Propped against a brass statue of Oliver ‘sin-gin’ Gogarty it’s nearing one o’clock. My brother, who I’ll name Jack for this purpose, because Jack is his name, has the soap box out and is blasting away on the current economic state of affairs while dad steadies himself on his feet and mutters something about Robbie Keane with a blast of ‘come on Ireland’.
‘How much for a pint? six fuckin sixty???….’
‘It is not!’
‘It pure fuckin’ is….’
There’s a bird in the corner of the room, everyone knows the type loud, giggly and outrageously flirty with anything within arm shot. Goes out on a Wednesday night wearing a mini skirt, strappy top that she is falling out of, Ugg boots (‘because I’m NOT trying to pull’) with the token frumpy friend who really is just out to get pissed because the world is against her. Men are flocking around the peroxide beaut’ with bigger roots than a grand oak….
‘see what you have to realise is, it’s these spoiled brats, the silver spoon brigade that are gonna have to wake up and realise… are are you listening to me….’
‘…wha? No. Here look at this piece over in the corner…..’
‘…ten a penny…’
Dad just wants to talk about football. He senses there will be blood spilled if Jack continues the way he’s going. Probably mine.
‘isn’t it amazing how a girl like THAT can look half decent if you stick her in a place like THIS surrounded by 60 blokes and after 5 pints….’ The mouth of experience exclaims
‘COME ON IRELAND’
‘would ya pipe down dad’
I’m already regretting taking so much whiskey out of the hip flask at the game. I’m not a whiskey drinker.
‘would ya put away that phone…’
You can see the old boy is workin his way up to telling a joke we’ve already heard.
‘…did you hear about the two Dublin rats called Whacker and Stinky…’
‘oh for Christ sakes I’m after betting Jack a score you’d try tell that one again tonight…’
Oliver is propping me up more now that the ratio of blood to alcohol is nearing the same. I am enjoying annoying Jack for the hell of it, had this been a stranger, one of us would be laying flat out, probably me.
I must be pissed. I just text Jack by accident.
Fresh air seems to have made me worse. Jack has put his arm around me in a headlock and is pointing over to Abrakebabra as if the star of David is shining like a beacon above it…
‘she’s open!’
Jack is trying to convert dad to the world of Taco-Fries but he’s decided against it. Granted it took him half the box to realise he didn’t want them.
‘Granted I will give you they LOOK like pure dog-shit but what a feast!’ Jack has thrown 2 boxes into his face.
I’ve eaten one of the dodgiest kebabs of a lifetime. There’s a girl beside us in floods of tears with her friend. All dolled up with black running down her face and her shoes sat on the table beside her extra value quarter pounder meal with portion of barbeque sauce. It’s about a fella.
I’m on my way out the door and I say in a nice gentle tone:
‘ah lads don’t be so upset over a bloke, not when you have such lovely shoes…’
‘would you ever just go and fuck off and fuck yourself’ – she wails like the banshee Quasimodo lookalike that the silly tart is….
‘It just goes to show ya …’ says dad
‘….ten a penny….’ Jack says as he clips me around the back of the head thoroughly enjoying what just happened.
We’re at the taxi rank and Jack is showing me his recession trick where he waves a twenty note under the nose of a driver who’s been waiting at the rank for the past 14 hours and says
‘for the three of us to Swords…wha??’
We bail into a taxi with a lovely man from Nigeria. Jack is as smug as a pup who just ate two king size taco fries and doesn’t have to get up for work in the morning.
I’m smugger and have the last laugh cause I know for fact that it’s only 13 quid back to Swords. I say nothing. The dick.
Oh and there was a football game as well. Ireland beat Georgia 2- 1.
Aww ! Who’s the mother with her young son and daughter one might ask? Ne’er a sight of the father one might say? The tyke on the left IS the poxy father! Aged 13 he is the a brand new daddy of 4 day old Maisie.
“I didn’t think about how we would afford it. I don’t really get pocket money. My dad sometimes gives me £10.”
Am i the ONLY one who thinks this is just crazy??? I know half ya’ll are thinkin fair play to the skin for dippin the wick so young wha’
What were you up to when you were 13?
You know you are big time when the local paper (Fingal Independent) run a piece about a local band signing up to Twitter!
I thought I would blog this purely for the fact that twitter had made the local rag er press. I don’t really care too much for the band or their music but sure at least the times are a moving and this little thing called the internet is catching on eh. . .
But in saying that, when I Googled them so I could put a link to their site up all I got was a Wikipedia page. Nuff said.
‘Gimmie a hand with this blog post Benny….and sure fuck it pick me up some smokes…I’ll have the coffee on’
‘yeah mate, no worries wha…’
A normal conversation between two well acquainted friends you might say, hardly someone you met the once the night before, witnessed getting paralytic drunk and headbutting a DJ’s turntables on his way out the door, but this is Peter Donegan and this is just for showmanship one might add.
I’m in a state of undress at this stage, my mouth is as dry as a well cooked findus crispy pancake, I don’t know why I answered the phone in the first place, he frightens me, he talks quicker than me.
We’re sitting, the old fire in his office is throwing out some heat and the dog is curled at my feet and Peter is lepping around and waving his hands and arms about. He has one cigarette lit and in his mouth and one burning away in the ashtray….
‘You know what I mean Benny, like if the caterpillar wants to turn into a swan , I say let the fucker fly! You know wha I’m saying?…’
What can you do but nod?
‘….just to put it in context, we were sitting there havin the few Scooby doo’s right …’
Is he still on the same story? What?
‘…and as much as the fella has the gammy leg is as long as the day is honest ya know….’
Am I still drunk?
‘…do ya wanna see me photos from Electric Picnic with the dwarf I was telling you about the other night….’
Why is he drinking more coffee? This fucker is as high as a kite!
‘…Templeogue? …..some beautiful trees out that way benny…..’
I’m getting dizzy.
‘….sure fuckin pass me that guitar there….we’ll have it singing in no time…’
He does landscaping. He does quality control for Guinness (mostly in the Kettles Inn). He does music. He does Spandex. He never does quiet. He loves photos. He loves BIG mellons. He also likes cocks.
Peter in motion
and eh , just to put it in context yeah….
Donegan Landscaping |@PeterD| Ballyboughal.net (cause he’s home proud)
‘what the world needs yeah benny, are you listening benny? yeah ok , what the world needs right, is a bit more fuckin context!’
Peter Donegan esq.
‘Do you want to go upstairs and I can show you the bedroom…’ I said sheepishly as if I hadn’t said those words before, in fact it would be the second time I’ve uttered those words in the past week, far be it from me to brag, but I’ve changed the sheets and I’m just going through the motions now at this stage, idle small talk has been made, a light beverage has been offered but refused, I suppose it turns out they’re more nervous than I am.
I kick off my shoes and playfully push them aside, mostly to make you feel comfortable, I want to seem relaxed but not too eager. It’s impossible to not feel like a proper seductress when you walk on front of a stranger up a stairs leading them to the bedroom, you can feel the eyes burning into your arse and you’re glad you wore the Diesel jeans, you don’t want them thinking your cheap or desperate for cash. They stumble on one of the steps behind you and I grin quietly to myself. The landing light is one of those new power saving jobbies and hasn’t lit up fully and it’s eerily dark and you hope it’s not a deal breaker because the place now looks like the basement of Miss Fantasias. But to be honest, after meeting face to face now after talking over the phone a few times, maybe the soft lighting is doing them a few favours…
‘You don’t smoke do you?’ I ask
‘No no, eh I used to smoke but I’m really into the gym now and eh…’
God why are they so nervous? This is like second nature to me. Hell I even scrubbed the bathroom and I’m happy with the alpine fresh smell wafting into the landing. They will never know the effort I’ve gone through just for them, but to be honest the bit of spring cleaning I did in a hurry when I got home from work might even be good for another visitor at the weekend. I’m hoping they don’t spot the unfortunate and badly placed bleach stain on the crotch of my jeans. I hadn’t used it in a long time and forgot how powerful the spray nozzle was.
I walk into the room and we seem to have done it at the same time which leads to an awkward moment in the doorway,
‘oh eh no you eh you go on in….’
I make my way into the room and over to turn the telly on, for whatever reason I don’t know. I turn around and you’ve sat down on the edge of the bed as a matter of instinct. Your eyes are darting around the room, taking in the new surroundings thinking of questions you want to ask. It’s then that your expression changes to that embarrassed look and right now you look like Richard Whitely in the fifth season of Countdown and I might be beginning to regret this and thinking of excuses to try and get you out as soon as possible. I know what you are going to ask, but I’m feeling cocky so I let you struggle with the words,
‘Eh how much are eh we like talkin’ …..for ..ya know….?’
I lean nonchalantly against the wall, I’m nearly sure I have crossed my legs too and unconsciously replicate the album sleeve off a late 1970’s Foster and Allen EP. I fold my arms and give an extra moment to add to the tension.
One more moment.
‘Well, Dave…’
‘Oh it’s actually Paul….’
Like I give a brass farthing fuck
‘Sorry, sorry Paul yes of course, well Paul we’re talking four fifty a month, and then an equal share of the bills as they come in, ya know yourself….’
The blog awards is looming again, February 21st is less than a month away and people’s appetites are whetted, dog minders are being sought and plans are put in motion to have the children boarded away for the weekend. Twittering and Instant Messaging is up ten fold with people trying to get the scoop on who is nominating who and what people will be wearing. I didn’t make the Blog Awards last year but I did however manage to stow away to the Irish Web Awards in 2008 and have been to a few tweet ups so I have relatively no experience but of what small knowledge I do have I will share with you. Pointers if you will:
- Don’t ask me ‘what is it you do?’ within the first 2 minutes of meeting me. If you do feel the need to talk about careers be aware there is a good chance I will lie. I was a pilot twice last year and a bin man once. Chicks dig pilots.
- For those of you who are there to ‘network’, I don’t want to talk to you. That is unless you are Paul F Walsh. You must understand I am here for the beer and to oogle.
- Don’t be put off by the fact that I will probably be standing close to Peter Donegan. We are strictly travel partners and sharing a room in a social capacity. If he falls over, it’s for attention don’t pay him any.
- Social experiments involving the swapping of name tags is encouraged. Pick someone with a half decent name or at the very least a stranger of the opposite sex is a good start and may open up the avenue of possible hand droppage at a later hour. I find if you swap a name tag early enough it gives you the right of ownership over that person. Fact.
- I will assume if you give me a business card that you are propositioning me for sex.
- Remember it only should take 1 second to read a name tag. Any longer and it looks like you are trying to count the freckles around her belly button.
- Dress casual but smart. Never sexy.
- There is a small bit of confusion floating around about the actual “winning” of a blog award. Some would have you believe that there is a pretty tough judging process that takes place and that quality consistent blogging is required, but don’t be fooled. It is surprisingly easy to rob an award on the night. Some people might even have two. They deserve to have them robbed. I went to the Irish Web Awards empty pocketed and left with 2 dvd players, a bottle of champagne and one sized 8 womans polo neck top (Dunnes Stores) but I will get back to that later. Awards are heavy and hard to carry around all night. That’s all I will say.
- If you are male buy at least one woman one beer on the night for no ulterior reasons. Let’s face it, if they hadn’t shown up you’d be stuck looking at me.
- Your friend ‘who doesn’t blog but came along anyways’ is fair game.
- Actually saying the word ‘LOL’ is acceptable at this event but will prevent you from getting laid. Talking politics probably will get you laid but with the wrong kind of person.
- If I have taken the time to come up and talk to you have the courtesy to buy me a beer and acknowledge and appreciate the bull I’ve just been shovelling you.
- The dance floor is optional and is usually reserved for the drunkest of the herd at the early stages of the night. We type, we are not dancers. Wedding rules apply here.
- Never, under any circumstances swap the top you are wearing with someone else. This is up there with those Nigerian bank account details and sort code scams. You will end up minus one really nice shirt and wearing something that is far too small for you although you will look slightly hot. But ultimately you will end up looking silly and far too many people have cameras.
- Video mode is your friend but live streaming is evil.
- Heckling is expected of you. Rick loves it.
- Never use the line ‘I’m going into prison next week….’ As a last ditch attempt. This rule also applies outside of the Blog Awards.
- If there is a chance you will win an award, take the time to figure out that you have to have your photo taken with the sponsor after your acceptance speech. Walking straight back to your seat and then begrudgingly back, muttering as you go makes you look stupid and about as useful as a speed ramp on the m50, everyone thinks this, not just me. If you have done this you deserve to have your award robbed. (See above)
- Be aware, although it might appear that he is not paying you any attention, Darragh Doyle will be live tweeting your conversation.
Others who have some pointers are Will Knott and Ken has a good post and the comments are worth a gander too!
Looking forward to seeing you all there! Don’t be afraid to say hello 
Please, remember me
Finally
And all my uphill clawing
My dear
But if i make
The pearly gates
Do my best to make a drawing
Of God and Lucifer
A boy and girl
An angel kissin on a sinner
A monkey and a man
A marching band
All around the frightened trapeze swingers
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