K8 the GR8

Rick O’Shea asked the question on the radio earlier - ‘What’s the bit of non-news that screwed up your day today?’ and I searched through the happenings of my day so far and was just a tiny bit dismayed to find that it was actually turning out to be a pretty good day.  I caught myself wishing that I had something interesting and funny to text in.

Be careful what you wish for.

I got home from my driving to find TAT had just woken up… he showed off his new phone straight away like a child on Christmas morning.  It’s a pretty nifty model, a Nokia NSeries N95 with an 8GB memory card, and a whopping 5 megapixels worth of camera stuff. 

It’s not as nice as mine what I won, but far superior to TAT’s.  He was delighted with himself, and told me his account of the night before with glee.  The conversation ran somewhat as follows;

-o0o-

TAT - So where are we going?

Drunkard - Uhhh… somewhere in Kilmac.  Anywhere there, I dunno… yeah.

TAT drives to Kilmacanogue and announces that the fare will be nine euros

Drunkard - Oh.  Wait.  No.  That’s not right.  There’s something wrong, uhhh…. wait.

Drunkard sits with a confused look on his face and shuffles slowly in his pockets for some invisible money.  After a while, he turns to get out of the car.

TAT - Oi!  Where are you off to?  Are you settling this bill or what?

Drunkard - Uhh… I’ve to go to the cash machine, I’ll be right back.

TAT - Well here you may as well leave your phone as collateral, sunshine - I didn’t come down in the last one y’know.

Drunkard hands his phone to TAT and stumbles away to the cash-machine where he spends an eternity.  He returns to the car eventually, sits in, and closes the door.  He stares into space again, saying nothing.

TAT - So… hate to be a bore, but how’s the cash situation looking?

Drunkard looks confused, then disappears back to the cash-machine for a further eternity.  TAT is on the edge of his rag, losing money by the second during busy hour, and is definitely not amused.  The drunkard finally re-appears, and mumbles over and over to himself as he sits back in.

Drunkard - No, it’s not right, not right… something’s wrong.

TAT growls softly

Drunkard - How about I give you twenty euros and we’ll call it quits?

TAT - Ok!!!

Drunkard - Or we could leave it at nine euros and you could bring me home?

TAT - No mate, the meter goes back on for that, but twenty euros will cover it nicely, no worries!

Drunkard - Ahh for ff… Ok fine, I’ll get out here so.

???

TAT - *amused* Ok so, here’s your phone.

Drunkard - NO I TOLD YOU I DON’T WANT IT!!!!

Drunkard gets out and walks away, waving and shouting thanks to TAT, minus his swish phone.

-o0o-

Upon hearing this story, I instantly felt pity for the dude.  I’ve been in rag order before, and have stupidly had to rely on the kindness of strangers to guide me to safety, and it’s not a good situation to find yourself in - especially if you’ve lost a nice new phone.  I’d be gutted.  Ok, so it’s his own fault for getting himself into that situation, but there could be any number of reasons as to why he was discombobulated like that.

ME - You have to give it back.

TAT - What?!?!  Are you crazy?  He was a muppet - a muppet with a nice phone!  It’s mine now!

ME - But it’s the right thing to do!!  He might be lost without it… besides, doing the right thing comes back to you.

TAT - Me bollocks!

I searched through the contacts on the phone and found an entry that said ‘Mam’.  I called it.  The cow was in Spain, so I paid through the nose to inform her that her son’s phone was in our possession, and could she pass on my number?  She seemed confused.  It must be a confusing family they have there.

About ten minutes later, I got a call from the drunkard, now severely sober and extremely embarrassed.  I relayed the story to him and he cringed and apologised, again and again.  I know that feeling.  He was a pretty nice guy, maybe about thirty or so… we had a laugh for about fifteen minutes and I agreed to leave the phone in my cab-company’s base, which he was extremely grateful for.

“It’s ok, though,” he laughed - “the phone was insured so I have another one now.”

I paled.

Shite!!!  No, seriously, SHITE!!!!  Now I have to give the phone back… a seriously nice and un-wanted phone!!!  Where’s the justice in that?

I poured TAT a strong whiskey and broke the news to him.

He hates me now.

It’s not my fault though!  I have morals!  I’m the sort of stupid cow that finds two hundred quid on a pavement and hands it in, the sort who gives away beautiful pieces of mobile phone kit, just because it’s right.  I’ve called Karma, but its phone is ringing out and now I just feel really, really stupid.

And then do you know what happened?

My cat chased a mouse into a coal-bag so I reached in to grab its blackened little scared body and save it’s tiny life, but the little fucker bit me.  Hard.  It dug it’s teeth into the quick of my thumbnail all the way to the back field so now I have a very sore thumb.  And possibly rabies.  Tetanus at least.

What’s happening?  Who is testing me, and why?

*sulk*

I’m afraid this is the most interesting thing that happened to me at work today:

As much as I know it’s wrong to take the piss out of a town, I can’t help but notice that Bray makes it far too easy.

This morning I woke with the sun beaming in full volume through my window and I should be rejoicing but I can’t… I suppose it’s the human condition.  The ironic thing about sunshine is that while it’s glorious and rarely found in this country, it has the nasty habit of showing up filth.  I pulled the living room curtains open today to reveal a carpet that is, quite literally, seven shades of shite.  Two years of dog ownership, over-zealous poker players, a toddler and my young lad’s leaky feeding machine will do that, and normally I wouldn’t care but today it clings.  The dust is clogging every pore on my body and flies swarm as though mocking my inability to keep this hell-hole clean.  Gnomes must have visited in the wee small hours, I could swear this house wasn’t this filthy when I went to bed last night.

How on earth do people maintain cleanliness on a daily basis?  It’s beyond me.

I vowed to tuck into the mess, just as soon as I’d had my first cup of coffee, but one cup just wasn’t enough… two cups still wasn’t enough, even though each cup contained at least three scoops of freeze-dried instant.  I took several swigs of liquid Ginseng despite overdose warnings on the label, the vile powdery taste of stagnant wine still lingers at the back of my throat and I’m still tired.

Instead of cleaning, however, I’m blogging.  My fingers are twitching with misspent energy and my heart is racing, trying desperately to keep the beat of the incessant tapping of my right foot, and I realise that I’ve made a mistake… it’s not energy that I need, it’s enthusiasm.  The two are so closely linked yet so very far apart but there is no such thing as bottled or freeze-dried enthusiasm.

I so wish there was.

HA!  Wouldn’t that be nice?  I can, however, show you where the cheat starting spot is, should you ever find yourself needing to reach new heights with little time to spare.  The Sugarloaf mountain is plonked majestically right on the edge of Kilmacanogue village in Co. Wicklow, just south of Bray.  You could park up somewhere in the village and approach the mountain from the eastern side, but  I’ve done it before and I wouldn’t advise it!  Here she is:

This shot is taken from the western side, technically you’re already half-way up the mountain, so it’s a sweet spot to start from.  To find this starting point, drive on the Roundwood road from Kilmacanogue village and keep your eye out for a left turn… it’s a barren place, so keep your eye out.  The road you’re aiming for is clearly marked at the junction as the L1031 which you follow for 200m or so until you come to a lay-by, marked by boulders and a redundant pole.

From this point to the very top of the mountain, I timed my walk as 35 minutes, this includes more rest-stops than I care to admit to, but on a beautiful day like today the effort was minimal and Wouldye and I even got to do a bit of sheep worrying along the way.

The last part of the hike involves a lot of scree which can be a bit tough to negotiate, but nothing ‘an old guy like me can’t handle’ according to an ageing American dude I met near the top.  It’s the sort of mountain that you have to climb with your eyes on your feet, to make the view an even sweeter surprise when you eventually turn around to breathe it in and congratulate yourself on such an achievement.  Having said that though, it’s not as hard as it looks!  You should most definitely try it sometime if you’re ever in that neck of the woods.

Me dear old Dad passed this meme on to me a while back…

I get to throw a dinner party and invite eight people with presumably endless amounts of booze and the finest grub there is - it just so happens that when I first read Squidward’s attempt, I had a crazy dream that happily did all the work for me!  I love my sub-conscious.

The Rules:

- Pick 8 people you’d like to invite to dinner, dead or alive or re-animated / resurrected.  (I’m adding fictional at this point… because I can.)

- Say why

- Link your answers back to HERE

- Give credit to the person who tagged you

- Tag three others

Right so… here’s how my table would look;

	The Accidental Terrorist, because we hardly ever get to eat out at the same time these days!  Also he’s great craic.
Brian the dog from Family Guy because he strikes me as great company and might be able to teach me a thing or two about jazz.
	JRR Tolkien would be an incredibly interesting sort of chap to talk to.  I’d imagine he’d be great at the drunken sing-songs afterwards too.
I’d love the chance to pick Bob Marley’s brains about his attitude to solving the world’s problems with music.  Also I would like to steal a dreadlock on the sly for my keyring.
	Rasher (Mark Kavenagh) is a dude from Bray who is producing painted masterpieces by the dozen.  I am in serious awe of his talent, but that’s not why I’d ask him.  I’d get him to doodle on a few napkins so that I could frame them and make a mint later on.
My entire lymphatic system.  What better way to thank it for sorting out that last bacteria-fest than to take it out to dinner?!?
	Sidharta Gautama.  Just… because.
Mary Harney.  I wouldn’t allow her to order or eat anything, any sort of talking is also right out.  She would just sit there for the rest of us to flick peas and laugh at.

You can imagine what sort of messed-up dream that was!

Now to tag…

- Vagab0ndage  (what the fuck is a meme you might ask?  Wouldn’t blame you.  Answer here)

- Lorna (as an apology for not doing the ‘7 things’ meme

- Coffee Helps (my favourite place to lurk lately)

I don’t like to publish recipes because more often than not, they’re pretty unhealthy and I don’t want to be held responsible for blown arteries, but this is an exception.  I made it for the aul’ pair on the day they returned home, and got a call later, turns out it was quite the hit!  They asked me for the recipe but they’ll only lose it so I’m publishing it here instead.

Irish Stew with a sweet chilli kick OR more simply, Leprechaun Stew.

Stuff you’ll need:

1lb cubed beef (cut it into smaller bits preferably… chewage of sinewy meat is not sexy)
2 tbsp olive oil
1 tin chopped tomatoes
1 big-ass onion chopped into chunks
2 or 3 carrots, chopped
4 or 5 medium-ish spuds, peeled and chopped into bite sized bits
1 pint beef stock
1 knob of butter (enough to butter two slices of toast generously!)
2 cloves garlic, mashed
2 small chopped red chillies (with seeds) OR 1 tsp dried chilli seeds
2 teaspoons brown sugar
1 tsp Worcestershire sauce
1 splodge tomato ketchup
5 sun-dried tomatoes (sliced)
Salt & Pepper

Method:

This is to be prepared several hours in advance and left to simmer on a very low heat until ready for eating… this lets the chilli infuse so that there’s less sting and more taste. Overnight cooking is even better yet.

1. Heat your hob on a high setting, and heat the olive oil in a heavy-bottomed stewing pot. Add the meat (don’t let the oil and meat heat together, the beef will only absorb the fat) and let it cook for a few minutes. Add the onion, garlic and pepper and allow to sizzle for a few minutes while you’re chopping your veg.

2. Add the carrots, spuds and sun dried tomatoes, then empty the can of chopped tomatoes into the mix. Tomatoes by their nature are very bitter, so add the brown sugar and ketchup to balance it up a bit. Add chillies and stand away from the steam, lest you end up coughing your lungs out! Add the beef stock, Worcestershire sauce, salt and butter*.

3. Mix the lot up well and turn down the heat to a low setting. Place a lid over the pot with enough room for steam to escape, and allow the contents to stew gradually for at least 4 hours.

4. Serve piping hot with crusty buttered bread to mop up the debris!

Sorry there’s no photograph to accompany this, but it was scoffed too quickly.

* An aul’ splash of red wine probably wouldn’t hurt either if you have some lying around

When you were a snapper you had a blanket, or a favourite toy or teddybear or something, didn’t you? I bet you still have it now, don’t you? It’s okay, you can nod… nobody’s looking. Between you and me, I still have my twin Brogeens (Papa Smurf teddies), they have prime position in Puppychild’s teddy hammock and I wouldn’t throw them out for a gazillion yeyos. Puppychild herself chose to go down the blanket road - she fell in love with her Pooh Bear cot blanket from the moment she could focus her big brown eyes on it and now it’s her rock, her talisman, her bestest fwend.

It disappeared today.
Puppychild had been watching me mow the back lawn and had left it in the front garden for a moment and when she returned, it was gone.

I searched everywhere for Blanket while Puppychild mewled but to no avail. I interviewed the other children and the smallest one cracked immediately. He pointed down the road and said something like ‘idown dere!’ so I walked. I searched every nook and gatepost, walked down the hill to the lower road in vain and returned, broken. My nemesis,let’s call him Chucky, wandered into view and looked at me… he smiled slyly and turned away.

This particular four-year-old is hateful… he’s half-devil half-child and has the eyes of a gang lord with the foulest mouth I’ve ever had the pleasure to hear in my life; Dennis Leary himself would cringe to hear it. He likes to stand in front of my car and prevent me from getting into my driveway for as long as he can get away with. He pisses on lampposts and throws soil in through my open sitting room window and kicks my dog and his mother thinks he’s the most amazing little fucker the planet has ever been blessed with.

Kids are like farts… you can barely tolerate your own. This, though? This is ridiculous.

I interrogated him while under the watchful eye of the curtain-twitchers but all I got was;
“Look I’m tellin’ the twoot, okay? Fuck’n stop ask’n me!” he turned away and continued - “Fah bitch.” I crouched down beside him and his industrious hole-digging and quietly spoke to him;
“Okay, kid, I’m not angry, I wouldn’t be cross if you told me the truth, because I’d be so glad to have the blanket back. I really love that blanket. If you change your mind later, you know where I am.” We both stood up and as I turned to leave, felt a tear-inducing sharp blow to my right calf… the little fucker had kicked me.

“Heheh it’s up on de roof!! Heheheeehee!!! Over dere on dat one!”

I didn’t do it. I wanted to, but I didn’t.  I walked away.

I didn’t say anything to his mother because she wasn’t there. Anyway it’s very difficult to tell somebody that their little angel is the devil incarnate, so instead I climbed to the highest wall at the back of the estate and peered down over the rooftops. What an enormous waste of time. It’s in a bin somewhere, or stuffed into a sewer grate most likely. It’s gone.

It’s a bath time rule that Blanket must be available in order for hair-brushing pain to be tolerated, so tonight, the loss was harsh. It finally hit home to her that blanket was gone (or ‘empty’ as she put it) and she bawled her eyes out. The sad thing is that I used to confiscate it to punish her for major misdemeanours occasionally, so her appeals of
“I’na good girl now mammy, I so sorry, can I’blanket? I’na good girl.” stung me like a swarm of guilt wasps. I hugged her and waited with her while she fell asleep, but she couldn’t. She wailed long into the night and is finally in a light sleep with intermittent yelps thrown in.

I won’t say here what I’d like to do to this Chucky kid because I’d go straight to the appendix of hell for writing it down. Let’s just say it involves a roll of rusty barbed wire and a tub of boiling vinegar and leave it at that, eh?

I hate this place.

Time has most certainly flown here in Headrambles Manor.  The three weeks are up and the aul’ pair should be back safe and sound and lording it up tomorrow evening.  Slides, anyone?

It’s sad to say but the highlight over the last three weeks isn’t the beautiful forest walks or the extra book reading time or the insane parties, because none of this happened.  No, the highlight has been the vast increase in internet speed…  wow, you’ve no idea how much I missed broadband.

So you’d think I’d spend the time researching all sorts of interesting but useless facts about various things, or reading and commenting on as many blogs as possible, wouldn’t you?  Nope!  I’ve been whoring around on Facebook, kidnapping people, playing endless games of Crazy Taxi and feeding other people’s virtual pets.  Complete waste of time, certainly,  but the best holiday I’ve had in ages!

I’m sorry if I’ve annoyed anybody with stupid requests, but the bonus is that I’ve finally discovered what the fuck ‘l33t’ and ‘pwn’ means (World of Weirdcraft or something…).  Also I happily found pretty much every friend I’ve ever known in my life!  The application searches for friends of friends that you already have and suggests people you might know; my old classroom is slowly re-assembling before my eyes which beats the pants off a reunion in my view.

I’m heading back to the dingy underworld of country dial-up tomorrow, so normal service will resume if inspiration should find its way through the fog… I’ll let you know.

*sigh*

Can somebody please look after my virtual dog?

I blundered into the kitchen this morning in a foggy overslept haze and saw two unwelcome sights immediately.

The first was a note left by TAT who had come in from work at 7.30am.

“There’s something wrong with the SatNav.  I’ll fix it later.”  

NOOOO!!!  I shudder at the thought of having to conduct my working day using the primitive dog-eared map… the potential embarrassment of having to whip it out in front of a customer in panic when they ask to be brought to some God forsaken suburb of inner-city Dublin makes me want to go back to bed for the day.  Disaster.

Then I found the empty salt and pepper cannisters.  They stood to attention on the kitchen table and there might as well have been another note saying ‘Toddler was ‘ere’ beside them.  I broke out my CSI kit to look for evidence but found nothing… no trail of distruction, no prints or fibres.  Damn, she’s getting good.  I searched high up and low down for the contents of the cannisters… in the bin, the sink, her cereal bowl, the bath… everywhere with no joy.

Then I heard a tiny noise.

“pffft”

I turned to the direction of the sound and listened.

“pfft”  It was the sound of a Guinea-Pig sneezing.  Then I remembered Puppychild’s penchant for animal torture (first sign of a budding psychopath?) and dashed over to the hutch.

Yep.  Each pig was covered in a fine dust of pepper and salt granules and was grooming furiously, their tiny eyes glued shut as a result of nature’s cruel decision to deprive them of the ability to cry the salt out.  Poor wee feckers.  I went to grab a toothbrush to groom the stuff out, and let a horribly evil thought cross my mind.

Guinea-Pigs are fat and don’t excersice much, but then again neither does anyone else in the family.  This means they should be quite succulent.  Peruvians eat them like Big Macs… have done for centuries, and think it hilarious that we keep them as pets.

Puppychild has pretty much taken care of the first stage of preparation… she salted them roughly an hour ago, so they should be nice and tender by now.

The oven’s pre-heating and I’ve got my razor-blade ready… my stomach is rumbling at the thought of breakfast.  I’ll call it the ‘Full Irish Peruvian surprise’ I think.

Yum.

Ok, this is it. This is the story of one of my worst fears coming true. It’s a good thing I came prepared! It’s difficult to write because it’s still fresh and it gives me palpitations just to think about the nightmares I’m going to have as a result of it; so I’m hoping that flushing it down my blog will help a bit. Sorry, it’s going to get messy in here.

-o0o-

I picked him up from a car park in Bray today as per instructions from base. He appeared straight away, a tall man wearing a grey suit, carrying two bags full of beer from the off licence.

When he sat into the seat he gave me a sharp shock, with a two-second time limit to regain my composure. He pleaded with me to bring him home, desperation was in his voice and his face… his face. This guy would be a good advertisement for why it’s not a good idea to put water on a burning chip-pan. Perhaps it was a petrol bomb? Something had stolen the skin from the entire near-side part of his head and what remained was topped with a bright ginger mop of hair. He stank. He was pissed as a fart and had the worst case of hiccups that I’ve ever heard in a person.

Why did I let him stay in the car? I dunno. Was it because I’m a sucker for a needy, or was it because I was looking for a good story? Who knows. Stayed he did.

He calmed slightly and I asked him where he wanted to go.

“Tallaght” he said.

“Okaaay… now just to warn you that might cost around fifty quid and I’m going to need most of that up front, I’m afraid.”

“Whhaaa? Ah no, I’ll give you a twenty. All I have’s a twenty.”

“Fu.. no way, chancer! I’ve me own mouths to feed. I can bring you to a bus stop or a train station though?”

“Anything, jus gemme outa here. But don’ go back inta d’town, I don’t wanna go there, take the back roads.”

Strange request. I was driving around now, heading south where he pointed. He calmed further as we drove, and started crooning gently.

“I love you… I love you so much… you’re lovely for taking care ‘me. I love you more than I love myself right now….” the rest trailed into mumbles interspersed with ‘Y’know warri mean?’ or, ‘You know what I’m talkin’ about, don’tya?” to which my automated reply - ‘Yep.’ was standard.

I picked up some garbled words, and picked out that what I had here, was your genuine bonifide tinker. The fact was disguised by the scarring and the accent which had a Belfast sort of frosting to it. I asked him about it, and he uttered a few staccato words (still battling seriously stubborn hiccups) - soldier… army… real… with random lines of semi-coherent speech. Turns out he did a few terms alright, interrupted by court, prison, and a coma.

Well. Fucking. Dodgy. Mate.

As we drove, he reached into his bottle bag and withdrew a bottle of Bud. He de-capped it, sipped for a bit, then belched loudly. At least that cleared his hiccups I suppose. He then leaned in towards me and started whispering sweet nothings. The stench was incredible and raised my hackles instantly.

“OI, BACK OFF MATE.” I said sincerely. “Put that belt on and sit the fuck still. Try anything funny again and I’ll radio the coppers. Don’t want that, now, do ye?”

“No. Sorry I’m sorry - sorry. Sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I just got out of court! Sorry, so sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry etc…” for ten bastard minutes. Then I hit traffic and he had my undivided attention. He asked for my hand (this is the usual stage when drunken old men realise that it’s not appropriate to chat up your driver and get so apologetic that they feel like they have to shake my hand to confirm it.) so I offered it and shook. He rose it to his lips and planted a fat wet kiss on my knuckles.

My squirm factor ploughed the ceiling and I looked in my rear view mirror to see that the dude behind was watching intently. Nice one. My passenger then started to kiss my shoulders wetly and roughly and so I pulled the fuck over.

Bollocks. I can’t get out. Fight or flight or money and car? Bollox to it. Fight.

“OUT YOU GET” I shouted.

“Ahh no don’t do that, I love you. I’m gonna give you a hickey as payment! He chuckled and I laughed maniacally at his fucking hilarious joke. But hey guess what? It wasn’t a joke. He reached over and grabbed my neck with his right hand and pulled himself towards me. Our heads collided and I elevated to Code Green and my sanity left the building.

I whipped one of these bad boys out and shoved the pointed tip into his larynx.

“Don’t fuck with me, fuckface.” It was the best I could come up with I’m afraid. I’ve thought of loads more things I should’ve said since, but the delivery seemed to do the job nevertheless. He sank with huge melancholy back to his side and slid out of the door, slamming it after what seemed like an eternity.

I sped away and my sanity returned. I suddenly felt like I needed to throw up, so I parked by the beach and sat still for a second. Adrenalin ebbed away with the tide and I screamed. I rolled up the windows and closed the sunroof and I screamed for thirty seconds.

When I’d finished, I was a new person. Alive, strong, powerful, shitscared… it’s another patch on the quilt that is my life and I’m better for it. You make your own luck. I had no problem picking up drunks from the Foggy Mirror after that, their leers paled by comparison.

The base fed me sweet tea and cigarettes and cured my shakes by taking the piss for a while and then sent me out on a nice relaxing drive to Terenure. Just what the doctor ordered… rush-hour contemplation.

-o0o-

To people who love me and hold friendships with me, don’t freak out. I mean this most for my mum and dad who will, if they find this, go completely ape-shit. Not without good reason, either - I have babies too and understand the intense worry. They will tell me to quit taxi driving but I’m going to stand my ground. This is life, and if I run away I’ll never grow stronger. I’ve been vulnerable all my life and that was a mistake, toughness must be bet-in through experience, which is what I got today.

Wow, that feels so much better, the burden’s been lifted and I feel floaty with relief. I’m so glad I have a way to get it out! Maybe I won’t have nightmares after all. They’re your nightmares now.