Nanny State.

I read this with growing disbelief this morning.

GARDAI have prosecuted 61 publicans nationwide for serving alcohol to drunk people, the Irish Independent has learned.

The little-known offence was introduced in 2003 to tackle Ireland's binge drinking culture, which is among the worst in Europe.

Publicans who supply alcohol to a drunk person or to a friend buying drink for a drunken person are automatically fined €1,500 for their first offence and €2,000 for any subsequent offence.

Alcohol Action Ireland said the enforcement of the offence for serving drunken people was a positive development.

"There is no point in introducing legislation if there's no enforcement of it," " This is a new measure and it will take some time. But it's a start and it's the first sign of the law being implemented."

"Responsible serving should ensure no one is served when they are drunk," said Policy officer Sinead Shannon.

"But we all know from being out on a Saturday night, that people are wandering around drunk, and far more than 61 of them."

Oh my god. SAY IT AIN'T SO, NOT DRUNK ON A SATURDAY NIGHT!
I've been saying it for years, this bloody country is turning into the biggest bloody nanny state of all. As an adult, who has the right to tell me I have had one drink to many? Who determines how drunk a person is? Do I need to fall over? Slur? What if I"m a good drunk and it's hard to tell? What if I only look drunk? What if I"m just a giddy person? What if I wasn't drunk until I stood up and wandered outside?
Last week this stupid country forced a woman -a jehovah's Witness-to undergo a blood transfusion she expressly said she did not want. They said it was for the sake of the 'baby' she had given birth to. Now while I think allowing yourself to die due to religious beliefs is stupid, I respect that as an adult she has the right to control her own body. BUT OH NO, Nanny State steps in and violates her human rights and forces her to undergo a medical procedure because Nanny know best.
How long do you suppose it wil be before the government will start to tippity-tap it's fingers together and come up with yet more rules. What's next? Will it sanction the type of food we eat? (like when T bone steak was banned) The clothes we wear?
Do we have to bend to the will of our (corrupt) overlords without ever questioning a single thing?
Keep your damned paws off my rights, you government you!

The changing mole.

My mother has been the most awful hypochondriac from most of her life. She fairly rattles with the tablets she takes daily. Blood pressure, water retention, mood stabilizers, you name it she swallows it. She fears she has cancer, (the big C, she won't even say the word) she fears she will have a stroke, she claims panic attacks, heart palpitations, night terrors, arm spasams, rapid migraines, sensitive teeth, blurred vision, dead arm, hernias, heartburn, black death, polio and the dreaded lurgy.
Despite all these ailments, she is robustly healthy and if she ceased eating a pound of jellybabies a day I suspect a lot of her symptoms would vanish.
As a result us Fatcat siblings regard going to the doctor with the utmost contempt. We suffer through colds, sprains, flus, vomiting, ear aches, cracked ribs, strange rashes and just about anything we can rather than head down the same well worn road as our mother. We are all like this, without exception.
Apart from the odd bout of childbirth and concussion, we are a hardy lot. We don't for example take antibiotics, we rarely get colds, we keep out weight down, we eat fresh food, we exercise, we don't smoke and we try to give our livers a break as often as possible.
We avoid the germ riddled waiting rooms of doctors.
But this morning this fatcat finds shs has no bloomin' choice but to darken the door of a doctor's surgery. The mole I have been fretting about is going to be checked out and I have discovered inner streams of my mother coursing through my veins.
'What if it's cancer?' I said to Etheline this morning.
'Don't be stupid, it's not cancer.'
'Well, don't they always say moles that change shape are the ones to watch for?'
'I don't...look I'm sure it's nothing. How does it look this morning?'
'Moley.'
'Well then. Like I say, it's probably nothing.'
But she doesn't sound convincing to me and I realise that she has the same hypochondriac molecules running through her veins, lying dormant, waiting to fight their way to the surface. Christ, isn't it bad enough that we have our mother's nose.
'What time is your appointment?'
'Ten after ten.'
'Call me the minute you get home.'
'I will.'
I hang up and pet puddy who is sprawled across my lap making my leg go dead (see, see!). I'm trying to think of the advert for cancer research. Didn't they say one in three of us will suffer cancer in our life times? Puddy has cancer, it doesn't seem to be bothering her much.
Perhaps I should calm down and wait to see what the Doctor actually says.
At least I won't have to wear a funnel on my head.

Tenants, we doon need no steekin' tenants!

'When', the Paramour asked this very morning over the kitchen table, 'do you think you think you might rent this place?'
I lifted my cup and pretended to give it a lot of thought.
'Ummm well now, I...lemme see, I er...'
Because we have been together longer than a wet weekend the paramour sees through my cunning stalling attempt and presses me for an answer, the cad.
'Because I was talking to Bill yesterday and he reckons if everything goes according to plan the turnaround on the house could be the end of October.'
This almost startles the Egyptian Cotten pyjamas off me.
'October? October!' I cry, spluttering coffee thither and yon. 'But that's-' I raise a hand in front of my face and waggle it uselessly.
'Next month.' The paramour says helpfully and begins to butter toast.
I am flumoxed.
Really I shouldn't be. Whenever I have to make great big life changing decisions I always pretend I know nothing about them until they are right on top of me and I have no real choice but to deal with them. It is the Cat family way.
Kenny Rogers comes on the radio..."you gotta know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em, know when to walk away, know when to run..."
I glance at the ceiling. Is this some kind of joke? Fuck you Rogers, at least I can blink.
'You need to think about it. Do you want to leave the apartment with an agency or handle it yourself?' He glances up at the ceiling too unaware that the forces of mirth and country music are busy taking the ever loving piss out of me. 'It might be better if you just let an agency handle it.'
'Umm, I'll have to see...'
We resume our breakfast. But my appetite has faltered and by the time the paramour has left for work I am a complete grouch.

Handy Tip

Here is a little tip well worth passing on to folk who might feel like talking up the gentle art of yoga.
Do not eat a full breakfast of white pudding on toast, Superquinn sausages, streaky bacon and two mugs of coffee one hour before you are expected to twist and turn and breathe deeply. It is not good for you.
That is all.

Beyonce-ring the alarm, kinda.

I laughed until I almost injured myself. Big ups to my pal who sent me this this morning. Off to Yoga, enjoy

Hair raising risk.

I laughed.
A woman has been just been arrested in Cork after a kilo of cocaine worth €70,000 was found in her hair.

"The drugs were concealed in black cotton packages in the woman's 'beehive hairstyle'", Customs said in a statement.

The woman - a US national - was handed over to gardaí from Togher Garda station.

She was travelling from Lagos via Amsterdam at the time of her arrest.

Trailers.

I'm not against them at all, in fact I love them, but I'm growing god damned leery of them and here's why.
I have just sat through four minutes of the Casino Royal Trailer. My hands are clamped and I am grinning. Daniel Craig looks smokin'(coming out of the water in those iddy biddy trunks...sweat chulutha) even though he is blond and I don't normally dig the blonds. The action looks fierce, the cars swanky and fast, the crashes and flips noisy and kaboomesque, the fights and stunt should be wicked, old school kick ass. Unlike Pierce, Daniel looks like he could kick your arse from here to Cork and back again without breaking a sweat. (Pierce would simply talk and cock his eyebrow his way out of trouble)
Eeeeeeeeee, I said to myself. But no sooner had I uttered it a cold dark shadow fell across the room and I was immediately plunged back into trailer doubt.
It looks awsome and, as I am a sucker for high action films, I want to go see it.
But here is the rub. I also waited feverishly for Kill BIll 2, A history of Violence, House of Flying Daggers and Mission Impossible 2. The trailers all lead me to believe I was going to go along, pay my money, eat popcorn and witness cinema gold...but I didn't, did I?
Of all of those films, only MI 2 didn't make me want to kick something in a fit of let down angst. And I don't like the goblin Cruise, but the film did exactly what it said on the tin. Even X Men 3, which I didn't mind at all in the cinema, sucked ever so slightly on DVD. King Kong bored the ring off me, Troy just about sucked my skin clean off and Narania...well Narnia was terribly plodding and contained more wood than the forests of Middle Earth. And did we really need a ten minute dancing hobbit scene in the end of LOTR? All those hairy toes on white sheets? I don't know.
So please, pretty please with sugar on top, Zangu, angry god of cinema, I"m beseeching you, please let Casino Royal be as velly velly gud as the trailer. Don't crush my pitiful little hopes and dreams, Zangu. I promise I will go see one worthy film this year if you make it rock, how about something by Merchant? Or Oliver Stone? You know I won't like them, I'll go to an independent film you want, Seriously Zangu, even if it is something from The Sundance Film Festival... I'll do it ... I swear, pick something with Kirsten Dunst if you want even.
I swear on Puddy, look here she is. I swear on the bigger of the- ow, okay then, just on Puddy. I swear on my Jimmy Choos. Just one loud, explosive, edge of your seat film. Peeeeeeeeessssss.
Don't make me go see Crank to get my kicks, I'm asking nicely.
Your most humble servant,
Fatmammycat.

Running, sex and food...eeeee!

I have just come back from running Bushy park, I am disgustingly sweaty, out of breath, I have a stitch, I think I'm going to vomit, my ears are ringing, I got chased by a Jack Russsell called Walter, there are loads of trees down from the near hurricane we had the other day and my shins ache.
I've never felt happier.
Now I"m about to run off and have a shower, wake the paramour, tickle his fancy, have a coffee and head to Wicklow for lunch with a dear friend. If I can add shoe shopping somewhere into the mix I might just start floating on air.
Hope you all have a great weekend!

Ankle Boots.

How do we feel about rumpled high-heeled ankle boots? I spotted a pair yesterday and I rather think they are fetching and would look the dog's bollocks with skinny jeans, but Etheline says they are vile and I"d look like Pat Benetar!-
(They do have a real eighties twang to them, but so what?)
Shebah, if you're floating about, I just know you will have a good solid opinion on this. Better than that preppy busy body and that's for sure.

UPDATE: Twenty Major has that clip where Jay Kay get's headbutted by the photographer up right now, most amusing, for he is a twat of the highest order and he should be loafed every other day if you ask me.

Dreams.

While out gadding about last night I ran into a few friends of mine and as these things are wont to do we headed directly for a quiet little pub to catch up.
Over a few pints of Carlsberg (4, and I'm paying for it today)the conversation veered and dipped and got louder until somehow we found ourselves talking about dreams, or more accurately, nightmares.
When I had concussion I had some real doozies. Falling, breaking my teeth, trying to run but finding my actions treacle like and slow-mo, stuff that didn't exactly nead a Freudian scholar to work out. But that was just during the day. At night, free from the usual numbing effects of sleeping tablets, my mind was in a league of its own and I ran screaming down the corridors of every ghoulish place my mind could make up. It didn't help that the mobile loving wench in the bed next to me cried for someone called 'Bappy!' every night either.
Then one of the party admitted to night terrors, he said his wife frequently wakes him up. He says he flaps his arms about and is so scared he can't even scream, all he can do is groan and flap.
One of the other chaps said he sleep walks and his girlfriend found in him the bathroom a few months back running a bath. When she asked him what he was doing he said he had to 'cool them down'
When she naturally asked who? he got distressed and wanted to know why she couldn't seem them. He was still asleep.
Collectively we all seem to have the same dreams or a variation of the same. There's being chased, fighting, driving cars/riding bikes that have no power and just creep along, trying to run but our legs don't work. We've witnessed people being murdered right in front of us. We've hid from monsters and killers and ghosts, hiding in general. Strangly, we've all been attacked by large animals, lions, sharks, huge dogs, for me a bear and I once watched Puddy being eaten by a tiger and woke up crying and overwhelmed with a feeling of loss.
Then there is the familiarity of some dreams, you know where you are in the dream, you can can almost control it. You say to yourself, "hold up, I"m not opening that red door, I remember what happened the last time, DON'T I MISTER BEAR!"
Sometimes if frightened we can wake ourselves up. Wake up! And poof we're awake, heart shuddering in our chests. Once or twice I've woken myself up, only to slither right back into the dream again after I return to sleep. That sucks.
On the flip side then there are the other dreams, strange, almost movie like dreams, with casts of characters, I solved a murder recently in a shopping centre and am frequently on horseback-very happy dreams. One of the party regularly dreams about saving the life of a girl he knows from drowning, he is on television afterwards being congratulated and a little boy pulls his sleeve and says, 'but mister, she's dead.' and when he turns around she still standing there with a blanket wrapped around her, but clearly a moving corpse. But he says it's not a scary one.
Sometimes I can fly and fly well, gliding and soaring free and unburdened. That's one of my favourite dreams right there and I love the feeing as I run and then swoosh I am airborne.
By pint three we all admitted we have fairly erotic dreams on a regular basis. Strangers, present lovers, past lovers, unsuitable places, unsuitable people you swear in real life you don't fancy at all- and you don't, but at night they are transformed in hot, deep breathing, strong love machines and the first kiss sets you on fire. Teachers, singers, actors, Simon Cowell. Filthy, public, sweaty, pounding headbangily good sex, the kind of sex that makes us blush for a second at some point the next day when you get a flash of it and say tee-hee to yourself.
As nightmares go, there are lots to chose from, but we all agreed last night only a few that so terrified us we have never forgotten them and perhaps that is for the best.
The year my father died I had the most vivid and terrifying dream of death that for weeks afterwards I wept every time I thought of it. I can still remember it in full detail to this day and I can still recall the absolute screeching sickening, heart-stopping horror of being unable to escape or plead with the thing that came for me.
Blee.
I don't know the cause of dreams, possibly just our tired minds sorting through the jumble of information it takes in every day.
That said, I don't believe all dreams are that, just dreams. I do believe a certain amount of interpretation is good. I've had some crackingly useful dreams about stuff and was able to use some of the information my sleeping mind garnered and put it to use.
Odd, but true.
Dreams, I am not against them, but I would like to hear if any of you share the same type of dreams.
And it's Friday! Yay!

It was rape!

Oh my, DMX, tough as cement, pitbull, owning gun toting crotch grabbing rapper, has bravely opened up to Sister to Sister magazine about his recent harrowing experience of male rape.
"She raped me," the rapper told S2S editor Jamie Foster Brown. "I mean, you know, that might sound like some bullsh*t. No man has ever been... you know what I mean, like never? Is that the only thing in the world that's not possible?"

Mrs. Simmons DMX's wife recalled an earlier encounter with the woman. "Before the stuff hit the fan, she came up to us while we were in court and said 'I work for kids that are sickly,' said Tashera. "So DMX said 'Give her my number.' That's how it goes all the time. At first, I said OK. But, then I thought she looked deranged and obsessed with him."
While his wife "blocks out" the experience to cope, X gained a more valuable lesson: "Turn on the light before I go to sleep," he said."

Tragically, from this unfortunate encounter, the victim, DMX, has fathered a child. Poor thing, say it with me now...ahhhhhh. Maybe he and his dawgs can go on a reclaim the night march. You know, taking back the night from all them evil wimmin that go around raping and getting pregnant by poor innocent rappers, the bitches.

The phonecall, part deux.

I was attempting to make the house presentable last Saturday when my hoover packed up. I did all the technical things I could think of, turning it on and off again, checking for blockages, swearing softly and kicking it.
Nothing seemed to help.
I called my mother.
A woodbine-y voice answered. 'Herrro?'
My hackles stiffened, raised and wilted consecutively. In other words they did nowt, but I felt like they should have. I did however pull a face.
I considered hanging up, but she might *69 me or some shit. No, I decided, it would be best to blunder on.
'Hello Aunt.'
'Ah Etheline.'
'No, it's Cat.'
'Oh it's yourself.'
'Yes.' (I am frequently myself)
'Looking for your mother I suppose Cat?'says she, in a voice that says 'Cat? you mean look what the cat dragged in, ingested and vomited back up on the good rug'.
'Yes, is she there?'
'And sure why wouldn't she be?'
This question always confuses the life out of me. There could be any number of reasons why my mother might not be home, but listing them all off would only have me branded an even bigger smart arse. I resolved to let it go.
'We never see you at all these days.' My Aunt continued. 'Too busy I suppose.'
Is 'I don't like you therefore I avoid you like leatherette.' too rude a response? I let that go unsniped at too for I sense my Aunt has never forgiven me for half garroting her awful lump of a son and almost killing him with my palomino pony when we were children.
So I wait.
Nothing happens. I play with Puddy, sticking my toe under her pink flappy belly and waiting for her to grab at it with her little flidy paws. Ouch, hee hee, ouch. Some more nothing happens, Puddy wanders off to eat her body weight in dry nuts, the skies darken and I am still on the phone. Perhaps my Aunt has nodded off. Something is required of me. What could this withered piece of walking bone marrow want?
'So er... how are you Aunt? Everything good I hope?'
Twhack! That's it, I hit the Cat family ball clean out of the park!
'Oh now, sure how could it be? ( again I could- ah forget it.) My sciatica is playing up something fierce these days. Never get a moment's peace with it I don't, and then I was down getting a check up in Doctor Steven's last wednesday and -he rushes a person something awful that man, I much preferred Doctor Quinn-'
'Medicine woman?'
'What?'
'Nothing.'
'He never rushed me, now there was a man who actually listened, but sure I suppose when your time is up it's up, but Docter Steven now, he thinks that clouding in my right eye might be...'
I close my eyes, but I can hear some one screaming 'are you my mother's sister? say it with me, ARE YOU MY MOTHER'S MUTHAFUCKIN' SISTER?'
Samuel L Jackson?
What the hell?
After an interminally long period of time, somewhere between the deaths of people I don't now and her neighbour's (them Clarks) barking dog, my Aunt pauses for a breath and I pounce.
'If you wouldn't mind Aunt, I just need a quick word with my mother, I've got people over for dinner and I-'
'Oh, throwing a little party are you? Ha ha, you're so grand these days.' she says, making 'so grand' sound like 'such a stuck-up cunt.'
I should point out that my hideous bitch of an Aunt is one of those people who hates restaurants and thinks dinner parties and so on are just us lot 'getting notions above our station'. It should also be pointed out that my Aunt might not feel this way if she had not married a man who wouldn't put his hand in his pocket to scratch his balls and she deeply resents us all, whether we put on airs and graces around her or not-which we invariably do just to piss her off.
' Not a party, silly,'I say making silly sound perfectly like "you filthy old geebag" 'Just family.'
'How nice, it's so good that you've all mended the fences after all those years fighting.' She lobs back effortlessly.
'Yes it really is. Speaking of family I'm sure I saw Dervla earlier. She has changed so much! I wasn't sure if it was her or not and oh, ha ha ha, you know, I didn't want to grab a complete stranger. She was with a friend, big lady, blonde. She doesn't have her nose pierced by any chance, does she?'
'I don't believe she... oh look, here's your mother now. Good to talk to you Cat, take care.'
And she was off faster than if the hounds of hell were chasing her-as if she couldn't train them to heel and sit in under an hour.
'Hello?'
'Mam!' I said grateful to hear my mother's voice, a first this year.
I asked my mother for a loan of her hoover and she said she'd drop it over. In the background I could hear my Aunt bash plates around with gusto.
Wretched creature. I might fight with all and sundry every now and then and like eating with people, but at least I don't try and pretend my perfectly lovely adult lesbian daughter and her partner of six years are 'just friends.'

Jazz, I hate it.

I was not surprised to read yesterday that Sam does not like Jazz, for she is clearly a woman of discerning taste. I would have commented, but it was over at Maroon's gaff and he and I are having a spat because he is a two timing feckless handsome Laird and I am miffed with his wanton ways.
There are two types of people in this world, people who like jazz and people who would rather perforate their ear drum with a rusty knitting needle than listen to it.
I hate jazz with a passion. I really really cannot bear it. I had to listen to it once all the way from Barcelona to Valencia and it was so hellish I still dream about it in B minor.
If the train had slowed even a fraction I would have flung myself from it and rolled down a dusty slope and ran away, away from the jazz, I spit on it. We.....ell, I like Sinnerman by Nina Simone, but only because it was in The Thomas Crown Affair and that ain't jazz anyway.
I don't hold any warmth for people who listen to jazz either. I hate it when people waffle on about Miles Davis and Coltrane and say loudly that they have all Bleeding Gums Murphy's EPs(recorded live-naturally from the now infamous Springfield sessions). I once sat through an entire dinner party where the host not only played jazz, he played an LP of abstract session jazz and bopped his head in 'time' to it. He even clicked his fingers once or twice. I kept glancing fearfully around me, on the look out for mime artists and poetry readers who might leap from the presses and preform their craft. If there is anything worse in this world than normal jazz it is abstract session jazz, with the bipping and the bopping and the scatting and the heart stopping clarinet solos that burst out of nowhere.
Jazz scares the pants of me normally, but that night it was the headless horseman and I was Ichabod Crane. I could not flee I was rooted to the spot in horror, I could only watch and weave as the black waves rolled over me in toot-tootles, barbalas and strange didlde-eepeeps.
'Hey is this the same song as the last one? Where's the chorus? How does anyone know where to end it? When will it end? It will end won't it? My ears are bleeding. Is that tapioca? I think I am about to stab you in the heart with my fish knife.'
I got very very drunk that night-so drunk I lost my voice for two days. And even as drunk as I got I still couldn't make head nor tails of Jazz- and I can talk Esperanto like a native when drunk.
Jazz, I against it!

A question.

I'm listening to Newstalk 106 radio and today's topic is 'Moral Duty: Would you intervene if you saw someone getting mugged/attacked or would you carry on your way?
The presenter says she would intervene even though she is 'a small woman' a taxi driver has just been on and he says he would not intervene if it was between two men but possibly if it was between women.
What would you do?

Eye-poppingly disgusting!

Bleeeeee. Seriously, put it away. I'm calling for the Sun to stamp out eye popping. Squish.

Skinny models.

Oh here it is, let the hand wringing commence. After Spain's decision the other week to ban models with a BMI lower that 18, hot on their heel is Tessa Jowell, the Labour minister for culture, banging the drum for the same.
It is London fashion week and that paragon of virtue The Sun is already trembling with outrage at the fact that -gasp- a designer used slender models. What? Even after Tessa Jowell frowned twice?
From said paper: "SKINNY Lily Cole kicked off London Fashion Week yesterday — despite calls for the industry to use BIGGER girls.
Today The Sun backs the campaign to stamp out the stick insects and bring back girls with curves."
(What a busy paper The Sun is, between stamping out rape, and stamping out skinny models, it's a wonder they ever get to print)
I find it amusing that they've jumped on Lily Cole, the flame haired eighteen year old and incredibly successful model, declaring her Too Thin Lily. ( although by whose standards it is hard to guess) LIlly, the face of Hermés and Prada, a multi-millionaire and a smart cookie to boot (what a terrible example to girls she is), has naturally risen above it.
"When half the world is starving and a good proportion of the other half is suffering from obesity, to put me on the front page is ridiculous," she said.
"I'm fine. I'm healthy. I eat," she said as she prepared to take to the catwalk at the Gharani Strok show at London Fashion Week yesterday."
Remember all that kerfuffle over Jodie Kidd a few years ago? Jodie who was the a tall lanky thin girl who everyone 'blamed' for causing anorexia? The same lady who is now a happily married polo playing yacht racing gal? Yeah, her. Remember the band wagon? The uproar over heroin chic, the handwringing the outrage over the skinniness of the models? Is it that time of decade again?
Isn't it funny how papers and ministers can come out and declare skinny to be bad and in need of stamping out, but obesity-as the delectable Miss Cole points out- is a major factor in our world and can go galloping about freely unstamped upon? Or at some point is The Sun going to come out and Stamp out Too Fat Folk? Will Tessa Jowell come out and declare Johnny Vegas is a danger and bad role model to boys everywhere? That Dawn French is making girls think eating twenty Chocolate Oranges a day is A-Okay?
Models are usually close to six feet tall or more, is anyone coming out in defence of the shorties? Is anyone demanding designers get shorter models? Will The Sun start a campaign to stamp out tall people?
It is a fact of life that designer clothes on runways look very good when draped and flowing over the long lean lithe body of a model. When we see the clothing we see the product as it should look and we superimpose that look onto our own bodies. Ergo, If a dress looks totally amazing on a model it will automatically look super amazing on us. It might not of course, but that's not what we think. We covet because it looks good, it looks good becasue it is on a model. Designers know this. Retailers know this. Consumers know this, and so the world turns.
There are enough real problems in the world, models being model thin is not one of them.

First yoga class!

I'm going to my first ever yoga class later this morning. I am assured it will be very good for me. Mizz Kaz, I will let you know if it's suitable for ladies with scars and what not. I imagine it is, but I'll check.
laters.

Kids in the paper.

Yesterday, I got up very early, went for a run and came back towards my home via the local shop. So far so Sunday. But as I picked up a carton of orange juice and the papers, one cover caught my eye.
I was shocked to discover the deep reserves of hatred I still have for that tabloid toiletpaper, The Sunday World, Ireland's answer to every other jumped up hand wringing gutter sniping filth rag.
On the cover was a slighty blurry photo of some young girl out celebrating her results on Wednesday night. She was drunk as a lord, half dressed, snogging the face off her boyfriend. Her dress was hitched up half way around her hips and the boyfriend has his whole hand down her kickers and was very busily trying to see is he could reach her kidneys.
As a photo it was kind of gross, it was kind of disgusting, it kind of proves my point about worrying behaviour from the other day, but most of all it was a very graphic photo and it SHOULDN"T BE SPLASHED ALL ACROSS THE COVER OF A NEWSPAPER!
The girl had a tiny black bar across her eyes to 'protect her identity'and the paper had oh so kindly hidden the bulk of the guy's hand action with one of those 'ohhh don't look, this is a family paper' stickers over the girl's crotch(which somehow makes it worse). But no matter, that girl will be very identifiable to her classmates and friends, people who know her, her parents, (if I was that girl and it was my mother I would be typing this from Russia) and her school.
It's possible nothing will come out of it. It is equally possible she might be in serious trouble at home, expelled from school and mocked and ridiculed by her classmates for doing probably what half the blooomin' teenager in this country were doing that night.
I don't approve of all this crazy drunkeness and falling around the streets, especially in 14/15 year old kids. But neither do I approve of newspapers gleefully swooping like vultures and picking over the remains of poor decision making.
Fifteen year olds are not adults, they are not fair game, they make mistakes and learn-if they're lucky-from them. Complain about their behaviour or not, but it is not fair to single one out, photograph her in a compromising positions and then splash it across the front page for all the world to see.
But then I don't expect anything better from papers like The Sunday World, from the gutter everything must seem like fair game.

Rosy futures full of...

dog hair and imaginary children. Yippie!
Doctor Maroon is alive and well and Saturday looks very cheery indeed. It is another strangely warm and sunny day in Dublin and I slept velly velly gud last night, thank you. I admit there was some gin drunk, but not much and no sleeping tablets.
Apropos of nothing, 'cept Docky's comment in the comments, I am going to pontificate for a mo. Mostly because I am delighted with myself this morning and mostly because...well, I don't need much of a reason really.
Doclington suggests I should get a puppy and freeze my eggs (just to be on the safe side). I laughed- but I do want a pup. The paramour should be aware at this stage that what baby wants baby sodding well gets one way or another.
Anyhoo, the paramour would like to have children and I'm a great believer that dogs and semi-feral kids should be mixed. It makes perfect sense to me, that way you can train them/walk/wear out playing endless games of football and hide and go seek at the same time.
I shall get my imaginary children a black labrador who they will call Blacky or something equally original, although I will secretly call him Winston when their backs are turned or they are distracted by SpongeBob Squarepants.
Batman and Winston will be great chums, but Batman will be top dog and Winston/Blacky won't mind a bit.
Puddy will be delighted and can wash faces-children and dogs -as much as she pleases. The bigger of the cats and the one-eyed one will adapt and claw their way back to the top of the food chain eventually by dispensing vicious but accurately aimed swipes at delicate puppy noses and the bare arms.
My imaginary children will be robust little chaps and outside a lot. They will fight, climb trees, build hideouts, be able to ride a horse, be able to stand up for themselves without resorting to bullying or tell-tale tattling, (which will be much frowned upon) they will most likely be semi-filthy a good deal of the time, have knacker-tans all summer ( brown arm neck and feet, white everywhere else), they will use their shoes for brakes on their bikes and I won't cut their hair until I witness one run into a tree.
They will know that a doc-leaf helps with nettle stings, that foxglove is poisonous and that rosehip makes excellent itching powder.
I will insist my future imaginary children read and eat all sorts of 'weird' food that their friends don't. They will not be afraid to pull the head off a prawn and suck the gooey contents out. They will not know what a Turkey Twizzler is.
They will have a bed time which will be adhered to rigidly except for Friday and Saturday night. They will be polite to older folk, including their grandmother. They will adore their father and climb all over him the minute the poor Paramour sits down to read the paper, the Paramour will be dragged out to 'see' stuff every other second. He will not object to all this hauling around. Batman and I will exchange looks and retire to the kitchen that still hasn't been painted to eat strong cheese and Carr's water biscuits. My imaginary Children won't have a play station or a TV in their bedroom and will probably never have an allergy in their life.
I'm heading into town now to buy flowers and then I'm going to start preparing dinner.
I'm thinking yellow roses, I'm in a yellow roses sort of mood.

More puppies!

Oh man, I want one of these French Bulldog pups so badly it makes tears of gleeful delight leak from my eyes every time I see one. I emailed the paramour with pictures and a note saying 'oh please paramour, can't we get a puppy when we move? Why not, it wouldn't be any trouble...pleeease.'
And he replied, 'Er are you okay?'
And I said ' No, I want a puppy, I want to call him Batman.' and burst into tears -here, in private, not in an email.
WTF?
Ah yes, no sleep and it's kinda quiet around here now that Toffee, Etheline's not half as bad as I thought she would be pup, is gone. Actually if you walk the little thing instead of carrying it around under your arm everywhere it burns off quite a good deal of energy and stops attacking everything in sight.
Tired dog = well behaved dog, quelle surprise.

Dublin.

People watching is one of my very favourite past times. I can do it for hours and never get bored with it. My favourite things is to sit in the window seat of a busy bar, rum and coke in hand, newspaper, comfortable chair and just watch the world and all its shoes drift by.
Yesterday I waited outside River Island for twenty-five minutes for French Gay to arrive. We were going to an exhibition and naturally he was late. But no matter, I had my iPod and I had people watching.
What a delightful nation of oddities we have become. Young, old, big ones, tall ones, Where is every one going? Where have they been? Fat ones, thin ones, palest Nodic blond to flame ginger to deepest black. Bobs, braids, dreads, side partings, mullets-ironic and not- mohicans, comb overs, feathered, ironed, extensions... I love it!
Grafton Street is heaving. Warring couples stamping along regarding each other the open hostility, weighed down in bags and carpark tickets, others so in love they are almost limpet like, gangs of teenagers tee-heeing and trying to look sophisticated-hard to pull off in a kilt, knee socks and navy jumper. Career women stomping past in grey suits and killer heels, baguette bags jammed under arm pits, gawkey young adults taking photos of each other, tourists no doubt, crimson faced against the moving throng. Armani perfume on the air, Impulse, Dior, Victor and Rolf...Stand still, one more moment, sure I'll take your photo for ya. A Japanese girl with four diamante dots glued to her cheek casts a despairing eye over the window behind me, golly I think, eyeing her effortless yet probably took hours cool, the little Goth Kid would love to look like you.
Men in filthy jeans and ripped t-shirts, tar stained work bags slung over their shoulder mingle with soft handed bank clerks, going for a pint lads while waiting for the traffic to clear? Two ladies step from Weirs, botoxed, plucked, preened, waxed tangerine and blonde, the taller lady's shoes cost more than my first car, probably more than my next car. I covet midly and wait for the next song to come on, eeeee Way Out West, Agare, we're back in the day now!
An old couple, wary, worried about being bumped too hard. She has her arm hooked into his, sweet, here comes the Big Cahuna, he's on his cell, he won't call it a mobile because he had been to America twice, watch glinting, cuffs white, who's he calling, Mistress? Underling? Wife? I try to lip read but the girl beside me lights up a smoke and it drifts into my face. I resist the urge to kick her in the shin. I"m glad I do., she has enough problems. Uggs Boots with a ra-ra skirt? Sheeet sister, you might as well advertise that you read Closer and Collen McCullough is your idol. Nice nail varnish though. Big belts, big belts, big belts, ballet shoes, leggings under skirts, fringes, parachute pants, fur, leather, Tims, shades-although it is growing dark, gel, wax, spray, lip gloss, Touche Eclat, Patrick Smith shoes, Dunnes shirts, moving, thronging, mobile phones everywhere... 'I'm around the corner!' 'Yeah I can see you?'
Newspapers, lilies and sunflowers wrapped in stripped paper, books, earphones, magazines...stuff. Nobody seems empty handed.
I shift my weight. Where is that French Fancy? It doesn't matter, it's Thursday evening and still kind of warm although I wore my new Armand Basi leather jacket, but that's more for show than heat retention.
Dublin is alive, it's alive with people, flush with success, vibrant and bustling. I am part of this fabric, I'm, well slap my thigh and call me Daisy, I'm Irish!
I belong.
I catch a glimpse of a figure, I can always recognise him from his walk. He bobs and weaves and I know he is tutting and sniping. What the hell is he wearing? Is that a frock coat? Are they aviator boots? kerchief? And why is his biggest and best camera- an ancient and difficult throwback that takes superb photos- dangling from him neck? Ahh, there must be competition coming to the exhibition tonight. I grin. The peacock has flared his tail.
We kiss, mwah, mwah, he's saying something. I remove my earphones. '...fucking beech alwayz ze last minute sheet with 'er. Come on, we are going for a drink, ze Bailey is fuckin' pack-ed. Ooof, we can grab a cocktail in ze feetzzwillim 'otel. Come on!'
He links my arm and we are off, swallowed up by the crowd in an instant.
Dublin.
Eeeee.

Just like the old days, eh?

No it bloomin' is not. Perhaps I am turning into an old fogey, perhaps I might have a mild case of the rosy tint when I remember my own youth, but I don't ever remember acting or seeing anyone act like the kids last night.
What the hell does it say about is as a nation if we our 14/15 year olds are acting like bloody animals the moment they're out the front door? Since when does celebrating equal getting pissed up and arrested?
Taken from today's Independent.

HUNDREDS of teenagers celebrating their Junior Cert results went on an alcohol-fuelled rampage in Dublin city centre last night.

There were tears, drunken brawls in the middle of traffic, and paralytic girls whisked off on stretchers or carried kicking and screaming into garda vans.

The scenes were played out graphically on the streets of the capital as 58,000 students across the country celebrated their results last night.

Twenty teens were taken to Store Street garda station but were released later into the custody of their parents.

While most students around the country were well-behaved with many attending alcohol-free events, the so-called party started early for some.

They were seen openly drinking alcohol in alleys and back streets off Dublin's O'Connell Street at 6pm.

Some of the more brazen ones made no effort to conceal the alcopops, beer and cider they were drinking as they staggered down O'Connell Street in stiletto heels, in revealing dresses and mini-skirts.

In many cases they were egged on by pubescent boys swigging from their own bottles.

The gates to The Point Depot, where 5,500 students attended an alcohol-free party hosted by Grooveyard Promotions, were littered with empty beer cans and bottles as ambulances waited inside the gates.

One unconscious girl was taken out by stretcher. Another was wheeled out into an ambulance.

Another teenage girl screamed abuse at three gardai who bundled her into a garda van while a teenage boy staggered past, bawling his eyes out.

A steady stream of teenagers unable to walk or stand on their own were escorted to a special holding area to be picked up by their parents.

A group of bus drivers walking past the venue said they were sickened by what they saw. "It's a disgrace," said one. "It's like something you'd see at a wino convention," another added.

Earlier, hundreds of other Junior Cert students took over Middle Abbey Street, screaming, yelling, bashing into passers-by on the street as they queued outside the Traffic nightclub, which was also hosting an alcohol-free party. A drunken street brawl broke out about half-an-hour after the doors opened at 7pm.

Four or five girls took swings at and pushed each other out into the middle of oncoming traffic.

Another skirmish involving the same group broke out minutes later.

Food, glorious food.

I am looking for suggestions. Next Saturday I am hosting a soirée for eight people.
The Paramour, his brother and his wife, my brother and his wife, Etheline and that Kevin and, then of course, bringing up the rear, moi.
I want to make something that I can do most of the prep work earlier in the day, so that I don't end up hovered over a hot stove while folk are getting nicely sozzled in the sitting room.
I want something I can put together last minutes and keep and eye on, but not sweat about. For desert I am making a rhubarb crumble with custard for I love rhubarb and would lick it from a scabby leg and so do the rest of my clan. For a starter I was thinking a Greek salad with feta cheese and black olives-although depending on the weather I might change that to French Onion soup. But for the main? Any suggestions? I was thinking something solidly meaty like beef, but I like the idea of trying something completly different. All recepies and suggestions would be appreciated.
Off in town for a meeting now for a ridiculously stupid early meeting. At least this not sleeping malarky means I'm up and about with the lark.
Huzzah, sliver linings abound.

Dickhead.

Oh my, this is hilarious! HILARIOUS! I dislike this little brat to the nth degree and laughed when he got 'nutted' by a photographer years ago after screamin' DID YOU TOUCH MY MAWWWTORCAAWWW?' in his face. It was classic. I laughed long and hard , but I was equally laughing my socks off when French gay, who is also prone to shouting "DEED YOOU TOUCH MA MOTOR CAR?" when in his cups in a Jay Kay styleeee, sent me this not ten minutes ago.
So to brighten an otherwise miserable day I present to you Jay Kay, the real reason whipping should be brought back in...

"Jamiroquai frontman Jay Kay has been arrested after an alleged assault on photographers outside a West End nightclub. The star was taken away by police after a prolonged clash with the paparazzi.
Witnesses said they saw Kay lash out after leaving Kabaret's Prophecy in Soho with a friend in the early hours of today.
He was alleged to have slapped one photographer and punched another in the head three times, before rounding on police with a volley of abuse.
"He was out of control, really lairy," said an onlooker. "He clearly had too much to drink and just wouldn't stop."
Kay, 36, appeared convinced that the photographers were waiting for him, when in fact they were hoping for a glimpse of actress Lindsay Lohan, who was also inside.
According to witnesses, the singer burst out of the bar yelling "monkeys" at the photographers and "squaring up to them". He was said to have demanded of one photographer, "Are you Italian?" before slapping him and yelling: "Well, you aren't fast enough."
He then allegedly turned on another photographer, Alan Chapman, punching him three times in the side of the head and knocking off his glasses. A friend of the 50-year-old, who works for the Matrix picture agency, said he was left with a bloody nose and a huge bruise on his face.
Alessandro Copetti, who also works for Matrix, said: "Kay came out of the club, quite visibly drunk and just suddenly launched a vicious attack on us. He kept calling us 'gay boys from the south' and said he could take all of us on." Club security men stepped in and bundled the singer into a waiting car - but as it drove away Kay jumped out for a second round of verbal attacks.
This time the police got involved. A passer-by said: "He rounded on them as well, yelling, 'I pay your wages'. One policeman said, 'well, everyone here pays our wages' and Jay Kay just came back with some nonsense, like, 'you all live in poverty you miserable f***ers'."
The officers eventually slapped Kay in handcuffs and led him to a waiting van that took him to Savile Row police station."
Huzzah!

Alcohol, consent and perceived opinion.

A comment by Eoin the other day has stuck with me, as these things are wont to do. He said "My comment was more inspired by a night out last weekend with a few Polish people, they kept going on about how fat all Irish girls are and how they have only themselves to blame if something happens to them when they dress like hookers.
It really pissed me off"
Then I remembered something a taxi driver told me a few days ago, about a gang of girls in his cab and the way they spoke about 'shagging and banging and sucking cock, if ye'll pardon me french luv.' He, a father of three and no slouch or prude, had been shocked. He said these girls could not have been any older than twenty and yet they spoke like 'hoors'. He rounded it off with 'Sure it's no wonder things happen to them.' ( we had been listening to a news story about the comedian Russell Brand and his alleged involvement in a rape at his flat)
No wonder? Deserve? Hoors and prostitutes? Interesting. So who is to blame for this line of thinking? Is it men? Is it women? Society?
While I would let no man talk shit about women in front of me, I have to wonder if women are doing themselves a great disservice these days. What the hell is going on?
I did a quick poll of my male friends.
What do you lot think about the women you meet on a night out? I asked.
Drunk, was the resounding answer, drunk and easy.
Are we? Is that the perceived opinion of women? And these guys are not bastards, they're just normal guys with normal appetites.
Drunk and easy. Sweet fuck. And I don't swear a lot.
It is depressing. But reading the papers and watching tv is proving them right. Shit, going into any city centre bar on a Saturday night is proving them right.
Deserve. I don't like the sound of that word at all. It has too many connotations for me. But what is going on? Are women losing the battle for respect and sympathy due to our own actions? Are we shooting ourselves in the foot?
Many years ago a friend of mine slept with a man, or at least she thinks she did. She woke up in bed with him, naked and covered in love bites. But to this day she has always wondered about that night. She used no contraception, claims she can't remember leaving the nightclub, sure as shit can't remember going to the guy's place and does not remember either taking her clothes off or agreeing to sex.
Her sister was and is furious and to this day says very angrily and vocally that it was rape. To me, and I know not everyone agrees with me on this but hey, my blog, what that man did to her was not rape, although he ought to have been slapped for the hickeys.
I don't think it was rape for a number of reasons. And not because she was too drunk to stand either. But because she probably did say yes, she had firted with him all night, she probably fondled him the whole way back to his house in the back of the taxi, that she herself climbed into with a dismissive and drunken wave of her hand when some of her friends tried to suggest she was blotto- I know I was there.
Deserve, I am troubled by that word.
In the Sun today is film-maker Roger Graef’s, a man whose groundbreaking documentary about the treatment of rape victims by police shocked the country when it was screened in 1982.
Eleven million viewers watched A Complaint Of Rape and were horrified to see officers aggressively interviewing a woman who reported she had been gang-raped.

The landmark programme revealed for the first time how heavily the legal system was weighted against the victim. As a result, police were re-trained in how to handle rape cases.
Graef is backing the tabloid's Sunwomen Stop Rape campaign and while he talks a lot of sense, one sentence makes me wonder.
"We must also recognise the victim’s right to refuse consent whether drunk or sober.
If they are too drunk to give consent consciously and clearly, then intercourse is rape. Pure and simple."
Is it? I mean is it pure and simple? By that reasoning the man my friend slept with did rape her, pure and simple, despite the fact she came on to him and she was sexually aggressive with him, pure and simple right? She doesn't remember giving consent, so that's that then, pure and simple. But let's stall the ball for a second, let's shine the spotlight on the man in question, let's have a quick glance at our vicious predator.
He was blind drunk, having been at a stag all day, he was weaving as he left the night club and had dropped his house keys numerous times. He and she were acting like two teenagers, snogging on the street, her hand up the back of his shirt, his not so firmly planted on her arse, she waved away any concerns we-her friends- had for her safety and got cross when we tried to make her come home with us. Pure and simple? Is it? Did he 'deserve' to be arrested the next day and charged with being a rapist? Pure and simple right?
Is it only rape then if the girl is too drunk and the man sober? Or is it still rape if they are both drunk horny irresponsible idiots? Where is the pure and simple line drawn. Is consent always verbal or can actions be considered consent?
Drunk and easy.
It is no secret that the majority of my friends are male. I find the chaps good company and have a 'what you see is what you get' attitude that I like. I've often been out on nights out as the only female in their company and I've heard the way they talk about women, and although I've never heard them call a woman a 'hooker' in reference to the way she dresses, I know they can spot an'easy' girl a mile off, and nine times out of then she will be drunk and wearing very little.
But on the other hand, I"ve seen the way women act around them-especially one of the Italians, a very good looking wolfy chap, and I gotta tell ya, it ain't pretty. They practically get on his lap. What's he to do? Send them home with an admonishment? Is he a bastard for taking advantage of their drunken selves and lowered inhibitions? Or does his responsibility for their welfare stop the moment they sit on his lap and stick their tongue in his ear?
In this day and age with everyone jumping up and down and screaming about their rights and demanding to be treated equally a lot of common sense has gone straight out the window. Fed on a diet of girl power and booze, women are taking risks they didn't take before. Drinking until they pass out, acting with sexual aggression, celebrity pole notching, kiss and tells, dressing like porn stars and taking more and more risks.
It is an unpopular thing for a woman to say-I know I always get slated by my female friends whenever I say it- and the sister of my friend gets particularly angry about it, but while yes, every woman has the right to be safe and not assualted or raped, those rights must go hand in hand with good sense.
If you are a young woman, staggering down a dark street, blind drunk, with hardly any clothes on, in the middle of the night, it does not mean you 'deserve' (I am really starting to hate that word) to get raped, far from it. But if you do get raped following the above scenario, you do need to ask yourself, did I practice good judgment? I don't deserve this, but was there anything I could have done to minimise the danger I put myself in.
At the end of the day rapists doesn't give a fiddler's fuck about rights, girl power, deserve, Sun campaigns, bloggers or consent. What the rapist is looking for is vulnerability. And that is something where we women can hold the upper hand.

Sleepless in Dublin.

Golly, this not taking sleeping tablets is a real blast. I mean, here I am, 7 AM, I've fed the cats, walked the pup and had a slice of toast. What ever will I do with myself next? Oh I know, I'll crack on with my work. Yes, that's it, I'll work. I mean, I"ve only been awake since 5:40 having had a good solid two hours sleep. What more could a girl need?
Sleep, it's overrated isn't it? Luckily I don't seem to need that much, well I"m exhausted, but I'm awake...so I mustn't need much, right? Right?
You know when you're walking down the street and someone says 'hey, hey remember me?' And you're all like, 'erm...well hi there.' But you haven't a single clue who the person is, but they're faintly familiar, then as they keep talking to you, asking how you are and how's the family, are you still in the same line of work... after a while a creeping realisation works its way up your spine. You do remember this person, you do, but you also remember that you don't like this person, you can't stand this person, but you're trapped aren't you? If you had been vigiliant you might have crossed the street and escaped them, but you were daydreaming about shoes and now look, you're trapped with them.
Know what I'm talking about?
Maybe you don't, but that's what I thought last night. I was lying there, I was awake, I was trying to remember what the doc said, I was trying to remember what Monstee said, no reading, check, no bright lights, not too hot, not too cold. Okay breathe. Hey why am I thinking about how much work I"ve got on? And why am I sure I can hear Toffee snoring in her basket? Where did that daddy longlegs go? What if it lands in my mouth when I"m alseep. Hey this is weird, it's famililiar. I'm ...oh no...oh no not you...Insomnia? Is that you? Oh my, yes you're looking great! I almost didn't recognise you there for a moment. Really that's great, listen I better go, now I"ve got to...hum?
And then I was stuck there. I mean I got up, I tried 'doing stuff' but it felt stupid and I knew I was only kidding myself, I thought I might be getting tired...
Insomnia was waiting when I went back to bed, cheery, one foot swinging.
'So, Cat, how's you mum? Still driving each other up the wall? I like your digs here, I'm thinking about moving in. It will be cool, kind of like a giant pyjama party, won't that be fun? We can tell each other our deepest darkest secrets. Say, is that a daddy longlegs? Hope he doesn't fly into our mouths when we finally close our eyes. This is great, oooooh we're gong to have such fun. I've been dying to see you for ages you know, did you change number or something? I mean I was trying to get hold of you and I'd almost given up, then last week I tried it again and I was like wow, it's ringing...'
Argh.

Chihuahua verses cat...

let the battle commence!
I find myself this gloomy grey morning minding Etheline's nine month old chihuahua Poppy's Big Surprise -shortened to Angel- lengthened back to Poppy's Big Surprise and now currently just plain Toffee, or as the rest of the family call her- thatneuroticbarkingattentionseekerjustlikehermother.
I will be minding this dog for the next two days while my sister and that Kevin take a much deserved break over in the west of Ireland. My mother has had Toffee since Saturday, but her aged King Charles can't cope with the stress of a much younger and hyper active dog galloping about, so apparently it is my turn to share in the delight that is puppyhood.
'But I can't mind her, I have deadlines!' I cried this morning when the Lilac One arrived and handed me the basket (containing said dog) a bag of toys, a food bowl, a sheepskin bed and a sack of food that would have kept a two-man polar expedition going for a month.
'I don't care, she's driving me up the walls. I can't have her upsetting Bobby Ewing like that.'
'But what about-'
'Don't even think about it.' My mother warned. 'She has three children to run round after and this one,' she shook the basket, 'bit the boy last time she was out there.'
'But I have three cats!'
'Here.' My mother thrust the basket into my hands and scurried for the lift with nary a backward glance.
All righty then.
I peered though the basket door at a bulbous pair of brown eyes. 'Hello there Toffee. Be good for Auntie Fatmammycat now, okay?'
I put the basket down on the floor and opened the door. Out crept the tini tiny brown thing, shivering, nervous, terrified. Oh poor thing, two days with my mother will do that to a girl. Maybe this won't be too bad, I reasoned, watching her sniff the air and come running to me on her tini-tiny legs, after all, I said to myself, she's just a baby...
So far this morning I've watched that 'baby' bark and charge after the cats, attack an old and much loved leather cushion, attack the post, puke up the top of a pen, attack and destroy a roll of toilet paper, attack the red pastic ball she carries around much of the time, growl at the only plant still alive in the apartment, attack and shred to pieces a small wind up blue furry mouse belonging to the bigger of the cats, vomit up a puddle of blue furry slurm, jump on Puddy, who adores Toffee and tries to clean her when ever she claps eye on her, (Puddy loves dogs and regularly used to sit on the doberman's head and wash his whole face, don't ask) chase the bigger of the cats, who is stiff-legged with disgust and double his normal size, chase the one-eyed one, who is now on the top of my wardrobe, chase herself around in a circle and now here I am, not even showered, with this wriggling ball of energy sitting on my lap while I type with one hand and hold a Savlon covered rag to the rather severe scratch the bigger of the cats gave Toffee for mistakenly thinking sticking her big snout under the bed was a bright idea, with the other.
I"m exhausted. Two more days of this?
Is it illegal to crush of sleeping tablets and give them to very small dogs that should really live in Mexico? Does that really come under the heading of animal endangerment?

Thongs...

I"m not against them, every gal should have a few knocking around their underwear drawer for form fitting clothes or pale trousers. They can be very practial. But having said that I DON"T WANT TO SEE A WHALE TAIL INCHES FROM MY NOSE WHEN I'M BUYING A COPY OF THE TIMES ON A SUNDAY MORNING!!
I was minding my own business and checking that The Culture was inside the main paper when this girl squatted down in front of me and started to look through the papers and what did she shove in my face? Why a giant whale tail. Thin bands of over stretched cotton cutting through rolls of fat inches from my nose. Naturally to top it off she had a celtic tramp stamp above of the crack of her ample arse.
Double whammy.
Ladies, wear whatever underwear pleases you, but it's UNDERwear. Got that? Goes under your clothes.
Under.

The garden.

A friend in need is a friend indeed, or to paraphrase Placebo-or possibly brutally misquote them, a friend who bleeds is better.
I am back home now having spent the morning and the top end of the afternoon up at the 'house'.
I was going to save this story for Monday, but because poor Sam is having a crappy day, and I don't like that one little bit, I shall recount the morning I have had so that she might smile and remember that whenever the clouds come out the sun is usually right behind it.
The paramour has hired a skip and was off at the crack of jajoba to do the horrible job of clearing as much of the shite out of the house as possible before the real worker chaps arrive on Monday.
My job is to try make some headway into the garden. He might as well have asked me to attempt open heart surgery using a spatula, but I digress.
Because I am: A- an awful bloody wench, B -a beeg beech and C-a sister, I was lucky enought to enlist the help of my brother and my good friends Country and French gay. I did not use any form of blackmail. I prefer to think of it as...well, favour calling in.
We all piled into country gay's terrible car, complete with one spaniel and two over excited beagles who barked at dogs on the street and drooled and shook their heads spraying slober everwhere. They are remarkably skilled at this and hit most of us fairly evenly. The slurm to my brother's actual eyeball was particularly thigh slappingly funny.
Eventually we arrived at the house, a bedraggled, slurm/hair covered, hungover band of beverly hillbilly lookalikes, and spilled out of the car.
I wore jeans and a t-shirt as did CG and my brother, FG wore tweed and wellies and a flat cap. It looked like he might bag us a brace of grouse or go big game hunting in the Colonies.
The paramour, covered in dust and cobwebs and hauling a fridge up a set of planks into the skip sort of laughed, but disguised this with a fit of coughing.
'There's beer in the cooler.' He said, when he had recovered.
I held aloft a dog trodden paper bag that seemed to be leaking something. 'And I brought sambos and a rhurbarb pie for later.'
The paramour winked at me and I resisted the urge to fling him to the dusty ground and roll about for a while.
The dogs all wagged their tails furiously and as soon my brother shouldered open the side gate they took off with delighted yaps, yaps and aruuus, disappearing into the bushes and vanishing from sight.
French Gay looked worried. 'Can ze-'
'Nope, walled the whole way round.' I said.
Then he saw the state of the garden and his mouth clamped shut. Yep, it does seem to have that effect on folk.
We worked, oh my we worked. Brazilian forresters would have stood back in awe and taken notes as we slashed and burned a swathe through the undergrowth and hedges.
I was given the job of Chief Chopper Upper, meaning I got to stand there with the bluntest seceteurs and chop up all the bigger branches into managable chunks to bag, which -being sorta guilty greenies- we are going to bring to a recycling palnt in Crumlin.
French Gay led the expedition, swinging a scythe and complaining loudly and exclaiming over every nettle and spider. Country Gay attacked the hedges with gusto, my brother donned massive gloves and set about taking over the earwig infested hotels and razing them to the ground. He was stung and bitten aplenty and did not complain once. The only remark he made was that he had been chased be 'real spider' in australia. He said this aside to country Gay as they watched French Gay shriek and flail about when he got tangled in a flimsy web.
Then...
'Cat! Look! Look what I 'ave founz!'
'What is it?'
We all downed tools and rushed over. FG hauled back a sheet of ivy and bowed slightly.
'It's a shed you french poof.' Country Gay said.' I bet you have them in France too.'
'No no mon ami' he said slyly and pushed open the door partially with his foot. 'Eeet ez anozer bathroom. Alorz, norf norf, you' he points a finger at me, 'you alwayz say you want one? No? Well 'ere eeet iz! Regard!'Then he booted the door open.
The French poof was right, behold, it was an outhouse. A real honest to goodness outhouse. Filled with junk and yet more spider webs and a pink toilet.'
'My god.' I said in shock, 'It's pink!'
'Perfect for ze ladies, norf norf norf.'
Yeah, he was tickled pink, as pink as the toilet, as pink as my face, as pink as pink can be.
'Does it work?' My brother asked, peering into the gloom. 'Must do there's even toilet paper on the roll.'
'Paramour!' I yelled. 'Come see this.'
My filthy love came out of the house, pulled off his gloves and wandered down to see what had caught our attention. 'It'a a toilet.' he said upon inspection.
'An outhouse.' I corrected.
'A pink out'ouse!' The Frech spiv said, tears forming in his eyes.' Especial for ze lady ov ze 'ouse.'
The paramour nodded and put his gloves back on. 'Great, something else that will have to come down. Anyway, gotta get back to it. Hey FG, I think your dogs found something down the back there.'
'Uneh?'
'The dogs, they're rolling around in something, didn't you hear them barking?'
'I deed not!' French bolted and moments later we heard. 'STOP ZAT! What...what izzeeet? What iz zat...Oscar? NO! No!'
Ah but yes! yes! The hounds had found the decomposing body of a fox and were very busily rolling about in it, taking turns in fact, over joyed and polite at the same time, oh those french.
'Bags going back to town with you.' I said quickly to the paramour.
'Me too.' My brother said. We high-five each other because we're dorks.
'Ah fuck!' Country Gay said and kicked the outhouse door closed.
One hour later we were all drinking beer and sitting on upturned rainbarrels, gazing around us in- if not quite delight - general satisfaction. We had begun to make some effect on our surroundings.
Suddenly I was hit with a glowing feeling of wellbeing so strong I almost burst into song.
It was a balmy beautiful September Saturday. There was a garden somewhere underneath all the trash and filth and jumble and I had an extra bathroom, the sun had come out and I was with men I loved and by our feet lay one happy spaniel and two reeking happy hounds.
All was right with the world.

ANNIE: Mulligans, Poolbeg street near Tara Street DART station. The Guinness there is top class, better than most places, creamy, holds its head, soft and robust, bar's not exactly top notch, but if you and your daughter are looking for the perfect pint go there. Tell 'em a drunken hussy with auburn hair that may or may not have broken a lot of their glasses one christmas sent you. Actually scrap that, it might get you kicked out on your bottoms.

Yoga.

Does anyone do yoga? Is it really all its cracked up to be?
A dear friend of mine is two weeks away from opening her own studio and because I can't get kicked in the head for a while she has challanged me to take ten lessons and see what I think. I say challanged because as far as she is concerned yoga is king and everything else is the cap doffing village folk. Naturally I feel the same way about kickboxing.
We have often had furious debates over our chosen sports. She will come up with devastingly simple yet annoying sound bites like 'a long muscle is a strong muscle' and so on, which I will counter using the patented fatmammycat family snort of derision (FFSD).
'Snffft' I will say, 'what a load of hooey, a muscle is a muscle is a muscle, your long muscles would last two minutes in my kickboxing class.'
To which she- quite rightly- would reply, using her patened nose tilted to sun(NTTS) look, all the better to look down it at me. 'Hah,' she will say, 'and you wouldn't last two minutes in my Yoga class.
'Snifft!'
'Hah!'
Them's fighting words! ( you know, if there was nobody else around, chances are the world would fade to black and there would only be she and me standing in a spotlight, we would then engage in some strange pre-ordained contest, she would flex and bend and hold weird and painful poses and for me a kick bag would appear mysteriously from no where which I would pummel forty shades of shite out of. We would do it long into the night until one of us broke, then wake and find it was all a dream, except my knucles are all swollen and her back is killing her. I would never admit this secret to anyone, and I suspect she wouldn't either and you lot better keep quiet about it too.)
Usually-after more sniffting and hahing- we engage in a 'my dad is bigger than your dad' sort of thing until other folk roll their eyes with their patented don't these two idiots ever get tired of this stupid argument(DTTI) and move away and we start to feel sheepish.
Isn't that always the way though?
Anyhoo, we do a lot of core strenghtening in my normal class, so I'm rather hoping I won't snap clean in half in her class, but does anyone know anything about yoga that might be useful to me in the mean time? I've got about two weeks left before she gets her hands on me.

OH, and on another note, see how early this was posted? Up and about, no sleeping tablets last night, it was fantastic right up to 4:20 AM when I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep for ages. Cold turkey, not so good, but I shall keep at it until I wean myself off them.
OH 2, Annie, if your reading this, I"m going to a very good restaurant for lunch, if it is as good as it ususally is I'll recommend it, not expensive, but very good food.
Other than that it's Friday and it's sunny! Yay!

Fake orgasms...why the hell would I do that?

It has taken me a few days to read all the papers from the weekend what with the eating out fiasco on Sunday and working like a hog ever since, but last night as I lay in bed reading and not sleeping I read something so shocking I snapped bolt upright with an astounded 'SAY WHAT NOW?'
I tippity-tapped the Paramour, who happened to be snoozing gently beside me.
'What? What? What's going on?' He said. A man of instant lightening like reflexes.
'Do you think women should fake orgasms?" I demanded, brandishing the paper at him.
He rubbed his eyes and groaned. 'What?'
'Orgasms! Do you think women should fake them just to make men feel happy?'
'Why...what are you talking about?'
'Fay Weldon, that's what!' I started to read aloud. 'She says, "If you are happy and generous-minded, you will fake it and then leap out of bed and pour him champagne, telling him, “You are so clever” or however you express enthusiasm,’ she says. ‘Faking is kind to male partners … Otherwise they too may become anxious and so less able to perform. Do yourself and him a favour, sister: fake it." '
The paramour blinked at me sleepily.
'Sister my arse. Listen to this! "‘Eighty per cent of women only sometimes - or never - experience orgasm. Facts are facts and there we are. Deal with it,’ she writes in What Makes Women Happy?, to be published this month by Fourth Estate." Who, who the hell did she ask? She didn't as me! I bet she didn't ask anyone I know, I bet she didn't ask anyone, what is she basing this 'fact' on? Hum? Hum? That's what I'd like to know.'
'Who cares what she-'
'This kind of thinking gets on my wick, it belittles everyone, men and women alike' I snarked, shaking the paper furiously, 'imagine, must we tippy-toe around everything? What a stupid woman that Fay Weldon is, as if any man just wants a performance based of sympathy and pity. And then when they don't measure up we're to pat them on the head like a labrador, 'Nice try here's a bone, sorry you couldn't get one." Hah! Nonsense, what a stupid person she has become.' I glanced at him, 'You don't do you, want me to fake it, do you? You know pretend now and then? Becasue I dont' really see the point in even doing it if-'
'You know what I would like you to pretend?' He said, closing his eyes.
'No.'
'Pretend I'm asleep and I have to get up early for work. I want you to fake it really well, convince me.'
I flung the paper down as though scalded and leaped out of bed. I scurried off to the sitting room and snatched down my battered copy of Down Among the Women. Oh Wanda, oh Scarlett, your creater has let you down terribly, I sniffed silently, and, clutching it against my chest, I settled onto the cord sofa- the bigger of the cats and Puddy delighted- and presently I began to read.

What the galloping gonads? Insomnia!

Insomnia, I"m totally against it!
I"m very tired, grouchy and a little bit fuddled right now, and I'm fairly certain I look alarmingly like Worzel Gummidge.
Last night due to a combination of not enough booze and no sleeping tablets I suffered terribly with a slap in the belly load of bloomin' insomnia. Now I know I am not alone in this, I know lots of you have it. I know some some of you cope very well with it, or at least are decent enought to struggle on in a cheery sort of way. But not this fatcat. I hate insomnia and I hate it so much I am going to moan about it with gusto.
First of all it is a tricksy little fucker isn't it? Creeping up on a gal, like some kind of would be mugger. There I was, tired eyes, the bigger of the cats snoring gently away on the pillow next to me. I put my book down, turned off the lights sighed, got comfy and the BAM! It was like someone shot me in the arm with a whack job load of contrary-isms.

Suddenly the duvet was too heavy, the mattress uncomfortable, were my eyes open or closed? Ergh, did that pillow just poke me in the neck, my shoulder hurts, I don't like sleeping on my back, ouch, now I don't like sleeping on my sleepy side, my other shoulder was in the way, the cat's snores were reaching the cresendo jets make when they take off... was that a shaft of light? Was it? Was it? Wait a minute, how come I can hear those cars? I never usually notice them. Shit, are my eyes open? I hope I didn't get Etheline in the shit with my mother, I wonder will I get that job next week? I'm so behind on my projects, stupid Memnoch, oh why does the Paramour keep talking about that house like I"m suddenly going to fall in love with it, It looks even worse in the rain, why don't I fall in love with it, maybe I'm afraid of commitment, no, that's silly, is it though, maybe it runs in the family, look at Etheline, eeeeek, no you're being stupid, I really must get that mole on my back looked at, I"m fairly certain it has changed shape and that's a sign isn't it? Oh Jesus I'm sounding like my mother, I will I will, next week, had enough doctors for this week, Stupid Memnoch, Jesus, I never noticed how loud the bigger of the cats snores, I wonder is that normal. (I poke him) He huffs and starts purring. Jesus now that is loud, ow, don't knead. Pool old Puddy, maybe I should let her sleep in here instead, no, she always wants to get up in the middle of the night, still, poor Puddy, God I'm so far behind in my work, I'll never catch up, no stop saying that, of course you will, you just need to put more hours in, stop faffing about and going places and reading blogs, do a good five hours in the morning...what time is it? Sheeeet, it twenty to fucking three! Go asleep! Maybe I should take a sleeping tablet, at least I'd get some sleep then, no wait, that cross doctor told me to stop taking them, well, that's all very good, but he's not lying here with a mountain of work on tomorrow, now is he? Shit. I-ten past three? How the fuck did that happen? Go asleep, go asleep go asleep. Oh Christ I"ll never do it. My eyes are definitely open. That's it I'm getting up. Everyone says that's what you should do...
So I got up all right, got up took a sleeping tablet and was asleep half an hour later, blissfully unaware of any sounds or thoughts.
I don't care what a cranky doctor says, Sleeping tablets=sleep. And that's good enough reason to take them for me. The very last thing I need is to meet my worried subconsciousness- at any hour. And If I have to be a pill-popping booze hound to beat its sorry arse so be it.
Insomnia, I'm against it!
(by the by, if anyone knows how to actually tackle it without slithering into a drug induced coma, I'd like to hear it)

The hellish stench of moral fibre.

Yesterday on the Joe Duffy Radio Show a furious...well relatively heated...okay, lukewarm debate raged over the airways. Hunky Dory, the rather bland irish crisp, have unleashed a whole series of adverts to peddle their ware. The ad I saw consists of a rather harmless, charmless, gormless youth sitting on a sofa, an expression of dim surprise on his otherwise youthful chops, and a packet of the aforementioned crisps resting on his crotch. Beside him a lusty busty femme is dipping her hand into the aforementioned crisp packet right up to her wrist, a look of desire on her saucy chops. The slogan naturally is...She only wants you for your.... HUNKY DORYS!!!!
Eeeeeeee, can you imagine the dorks tittering and tee-heeing in the ad room when they came up with this marketing gold!
Anyhoo, there are others, equally lame and equally daft, but this is Ireland so uproar insued.
'Why,' one chap said yesterday, 'would ja be tinkin' of dat when ye want crisps?" He demanded.' It's disGGGustin'!'
The spokeman for the crisp company, when pinned by Javelin Joe on whether or not there was any 'sexual connontations' to the ad replied.
'No (snarf) I just see it as a bit of fun. People have no sense of humour.'
'So you don't see anything risky about a woman with her hand over a man's crotch and the words 'she only want's you for your...'
'HUNKY DORYS!" Our man with the plan roared without missing a beat.
'I don't know.' said Joe 90, sounding like he really did know and that he thought yer man was being a bit of a prick.
'Well, if anyone was offended I will personally apologise to them.' Crispy MacSnark said.
'Well ye'll be spendin' the rest of yer year apologisin'!' Said the outraged chap on the phone, 'Coz I talked to loads of folk and let me tell you, yer way off base so ye are. We're disGGGusted. Everyone I spoke to was disGGUsted. There's no need to be showing that soert of this when yer tryin' to sell crisps!'
'HUNKY DORYS!" (I hope he gets some kind of raise)
'So you're telling me you saw nuthin' wrong.' Joe insisted, ' nothing at all?'
'Were you offended?' Our ad man slyly interjected.
'It doesn't matter what Joe Duffy thinks!' Joe Duffy the radio presenter snapped, pushed over the top and into the land of the third person.
I listened for a while, bemused as usual that folk get so uptight about anything even mildly smutty, but thought no more of it until to day. Until of course The Independent, alway the first bastion of faux offence, landed like a crow on a new born lamb. Cue howls of indignation.

" ADVERTS for Hunky Dorys crisps have been deemed "offensive, exploitative and degrading to women".
About 60 complaints were lodged with the Advertising Standards Authority for Ireland (ASAI) against the campaign, which pictured three scantily clad female models in lingerie.
The ad's slogan said: "Which one would you throw out of bed for eating Hunky Dorys?"
The ad was described as "degrading to women, displaying them as commodities and as sex objects".
Parts of the ad, created by the Chemistry agency for Largo Foods, had been ripped from a number of advertising spots.
Yesterday's report from the ASAI recorded a "relatively large number of complaints", according to CEO Frank Goodman.
"Some complainants referred to women using public transport at night who might be uncomfortable or intimidated near the poster at bus stops," said the ASAI report. ( Yes, because we all know when posters attack it can get ugly)

Other concerns were that men or boys would view women as sex objects and of the effect the ad would have on viewing children. "

Now between Hugh Hefner and playboy and Grils Gone Wild and strip clubs and pre-teen clothing with the playboy logo, thongs over jeans and padded bras for nine year olds and so on, who knew that the humble crisp was the main culprit in the exploitation of women. The bastards.
And then there was this...

"They considered that the advertisements were overtly sexual and promiscuous, not suitable for the very young or impressionable teenagers and a blatant exploitation of sexuality for commercial gain."

Imagine an advert that was sexual..how could that be in this day and age?
When a woman washes her hair with a certain brand of shampoo and is heard groaning and moaning in an orgasmic way, were there complaints? Nope. When the diet coke ad came out with all the women cooing over the sweaty builder and biting their lips, was there uproar? Er...no. What about all those ads showing wimpy men doing tough house hold jobs thankful that they had the right products to make their jobs a little easier becaus they were so feeble and feeble minded that the couldn't manage the simplest tasks. Was there outrage? Hum, no. Jessica Simson wiggling over a car to promote her album, Madonna hanging off a cruxifix, Boy's Own dancing half naked on the Late Late show? WELL? Where was the outrage for that one? I almost had to sear my eyes out later. I saw RONAN KEATING DANCHING LIKE HE WAS ON CRACK! Did I phone RTE to complain, no I took two Neobrufin and cried myself to sleep.
Adverts are only out for one thing, to garner attention, to raise the profile of the product. The wishy washy hand wringing sniffling of yesterday and today had served Hunky Dory well, Outraged folk have allowed the advertising company to do exactly what they set out to do, cause a commotion and get some much needed press to sell a product that really is not as good as other brands-in my view. Huzzah for the back hand lob, and yah boo sucks for folk that should know better.

G'day Steve, you were fun to watch.

Poor old Steve the crocodile Hunter has gone to meet his maker. http://www.news.com.au/story/0,23599,20349888-2,00.html
Poor dude, and his poor wife and kids.

Restaurants, and the lies they tell.

Yesterday I met up with a friend of mine I hadn't seen in a while. We decided to have lunch, even though I am loathe to spend Sunday doing anything but drinking rum, reading the papers and having lazy afternoon sex.
But she is my friend and I like her company, so I got dressed in my finery and headed into town. We went to a restaurant much praised by foodie folk in the know. We were given a good table by the window where we watched folk run from shower to sunshine and back to shower again. We scanned the menu eagerly, ooohhh, darne of salmon with a chowder sauce, warm tiger prawn salad with a honey mustard dressing, fresh fish, striaght from the dock to your plate... oven baked pizza with pesto...yummy. Let's eat. But first let's have a martini.
Okay, so we drank more than one while we waited for our starter.
After an age the waitress deposited two plates of tired oil drenched limp salad covered in slurmy goo under which a handful of pertrified prawns hid. I had to ask for black pepper to be brought to the table and no bread was offered. Hopefully I pierced a shallot only to watch it deflate then slither off my fork with an oily plop.
We pushed our food around for a bit, but eventually had to admit defeat. Never mind, let's have another martini, the second course will be better-it sure as shit couldn't be any worse.
Avast and curses. Out it came, her pizza and my 'fresh from the dock to my plate' fish.
I poked it with my knife. 'Er..it's covered in bread crumbs.'
'Yes.' Irna, my Polish waitress nodded.
'Say, Irna is it? How, er, fresh is this fish?'
'Frozen.' She beamed at me.
'It looks like Findus catch.' My friend said helpfully, scraping inch thick lines of vomit green pesto from her barely covered in any topping at all pizza.
'It does indeed.' I agreed spearing the fish and watching it go the way of the shallot.
'I'm not eating this.' I said sniffly.' Take it back please.'
Irna smiled happily at me. 'You don't want?"
''Nope.'
She took it away and moments later a harried flush faced manager descended on me like a seagull on a tip.
'Is there a problem?"
'It says on your menu that the fish comes straight from the dock to my plate.'
'Yes.'
'Did it come in a frozen food truck?'
'Ah, well we don't have, Sunday you see we-'
And then he gave me a very complicated and frankly absurd excuse as to why my fish might have been fresh back in the day but on this particular ocassion it had somehow decided to dip itself in batter and freeze its fresh self.
I let him talk, it seemed the kindess thing to do under the circumstances. And then I informed him I wouldn't be paying for it.
This seemed to annoy him, but I persisted with my refusal. He went off in a huff some time later, doubtless to pickle some perfectly fresh pork, of drown a helpless lettuce in vinegar, or stick a cold fork in a perfectly good and fluffy sufflé, perhaps he would drizzle raspberry sauce over a large white plate and fling some duck who died of old age beside it. Either way you can be sure he was up to nowt good.
This is the reality with restaurants. They get cocky, they get a good review or two, next thing you know they change staff, lose a good floor manager or some idiot starts cutting corner and buff. Good restaurant suddenly becomes shitty. And a bad reputation is the sort of shit that take some serious elbow grease to shift again.
Snotty yet not so hotty restaurants, I'm against them!

Hospital food is the dog's bollocks.

I'm against it!
Firstly ta very much to you lot for the best wishes. Fair brought a tear to my eye it did. Speaking of eyes...
It all started with Etheline, as these things will, saying, 'Your eye is all wonky, it's going the wrong way.'
And then it all went down hill from there, Two days lounging about on a trolley, being ignored and having to play bathroom tag with a thieving trolley stealing wench from Antrim, more days being poked, stuck on a drip, prodded, learning how to say 'hostible', and 'package decrips,' and 'here Nuuursse I ditint get none oh dem tablets.' OH and for funny fun fun the girl next to me had about forty different ring tones on her mobile phone. All of which I heard.
It was hellish, hellish I tell ya.The feverish horror of the menu, the bathrooms, time goes out the window, it's roasting hot, and you end up watching soap operas and caring about the frankly ridiculous plots and characters ( will Krissy get him back after he find out about her lying about her child having cancer?) falling asleep at three in the afternoon and getting all misty eyed about 'outside'. You cling to friends and yet you are exhausted by their cheery tones. And there was no booze to dull the pain ( despite some folk's best efforts at smuggling, ta T) and no bloomin' sleeping tablets-which my doctor thinks I shouldn't be taking, in fact he was rather alarmed when I told him of my regular narcotic intake- and no escape from visiting mothers, who was in her hypo element. And woe, poor old Paramour was beset by siblings and mothers at every turn. But he held his own and his arms are still yummy.
So it seems all the vomiting should have been a sign that something was wrong, I thought it was just from the hangover and what not, but nope, I cracked my head off the floor when Memnoch popped me one. I"m still a bit fizzy about the last few days but that's groovy. Fizzy I can do, hostibles I can do without.
To celebrate my delight at returning to my abode and the return of my poor old cats-who have had to survive my eldest sister and her children, I'm taking my thinner still slighty fuddled ass into Brown Thomas and I am buying my self new shoes. Then I'm meeting French Gay for lunch, and yes, it will involve some liquid. Don't want my liver getting all cocky now. Although It enjoyed the rest I'm sure.
Oh and if I have to listen to The Pussy Cat Dolls 'song' Buttons, once more in my whole life I will not be responsible for my actions.
I'm against them too.