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.