K8 the GR8

Puppychild likes to watch DVDs as she falls alseep, it’s a wicked habit, I know that.  I plan to put a stop to it as soon as I can figure out how…

…anyway normally she’d ask for Cinderella or the Care Bears or some Godawful crud like that but tonight she impressed me no end;

“Mommy?” (shouted from the top of the stairs)

“Yes-see?”

“Wanna watch?”

“What you wanna watch?”

“King Arthur.  King of the Brittins!”

Now you’d expect a child of three years of age to produce many clear words relating to stuff she knows through endless practice, but these knocked me for six altogether - turns out she watches this film sometimes with her dad while I’m at work and is well impressed with the Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog.   I went to the bookshelf and found it - Monty Python’s The Holy Grail. 

She loves this film a little bit too much.

I’m waiting for that day though… that day when I find myself having to man-handle her in the supermarket for wanting to trolleyseat-surf, and for her to shout for all to hear…

“Help! Help! I’m being repressed! Come see the violence inherent in the system!”

Ahh.  It’s good to see the apple hasn’t fallen far from the nnNi.

I get these Phoebe moments from time to time… like discovering that the expression isn’t ‘for all intensive purposes’ but actually ‘for all intents and purposes’.  It’s vital that if you want to show off your big lexicon you at least spell it right, so that was a swing and a miss for me for many years.

The latest boo-boo I discovered relates to Bryan Adams.

You know that song ‘Summer of ‘69′?  Of course you do.  I don’t know how many times I’ve heard this song but I have only just discovered that I was drastically wrong about the lyrics.

I always thought it was a very kinky song with pretty shocking lyrics… I wondered how he got away with it, but hey, there’s plenty of stuff out there that’s worse.  It was only when I picked up a kid and his dad in my taxi yesterday that I realised my mistake.  Turns out this kid loves Bryan Adams, and sang me the first few lines of the song which was highly inappropriate I thought, given that he was singing it in front of his dad… that was, until his dad applauded the effort.  I was disgusted.

Here’s how I thought the lyrics went:

“Got my first real sex-dream, boy I had a fine old time.  Played until my fingers bled… etc.”

Apparently I was wrong.  Very, very wrong.

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…

“Hey - has anyone seen my sense of humour?”

The words bounce around inside on the cold stone walls and sink with a ‘ploop’ into a still pool below.  I hear no reply.

“Hey!  Is anyone there?  I need my sense of humour!  *silence*  What about guilt?  Come on, I know you’re here somewhere, I’ve never known you not to lurk in some dark corner somewhere.  Hello?  Pride?  Motivation?  Is anybody here?  Answer me!!!”  This last part is shouted but without much enthusiasm.

A malevolent snickering is heard from way down below me.

“Who’s that?”  I peer down into the darkness.  “Have you seen my sense of humour?”

“Yeah.”  More snickering follows.

“Who are you?  What have you done with all my stuff?”

Something small and grabby twists my stomach and makes it cramp.  I start to feel sick and wonder if I shouldn’t just go about my business and try to ignore it.

“Yeah you’d like that wouldn’t you?” the voice sneers.  “You keep doing that and I’ll keep minding all your lovely posessions in my bottle here and keep ‘em warm.  Somebody will open it someday when you least expect it and we’ll have a right laugh at you, won’t we?!?”

“Hey!!” I shout.  “That’s hardly fair!  I gave you a chance last night and you blew it.  I booked an appointment for the Big Cry and it never showed up.  I was ready, it’s not fair!”

“Heh.  You can’t force it out, cop on t’yerself!  You know what you have to do, but you’re too chicken-shit to do it.  It’s yer own fault!”

Evil cackling starts up and I feel something knaw on my solar plexus.

“Stop!!!  You’re making me feel sick and I don’t like it… I feel sick all the time now, open the damn bottle, get it over with already!”

“You have to talk to her.”

“Not a chance, matey.”

“She wants to talk to you.”

I feel bile rise in my throat and I twitch. 

“Not today.”

I light a cigarette and miss the guilt, but only a little bit.  I blow smoke-rings and wonder if being a sociopath really is such a bad thing.

I went shopping yesterday for Father’s day gifts (The Accidental Terrorist has been bugging me for Wiiks about his present, so I caved and he is now a happy Wii bunnii :), and found a copy of Twenty’s buke in Easons.

Delighted, I bought it and stashed it in the overhead compartment in my car, intending to use it as light entertainment for when I’m in between taxi-jobs.  Unfortunately it was so busy at work today that I didn’t even get a chance to read the blurb.

Then it hit me.

Overhead compartments really should only hold two books at a time, but mine holds 7 CDs, a newspaper, a coin-bag and two books so when I say it hit me… I don’t mean metaphoricalizzy.

The book slipped out of its cubby and jabbed me with its pointy corner on the crown of my head just as I was negotiating a narrow country road.  ‘GAH!’ I said, and ducked - I was appalled for a nano-second that my passenger had assaulted me, but then I spotted Twenty’s smug mug laughing at me from my lap, and I felt foolish. 

In the second it took for me to re-gain my composure, a pheasant had walked out in front of me and I hit it with a curdling thump that sounded louder than it should have.  ‘FUH!’ says I, as the bird struts back out onto the road.  Mrs. Passenger wasn’t too pleased when she saw that her eggs had broken and didn’t appreciate my sarcasm much as I pointed at the injured bird and suggested she take it home.  The bird himself mooned me, then fucked off back into the ditch presumably to a pub to tell his mates what’d happened. 

I had to take a half-hour break after Mrs. Passenger was ever-so safely disposed of to nurse me bumped noggin and recover from my poultry-abuse.

I reckon I should sue Twenty Major for loss of earnings, or at least get him to autograph it with his own blood.  His book has tested the limits of both my sanity and my overhead compartment and I’m not happy. 

This book better be damn good is all.

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?

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.

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:

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.