K8 the GR8

I lifted Mrs O’Leary’s swollen ankles into the passenger’s side of my car.  I could tell she was embarrassed and angry with life that she should be in the position to ask a perfect stranger to do so, so I made light small-talk as I sat back in the driver’s seat.  Mrs O’Leary was quiet, she seemed tired… her lump of groceries in the boot was a fair reason for this, so I turned on the air-flow and pumped up the radio volume…

-settling *groan* from O’Leary-

… and animated voices filled the car as I drove toward Soldier’s Row.  Matt Cooper was fiercely battling for the last word with several hot headed YESsers and NOers of this hilarious Lisbon Treaty, and  I confess to going ’round a rind-about maybe too many times just to hear what this one lady (Kathy Sinnot) had to say.  When she finished her point, she received a round of applause and my passenger collapsed beside me with laughter.  It was a most wonderful and welcome sound.

“Jaysus but that clinches it for me!  I’m gonna vote NO just to piss them off!”  she began to breathe quickly and excitedly and I knew a rant was on it’s way.  “It’s gas… nobody really knows what’s goin’ on!  I was watchin’ a chap get de twenty questions dere on d’telly last night - sure de more he said de more confused he go’ -  I’ve never heard anyone say so much withou’ sayin’ so little!!!  Now here’s yer one… she’s got them by the bollix and they haven’t a clue what to say ‘coz they haven’t read the feckin’ thing either!!!”  she collapses with laughter once more.

“Think abourd’i… “  she says, breathing her giggles out “…if we all vote NO at least they’ll org’nise it better the next time ’round!”

I had to admire her logic.  I’m not really comfortable either signing a contract that’s written in double-dutch.  And those posters?!?!  Please.  Those slogan’s aren’t even impressing the village idiot.

I’m proud to be European, I like this neck of the woods.  I’m not sure that I trust Ireland’s system fully, they seem to be making a lot of dodgy choices lately.

(I’m playing ‘Sim City’ on the Nintender DS in between fares in the taxi these days.  I tried raising taxes and decreasing funding on public health, transport and education to free up more funds and guess what?  The poplulation all fucked off to find better living elsewhere… haven’t we all dreamed about doing that?  Why are we still here?!!)

So I’m thinking… maybe it’s a double-bluff?  Maybe the NOers found the small print and are scrutinizing the things that probably won’t happen? It just seems like the original ink has had coffee spilled on it-  it’s just a blurred mess and now everybody’s trying to remember what it might have said.

I’m saying NO on this, the 5th of June with nine days to go.  The YES people had better all shut up, or make some factual sense in that time because otherwise you’re just pissing me off.

(Toxic Steve)

I love my Ireland - she’s beautiful but she’s run by muppets.  I like to think of her as independant, but that might just be my blood talking…

“We declare the right of the people of Ireland to the ownership of Ireland, and to the unfettered control of Irish destinies… The long usurpation of that right by a foreign people and government has not extinguished the right, nor can it ever be extinguished except by the destruction of the Irish people.”

Are these just pretty words?

Mrs O’Leary sure had a bounce in her step after she tipped me €5.  I think she saw the light.

(Don’t click this link by the way.)

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!)

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)

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

Today was full of Bray.  I learned many shortcuts thanks to daring passenger’s advice, and now know that it is not a good idea to stop - for any reason - in Fassaroe.  I am tired. 

I’m especially tired of Coastcare blogging.  I wrote a very in-depth post last night which was researched and politically correct and linked to the extreme.  It took me an hour.  I then went off to look for a photo and when I returned, the God of Irony decided to delete it.  Gone.  Forever.  Even the draft copy.

I just wrote a half-assed version of it tonight, and am saddened by its lack of traffic.  It reminds me of the old days! 

Here it is: The Brittas Bay Coastcare Blog

*sigh*

I would be extremely grateful if you could all pop over there for a sec and leave some sort of mark…  Animals are welcome (I’m lookin’ at you, sheeplady) as well as pirates and adventurers searching for treasure.  You know what I mean.

*sigh*

On a different note, I got memed by Hairyfish for the memoir in 6 words thing, the object is to… ah sure you know the craic by now. 

“Soul’s full of pins and needles”

…would be mine.  My photo is:

This picture is of a quiet man who lives near Parnell’s house in Avondale Woods, here in Rathdrum (not in Rathnew as I stupidly blurted involuntarily over the CB today. D’OH.  Stupid.  Bad rookie!)  This place is the most amazing place in the world, especially if you’re a dog who loves sticks and rivers and picnics and lots and lots of walking. 

I’m listening to a most excellent CD what I got in the post this morning from Tenacious T (consider yourself memed!!).  Guy seriously picks good material.  I’ll let you know what’s on it later, but I’m too monged out from all the blogging to do anything but listen to it right now.

Also I noticed I really need to update my blogroll from my favourites and google reader lists but TAT is nagging me to get off the computer so I have to go…. I’ll meme some more people one everything’s all fresh and pretty tomorrow if you don’t mind. 

You’re Goddamn right, it’s a beautiful day, uh huh.

Addendum: Oh yes, I have some serious memeing to do, don’t I!?  You thought you’d get away with it, didn’t you?  Eeny… Meeny… Miny… Mo.

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.

I have another problem.

You might read the following and advise me to pull the silver spoon out of my sphincter.  Part of me wouldn’t blame you.  This subject just disturbs the hell out of me.

“Fuck, man.  I just fell off the fuckin’ wall again and it fuckin’ hurts like a cunt.  Jesus Christ.  Arrgh.. Fuck.  Fuckin’ cunt.”

This is a direct quote from an eight year old kid on my road.  I happen to like this kid, and I’ve had pretty interesting conversations with him in the past.  The problem is though, that his dear old mum is apparently completely useless at her job.  She’s the hoop-earring shiny tracksuit type who loves to flirt loudly with anything possessing a penis over the age of 18.  She can be heard screaming phrases like;

“Jason, get off that fucking wall or I’ll fucking beat the shit out of you… no no, don’t even try to be a fuckin’ smartarse with me, sunshine!” 

Charming, isn’t it?  Medbh wrote a post today about how goddamn inappropriate this sort of street-theatre is.

I think I know why Jason curses so much; obviously because he hasn’t learned any better from his mother, but I clearly get the impression that it’s the only way he’ll get attention or love from anybody.  He was absolutely delighted when I yelled at him for teaching Puppychild the word ‘cunt’ which she sang loudly to us for several days.  He apologised, and said he wouldn’t curse again in front of the smallest kids.  He now warns me when he sees me, and advises me to close my ears.  What a thoughtful little smartarse.

I’m past the stage of wanting to teach him a lesson he’ll never forget.  Tying the child to a lamp-post and writing his most commonly used words in indelible marker all over his face wouldn’t solve anything.  Neither would accidentally running him over.  I respect the kid far too much to hurt him, but I can’t take it anymore.  The blind white rage I feel when I hear him echo his hapless mother’s favourite expressions is too much to bear.

Then of course comes the torture I have to put Puppychild through every time this Jason kid leaves his house.  To avoid my kid getting wet from the blue rain, I have to drag her kicking and screaming away from her cute little friends.  If I’m lazy about this, I get to hear little gems like ‘Mommy, I fuckin’ hungry’ for the rest of the evening. 

I want to take the kid aside and talk to him, reach him somehow in some way that his mum certainly isn’t.  I want him to know that I think he’s a cool kid, that I haven’t written him off as a budding scumbag like everyone else has.  I want to scrape the filth off the surface of this kid and find the strong, friendly and funny kid that lies underneath.

How in the name of Marilyn Manson am I supposed to do this though?  Kids like these are like time-bombs.  If I set him off, that’s him screwed forever, he hasn’t a chance at a straight life.  What do I say to him?!?  How do I show him my respect without looking like a total fucking muppet?

Why do I care anyway?  Because nobody else will, and it’s in my path.  Maybe Karma has it set in stone that I have to solve this problem before I get to move out.  I don’t know.  I do know that this place is driving me nuts, and not in a character building way… it’s more like a soul-implosion.

Why haven’t they written a ‘Humanity Restoration for Dummies’ book yet?

Sorry, but I just have to jump on the band wagon here, because I’d love to know why people are getting their knickers in a twist about the standard of blogs.

I don’t understand… when we sit down to write a post and suddenly realise that it’s not going to make headlines or make a huge difference to the world, should we just give up?  I thought blogging was a skill, much like journalism.  Was John Waters a child prodigy?  Did Kathy Foley always write such excellent articles?  I’m thinking not.  I’m thinking that they started at the bottom of the ladder much like the rest of us.  If somebody came along and slagged their work from the offset would it have been helpful to their careers?  Would they have cried into their pillows at night, or just ignored it?

I’m wondering if these journalists are fearing for their futures… I certainly don’t buy newspapers as often as I used to because I find everything I need, right here on the blogs.  Sure, it’s biased to an extent and it’s un-censored, but at least I feel like I’m getting a far wider picture.  Newspapers won’t publish certain items of news for political reasons or just because they aren’t interesting enough, but blogs sure as hell will.  Perhaps journalists will soon become obsolete?  I don’t know, but I don’t care.  I do hope that blogging remains as it is- common folk with open minds, a tap into the underworld that is humanity.

Perhaps it’s jealousy?  I can certainly recognise the green-eyed monster with regard to Twenty Major.  He scored a hat trick and published a book, fair dues to him!  If the rest of us feel like we can’t overtake him on the fast lane, why sit behind him and flash our lights angrily?  Why tell him to his face that his work is shite?  I might be naive, but I can definately recognise the bigger man in this situation.  Hey, if the material isn’t to your taste, then don’t bloody read it.  A DIY colonic irrigation would be a far better way of spending your time by the sounds of things.

And hey - so what if the standard of Irish blogging is lower than our American counterparts?  Isn’t it all starting to sound like conversations on a playground?  Is there somebody out there who is making a balanced decision by reading every single one of the 2,000+ Irish blogs?  I don’t think so.  I think there are a serious amount of posts written by bloggers all over the world that are slipping past the bar, like this one.  Okay so it’s not political, but… what’s that expression about the hand that rocks the cradle again?

Who are they to judge?  Who are we to judge?  Shouldn’t we all skip the bullshit and join forces? 

I’m aware that this is a crap post, just a meaningless rant, but to those oh-so topical journalists out there who also know that you’re only as good as your last article, um… keep writing… you’re bound to make sense eventually.

This is how conversations are going lately:

-o-

*bland conversation happens while I fidget, gasping for an opportunity to brag about being shortlisted*

-break in conversation flow…-

Other party: “So anyway enough about me!  Have you any news yerself?”

Me: “Uhhh, not really,” *feigns casual but entirely fake joggage of memory* “Oh!  Apart from this award thingy I’m going to on Saturday!”

Other party: “Award thingy?  What award thingy?”

Me: “It’s a blog award ceremony in Town.”

Other party: “A blog?  Blololog! *giggle* What’s a blog?  Sounds like something you’d read on a toilet (ha ha ha)… like ‘Please flush your blog’!  (ha ha ha ha)

Me: (Vaguely insulted) You haven’t heard of a blog yet?  Psht, you use the internet don’t you?  You must have heard of blogs!”

Other party: “Uhh no.  Enlighten me.”

Me: “It’s like a soapbox, or a magazine article that you write and publish onto a website.”

Other party: “Like Bebo?”

Me: “No, sad sap, not like Bebo.”

Other party: “What the fuck is a soapbox?”

Me: *sigh* “A medium for public announcement I suppose.”

Other party: “What do you have that’s worth announcing?!”

Me: “I don’t know, stuff I guess.  You read magazines!  If you read magazines you’ll like reading blogs.”

Other party: *Starts to lose interest* “So tell me about the awards… you know someone up for one?”

Me: “Me!”

Other party: “No way… seriously?  There can’t be that much competition so, is it a small function?”

Me: “Fuck you!”

Other party: “Sorry I didn’t mean it like that… *shuffles nervously*”

Me: “It’s ok.  So anyway, if you want to know what a blog is, why not visit mine?  It’s a bit mental but you might like it, especially as you’re into creativity and all that stuff yourself…”

Other party: “Uhh, ok, what’s the address?” *Examines nails*

Me: “Search for ‘Kate the Great’ but replace the ‘ate’ bits with the figure 8.”

Other party: “What?”

Me: *repeats the concept* “Or just cackaloo.com, that’s easier.”

Other party: “Whatever… so are you going out this weekend?”

Me: “Yeah, dude, I’m going to a sodding blog award ceremony!  Hey you know what?  I never get awards for stuff, let alone being nominated for one.  Where’s the love?  Where’s the friendly support? What sort of sodding friend are you?”

Other party: “Jeez, relax!  I’ll look at your site, ok?  Feel better now?”

Me: *scowl* “Tell me how to find my webpage, smartarse!”

Other party: “Uhhh, I search for ‘crackapoo’, or ‘Kate has eight’, right?”

Me: “Screw you, fuckface!”

Other party: “Whatever.  Hey did I tell you I got new shoes?”

Me: “I hope you fall over and break your legs and I hope your new heels end up stabbing you in your cold, cold heart, beeeaatch!”  *I walk off sulking*

 -o-

This is a pretty accurate conversation.  You might think ‘What a sucky friend that is!’, but the funny thing is, this conversation happens with pretty much everybody.  What exactly is so naff about blogging?

Take my best bud, for example.  I asked her to come with me on the night, and she said ‘Sure, whatever… hey why don’t we just show our faces for a bit and then go out to a proper pub?  X and X are in Dublin on Saturday night, we could catch up with them and have more fun!’

Where’s the love, people?  Where’s the love?!?!?

Another addendum:

You know what?  That was bang out of order my slagging Best bud, in hindsight it’s well exaggerated, just the product of a scorned lady.  If you should ever read this, Pooh, know that I totally understood the plans, but used you cheaply to further a point because I’m that sort of friend.  I look forward to your slaps unless you don’t end up reading this, in which case- Nice one!