K8 the GR8

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. 

I was kind of nervous at the prospect of meeting Jefferson Davis, I’ve heard his podcasts with BrianF and Dad and by the sounds of it, he is one intelligent guy.  I tend to steer clear of intelligent people as a rule, they have a habit of showing me up.  My half of the conversation seems to fill up with potholes of confused space, making life difficult for the other person who soon gets tired of prompting and goes in search of something more titillating.

This was not so with Jefferson though.  We hooked up at Headrambles Manor and I watched as Grandad slowly emptied can after can of Guinness into his and Jefferson’s belly and banter flowed free.  We skyped BrianF to make him jealous, spoke about things that are and things that should be, and watched Dustin honour Ireland in his own special way and it was good.  Jefferson’s a quiet bloke with an accepting presence and the skill of throwing out honesty that makes you feel like an old friend.  Seriously great company to be in, innit?

I brought him to Johnny Fox’s for five minutes because circumstances were unfavourable (this pub has seriously lost it’s people skills), then to Barracuda in Bray where we got some grub and got to watch the sky turn from purple to brown by the sea-shore. 

Today I dragged him all over the place, or at least to as many aesthetically interesting places in Wicklow as I could within reason.  We went to Lough Dan at the brink of the Sally Gap to gaze down into the valley for a bit, then strolled around Victoria’s Way to meditate and admire the statues (I was worried about bringing Puppychild to this as some of Victoria’s art is disturbing to say the least, but as it turned out, the butterfly season is here which kept her busy enough!).  Jefferson and I admired the statues, books and craftwork in the shop which was empty of any other living soul. He watched as I helped myself to some jewellery and left money under the brass monkey on the counter, and appreciated how truly Zen-like this Victoria character is.

We got an Avoca take-away (Avoca Foccaccia is the yummiest Foccaccia there is) and drove home to eat and wait for Laughingboy to return home from school.  I was dissapointed that the neighbours behaved themselves and denied Jefforson any scandal, but there you go.

I thought Powerscourt deserved a bit of a mooch, but we got there just as the gardens were closing which was a crying shame, so I brought him to Powerscourt waterfall instead.  Jefferson farted about with his camera over towards the waterfall itself while I brought the kids to the playground.

I say ‘I brought the kids’, but ashamedly I got pretty excited when I saw it and almost forgot to bring the children with me…  it’s one of those highly-sophisticated jobs with lever-controlled sand diggers and climbing towers and a most excellent roundabout with central controlling.  I -  sorry - we… had a ball and Jefferson had to drag the lot of us away kicking and screaming when it was time to go home.  It was quite embarrasing in hindsight.  To give an example of it’s excellence, I noticed that the entire bus of (adult) Croatian toursits were not over by the waterfall farting about with their cameras,  instead they were clambering all over the rope-bridges and photographing each other making tits of themselves by the monkey-bars, giggling away like four-year-olds.  It was quite amazing to watch.

Today was the best tourism epic since Gwen the French student of ‘03.  Thanks Jeffo

Men in Bray seem to have a particularly low tolerance of female drivers.  Being a female taxi-driver, my job is therefore quite tricky.  Male drivers can get away with minor fuck-ups, but if a female driver does something slightly amiss, she gets rolling eyes and sentences which usually begin with “Typical…” and end with “… shouldn’t be allowed on the roads”.  It’s pretty annoying.

For this reason, I’ve built up an anti-cynicism wall which prevents me from being irritated by chauvinistic comments.  I’ve also dialled down the ‘pink’, my feminine flair only gets me into trouble in this job, so now I’m bland, nondescript and silent (for the most part).

The most extraordinary thing has happened though.  Conversations with some women in my cab are starting to sound like this;

Miss X: “I have a boyfriend, you know.”

Me: “Good for you, they can be handy to have around, sometimes.”

*Miss X rants for a bit on her boyfriend’s bad habits before falling silent, lost in thought*

Miss X: “I have no friends here in Bray though… no ’special’ friends anyway.  Can I have your number?”

Me: (Taken aback) “Ummm… ok.”

Miss X: (Hands me her phone) “Here, ring your own phone so the numbers show up…”

I’ve dubiously exchanged numbers with four women now.  Two of them text me for mini-conversations quite reguarly and keep asking me out to the pub. 

They seem like nice people, not overly odd or anything, just in need of a friend.  Why me though?  Why a random bland nondescript silent taxi driver?

Then it hit me!

I wear black.  I wear ‘comfortable’ shoes.  I have tattoos, and I don’t wear a whole lot of make-up.  This whole time, I’ve been sending out a message to a group of people I hadn’t even considered before!  It’s 2008, K8.  Jeez.  In this day and age, I’m surprised at myself.  I’ve lost out on some serious tippage just because I reserve my flirts for drunken men, dammit.

I’ve noticed though… in one month I’ve gathered four women’s mobile numbers, but during my entire life I’ve only ever collected two from men.  Isn’t that odd?!?!  Do I have lesbianistic qualities? 

I have conversed many times with myself on the subject of lesbianism, and we both agree that it is not my cup of tea.  I personally don’t understand how four ovaries can co-habit without major storm fronts developing.  I love men.  I need men.  They are the cello to my violin, and I couldn’t live without them.   I mean sure, Denise Richards has amazing hair and Sienna Miller has a smashing set of legs, but they come with a side-helping of maintenance which would bug the hell out of me.

Still, never say never I suppose.  I’ve never done the drunken experimentation as a teenager thing, but I might put lesbianism on my list of ‘things to do before I die’.  I hope The Accidental Terrorist doesn’t mind.

Isn’t this sunshine just the absolute bee’s knees?

Today is my Saturday (being a quiet day on the taxi market) so I get to catch up on ‘puter stuff like designing a t-shirt for the Mini Marathon…

…and writing bloggy things. 

Saturday was excellent.  I and the Accidental Terrorist dumped our chisellers with the family and went to a wedding of epic proportions in Co. Westmeath.  We were a cozy group of about 50, most of whom we knew, but hadn’t seen in about ten years.  I danced the YMCA and played for the crowd on a grand piano which are things I only do when I am extremely happy. 

The reception was held at Middleton House in Castletown Geoghan, which is an old recently renovated house.  It’s only used for group bookings, so we had the entire place to ourselves.  The staff are to be praised from a height… the food was perfect, and they were polite the entire time, even through the many passes they received from various drunken ladies.  It’s an excellent venue, should you need one for whatever purpose. 

The chap in the B&B we stayed in told us that he used to be a Guard who was stationed in that house 25 years ago.  His job was to prevent the house from any damage caused by locals who were itching to burn it down, being that it was built and owned by a Protestant family.  The history of the place was fascinating stuff.

This was our dancing-area, the band were in the gap to the right of the staircase, and there are two bars with comfy couches and fireplaces either side of the picture.

I got to pooch around a few rooms too - each plusher than the last - and met a spectre in one of the basement hallways.  I took a picture of him for you:

 We had a very one-sided conversation briefly before whatever it was buggered off.  I think he wanted me to follow him but I know the rules of horror films, so I didn’t. 

I explained more on Brian’s blog’s comments, with details on why I’m not crazy and didn’t imagine the whole thing.

Bank Holiday Monday should have seen me hackney-cabbing in Bray, but instead I got called to dig Baldeagle out of a hole.  Baldeagle is one of TAT’s most spurious of friends, who works for our Irish version of Fed-Ex.  He had double-booked himself, so we swapped transport and I got to drive a big van from the Quays in Dublin City, all the way up to Belfast and back, while he got to pull donuts and practise his hand-brake turns in a field with my own jam-jar.

It was pretty nice cruising up and down motorways all day like that in the sunshine, apart from the fact that I’ve got a trucker’s tan now.  One white arm just looks odd.

How was your weekend?

There’s something wrong with the way my brain works.  It won’t let me censor the stuff that comes out of my mouth, seriously, here are a few verbal ejaculations that I’ve produced recently to prove that I need help:

To the guy in the pizza house: “Yes, I’m sure I can fit a 9 inch in…”

To a mechanic at a tyre changing shop: “I’m not sure, I haven’t had my fluids checked for a while.”

To a passenger in my cab: “Yes that Parkinson fella is a master debater, isn’t he?”

To a lady who commented on my car-seat covers and recommended leather coverings: “Ah you know… it’s all the same on the whole.”

To a friend who grabs her car-keys and asks me: “Are you coming?!” 
“No, I have a wedgie.  Oh… right… yes.”

To a young lady in my cab who commented on how she liked to see women fighting for male-oriented roles: “Yes, male taxi drivers are a hard bunch to stay on top of, alright…”

(Also on a related note- does anyone know of a good foundation to disguise blushing?)

Tenacious T has memed me with the ‘6 words’ meme again.  Here’s a perfect opportunity to stick it in…

Lack of sleep breeds brain farts.

I was alone in the house last night, and was doing what I usually do after work… I had let the dog in and fed him, had then turned off all the downstairs lights and toddled on up to the computer room to stare at the screen for a few hours before bed.

Thing is, while I was lost in cyberland, a noise from downstairs entered my consciousness.  The front door handle was rattling.  I froze and listened.  There was silence for about 10 seconds, then suddenly a fierce growling began, followed by ‘RAWR RAR RAR RAR RAWR!!!!’ which was the comforting sound of Wouldye going mental.  I went downstairs, found the door unlocked but closed, had a good look up and down the street, then came back inside to calm the mutt (who I had presumed had seen a cat and had tried to open the front door himself to chase it).

Tonight after work, TAT told me that Mrs. Two Doors Down had been broken into… last night!

He told me that the Gardee had been up earlier that day to take fingerprints, and that they had an eyewitness account of a man looking in MY front window and attempting to enter the premises while I was upstairs.

Atta boy, Wouldye. 

Did I ever tell you I absolutely love my dog?

Yes, I have indeed inserted the sharp contents of my kitchen drawers into many hidden nooks and crevices around the house for easy access, and there is a souvenir police baton hidden under my coat-rack in the hall.   He can fuck right off if he thinks me and my dog are easy victims.

I’ll let you know tomorrow if I was broken into tonight or not, and whether I kicked ass or let Wouldye do all the work.  Stay tuned!

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…

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.