Get real
There’s a darn good blog out there, I don’t know if you’ve come across it before… it’s only a few months old.
No, wait. ‘darn good’ doesn’t cut it. Revolutionary, maybe. It is a blog with many users, though nobody knows exactly how many, and only one username. It is total and complete anonymity, created for the expulsion of secrets from the souls of virtual people. Why would you want to hear other people’s secrets? Because the un-told facts are comforting and can help to soothe its reader’s secret paranoia, and it’s a glimpse at the true raw undercoat of society. It’s why we love those glossy magazines with Geri Halliwell’s stretch-marks all over the cover.
I coud be anyone. I could say anything. And a small part of the whirling cloud of secret lies in my head can lift and I can feel a little lighter as I go through the day.
This is what confession was for, before we all lost faith.
This is what God used to do before we stopped believing in him.
There is no God and so we blog. (Anonymous)
To quote a comment on one of the posts:
I confess to the last post of humour and I put it there because I felt the tone of the writing & comments so far was too serious and too self-absorbed. Contrary to funny, the comments to me have an air of forced false sympathy & I think they need to be more real.
It was my protest against the blog turning into a place to wallow and be wallowed without constructive support or advice.
Sit on the fence why don’t I. (Anonymous)
It’s time to get real, to learn how to let go of social conditioning and face the begrudgers. Fair play Rick O’Shea (hey that rhymes…) for thinking it up.
It’s called:
http://thelivesofothers.wordpress.com/
Visiting mutant-slayer not to be sneezed at
A young man was arrested in Dublin City last night for the attempted smuggling of snuff with a street value of approximately €2.99.
Jefferson Davis of no fixed abode allegedly alerted his accomplice (known as ‘K8 the Gr8′) to his situation on live television, using morse code during the Angelus from his holding cell. A guard commented; “Jaysus but that Jack Bauer lad hasn’t a patch on Davis!”
The communication led to a botched rescue attempt resulting in severe weather changes and an accidental chemical leak into the Dublin City water supply system, however the pair escaped and fortunately later saved the world from the resulting epidemic of mutant pidgeons. Witnesses gave an account of an elaborate scheme involving The Spire on O’Connell Street, a tankload of peanut butter, a beer mat and 10,000 supermarket trolleys.
The Gardaí gave the heroes a glowing report.
Christmas in May
The Christmas party last night was a blast!
Johnny Fox’s was the venue of choice (they painted over the graffiti on the toilet doors – what a crime!!), but it’s cheesy same-ishness was replaced by the warm welcome we recieved from the other taxi-company drivers when we first walked through the door. The boss’ wife was the only woman there, she was joined by 12 burly men who parted instantly to make room for us at the table which was an enormous coroner’s cart (bring out yer dead!) with a glass sheet for it’s surface. I parked myself by a cartwheel in a chair proffered to me by 14.
(I did find out their names, but everybody found it easier to still refer to each other by their car number. Other drinkers in the pub looked pretty confused to overhear ‘OI! 9, it’s your round, pull the finger out!’)
I played my cards carefully. I remarked on the fact that they were such a good-looking bunch, they should release a calendar and this, needless to say, went down pretty well, especially with 12. Neither I or the accidental terrorist had to put our hands in our pockets once for the price of a pint, for every half-hour a fresh batch of a dozen pints of Guinness appeared on the table which we all tucked into with glee. At one stage a tray full of shots of Baby Guinness’ (Tia Maria/Kahlua and Baileys) vapourised in front of us, two of which were offered to me!
The night grew older, and I watched the crowd bloom with inebriation while happily celebrating the fact that I was holding my sauce pretty darn well by comparison. 5 x Guinness, 2 x Baby Guinness, 4 x Pints of water and 1 x Vodka & Lime later found me chatting with 22 (a man who looks remarkably like Penfold) who offered me the position of women’s representative at their monthly board/pub meetings so I remember being particularily bowled over by that.
The other conversations are somewhat hazy, though I do remember fawning over an Estonian bloke’s dreadlocks at one point.
A taxi arrived for us at midnight, driven by a quiet but extremely ballsy young lady who decided to take on the Devil’s Elbow in a people-carrier. This was extremely fortunate for me and TAT being that our B&B was in Glencullen, but when the taxi stopped outside, the rest of the lads pleaded for us to stay and go with them to the night-club in Bray, so we hopped back in.
Reality struck soon afterwards as we realised we were about to fork out extra money for a nightclub we really didn’t want to go to and a taxi fare return, so we stopped the taxi again at Enniskerry village and walked all the way back up the hill to Glencullen which is quite a pleasant experience when you’re pissed.
I remembered to my dismay that I can’t hold my sauce so well after all this morning. The 11am fear kicked in like clockwork and I’ve been fighting demons ever since, but it was worth it.
I frikkin’ love Dreadlocks. I’ve got a hankering for a dramatic style change and I reckon it’s time to finally follow Bob Marley’s advice and go ahead and grow ‘em. Yep, I know dreads on a white person are somewhat hypocritical, but I don’t connect it to Rastafarianism really. I connect it more to ethnic pride for the Celtic tradition, though maybe not to these muppets:
Top five presents to give to people you don't like
Ahhh. I love it when the Kleeneze people come around. A catalogue full of interesting things you don’t need at low-low prices…
5… For honest homeowners:
4… Au-hairigizmo?
3… Make banana abuse history:
2… For when the bog-roll Barbie just isn’t enough:
1.. ‘Fat bottomed girls’ must be a riot!
Bizarre
In Hong Kong, a betrayed wife is legally allowed to kill her adulterous husband, but may only do so with her bare hands. (The husband’s lover, on the other hand, may be killed in any manner desired.)
A car dealer in Missouri, US, boasts that his auto sales have quadrupled since he began giving away a free hand gun with every sale. He claims his inspiration comes from Senator Barack Obama.
And…
I’m going to a Christmas party on Monday night.
The Quiet American
I was kind of nervous at the prospect of meeting Jefferson Davis, I’ve heard his podcasts with BrianF and Dad and by the sounds of it, he is one intelligent guy. I tend to steer clear of intelligent people as a rule, they have a habit of showing me up. My half of the conversation seems to fill up with potholes of confused space, making life difficult for the other person who soon gets tired of prompting and goes in search of something more titillating.
This was not so with Jefferson though. We hooked up at Headrambles Manor and I watched as Grandad slowly emptied can after can of Guinness into his and Jefferson’s belly and banter flowed free. We skyped BrianF to make him jealous, spoke about things that are and things that should be, and watched Dustin honour Ireland in his own special way and it was good. Jefferson’s a quiet bloke with an accepting presence and the skill of throwing out honesty that makes you feel like an old friend. Seriously great company to be in, innit?
I brought him to Johnny Fox’s for five minutes because circumstances were unfavourable (this pub has seriously lost it’s people skills), then to Barracuda in Bray where we got some grub and got to watch the sky turn from purple to brown by the sea-shore.
Today I dragged him all over the place, or at least to as many aesthetically interesting places in Wicklow as I could within reason. We went to Lough Dan at the brink of the Sally Gap to gaze down into the valley for a bit, then strolled around Victoria’s Way to meditate and admire the statues (I was worried about bringing Puppychild to this as some of Victoria’s art is disturbing to say the least, but as it turned out, the butterfly season is here which kept her busy enough!). Jefferson and I admired the statues, books and craftwork in the shop which was empty of any other living soul. He watched as I helped myself to some jewellery and left money under the brass monkey on the counter, and appreciated how truly Zen-like this Victoria character is.
We got an Avoca take-away (Avoca Foccaccia is the yummiest Foccaccia there is) and drove home to eat and wait for Laughingboy to return home from school. I was dissapointed that the neighbours behaved themselves and denied Jefforson any scandal, but there you go.
I thought Powerscourt deserved a bit of a mooch, but we got there just as the gardens were closing which was a crying shame, so I brought him to Powerscourt waterfall instead. Jefferson farted about with his camera over towards the waterfall itself while I brought the kids to the playground.
I say ‘I brought the kids’, but ashamedly I got pretty excited when I saw it and almost forgot to bring the children with me… it’s one of those highly-sophisticated jobs with lever-controlled sand diggers and climbing towers and a most excellent roundabout with central controlling. I - sorry – we… had a ball and Jefferson had to drag the lot of us away kicking and screaming when it was time to go home. It was quite embarrasing in hindsight. To give an example of it’s excellence, I noticed that the entire bus of (adult) Croatian toursits were not over by the waterfall farting about with their cameras, instead they were clambering all over the rope-bridges and photographing each other making tits of themselves by the monkey-bars, giggling away like four-year-olds. It was quite amazing to watch.
Today was the best tourism epic since Gwen the French student of ‘03. Thanks Jeffo :)
The post in which K8 slags the knackers
Once again, K8’s faith in humanity is given a massive whack across the face with an iron crowbar.
I have defended the travelling community before (being that I live amongst them and kind of feel I should give it a shot)… I think I said something about them deserving the right to fight for respect within an unforgiving settled community?
What complete bollocks this is.
Here’s the scene:
-0-
I’m parked up at a garage in Bray, looking for a lady who wants to go to Arklow as per instructions from the taxi base. I’m scanning the area which is deserted apart from a young lad aged eleven or twelve who sits by himself on a window-sill with his head resting on his knees. Being that I am a girl who tends to think outside her box, I approach the kid.
“Hey kid… you looking for a taxi?”
The kid looks up and seems somewhat relieved. “Yeah, I want to go home to Arklow” he says.
I convey my successful pick up over the CB and am informed that the fare would be €65. I turn around to the kid. “Do you think you can handle €65?”
The kid looks panicky and says; “Oh no I have no money with me, my mammy said she’d pay for me when I get home. She’ll give you the money then.”
Fishy, but still highly likely.
“What’s the address?” I ask.
“I dunno” the kid says apologetically; “we only just moved in. It’s near the main street”.
Something smelled funny, and I don’t mean metaphorically. The child was scruffy, and smelled very faintly of urine (as many children do) but also had an unmistakeable accent. He looked nervous, and was hugging a bottle of orange soda. He had intelligent eyes, and looked me directly in the pupils when he spoke to me.
My instinct roared. It warned me that I was about to be swindled, but I wondered if I had the right to refuse a child safe passage to his parent? What if he was speaking the truth? I’m a mother, I can’t do that to a kid! Besides (more truthfully), €65 is a lot to turn down.
I take off. The kid asks me how far it was to Arklow, but apart from that one question he is silent for the entire journey. When we arrive at the town, he directs me into a small housing estate on the outskirts.
“It’s that house on the corner, I’ll be back in a second”
I let him out, scolding my instinct for being such a cynical bitch. Then I watch as the kid passes the house in question at high speed, and dissappears around the corner on to the main road. I fire the ignition and fly after him in first gear. The main road is deserted. I crawl up and down for a few minutes knowing well that the little fucker is hiding somewhere.
I drive back to the housing estate and call the taxi base to see if there is any protocol for this type of thing. Apparently the union doesn’t have an insurance policy against runners, because there is no union. I ring the accidental terrorist who tells me to come home (seeing as I happily live near Arklow anyway) and informs me that he regrettably has no secret ninja techniques for dealing with this situation. The Police are dreadfully under-funded and would probably appreciate my not informing them of this misdemeanour.
I couldn’t go home. I wanted to find him and run him over.
I drive very quietly until I get back to the road the kid would be walking. I shift into neutral and slink along with my eyes peeled.
About 200m ahead of me, I spot an old man. There’s someone else too, who briefly flashes a face, then hops over the 6ft wall beside him. I toy with the idea of scaling the wall to chase the kid, but thought better being that my trousers cost a few bob. Anyway, what use would there be in catching him? Sure, I could beat him up a bit to calm the anger, but I’d still be broke.
I stop to speak to the old man who does indeed identify a young boy holding a bottle of orange soda. He also tells me that the field over the wall beside us could be used as a shortcut to get to the traveller’s quarters ‘over the way’ as he puts it.
End of pathetic sodding scene.
-0-
I knew that kid was a knacker. I still drove him ‘home’ because it was the end of my shift and I was heading that way anyway. I was aware of the kid’s movements the whole time, but he gave me no cause for concern whatsoever. He just sat back with his arms crossed and gazed out the window silently which is refreshing for someone with my job.
I’m not angry about the money, I’m angry that I was so fucking naive to think that it’s possible that there is such a thing as an honest traveller.
They are a crafty race who have plenty of scruples and plenty of cash, so do not take your eyes off a traveller for one fucking second if you find yourself near one, for they would have the eyes sold out of your head soon as look at you, no matter what age they are. Kudos to them, they had me fooled… but not anymore.
They’re in a great position… they don’t pay taxes, and it’s well known that they enjoy the fruits of ill-gotten gains, yet the gardaí won’t go anywhere near them. They demand respect from the community and free land from the council, then fleece them as soon as their backs are turned!
Where’s the honour in that, though?! Why is it that the only events warranting shop and pub shut-down around here are Christmas day, and a knacker’s funeral? They live by skimming money off tax paying citizens… so why are we respecting that again?
If they’re so great, then why aren’t we all travellers? I’m already halfway there, sure. We’re scrounging a house off the council, but at least we’re trying to get back on this bastard of a housing ladder… we were almost on it too, once, but slipped off again when Laughingboy was born. Circumstance kicked us in the nuts and now here we are, still trying to crawl out of the dependancy pit seven years later. It sucks! Yet, there the knackers smugly sit in their dingy halting sites, knowing that their head-men and women of the family are worth literally millions of euros.
Here’s an insane question: If you had millions of euros would you squat in a dingy piss-stinking commune in the clogged pores of the Irish countryside, or would you bugger off to Thailand?
Answers on a postcard to:
One pissed off taxi driver
28 Shithole View
Dunfoundusaplacetohousethescumbags
Co. Wicklow
Ireland
(What?! What do you mean this post is too long? It’s not! My blog is too narrow!)
Lost Bear
FOUND:
ONE LOST BEAR
CORNER OF MAIN STREET AND QUINSBOROUGH ROAD, BRAY CO.WICKLOW, OUTSIDE HILTON’S PHARMACY
WILL BE RETURNED WITH FREE TODDLER
(Photoshop tricks learned HERE)
Lesbianistic qualities
Men in Bray seem to have a particularly low tolerance of female drivers. Being a female taxi-driver, my job is therefore quite tricky. Male drivers can get away with minor fuck-ups, but if a female driver does something slightly amiss, she gets rolling eyes and sentences which usually begin with “Typical…” and end with “… shouldn’t be allowed on the roads”. It’s pretty annoying.
For this reason, I’ve built up an anti-cynicism wall which prevents me from being irritated by chauvinistic comments. I’ve also dialled down the ‘pink’, my feminine flair only gets me into trouble in this job, so now I’m bland, nondescript and silent (for the most part).
The most extraordinary thing has happened though. Conversations with some women in my cab are starting to sound like this;
Miss X: “I have a boyfriend, you know.”
Me: “Good for you, they can be handy to have around, sometimes.”
*Miss X rants for a bit on her boyfriend’s bad habits before falling silent, lost in thought*
Miss X: “I have no friends here in Bray though… no ’special’ friends anyway. Can I have your number?”
Me: (Taken aback) “Ummm… ok.”
Miss X: (Hands me her phone) “Here, ring your own phone so the numbers show up…”
I’ve dubiously exchanged numbers with four women now. Two of them text me for mini-conversations quite reguarly and keep asking me out to the pub.
They seem like nice people, not overly odd or anything, just in need of a friend. Why me though? Why a random bland nondescript silent taxi driver?
Then it hit me!
I wear black. I wear ‘comfortable’ shoes. I have tattoos, and I don’t wear a whole lot of make-up. This whole time, I’ve been sending out a message to a group of people I hadn’t even considered before! It’s 2008, K8. Jeez. In this day and age, I’m surprised at myself. I’ve lost out on some serious tippage just because I reserve my flirts for drunken men, dammit.
I’ve noticed though… in one month I’ve gathered four women’s mobile numbers, but during my entire life I’ve only ever collected two from men. Isn’t that odd?!?! Do I have lesbianistic qualities?
I have conversed many times with myself on the subject of lesbianism, and we both agree that it is not my cup of tea. I personally don’t understand how four ovaries can co-habit without major storm fronts developing. I love men. I need men. They are the cello to my violin, and I couldn’t live without them. I mean sure, Denise Richards has amazing hair and Sienna Miller has a smashing set of legs, but they come with a side-helping of maintenance which would bug the hell out of me.
Still, never say never I suppose. I’ve never done the drunken experimentation as a teenager thing, but I might put lesbianism on my list of ‘things to do before I die’. I hope The Accidental Terrorist doesn’t mind.
Five day weekend
Isn’t this sunshine just the absolute bee’s knees?
Today is my Saturday (being a quiet day on the taxi market) so I get to catch up on ‘puter stuff like designing a t-shirt for the Mini Marathon…
…and writing bloggy things.
Saturday was excellent. I and the Accidental Terrorist dumped our chisellers with the family and went to a wedding of epic proportions in Co. Westmeath. We were a cozy group of about 50, most of whom we knew, but hadn’t seen in about ten years. I danced the YMCA and played for the crowd on a grand piano which are things I only do when I am extremely happy.
The reception was held at Middleton House in Castletown Geoghan, which is an old recently renovated house. It’s only used for group bookings, so we had the entire place to ourselves. The staff are to be praised from a height… the food was perfect, and they were polite the entire time, even through the many passes they received from various drunken ladies. It’s an excellent venue, should you need one for whatever purpose.
The chap in the B&B we stayed in told us that he used to be a Guard who was stationed in that house 25 years ago. His job was to prevent the house from any damage caused by locals who were itching to burn it down, being that it was built and owned by a Protestant family. The history of the place was fascinating stuff.
This was our dancing-area, the band were in the gap to the right of the staircase, and there are two bars with comfy couches and fireplaces either side of the picture.
I got to pooch around a few rooms too – each plusher than the last – and met a spectre in one of the basement hallways. I took a picture of him for you:
We had a very one-sided conversation briefly before whatever it was buggered off. I think he wanted me to follow him but I know the rules of horror films, so I didn’t.
I explained more on Brian’s blog’s comments, with details on why I’m not crazy and didn’t imagine the whole thing.
Bank Holiday Monday should have seen me hackney-cabbing in Bray, but instead I got called to dig Baldeagle out of a hole. Baldeagle is one of TAT’s most spurious of friends, who works for our Irish version of Fed-Ex. He had double-booked himself, so we swapped transport and I got to drive a big van from the Quays in Dublin City, all the way up to Belfast and back, while he got to pull donuts and practise his hand-brake turns in a field with my own jam-jar.
It was pretty nice cruising up and down motorways all day like that in the sunshine, apart from the fact that I’ve got a trucker’s tan now. One white arm just looks odd.
How was your weekend?
