K8 the GR8

I don’t like the circus.

Apart from the fact that they let clowns run around willy-nilly all un-restrained like that and the whipped animals that look like they could use a year’s timeout in St. John o’ Gods, it’s the lack of eye contact, the feeling that you’ve been robbed of something - part of your soul perhaps - as you walk out of the tent at the end.

So, thusfar in my kid’ses life, the circus is the Accidental Terrorist’s department.  I got a text earlier on today while I was skulking on the streets of Bray;

“We’re at d fossett circus rathnew.  Ringside for free!  Lovin it”

I called him up to find out what the craic was with the word ‘free’, and learned that TAT had tried to pay entrance for himself and the kids, only to be ushered through straight to the ring-side seats without any payment at all!  They spoiled my family rotten.  They dragged TAT into the ring with some other unsuspecting audience folk and performed a levitation trick that left Puppychild in awe of her daddy, and had excellent escapades with motorbikes in cages, apparently. 

Best of all?  Not an animal in sight, apart from one or two Shetland Ponies (which are only mythical creatures anyway…) so no animals harmed here then.

I was so impressed with the sound of it all. 

Fossett’s circus is run by an Irish family, who are now the proud recipients of a grant from the National Lottery and Arts or something like that, being that they’ve recently been bumped to the bonafide ‘artists’ category, so they’re the real deal and stuff.

They’re in Rathnew for a bit.  Might even pop in meself which would be a berry big deal for me.

Here’s a happy picture of some crazy people.  Please ignore the weird colouring, photoshop hates me.  Also please ignore the VPL.

Raining cats and dogs as usual, business tends to be quiet on days like this. 

I pulled up at a taxi rank just after lunchtime and noticed that all the other cars were deserted, bar one - a people-carrier into which was crammed at least eight taxi drivers.  I knocked on the window and was let into the secret smoky underworld that is cabby conversation.  I sparked up a schmergel and listened.

They had the newspaper out and were reading about this rape incidence in Dublin, yet another excuse to be paranoid about foreigners.  I learned many interesting things (and heard much racial hatred which I won’t be repeating here) which blew my mind, to give examples…

Apparently forgeign nationals only need to get 30% of the Public Service Vehicle test correct, as opposed to the 70% us nationals need.  Also, foreign-nationals aren’t asked for a back-ground check before they enter the taxi-driving business, yet we Irish need full Gardee clearance.

They say that this is to give foreign nationals a hand-up, an easier way to score employment.  That’s all very nice and stuff, but these people aren’t thick… with a bit of practice and a year or two living in this country they’d have it down no problem.  It’s only the rules of the road and a rough knowledge of city layout… hardly astrophysics! 

Besides, isn’t this sort of stuff important?  I would have thought a knowledge of roadsigns would be rather helpful for driving?  And as for the back-ground check… are they kidding?  They’re asking the people of Ireland to just ‘trust’ their taxi driver?

Is it really true that complete foreigners can land in the country and just dive straight into the taxi-driving business, winging it the whole way?!?  I can’t imagine having the guts to go to say… Nigeria and start charging poor unsuspecting punters for trips to places I can’t even pronounce, let alone find.

Pure madness.

I feel so sorry for foreign national taxi drivers today.  Nobody’s going to want to use them now as they’ve all been tarred with the same pidgeon.  They’ve busted their chops trying to learn the ins and outs of the cabbying business so that they can feed their families in this God-forsaken economy of ours, and now they are to us what the Al Quaeda are to the Americans, just because of a stupid head-line and the usual short-comings of our Irish Big Brother.

I’m laughing though.  Who’d suspect an innocent looking female taxi driver of evil intent?  Nobody, that’s who. 

I could have fun with that…

My tit:

This boob ashtray was given to TAT by his sister many years ago.  There is no argument or conversation serious enough not to be grounded by the words “Pass me your tit there…”

My bush:

I’ve had this miniature rose bush since I was 17.  It grew to over 50cm tall and was starting to behave oddly, so I pruned it to half it’s size.  It’s been flowering like crazy ever since, but last Spring it got attacked un-mercifully by a little gross army of greenfly.  They say you shouldn’t spray a plant with bug-killer while it’s flowering, but I sprayed it anyway because the little beasties were everywhere and as a result, the plant almost met it’s maker.  I give it warm showers every other day to wash the straggler beasties away and then keep it in the sunniest spot there is.  This TLC seems to have worked - there are a few tiny fresh green leaves now.

Here’s the thing; Even in it’s darkest hours, it persisted with that flower.  The bud was being eaten alive but it carried on, and flowered the prettiest darn flower it’s ever made against all odds.

That is some inspirational shit right there.  Was that God’s work or mine?

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. 

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…

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.

Bloggers United

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

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.

I’m officially a big fat hypocrite.  I used to love whingeing about taxi drivers, saying what wankers they were to push me out of a lane or cut me off.  I joked when people told me I’d be the same… I swore I’d remain considerate, but no, today I fell over the edge. 

Drivers dithering at the lip of a slip lane are asking for me to overtake them.  People sitting at filter arrows across from me seem to want me to cut them off, it’s not my fault.  Taxi drivers are just on auto-pilot most of the time… I am, even after only three days.  I’m too busy concentrating on the radio, my destination and other car’s bumpers for me to remember to be nice. 

So on behalf of all the taxi drivers in Ireland, we’re sorry, but if you’re dozy, we’ll just keep right on trucking.  We have to.  Feel free to bully back, it makes a nice break from the routine!

I found a video for you.  I hope it works.  It’s a rather inspiring story about an adopted African boy:

Thanks Kelly

I seriously love it when blokes go all taboo.  Nickhereandnow in his infinite excellent wisdom, wrote his view on hairiness (and prevention of) today.  I leaped with joy to read his post, as it’s a great excuse to have a go, especially seeing as I may just be the hairiest girl in the world.

You might have seen this face before:

This smug mug belongs to my father, who bestowed his wisdom, height, and Wookie genes upon me.  Now you perhaps will appreciate my point.

Freud would have it that I would prefer the bearded bloke when seeking a mate, but this for some reason went out the window when I chose a man with exactly two hairs on his chest.  Freud also said that a woman is either constantly running towards her father, or away from him.  If you saw my dad standing on top of his pile of tourist carcasses, you’d probably choose the latter, too.  With the exception of Gimme perhaps, bearded men are generally too ‘nice’ for me, being that I like just a pinch of bad-boy in my men.

Anyway, being that I am with a minimally hairy bloke, a lot of discussion has led me to understand that excess hair on my own self is not appreciated.  I have been asked to visit the beautician’s quarters for a ‘bald eagle’ of late  (TAT’s knowledge of the hairstyles in that region astounded me).  I refused point blank, as I have already experience pube waxing and found it not to my taste, especially when you’re being done by a vindictive cow who insists on ripping away at the same raw and bleeding patch 17 times.

Then, in my infinite female wisdom, I challenged TAT.  I told him I’d go the va-general whole hog on the day he went through with a back, crack, and sack wax.  We agreed to leave it at that, for that was good enough for this particular gander (’Bollox to that!’ he said.  ‘Exactly!’  I said).

The thing is though, you might be here expecting me to fully support this sort of image:

Not a chance, matey.  The gals at school were the first to point out what a freak I was.  Then when my best friend’s little brother began to call me ‘Dr. Zaius’, I knew it was time, and deforestation began against my mother’s wishes.

-x-

My de-fuzzing attempts are as follows:

-I tried Immac first (now Veet) which is a type of acid which, when applied to the skin, produces a very weird smell to let you know your skin is being poisoned.  Then after a while, one washes said acid off, along with scorched dead hairs.  Not so with us very hairy chicks!  We just end up with alien legs that still need to be shaved despite chemically raw conditions.  Binned.

-I tried those electric shavers twice.  The first time it was useless.  The second time came years later when I had forgotten how useless they were but they are still useless.  Binned.

-I tried waxing once when I decided for some unknown reason that the midwife in the hospital in which I was due to explode shortly at the time, might be offended by my… umm… genetic condition.  Bikini waxes hurt.  They really sodding hurt.  And, to make matters prettier, there were many craters, and much ingrown nastiness to follow.  I tried home kits a few times on my arms, but with crap results.  The pain was overtaken by the frustration of being totally unable to uproot the final 15% of the really stubborn hairs.  It was almost the death of me, so it was binned.

-I even tried one of those electrolysis machines, bought on Ebay for fifty quid.  The principle is that you hold this pen (which is wired to the mains) in your left hand.  Instead of a nib, the pen has a micro-thin wire which you insert into the root of your offending hair.  You then touch the silver part of the pen with your wet hand, and ‘BZZZZZZZT’ - you complete the circuit and get root electrocution.  It smells rotten, it feels rotten, and you’d have to do it a rotten further 15,000,000 times to kill all the hair on your body.  Binned.

My only man is your average disposable razor blade (especially the ‘new’ and ‘improved’ ones!), and a large bottle of Fruit of the Earth Crystal Clear Aloe Gel.

-x-

It takes me half an hour to shave everything (trying to shave one’s toe-knuckles with severe myopia is a serious challenge), much longer if I’m expecting a trip to the swimming pool or beach.  It sucks, but I don’t mind, because there is not a chance in hell you’d find me letting it grow.  It doesn’t feel natural, ironically, and I’m pretty sure that’s not the media talking.  If a bloke were to walk up to me and tell me that hairy women are his greatest turn on, I’d run away. 

Anthropologically, it doesn’t make sense for women to be hairy.  Sure… didn’t they get to stay in caves and nurture young?  Men of course needed hair to keep the warm and display their virility and that’s lovely… I’m a magnet to a scruffy stubble, as long as it’s only a few days old.  Men needhair, but I don’t really understand how evolution hasn’t phased it out yet for women… Mother Nature must have gotten the hint by now that it’s out-dated and un-wanted?!  In fact, this guy claims women are generally getting hairier, and yes, there is indeed a blog dedicated to the subject out there! Hairy Women Blog.

Is this one of natures oldest jokes?  I sure as hell ain’t laughing.

The following is taken from the book ‘211 Things a Bright Boy Can Do’ by Tom Cutler.  All information taken directly from the book is marked by quotations, otherwise the material is summarised by Yours Truly.

1. This is the well known trick of slicing a banana without peeling it.  If you stick a needle through a dark spot and rotate it sideways repeating on the opposite side, then do the same at various intervals, you’ll have an unpeeled sliced banana.  Leaking is involved, so it’s best to have this trick prepared in advance.  “You can leave it in the fruitbowl for an unsuspecting victim, or pretend to cut it with an invisible knife, before peeling it yourself.  Children find this particularly mysterious.”
2. Get two blindfolded partyfolk to feed each other bananas.  “This can be highly amusing, as you might suppose, and there are many interesting variations possible - which I will leave to your imagination.”
3. There is a trick you can do with either a peeled hard-boiled egg or a (partly peeled) banana, a wide-necked bottle, and a piece of burning paper.  The idea is to block the neck with the foodstuff of your choice, trapping the flame inside.  The fires need for oxygen should then suck the banana inside, thus peeling it for you.  “But, in all my years of trying this interesting sounding stunt, I have never made it work.  The amount of energy required for the job is apparently just too great.  Nevertheless in the spirit of scientific enquiry, you could try it yourself.”
4. Planning a boring day out with relatives in a stately home?  Conceal a banana up your sleeve and keep a hold of the top part with thumb and forefinger.  As you pass a small tree, turn your back to the relatives and grab a small branch, pinching the banana against it.  “With great seriousness, draw people’s attention to it saying: ‘It’s amazing what grows here now.  It must be global warming.’  Pretend to tear the banana off, then peel it and eat it.  Gets a laugh every time.”

Mr. Cutler then follows with a wee snipped of banana trivia; “A 1982 law forbade joking about Zimbabwean president Canaan Banana’s name.”

As my own personal number 5, I would like to offer Baino’s further suggestion as it is a classic… “they’re handy for demonstrating the application of a condom!”