t Irish men horny on Sundays?! I made €32 on tips alone, just by flirting behind the wheel today, as opposed to €8 yesterday and €12 on Thursday. What’s so special about Sundays?
KA-CHINGGG!!!
I heard a snippet of news on the radio that made me giggle: Apparently when Bertie told his co-workers he was going to throw in the towel, they “wept openly”. Grown men? Politicians? I don’t think so. I think Bertie pre-empted it. I think he ate an extra-hot vindaloo and washed it down with five pints of Guinness the night before, then stuffed his pockets with onions the next morning before work. It was the gas that made them cry… the gas. Either that, or politicians are damn good actors! Oh wait… right, never mind.
I heard a most excellent song on the radio today… several times, in fact. It’s a version of House of Pain’s ‘Jump!’, which is a song that sparks the dancing flames into almost everybody when they hear it. It is possibly the no.1 best song that one could hear in a nightclub and I love it. This version is in flagrante as Gaeilge.
You Oirish readers out there know exactly what I’m talking about. It’s Des Bishop, fair play to him… he’s learned the language in 4.2 minutes and has now taken on the coolest song known to mankind. Here’s a link to the song on Donncha O’Caoimh’s site, Holy Shmoly. (Don’t listen to this video if you are over the age of 50. You will hate it. Especially you.) I can’t find the radio version, but I’ll buy the single if it’s released because it’s a pretty darn excellent version.
Thing is though, everything the Irish try to coolify ends up being naff in some way. I’m eternally proud of their efforts and of the language itself, but somehow there is nothing that will entice us to relinquish that final little bit of British rule… the English language. This song might just be enough to entice our schoolkids into pricking up their ears regarding the old Gaeilge, but that’s because they’re Irish.
As for the rest of the world… they don’t know that ‘Léim’ means ‘jump’! All they hear is: ‘LAME, LAME, LAME, LAME, LAME!’ *sigh* Ladies and Gentlemen, this is the definition of irony.
On a different note, a good blogger buddy of mine has been censored. Yes! Censored! Read all about it here: Brianf; the hate monger blog (Oh my lord! Somebody else is on to us! Kill it! Kill it!) Seems as though Bush -the big bad rookie himself- has found some more bitches.
Propaghandi?
On another different but equally irking note, I read this on Going Like Sixty’s site: Bloggers are being sued out there… read all about it! I’m pretty sure that this sueing pillock is only after a domain name, but like I say… I’m naive. The offending site is at Neurodiversity. It makes for interesting reading.
Bloody hell… I only came on here to write about my extra tips! Wine is excellent blog lubrication I find.
To finish up, I would like to quote a rather insightful spam I received today;
Humph. Someone has to force me to read this post. It’s too big and boring. Brevity is the sister of talent, remember that.
Thank you, Adriana Naked Lombard xxx, I shall remember this to the end of my…
post.
