K8 the GR8

Speaking of creepy stuff,  I thought I’d let you in to another of my weird fascinations.  This is your official warning.  If you’re squeamish about enclosed spaces or being buried alive, you really don’t need to read the following.

* * *

I’ve never been to Paris.  When I do someday get a chance, one of the first places I’ll be visiting will be “les carrières de Paris” or “the quarries of Paris.”  I saw a programme once (Scariest Places on Earth) which highlighted the immensity of the area underneath the city.  From their sensationalist point of view, they aired a tape which was found deep inside the vast warren of catacombs and crypts, apparently belonging to some poor schmuck who had long before dissapeared.  The footage was of the panicked journey undertaken by this amateur explorer.  You watched this chap wander further and further through small chambers, breathing quickly, obviously very spooked by the crunching of bones underfoot, macabre skulls decorating the walls and obscure graffiti.  You watched him walk faster and faster, facing too many turns and crevices which may or may not lead him back to the surface.  You see him arranging arrows made from bones, only to find minutes later that he was circling and utterly lost. 

The empathy you feel for this chap is overpowering.  The last few seconds on the tape show our man finally losing the plot.  He panics, screams, and drops the camera.  An ominous thud is heard, and we are left with nothing but a brief flash of a creature of some sort screeching past the lens.  We jump as we have never jumped before.

This is the only thing I’ve ever watched (and I’ve seen them all - Saw I, II, III, bah!) that has left me with nightmares.

Have I lost you?  Let me give you a brief history of this sordid tourist attraction.

In the first century BC, limestone was quarried from the site of Paris City, and used to make sarcophagi, and later the buildings of Paris. The Romans, being the resourceful type, constructed 300 km of tunnels and caverns.  In the 1700s, excavation ceased, and Paris began to have problems.  Cemeteries became overcrowded.  Waste was dumped into the Seine causing epidemics.  So, it was decided that the cemetaries would have to go, and all exhumed bodies would be placed in this underground tunnel system.  All 6 million bodies, representing 30 generations of Parisians.

 ”The remains of some six million people are collected here, and although individuals can’t be identified, it’s ironic that members of the French nobility have ended up side by side with the revolutionaries who exterminated them. The catacombs are said to house victims of the Reign of Terror, including Robespierre himself,executed on 27 July 1795, and Louis XVI’s sister, Mme Elisabeth, who went to the guillotine exactly a year earlier. Other illustrious inhabitants include comedian Scaramouche, and poet and academician Jean de la Fontaine, who both died in 1694, and Madame de Pompadour, courtesan to Louis XV and friend of Voltaire, who died in1764.” (ref)

Louis-Etienne Héricart de Thury, engineer-in-chief of the mines from 1776 to 1854, had the bones arranged in a ‘decorative way’, so that the catacombs could be opened to tourists in 1804.  Several brave people went to explore the tunnels to try to map the place, but so many people dissapeared, that in 1955 access was limited to just a small portion of the tombs.  There are however so many entrances to this warren, it is impossible to stop people wandering in to host weird parties, or to do a spot of cataphilia.  The tourist entrance in Montparnasse was once dubbed ‘Hells Gate’, and leads to a staircase which brings you down 130 steps, spiralling 20 feet into the caverns.

Arête! C’est ici l’Empire de la Mort - Stop! This is The Kingdom of the Dead.

* * *

The idea of getting lost in the miles of tunnels down there gives me night terrors, but it’s still a morbid fascination of mine.  It’s like a dark secret harboured by a well-loved city, full of legend, horror and ghoulishness.   Who wouldn’t want to brick themselves on a nice romantic holiday?

A ’snot gobbler’ is a phrase coined by my father, to describe any young lad/gurrier, the type of kid who has a perpetual stream of green goo running from nose to upper lip.

This particular snot-gobbler is aged 7, and was sitting on a wall, watching me unpack groceries from the car. 

S.G.: “D’you want a turtle?”

Me: “Say what?”

SG: “I have two turtles buh I’m givin them away ‘cos one bit me.  Me uncle gave them to me for free but I’ll sell them to you for 60 euros.”

Me: “You have a lot to learn about marketing, son.  Why did the turtle bite you?”

SG: *shrugs*  after a long pause; “I was poking its nose.  I wanted to see if its face turned inside out.”

Me: “Did it?”

SG: “Nah, it bit me.  I don’t want it anymore.”

Me: “I’m sure the feeling is mutual.”

SG: “Wha?”

Me: “So have you nothing better to be doing with yourself on a nice day like today?”

SG: ”I’m grounded outside.”

Me: “That’s an oxymoron kid.  What did you do to deserve that?”

SG: “Me mammy went shopping in Tescos and dropped me and me friend into a building site nearby until she was finished.  We were there for ages and got bored so we broke loads o’ windows in the buildings.  Nobody seen us though,  ‘xept mammy.”

Me: “That was kind of stupid, wasn’t it?  A lot of people are going to be very angry about the amount of money they’re going to have to fork out to repair those windows.”

SG: “Don’t care.”

Me: “I would if I were you.  Your fingerprints will be all over that building site.  The police’ll be able to catch you in no time at all, then it’s jail-time for you, kiddo.  You’ll get 25 years for that.”

SG: *wide-eyed*  Shoiyh!!!

This blog’s been on hiatus this weekend, sacrificed for a rare peak in an otherwise quiet social-life.  When it rains it pours!

First of all, Friday night was to be dedicated to my Accidental Terrorist, as I’d spent the week before housesitting for me auld pair.  I was all set to spoil him with some needed attention, when I got a rather forlorn text from my friend, hinting at serious mopeage at being stuck at home with her kids on her birthday.  So, I felt it my duty to arrive at her house with a chinese, a few chickie DVDs and an impressive stash of Bacardi Breezers.  We got suitably inebriated and she became a very happy little duck.

Saturday night was cocktail night in the Accidental Terrorist’s best friend’s house.  We left our children on the doorstep of his mother’s house with a little note attatched, and ran away.  Minutes later, the five of us spent about 150 quid on alcohol and basket loads of fruit, wandering aimlessly around Tescos wondering what else would give an alcoholic smoothy a good kick… Spinach?  Going a bit too far.  Nuts?  Drain cleaner?

Settled back in the batchelor pad, the lads made a weird concoction which involved more eating than drinking, then stuck into their pool tournaments.  No bachelor pad seems to be complete without a pool table and an xbox.  We girlies then began to let the creative juices flow with the dodgy juicer gizmo. 

We made the following concoction:

Half bottle of Bacardi Ice, Half bottle of Bacardi breezer (pineapple flavour), 4 shots of white rum, 4 shots of vodka, Juice of 4 oranges, Juice of 1 lemon, Juice of half a lime, 4 tbsp brown sugar, 1 decent handful of ice, 1 handful of strawberries.

This, poured into a pint glass, is so delicious, it dissapears within about 2 minutes. And the added bonus was the hangovers this morning were non-existent on account of all the lovely vitamin C consumed!! 

The night then progressed into silly status, dancing around the pool table to ‘The Cure’, making silly drunken gestures during the inevitable game of ‘Charades’, you know the rest I’m sure.  The party was crashed by a number of complete wankers who managed to quash the happy spirits flat and start a fight within 10 minutes of their arrival, so we buggered off at that stage.

I’m just about ready for a gallon of tea and a soft couch right now.  The kids can put themselves to bed. 

If you are unfortunately stuck to your computer today, are feeling destructive and need cheering up, I have just the ticket.

Destroy websites

Brian has come up with some questions for me, interview style.  I had plenty of time to mull over them as I was cleaning windows yesterday in the hot sunshine.  So, here I am, sitting on Leno’s couch wearing my ‘I shot Bono’ teeshirt.

Motorbike or scooter?  (This could also be Rocker or Mod?)
There’s a lot to be said for wrapping your arms around a leather-clad bloke travelling at 80mph.  I did this once when I was on holidays in Cork with my parents.  I’d befriended a dude from Pensylvannia who owned one of those massive BMW bikes with side panniers.  He brought me on a drive on country roads, and as we rounded a corner, we very narrowly missed my dad who had been driving to the local shop.  I had to come home later and listen to him complain about motorcyclists destroying the peace of country roads.  ‘I completely agree with you, daddy’ I said with a poker face.
Me and my fella rented a scooter once in Spain, the type that sounds like a hairdryer.  The day we rented it was the day the storms came, so we spent our week touring the mountains in torrential rain, being splashed by cars throwing puddles around like whales in waterworld.  It was so much fun. 
I’m undecided.  But I do know I’m a rocker.  Definately a rocker.

Who is your favourite writer and why?
That’s a toughie.  Tolkien knocks my socks off.  Stephen King and Grisham are great at passing my time.  I would probably have to choose Roald Dahl though.  His humour and imagination have had a huge effect on me since I was just a puppy.  I’m trying to collect all of his children’s books to pass on to my own, because no childhood is complete without him.  If you think ‘Charlie and the Chocolate factory’ was good, read ‘Revolting rhymes’ for an insight into this genius’ twisted mind.  I’m still a big child at heart.

What was the happiest day of your life?
My happiest moments would of course be those when my brand new pink wrinkly babies were presented to me on a hospital bed, but that followed a barrel load of pain, so wouldn’t qualify as my happiest entire day I suppose.  That award would go to my 21st birthday.  I went camping in Knockree with Jeff, whom I’d been seeing for a handful of months.  We brought a rake of friends, and settled in an idyllic spot beside a river, framed with trees and friendly sheep.  We lit a cosy fire, cooked sausages and drank cheap wine.  Bob Marley’s ‘Kaya’ bopped in the background.   Jeff was unnaturally quiet for about an hour, sitting halfway up a tree, concentrating hard on something.  When he finally let me look at what he was doing, I found he’d carved ‘Happy 21st birthday, Kate.  Love from Jeff’ in the bark.  As night fell and our group got rosier, Jeff then tugged on my hand and urged me to take a walk with him along the river.  It was a pitch-black moonless night, and I suspected he had an agenda, so I tried to refuse, but he seemed so earnestly intent on talking to me, so I agreed.  As we walked in silence, listening to tree leaves rustling and the river happily babbling, I began to wonder what he was at.  He suddenly dissapeared.  I found him on his knees before me, nervously stuttering about how lovely I was, and would I consider growing old with him?  When I realised what he was doing, I was so surprised that I said ‘yes!’ before even thinking about it.  He had no engagement ring, instead he pulled the ring-pull off his can of Miller and stuck it to my Claddagh ring.  I still have that ring-pull.  That memory is carved as neatly in my mind as the message on that tree.

What is your comfort food and why?
Proper home-made pizza.  The best moment is in the making, when the dough has risen and I take the clingfilm off the top of the bowl.  I always plunge my fist into the dough to hear the satisfying ‘plopff’ sound it makes.  I then find a large tray, and cover the dough in proper tomato sauce, with basil, garlic, lemon and chilli, then cover that in whatever leftovers are in the fridge.  You can put anything on pizza.  I made a liver pizza once that sounds horrid, but was pretty darn yummy.  One large tray happily feeds the two of us, curled up on the couch in front of the tv of an evening, washed down with cold beer.  De-bleedin’-licious.

If you could live in only one place, anywhere on our planet, where would you want to be?
I’m not very well travelled, but even if I was, I’d probably still tell you that my favourite place is right here in Ireland.  ‘Every season brings a reason to be happy’ as Pooh Bear would say.  Nobody takes the sun for granted.  When it makes a rare appearance, it brings the best out of everyone.  It’s all we can talk about.  There is an atmosphere here that is totally unique, created by the smells of cut grass, turf-smoke, or wet tarmacadam.  The people here are for the most part warm and entertaining, the blokes are chancers and always know what to say to cheer you up.  As long as you stay away from the city centres and shopping malls, life is pretty sweet here.  Our health system, roads and politicians are arse over elbow, but at least we have something funny to talk about.

Thanks Brian!  Who doesn’t want a good excuse to talk about themselves!?!  I’m going to send an interview to my ma now, because she’s being waffly quiet lately.  Does anyone else want one?  I’ll try not to ask warped questions

Yours truly was at a hen party last weekend.  Hen and Stag parties seem to work especially well here in Ireland, because most of us are so immature.  I learned many things during my adventures with this particular gaggle of women. 

Firstly, Kilkenny city seems to be the Hen/Stag capital of the world.  Even the police will flirt with you there.  The streets are paved with party paraphernalia such as fake willies, wedding veils, ‘L’ signs and devil’s forks.  Everything is tacky and comes with a free shot of Bacardi.

It struck me over the course of the weekend that the reason our government is having such trouble with its 15-40 year olds is that Ireland’s social scene is very much in its pubescent stage.  It refuses to listen to authority, it’s belligerent, and it is constantly trying to keep up with its ‘cooler’ big brother, the US of A.  Our own culture is being quickly forgotten, and is replaced by the Pussy Cat Dolls and Justin Trousersnake.  Women are a commodity, to be picked and chosen for the amusement of smelly blokes with dodgy moustaches like farmers at a cattle market.  The less a girl wears, the more confident she feels.  Violence is king.  No wonder we feel the need to be constantly twisted.

I also learned how to cure a hangover.

Friday night found me happily buying rounds with my friends.  I was drinking pints of Carlsberg.  This went swimmingly, until a few kind anonymous souls decided to buy me a drink, all at the same time.  I came back from the loo to find 3 pints waiting for me.  I’m not a wasteful girl, so I did my best.  Having finished my 11th pint, I was happy to see the bar close, though common sense evaded me in the resident’s bar of the hotel later on as I accepted my 12th beer.  By 4am I was having a deep and meaningful conversation with God on the big white telephone, and by 1pm the following day, I was praying for death. 

My lesson was learnt.  I spent Saturday lying in bed flicking channels and painting my nails while the rest of the gaggle went shopping.  It was heaven.
By 7pm that evening, the drinking had started again.  Beverage of choice: Vodka and lime. I made a pact with myself to drink a pint of iced water for every four drinks consumed.  Although I lost track of the amount of vodkas I’d had, I know I had 4 pints of water.  I was drunk enough to dance uninhibited, but had the good sense not to stay on the dancefloor for such classics as ‘YMCA’ or ‘Daydream Believer’.  The only purpose of this overplayed so-called ‘music’ is so that the DJ can have a good laugh at our expense.  I might add that I was berated several times for drinking water.  To be out of your tree is cool, to drink so much that you don’t care if your knickers are showing makes you a good person. Right!  That makes sense.  I woke the next morning fresh as a daisy, and with a very vivid memory of my peer’s drunken antics.  I made sure to remind them in great detail and then took photographs of their pallid faces.

The binge is now out of my system, at least for another few months.  We bonded and we parted.  We made new friends, bitched about them behind their backs, and in turn were bitched about behind our own.  It was more fun than a barrel of monkeys.  I still say I’ll never understand women.

Which reminds me.. the last things I learned were: don’t put ice down the back of a girl’s knickers until she’s had at least 7 pints, and the best way to get rid of a smelly man is to tell him you’re a proctologist named Fanny.  Works every time.

Cheers Brian!  I’ve been stuck for something to write about…
Grandad didn’t tag me as he thought I’d say ‘Grandad made me’.  This is partially true.  I was pretty much afraid to blog, afraid to put myself up for rejection, afraid that there was nothing I could say that hadn’t already been said by someone else.  I also thought that blogging was limited to opinion.  I see now that it’s not, and it’s just as well, because I’m a pretty naive chick.  I don’t know or care that much about politics.  I vote out of the vain hope that I’ll make a difference, but on the grand scale of things I know I won’t.  I keep up with current affairs for the most part, but nothing really sticks out enough for me to want to rant about it.  Make love, not war, I say.

Most of all, I like creating things.  I draw things, I try to make something out of nothing, draw beauty from boredom.  Blogging is a way to do that, it’s a challenge to look at the little cursor-thingy blinking at the start of a blank page.  You can write anything you want with no limits, which is pretty exciting.  I’m really thankful to Grandad’s buddy Ron for setting up this site for me.  I was worried about not getting hits or support, but you’ve all been so nice in the comments that you’ve written and the links you’ve added on your own pages, now I’m like a little kid waiting at the front door for the sound of the postman’s van… intrigued by the prospect of contact from the outside world.  I love the give-and-take aspect of blogging too.. insult flinging, sh&t stirring and shenanigans are always great ways to spend your afternoons.

I originally told Grandad that I didn’t have time to blog, what with kids and life and stuff to be dealing with, but I figured out a way to sort out that problem.  I chain my children up in the spare room and padlock the door so that they can’t get into trouble, and let my dog do the washing up by putting the dishes on the floor and letting him lick them clean.  Sorted.

Now to pass the torch…
I’d love to hear what flirty has to say :) 
MA! Get out o’the bed and get typing…

Poker was cancelled. 

Or so I was told 10 minutes into the start of mass.  I threw me revised transcribed chords onto paper to coincide with fucked up tuning of electric organ, stubbed out me fag, and legged it down to the church, after failed attempts by b.f. to persuade me to dig in to our Good Friday stash of beer.

Once a barely legal parking spot was found, I ran up to the door, planning a whole ‘I made it!!’ entrance, and began unzipping my guitar case.  The priest’s voice echoed through the doors of the secret stairway to the choir balcony… “May the peace of the Lord be with you…”.  I froze.  The pious statue of Jesus beside the stairs winked at me.  I zipped my zipper and fled.  With 5 minutes left of mass, there really was no point.  I was absolved.  I spent the rest of the evening watching Wentworth Miller do his thing in ‘Prison Break’… HEAVEN.

I joined a choir about a week ago.  It’s a church choir with lots of kids in it and it makes my heart pump honey to hear their little voices sing off key.  I play the guitar to accompany the organ.  It sounds crap but who cares?

 They just told me that they’re doing a gig tonight for the communion kid’s mass.  (During which each child has to go to the alter, remove shoe and sock, and have priest wash their feet… is it just me or does that sound strange?)  It’s an ‘emergency’ gig, last minute sort of thing.   The thing is, my other half has worked like a dog all week and was invited to a game of poker tonight.   I’m giving up going camping on Saturday night so that I may perform with the choir for Easter Mass.  AND I’m completely shagged out from entertaining my friend and our kids today.

 Am I being tested here?  Is the Good Lord having a laugh at my expense and taking bets with his Apostles?  If I tell my boyfriend he can’t go play poker, I don’t think I could bear the look of dissapointment on his little face.  I got to go last week, so it’s only fair Christian.

Ok, so I think I’ve just answered my own question.  Let him play poker, at least there might be some capital gain out of it.  I’ll sleep on a bed of pins tonight to make up for it.