Diary of a Hero

Day 1

I held little Optimus Prime close and let the tears fall. I didn't name her. That was her mother's fault. A severe addiction to opiates may also have had a hand to play in the naming process....and the conception. Anyway, the point is my unfortunately designated young daughter (she's also veering towards the grotesque in terms of physical appearance and odour) was upset, OK? I told her I'd be back before she knew it. Papa had to go to war, with a formidable opponent. I didn't know if I'd make it back in one piece.

I set off to war as a boy. I knew I would return a man....or not at all. My enemy? A fucking mouse. I named him Ollie, and he was an uppity dick.

Day 5

I saw him again. Arrogant bastard. He near enough skipped across my line of vision as I lay in wait. His sheer audacity paralysed me. I could swear that rodent stopped to wink at me. My senses ravaged by burgeoning hatred, my body numbed, my arms relaxed enough for the crossbow to slip from my hands and crash to the floor. With the impact, he seemed to think better of his indignant display. Like that, he was gone. Vanished. I snapped to and pulled my thoughts together.

*Note to self*- consider use of more practical weaponry.

Day 9

His cockiness overwhelmed me this morning. I could no longer bear the thought of the traps bringing about his downfall. I stepped in one myself. I wept openly. I am convinced that he relocated it. This kill is personal. I withdrew the hunting knife from its sheath.

I set fire to the traps.

Day 11

Still hoping to salvage what was left of the flat's east wing, in light of the catastrophic damage done when the fires spread beyond my control. I know there is little to be foraged from the desolate zone. If I didn't know better, I would say he used the minute haze of smoke to spark his own incendiaries. Remaining, untarnished supplies are limited.

Day 15

What was that about my momma!? He's mocking me!

Day 16

He was not working alone. He has allies. I had narrowed down his location. He was living in the kitchen. This was where I would set up camp. Come the 13th hour of today's operations, I caught sight of my foe. He seemed wounded. I abandoned my tent and crawled slowly, yet assuredly, toward him. I raised the knife to strike....then I heard it. I turned. My tent was on fire. It was a trap. I'd been raptored. And with that, the rodent who had baited me in withdrew from the scene before I had opportunity to wreak my revenge. My paltry revenge.

All is lost. I am sorry, Optimus.

Day 19

The reality of my situation grows more evident with each passing day, each lonely hour, each shivering minute. I am not the hunter. I am the hunted. I am acutely aware that the strange sounds I have been hearing from the recesses of this kitchen are ominous. The hopeful shreds remaining in my person tell me that these are nothing to worry about. The realist in me knows that the mice are constructing a hovercraft. It is only a matter of time before they equip it with a nuclear arsenal, the like of which would bring gods to trembling knee.

Day 21

They mock me in their propaganda. They offer odds on the outcome.

500-1) I emerge victorious
100-1) An uneasy truce develops
33-1) Murder-suicide pact
7-2) Mice seize the charred remnants of the flat
5-4) I fall on my keys and incapacitate myself

These mice are pricks.

Day 23

I cannot feel anything below my waist. I fear my time is running out. I was foolish to have placed my keys in that pocket.

Day 24

They tell me I babbled incoherently as they pulled me to the snow dusted streets outside. The shell of the flat crumbled around us. They doubt my tales. My fantastic stories too real for them to stomach. The fools! The mice! The mice shall destroy us all!

Day 27

I'm feeling much better now. The nurses have been kind. Lilly has listened patiently as I recant my tortured chronicle. She believes me. I know she does. She's written it all down on her clipboard. She gave me a lovely jacket to keep me warm. The sleeves are quite restrictive, At least the rodents cannot reach me in my new room. I can rest here, against the cushioned walls. I'm safe. And when I have recuperated, Lilly tells me they will let me out to bring about an end to this conflict.

Daddy's coming home soon, Optimus!

Day 43

I hear squeaking!

Girlfriend For Winter

Today, the following ad was brought to my attention in the course of some job seeking:

Girlfriend For Winter

The Days Are Getting Shorter. When The Grey Sheets Of Misery That Invariably Cover Our Skys Briefly Part, The Precious Little Light That Does Manage To Penetrate Our Atmosphere Fails To Raise The Temperature By More Than A Few Paltry Degrees. Having Discussed This Situation With My Housemate We Have Come Upon A Solution. What I Need Is A Girlfriend. Just For Winter. When Spring Comes I Will Set You Free. I Like Eating Food With My Girlfriend. I Like Watching Black And White Romantic Films With My Girlfriend. I Like Baking With My Girlfriend. I Like Kittens With My Girlfriend. I Like Reading The Paper In Bed On A Sunday With My Girlfriend. I Like Being Silly With My Girlfriend. I Like Walking In The Park With My Girlfriend. I Like Scrambled Eggs And Crispy Bacon And Toast With Lots Of Butter With My Girlfriend. I Like Drinking Wine With My Girlfriend. Do You Like To Do These Things With Your Boyfriend? Do You Know Someone That Does? Winter Is Bleak. Come Round My House And Keep My Bed Warm. You Will Be Payed Handsomly In Swiss Cheese And Empty Promises.

Suffice to say, I was touched (emotionally speaking) by the heartfelt plea of a fellow Edinburgh inhabitant. I felt it was only right to reply:

You had me at "misery"

OK, I know I might not be ideally suited to your desires but, if we can just get past the me having a penis thing, then I think we could have something beautiful here.

I mean, I'm house-trained, affectionate, sensitive and a great listener. Added to that the fact that, in the right light (say that of a romantic full moon), and providing no more than a week's beard growth on my part, I could pass for a particularly handsome young lady (if you squint). My child bearing hips don't lie.

As if to sweeten the deal yet further, I am an expert cuddler. Please try to look beyond potential erections that could arise on my part, as sometimes a man just needs to be held.

Let's look past social taboos and make the winter a more beautiful time together.

Let me be your man-blanket.
Hugs (see?),

Deebs


I could have said more. I could have said a lot more, yet I felt it best to leave a modicum of mystery intact. And it gives me more to work with in the event of him responding.

Why does he capitalise Every Single Word? That was something I could help him with. The two of us curled up under a blanket, nursing hot chocolates while doing the crossword (and musing over the merits of kittens), as I gently reprimand him for his linguistic follies. It could be adorable.... platonically adorable.

If he replies, I'll let him tell you the story himself when he comes home with me for Christmas.

****UPDATE****

I hath been in receipt of further communication:

you gave me a bloody good chuckle. Sadly it might be hard to get past the penis thing. Winter is not the time for me to try new things. Maybe in when spring comes ill be more open minded.

Well there you have it then. Rejection. And so it seems my hopes for a "Christmas miracle" have been dashed for another year. We'll always have the memories of what could have been.

....OK, I need to find myself a girl, fast.

Armageddon

So, I moved to Edinburgh. I've been introduced to parsnips. I've experienced my first ever visit to KFC. My first viewing of The Little Mermaid was much vaunted, yet inspired little more than a mild craving for seafood. I have moved from feelings of profound irritation at the bizarre sounds that our kitchen tap makes to being impressed at how it operates as a dubstep DJ on the side. I even witnessed the slow death of what became affectionately known as Jack's Raging Mint Plant. And I've played a fuckload of card games ("fuckload" is an oft overlooked imperial unit of measurement, roughly equal to the size of two football pitches).

Phil and Dave cook and clean. I get the beers in. It's like Withnail & I, without the squalor....and with a less robust vocabulary.

I do often tend to equate life to plot lines or happenings in film. Which brings me to that time I experienced Armageddon.

I was sitting in a nearby Irish pub watching the auld country thrash the mighty footballing juggernaut that is Estonia in the first leg of the Euro 2012 play-offs. And I knew this bar was going to pass its own qualification test as proper Irish when they stocked Barry's Tea and Tayto Crisps. Home soil under foreign skies. It's entirely probable that Scotland's full Irish contingent had packed the place to the rafters and so real-estate was at a premium. Just after the midway point of the midway point in the contest it came to my attention that a foreign body had entered the patch of space which I had called home. This was Texas-sized, an extinction level event, and the music swelled to encompass the epic scenario in which I was now engaged. Quite extraordinarily, this asteroid was not alone.

She had a date.

I was soon caught in her gravity. My Texan asteroid was on a first date. In an astoundingly brief period I listened (against my will and sense of propriety) as she rained down a catastrophic meteor shower on the conversation. She segued, almost elegantly, from her (clearly desperate) companion's immediately awkward "small" talk of snake bites and grizzly bears to her teenage daughter, love of Doctor Who and finally, fittingly, to her not having had sex for "well....quite a while". I feared the impact. I was going to be invited to partake in a threesome. It was inevitable.

In cases of great uncertainty and necessity, a square peg may be called upon to fill a round hole. Bruce Willis and his team of deep-sea oil drillers did not, on the face of it, fit the bill of planetary saviours, but they got the job done. So happens that on this occasion, to save the world from the awkward asteroid, I was the square peg that would surely be called upon to....er....fill that hole. And by golly (not a phrase I use lightly) there would be some substantial drilling necessary here!

I know, I know. I was getting ahead of myself. The invite was inevitable. Nobody was going to dispute that. Yet before I got to the excavation, I would have had to make the journey and land on this behemoth. It was going to be arduous and fraught with peril. I would lose some of the crew along the way. Obviously one of the expedition's number would lose their mind and threaten the whole mission. Nonetheless, someone had to get in there to bring about that explosion. It wasn't going to be pretty. It was going to take great personal sacrifice. Flicking through my head were all the eventualities. Someone would draw the short straw and have to do the deed. This is where I'd shine brightly. This was my "little death" to die. I'd take one for the team, nay for humanity itself. Billy Bob Thornton would request permission to shake the hand of the never conceived daughter of the bravest man he'd never met. Mine was a sacrifice that would be selfless, noble and remembered for generations. I think it's clear to see that Ireland would have been renamed in my honour to New Deebsland.

I swallowed hard and turned to face my quarry. It took close to a minute to adjust and take in her full scope. Pretty sure she inhabited a fourth dimension. I downed my beer.

Fuck you Aerosmith! I want to miss all of these things. I want to close my eyes. You're on your own, world!

I walked away and didn't even look back as the world was presumably destroyed behind me. Cue the explosions, Michael Bay.

Sensational

In August, I embarked upon a brief, passionate liaison. Those of you who were working alongside me in that time will probably know to which I refer. It was an open secret during the month’s work, but it was presumably deemed improper or impolite to discuss in what had passed for civilised company. Thus, it wasn’t often commented upon, but the knowing looks told me that everybody was aware. I suppose that a part of the attraction was the danger, the lust and the fact it was unlikely to last beyond our time together in Scotland. It wouldn’t travel. It was too complicated and everyone knew it. It was only ever to be a festival fling.

I was kidding myself.

I had to come clean about my activities to some people who were unavoidably going to be affected by my trysts. I admitted to them and, maybe more so, to myself that I had developed deeper feelings than I had anticipated. I got in over my head. It was no “festival fling”! As my time in Edinburgh drew to a close, I found myself feeling increasingly distraught and desperate to spend as much time with my desire as I could, before things got inevitably messy back home in Dublin. I found myself wishing there was more time, if even just to sit in The Meadows, holding them and getting lost in our affair. We said our goodbyes and I’m not ashamed to admit that I found myself fighting back a tear or three, aware of the likelihood that it would end there, no matter how hard we tried to make it work. Nothing is the same outside of the month of Fringe. At least we’d always have Paris….(not legitimately, but in a Casablanca referencing kind of way).

Back home, I tried to pretend I wasn’t still in the thrall, but I was taken with the thrill. I wanted Paris back and, like the crazy fool I was, I wouldn’t accept that things couldn’t be the same. I wanted more. My appetite was insatiable.

And now here I am, returned to this bonnie wee country. I’ve been living here for just over a week now and I see that it can’t be the same. You can’t capture that lightning in a bottle, as the cliché goes. The fire hasn’t burned entirely out, but it’s not got the same heat to it. To be honest, even though it has only been two months since I found it hard to say goodbye, it feels a little bit as though I’m trapped in a loveless marriage. Sure, we still get together, but it seems to be mostly out of habit at this stage. Whereas before we were thrown together by an undeniable allure, now we draw close more out of routine and familiarity. I guess it happens, but I wished I had longer before the complications set in. Maybe then it would have been easier to maintain that spark. Maybe it’s time we took a break from each other.

Truth is, I’d been secretly looking elsewhere for the giddy little highs for some time before you caught us the other night. I’m sorry you had to see that, but I know you can’t have been all that surprised.

You’ll always have a place in my heart, Walkers Sensations. Your Caramelised Onion and Balsamic Vinegar flavour crisps will linger long within my soul, but it doesn’t seem right to continue living this lie. We deserve better than this arrangement. We both need to look elsewhere for happiness. The mini chocolate doughnuts and I hope you can forgive us.

Our children would have been hideous, half-man, half-potato mutants anyway.

Eye Contact

“Well, have you ever had any curiosity or inclination to be with a guy?” continued the conversation with a notoriously heterosexual friend over half-emptied drinks in a dark and dingy Dublin bar. Obviously, when I type “notoriously”, I don’t really mean that he has attained sufficient infamy in certain circles as to be spoken of in hushed whispers, his menacing visage staring down on the streets from posters proclaiming him “Wanted: For reasons of sexual preference”. He’s just verging on flamboyant in his lust for and pursuit of the lady folk. Also, it reads better than to deem him “militantly heterosexual” (the only other phrasing my mind was offering up to me at the time), as that leads to a whole different thought of a man at war, toting the implements of his hostile invasion….I’m going to leave that strand there and get to the point, kind of.

His question fell in the course of a discussion that sprang from his having been propositioned (quite rapishly) by a rather aggressive German with a side hair parting (no, not that one). Playing devil’s advocate in the field of human sexuality, I attempted to garner and present any manner of insight into the mind-set of experimentation-minded souls. Now, in spite of previously outlined instances (wherein I have done such deeds as leading a French heartbreaker astray and even out-gay chickening an undeniably homosexual dude), I am in fact set in my straightitude and have never contemplated testing other waters, Thus, I opted to present the (to my mind laughable) views of a former acquaintance, as follows:

“Well, I once had this guy try to convince me that you can never be 100% certain in your sexual conviction until you have fucked another creature of the same sex. And even though he himself was some manner of slimy rodent, he did relate tales of having undertaken just such a test of his being through intercoursing a human of the less fair sex. In fact, he’d even gone back for seconds, just to be sure that the first results hadn’t been corrupted by poor quality, and assess the LAY of the land as it were. Eventually he determined that he was not attracted to men. And he set about trying to fuck every woman that would cross his path from that day forth”.

Unfortunately, I took an ill-timed sip of my beer right at the start of that story. The result was my pausing and helplessly locking eyes with mi amigo as he broke down giggling (manfully) at the gap below:

“Well, I once had this guy….”

I could have timed that particular pause better, in light of the topic at hand.

The uncomfortable beat that comes when eyes meet at a moment of ill-timing is one that I have come to know, even abuse for my own sordid entertainment. Making a first-time acquaintance fear you may have killed before? Done. Muttering the name of a girl’s ex-boyfriend when you kiss her? Done and done! Those I enjoy, as the conductor of such curious concerts in conversational catastrophe. It’s those occasions outside of my control that I am given to loathing. Helplessly trapped in another’s gaze, incapable of breaking free, and with a body unwilling to respond to my entirely reasonable demands. Lost in despair. Fucked.

A routine doctor’s visit, for an embarrassing impact injury sustained in the course of some indoor football, was all going better than expected. A bit of bruising to a *ahem* sensitive area but no longer term discomfort forecast. At such times (not that I have been in a position such as this on any more than one occasion) I suppose it’s natural to let your glance drift around the room, rather than cultivating some manner of illicit eye-contact. Then it hit. I was stuck in an unwinnable staring contest with the doc’s wife and two young children. Why in the Christ had he set his family portrait to face outwardly towards me? I couldn’t break off. I was lost in my own world of horror.

“Er….you can put it away now”.

“Oh….shit….I….I mean yeah, of course” and back went it to where it belonged, free from the gloved hands of medical professionals and the static eyes of their families.

I’ve not been sick enough in the last few years since that one to really warrant convincing myself to return to that doctor. I could lose an arm and still justify some form of home remedy, just to avoid catching the glare of his poor, traumatised family picture. To be frank, I’m quite confident I have fought off a few fatal illnesses out of embarrassment alone.

Yet that ranks as a mere trifling footnote in the grand scheme next to my dealings with a particularly outstanding memory buoy of a fella with whom I shared patronage of a public house some years back. T’was a bar of not entirely reputable nature, to put it mildly, but he seemed like a decent sort. We shared a laugh or two as our paths would, on occasion, cross in front of the bar. The course of one conversation slanted my views somewhat though.

Regular guy at the bar: *long sigh*
Blissfully ignorant Deebs: “You alright, man? Looking a bit shattered there.”
Regular guy at the bar: “Ah, bit stressed. Have to find a new place to stay.”
Blissfully ignorant Deebs: “Everything alright?”
Regular guy at the bar: “Ah they kicked me outta the hostel round the corner. Found the samurai sword under my bed….”
Moderately alarmed Deebs: * widened eyes catch his casual stare*
Samurai sword owning guy at the bar: “….well, my parole officer did….”
Alarmed Deebs: *splutter*
“Your….parole officer?”
*uncomfortable eye contact maintained*
Parolee, samurai sword owner at the bar: “Only out a few months. Shot a guy in the head for what he did to my sister.”
Panicked Deebs:*eyes searing*
*attempting to hide panic while choking on beer*

Amazingly, conversation did continue and, to be truthful, he was a friendly guy nonetheless and I never felt he’d be likely to endanger me any time soon. Still, I was happy for the handful of potential eye-witnesses in the vicinity.

Regular convict at the bar: “Fancy a game?”
Just a small town Deebs: “Alright, whaddya have in mind?”
Regular convict at the bar: *places knife on the counter*
Inner monologue of a near-death Deebs: “Holy cocking mother of fuck!”
Eyes of a Deebs: “Holy cocking mother of fuck! Target acquired. Blinking abandoned for foreseeable future.”
Knife-wielding convict at the bar: “You put your hand flat on the bar, like this, and I go through your fingers with the knife. Every time I hit you, I give you a fiver. Then you have a go. Every time you hit me, you give me a fiver. Yeah?”
Squeaky voiced Deebs: “Er….you’re alright.”
Knife-wielding convict at the bar: “OK, you hit me, you give me a euro. I catch you, I pay a fiver. Deal?”
Over-compensating deep voiced Deebs: “Maybe another time. For now, I still have high hopes to find a use for these hands of mine.”
Rueful, knife-wielding convict at the bar: “Fine, another time. Speaking of things for hands to do though….”
*nods head at the girl behind the bar approaching with our drinks*
“The things I’d do to her if I were a few years younger. I tell ya, if I was her boyfriend, I’d jump over the bar, cover her in whipped cream and….”

I choose to trail off at this point out of a hitherto unknown sense of moral decency. Things got weird and funky at that point. I began to squirm, while still unable to speak in a coherent tone or break free from the spiralling stare of doom.

Sex monger at the bar: “What has you in here so often anyway?”
Regular Deebs at the bar: *nods head at that same approaching girl behind the bar*
“I come to see my girlfriend.”

Finally I expect that mortification will cause his eyes to widen beyond their regular parameters. There’s a brief pause….

Regular, samurai sword owning, knife wielding, sex mongering convict at the bar: “Well….? What are you waiting for then? I’ll get you the whipped cream….”

And that, children, is the story of how I lost my eyesight, when my eyeballs spontaneously combusted.

Alloha Alcohol

Last night was filled with duos, don'ts, dunnos and a decision:

Alcohol, we've had a good run in the last year or more but I think we need to talk. It's nothing personal. We had some good times, and I'd hope we can still be friends. We'll hang out from time to time, and maybe hook up and fall back into old abusive patterns. Still, I don't think we can maintain this monogamous relationship any more. I'll always remember you....if not some of the things I've done under your influence.

Why? Well, that little voice in the back of my head has kicked in. The part that realises when you're doing such stupid things and yet is powerless to help. I see it as the alcoholic conscience. I have named him Jiminy. Jiminy Beam. Wee Jiminy had fallen silent, as if allowing alcohol into my life as a short-term fling.

"Go on kid, enjoy yourself! Get on with some necking....of those drinks".

However, I like to think that he has returned now, as would any good, vigilant friend, to warn me that maybe this one's not right for me. The final straw may have been when I started experimenting in threesomes, by forming one half of a drinking double-act. All very sordid. I need to play the field a little more, experiment with new vices. Jiminy's been near apoplectic in my skull, fighting to be heard again. Poor fucker, fighting that losing battle until today. The only sober voice at the party and he's had all the volume of a mime in a wind-tunnel. Still, we'll always have the memories. The sketchy, sketchy memories....

The vast majority of the posts in this very blog have been composed in scenarios such as this

That time I scared a woman shitless- drunkenly strutting home in the small hours with all the majesty of a drugged giraffe in a funk club (as I have been known to do on occasion), when from behind a telegraph pole loomed a young lady, scarcely out of her teens I'd wager. She was scared? Well yeah, and who could blame her? It's not often you hear a grown man squeal like an intense five year old girl when he notices your presence. A manly moment brought to you by alcohol.

Glorious recent recollections whereby I encountered an auld fella having quite the quiet chat to himself and so proceeded to have an intense, remonstrating diatribe at the bizarre state of someone talking to themselves. It then hit me that the lucky person I was ranting to about such things was....well, me. Alcohol, you did it again.

Are we familiar with the concept of gay chicken out there in reader land? The aim of the game is for two allegedly heterosexual sorts to approach one another as if to engage in a passionate clinch. The "winner" is he/she who last withdraws from the advance. While sober, I explained this to an amigo who had enquired. Still moderately sober I even demonstrated (within carefully controlled conditions) to the one man who has bested me in this pursuit. The questioner had a go. I emerged victorious yet virtuous. Celebratory drinking took me over the edge into that never ending pit of drunken doom and the night continued with *scene missing*

The next day it took three people two hours to convince me that in the blank parts I had even played gay chicken with a man of homosexual persuasion.
"Hilarious attempt at humour there kids. I wouldn't have sunk so low. If you're going to....wait....what's that photo....well shit"

The most depressing aspect? I won, at a canter. He backed off immediately, by all accounts terrified. Eye contact was difficult to maintain on future path crossings. A pox upon thee, alcohol!

Cheerleaders, limbo injuries, making mates with murderers (tune in next time) and flinging myself down staircases- alcohol the root of each of them. Well no longer I say!

Consider this- future blogs shall be composed in this far more more sedate style

Nothing like that sweet kick of milk- nature's alcohol, right?

Awkward Situations: A Guide to Entry and Extraction

So that Jesus fella turns water into wine and he's lauded as some breed of "messiah"? I turn my money into alcohol and I'm talked of in hushed whispers behind the doors of a rehabilitation facility? Well if that's not a case of double standards then I shall thank you to address me as Hugo Testicles from this point on. And thus I believe I have adequately explained my latest spell of internet inactivity. On with the piece....

Now that I have segued neatly from alcoholism to aliases, I would like to move on to the point of this post, and another word bearing the scarlet opening letter that is 'a'. That word- awkward. The purpose- guidance (for those linguistic scholars amongst you keeping a running tally, that one begins with a 'g')

Allow me to present

"Awkward Situations: A Guide to Entry and Extraction"

Scene #1:

A pretty lady/handsome gentleman of some description has wound up in the difficult situation of having to let you down gently, yet hopes to remain friends. You know it isn't easy for them. We've all been there. You've suspected it was coming ever since that time they accidentally stabbed you in the stomach with a fork and then absent-mindedly set about disembowelling you with a ladle. They take your hand and break the news.

Bad Idea:

With the best will in the world, you have proceeded to laugh it off. It's no big deal. You've shut your eyes tight to sell the illusion of whimsy. You open them. Shit. They look genuinely hurt. You check your shoes. This provokes surprise in the other party, but you need to be sure you haven't trod upon their puppy (Never a kitten. Nobody cares about kittens. They become cats). Clear. Your guilt levels drop moderately. You allow yourself a brief smirk. Shit. They've clocked that too. Also you've been oddly silent since laughing in their face. Your guilt has returned and is growing exponentially. You're sweating now. Wiping it from your brow before they saw was a smart move. Forgetting they were still clutching your hand and inadvertently using the back of theirs to dry that forehead has not extricated you from this highly awkward scenario.

Escape Route:

Drop their hand. Run.

Scene #2:

You've found yourself in a foreign country, attending a church service. This is alien to you and your skin is starting to burn. You're not sure whether this is the sunburn or the consequences of relieving yourself in that holy water. No time to consider that now, as the time has come for the congregation to hold hands, sing and sway.

Bad Idea:

Getting caught up in pondering why your skin is aflame and losing track of which side your girlfriend is on. The other hand you're holding is a stranger's. He is a 50-something, balding Mediterranean fellow of large personal carriage. By the time you've realised which hand you've been stroking, it will have gone on too long to pass off as anything other than a clumsy attempt to pick up a same-sex partner at a religious ceremony. He's winking at you. This hasn't put you any more at ease.

Escape Route:

Drop both of their hands. Run.

Scene #3:

Hey, there's that person you know. You were just on your way out of this narrow, claustrophobia inducing shop, but you've got time to talk. You're just here with your friend, exiting the women's section boasting the second hand wedding dresses that reek of emotional trauma (Emotional trauma and urine. It's deeply unpleasant). The newcomer is straddling the divide between the womanly apparel and the film memorabilia. It's conversation time. You realise soon enough that you've reached a lull.

Bad Idea:

Your eyes dart from face to face. Both of your conversational partners have picked up on your failed furtive looks, yet neither is doing anything to break the spell. You try to ghost past while carrying on the awkward small talk. This speaking group reached its peak almost two minutes ago. It's been all downhill ever since. Mentioning to your original companion that you should continue on your way to the tattoo parlour to work out the design you've been considering would be a pain-free way to leave. Saying, "oh hey, we've got to be at....er....that place" made it look like a desperate escape ploy. Oh crap! Did you just brush her boob with your hand as you tried to inch past? Continue to avoid eye contact and grab the nearest item to hand. An action figure of Alan Rickman from Die Hard? Hey this could work! You look up. They don't look pleased. Granted, you knew that second chest squeeze for certainty was a bad choice from the get-go.

Escape Route:

Drop that Hans. Run.

Scene #4:

Your niece/nephew/a wandering midget with mischief in mind really has taken a shine to you. You have, in spite of yourself, managed to enjoy their company while they've been to your house. And now that the time has come for them to make their exit, allowing you to bask in the personal pride you feel at having passed yourself off as a normal person with no fear of children/extremely short people. They run toward you to hug goodbye., with their parent/wrangler watching on. They run with all the speed and ferocity of someone who fears they may never see you again, and who has yet to grasp the ability to cease their momentum. You put out your arms to embrace them in return. Then it hits you- they're short. They're crotch-height short. Inertia is not your friend in this endeavour.
Bad idea:

Placing your hand on the back of their head. This will never look to be appropriate. Do you know what they do to people like you on the inside?
Escape Route:

Drop the hand (fuck it, you're not getting out of this alive anyway). Hobble uncomfortably away.

Yours in continued awkwardness,
Hugo

Deebs versus Spider: Requiem

Little known fact, beloved reader of nonsensical ramblings o' mine: I'm bloody terrified of spiders. Honest to fuck, I cannot handle the presence of the little blighters in my life. I'm a frequent checker of room corners on entry, just to be sure of my own continued survival.

Yes, I am aware that Irish spiders are not a life-threatening, man-eating, baby-baiting or badger-slapping bunch, but it is entirely probable that I will die in the throws of some manner of spaz-attack brought on by their being nearby visible. I present the following two exhibits as evidence-

Exhibit A

I once, having completed a hypothermic session of canoeing at a local club, had a long, warm shower featuring the unexpected sighting of a piece of dirt on the back of my left shoulder. Odd. I decided it best to continue the cleansing process already under way by removing said dirt from my person. The dirt had other ideas. It moved. I squealed the squeal of a banshee stubbing her toe on a castrato choir. I flailed the flail of a Parkinson's suffererer having an epileptic fit in a German discotheque while trying to communicate through mime and hand gesture alone that they were feeling a tad shaky. And then I exited the shower, not so much by choice as much as the will of gravity. Lying naked and embarrassed on my back with only the now missing spider to share my shame, I resolved never to wash again.

Exhibit B

The following is a legitimate transcript of an internet based chat consisting, as it did, solely of textual communiques to an amigo. A blow by blow account of my reaction to spotting a creature in my periphery, I assure you that this was legitimate and occurred in the space of probably just under ten minutes. Read on at my peril....

• I'm stalking a resilient spider across the room. Pray for me.
• It's watching....waiting....
• I'm sweating
• ....barely breathing
• Playing dead....badly, obviously. What with all the sweat (I fear it shall form a pool to work as leisure facilities for my arachnid foe)
• It's on carpet, right at the join
  All I've got is newspaper
  It's like he knows!
• He's Switzerland right now....with diplomatic immunity. Dear God, are those tiny "diplomatic plates" on his back legs? Is he wearing a monocle!?
• He can read my thoughts. I know it.
• If he moves, I'm gonna lose my shit....
• ....
• ....still motionless....
• "Clever girl". If another fucker attacks me from the side while I'm watching this one....
• Is he....?....he is....he's doing the backstroke in that ever-expanding pool of sweat. How did he find those armbands?
• I need to fetch the Guinness Book of Records. That'll finish this prick!
• AH FUCK!
• Hyperventilating....he's toast
• It was like that seen in Platoon:
  There was slow motion, blood, epic music (in my mind) and, of course, the famous "lifting the curtain to flush out the enemy" scene. Some broad was wailing uncontrollably somewhere, and then my face was all wet, mysteriously.
  
  Now he lies crushed under a newspaper to mark the spot.
  
  Let that be a lesson to the rest of you arachnids!
• I'm not checking to see if he's definitely dead under there. If he still lives, he is my better. May the atheism God have mercy on all of us.
• What if he's just the front-line spider? The scout? The red uniform? Maybe there's more!?
  
• My clothes! Upstairs. On the floor. So many of them....So. Many. Places to hide!
  
  HELP
  ME

Top Hats & Alcohol

Ladies, boys or ladyboys, it matters not, for today you are simply my audience.

Hold on to your hats. If you do not have a hat, one will be provided for you. If you do not care for hats, you may choose to hold onto your cats. Failing that, feel free to cling to rain-dampened door mats, men who take inspiration from humble bats, dapper dons in shining spats. Maybe genetically enhanced, super intelligent, sociopathic (yet coupled with misfiring synaptic) lab rats because tonight, Pinky, we shall set about doing the same thing we do every night- try to write a remotely cohesive blog entry!

In the last 12 months, I have attempted to assist the world of medical science by pre-emptively pickling my body. End result anticipated? Immortality. Deaths suffered? None. As such, I am classing my journey to the bottom of that barrel as a success thus far.

I awoke in a haze, nothing out of the ordinary for the month that was in it. Attempting to open my eyes, I encountered unexpected resistance. A part of me realised I didn't want to know. Gingerly, I pried open my eyes through sheer will. OK, I recognised the room as my own. Good start (depending on how you look at it). I was still wearing my clothes from the night before. Not so classy, but acceptable. Still too shell-shocked to make any sudden movements, I felt about my person. I was on my bed, atop the covers, and also lying on all the clothes I'd strewn across it the day before. Losing style points by the fuck-load. Change flooded from my pockets. I was swimming in coins. Fuck, I'm a hobo who's come into cash. Something still felt off. I reached for my face. Still there. I groped a little higher....I hadn't recalled my head being this tall before....still working my way up.....GENTLEMAN! I was still wearing my top hat. I am the classiest tramp that has ever lived!

And so began my final day of gainful employment in Scotland. And a fine month it were. Large sections erased by alcohol, I must accept, but the pictures will last a lifetime. Pictures that always spoke the words:

"When the fuck did that happen!?"

Squeezing into the lady underwear, wriggling and gyrating to get accustomed to the snug fit, I wondered was this how the authorities would one day find me? My dad called to identify the body:

"No. My daughter is at home with her family. Son? Er....no....that's not him....never seen that one before in my life."

Still, they looked good over my trousers. I flicked the scarf over the shoulders of the brown corduroy shirt, pulled the tweed fedora tight on my skull and strutted down the hall for the lost property fashion show. The disposable camera clicked with a rampant ferocity, as if begging to be ravished by curious androgyny.

"At least I got into a girl's pants...."

Their leader squawked instructions, bellowed and chased the lesser creatures from the gathering war council with growing menace. He coordinated the attack. Transfixed by their approach, like raptors they caught our attention at the front. We completely missed their flanking manoeuvre. We were encircled. Why had we thrown them the haggis crisps!? Hitchcock had foretold our demise at the beaks of the birds. We giggled in fear, like innocent schoolgirls invited backstage by a sex-crazed Beiber.

"We should go back to work."

And so our lunch break was brought to an end.

Through this whole month long festival I had managed to maintain my physical well-being. Regular readers may be aware of the unlikelihood of such survival. Last time out in Edinburgh, I made it less than one week before my patchy limbo skills ( I say "patchy", when in reality I'm 0 for 3, but I like to talk myself up) garnered me an ice-breaking head wound above the left brow. I was secretly pleased with myself for conducting myself in a far less reckless manner this August. I finished my work in the office. The second I crossed that threshold back into the regular world, I was off the clock. Done.

WHAM! (appropriately onomatopoeic for you, Batman?)

I have gained a perfectly rational fear of fuse boxes hovering at head height. A wonderful, ice-breaking head wound had found its way on to my visage, just above the left brow. Swelling contained by forceful application of ice, lest I receive a matching wound on my right (so went the threat of the management), I pondered the irony of the fact that limbo would have saved me this injury.

So why have I chosen to regale you with a curious tale of non-inebriation, so scarce in its arising this autumn? Precisely for that reason. In the coming days shall emerge further tales of gentlemanly conduct, forbidden nipples in German accents and hat inspired hyperventilation. For now, I went the route of sobriety, just to throw a curve.

After all, this year's streak (taking into account the 3 drink minimum rule) topped out at 45 days of consecutive liver drowning. Hey, I've got two.....right?

Upon deciding to cease, I attempted to give up alcohol by purchasing a self-help book designed to help one kick one's addiction. It suggests that people tend to replace one vice with another as a substitute. I've read that book 17 times now....

You will be missed

So I've been a bad blogger again. I have fallen behind on my internet writings, and for that I can only apologise to my loyal, captive audience (I will loosen your restraints when you learn to play nice). I've had a few concepts more or less good to go, but they were scrapped as a result of shifting mindsets. However, tonight, or rather this morning (as the clocks inform me it now is), I've been spurred into literary action once more.

Sadly, this comeback has been hastened by personal tragedy.

I know it's a cliché, and I do loathe to engage in such devices, but you really don't know what you've got until it's gone. You take things for granted, you know? You think they'll always be there. There's always time. I suppose familiarity truly does breed some manner of contempt. I'm ashamed to use that word for such a loved-one, but I think "contempt" might be sadly apt here. Today has brought sharply back into focus things that should never have been outside my mind's depth of field. And I'm sorry to see that it's too late to make amends. This day has dealt me a great body blow that feels as though it may have robbed me of a piece of myself. My very essence chipped from.

For those of you who do not yet know, several hours ago I....I....lost my hat. I know you'll appreciate my need to grieve and respect my privacy at this difficult time. Oh God, it was still so young! I always thought we had so many days together lying a(top my)head. Life can be cruel in its brevity and that which it deems fit to take from us. Of course, in this instance, the part of "life" has been played by the friggin' bus!

I exited that bus this afternoon, all the subtle nuances of my worldly swagger leaving that mobile casket in my wake, wholly unaware of my imminent heartbreak. I felt somehow lighter and groped around my back pocket (purely for detective purposes as opposed to personal pleasure) to see that I still had my wallet and keys (sidenote: I do not keep my wallet or keys in back pockets....OK, just don't steal the worldly goods of a bereaved man). That's when I grew startled. The world slowed to a crawl about me, less than a crawl even. Imagine a turtle, crippled in all but one of its legs, trying to pull itself up a steep mountain while some form of winged predator tries to pull it backwards. That's how low the frame-rate dropped to right then. Sure I may not have gone all out with a slow-motion bellow at the realisation of what I....I mean, of what the BUS had done, but in my head there were definitely harrowing calls after that hat as it wheeled away. In my imagining of that moment, my cries could have brought a banshee to blush. Regardless, it was too late- my black wool hat was gone, forever.

"Don't let 'em see you cry, kid".

That's right, I like to give occasional self pep talks and refer to myself as "kid". What of it? Anyway, I walked on, only briefly looking back to lament.

Now I'm not proud of this, but I immediately made my way to the nearest hat shop. I barely broke stride. I couldn't stay for long though. It was all still too raw. Was I a monster? I'd only just suffered this nightmare and already I was looking at replacements? How could I! A loss this great would take time to heal. One, two days tops. It would have been akin to seeking out pancakes five years ago (that's right, an in-joke). I wiped a tear from my lazy eye and hurriedly backed out.

"I....I can't. It's....just too....I'm....-*bites lip*....sorry".

I will admit that the girl in the shop looked at me as though I had just pissed on her hats. I was emotional. I can't be sure I did not.

As I trudged down the street, now audibly wailing, I paused to reflect. My reflection point standing 3/8 of the way across a busy road was not of concern to me. I cocked my head at an angle I like to call "pensive jack russell" and stared off into the middle-distance to relive the good times in a montage tinged with sadness. In my head, the sad music that sometimes plays over the end credits when a beloved character dies in Neighbours croaked to life. Our time together had been short, but no less happy for it. And that's when it hit me....the cyclist's errant foot as he toppled over his handlebars in an effort to avoid me. It almost broke me from my reverie, but not really. I wistfully recalled the time I was wearing the hat when I went for a drink with friends. That other time I wore it, going for a drink with people I didn't entirely care for. And how could I forget that most recent night I spent with it- going for a drink while using it to hide a shockingly bad hair day (hands down, girliest thing I've ever committed to "print" that). I sure did spend a lot of time drinking in that hat. Alcohol would fix my sombre mood. I stepped over the bloodied and twitching cyclist as I finished traversing the road. I heard a car swerve. There was a loud crash. Then silence. Then screaming. I had no time for their drama. I had a hat to mourn.

Eleventeen drinks later, I began this blog post. Along the way I recalled that this hat wasn't so great. Still, it was one of my hats. It was number 23 of my hats to be exact. I'd hit a total of 27 hats still owned some weeks back, and I derived satisfaction from the fact I would have one for each year lived come this August. I've given some hats away over the years, it's true. Regardless, I still have hat #1 upstairs at the back of my hat section (I shit you not, there is a hat section in my room). Been with me since the autumn of '05, that headwear. You, dear reader, may be aware that I have sworn off my signature hats in the past two or three months, choosing more often than not to go with a naked head of growing hair. I have, in some regard, taken my hat collection for granted. No more, I say!

In all the time since this obsession was sparked, I've only lost one other. And that was 5 years ago. A wool hat that would have put an eccentric gnome with a hard-on for ecstasy to shame. Even then, that were no fault o' mine (you know who you are, and you still owe me a motherfunking hat!). This was my replacement, long delayed, for that misplaced piece. And now? Well, it too is lost to me....forever!

Great, I can feel the tears coming again....

Black wool hat

2010-2011

You were too beautiful for this world

Bus Times

Regular service has resumed. In a recent post I mentioned my lamentable lack of aptitude in the field of self propulsion through the means of an automobile. Upon closer inspection of my own thought process, it suddenly struck me that I may just be cursed when it comes to transportation in general. My history of limbo related limb damage is on record, and so walking is a perilous trial at times. Cars are presently a dangerous curiosity. What options remain available to a man of my uniquely infeebled capacities?

"You never forget how to ride a bike"- Bullshit! I can certainly count myself as an exception to that supposed rule. Hopped on a bike a few years back, after considerable time out of a saddle. My reintroduction to the perils of gravity was almost immediate. I quivered atop the frame, and before you could yelp in distress, I took a heroic pratfall to the concrete. You can always forget. Giggling and guffawing passers-by may not do so quite as easily.

I'd love to leave that on record as the only disturbance in an otherwise faultless history of motion. Much in the same vein, however, it is frequently deemed unlikely for a fellow to forget the basics of swimming. Sure, your technique may desert you over time, but your body seems to recall how to float at least. I wasn't a bad swimmer. A cocked up aural dilemma left me out of the water for a considerable span though. Spain is a hot country. Nobody has overhyped that climate, I can assure you. It could melt the devil. I had little recourse, so I went the pool route to cool down. Again, physics doesn't fuck around. Glug. I sank like a hypothermic DiCaprio.

I took up canoeing in my early teenage days. My brother was quite active in this field (still is), so why not have a crack at that? I approached the jetty without hesitation or trepidation. My craft loomed large (well, loomed medium) before me. How hard can it be? Threw a leg in, then its compadre, and I was in. Sure I rocked a little as the water adjusted to my entry. Glug. Immediate capsize. I scarcely improved beyond that stage.

Planes? A specialist once informed me of the remote possibility that my ear drums could rupture with sudden changes of pressure. Suffice to say, there is occasional excruciating pain in the course of aviation.

Thankfully, in spite of my evident limitations with regards to getting around, I have public transport to fall back on. No problems there. You'd like to fucking think so anyway....

The crux of this post came to me after I boarded a bus a couple of days ago. I wandered upstairs and took the only seat I could spot free at a cursory glance (nobody trusts the guy who stares too long for seating options). Those seats at the very front can be awkward for a spindly limbed dude such as myself. I swung a leg in, then the other. Glug. Immediate capsize....OK, no. That would display a true propensity for chaos. I did, however, accidentally kick the poor fella opposite me. Profuse apology entirely through sign language. That awkward shuffling and flailing of arms, hands and fingers that we all do when listening to music or feeling unable to converse regularly. He waved me away. I'd merely brushed him. Still, it did get me thinking of previous bus follies.

I've long held a theory that bus drivers are evil bastards. I recall an occasion when a lady of advancing years climbed aboard her chariot of the people, smiling pleasantly, dillied when she should have dallied and her leather glove was caught in the close door. It removed itself from her hand as she swung toward the floor in a frankly elegant swoop. I was standing at the top of the aisle as this transpired. Several around me reacted as you'd expect. Some dove to her aid. Others made that feeble gesture whereby they put out their arms to catch a woman well beyond their reach, without ever moving their feet in order to approach their stricken target. A cursory gesture. If you know me, you'll know I was too busy snapping my spine, such was the speed with which I double over in laughter. Alright, so maybe I just smiled, but that was my only reflex at the time. I know that driver was fully aware of his actions. We were kindred spirits at that moment. And surely we've all considered the likelihood that these wheel-men for a getaway that never threatens to excite have come up with many novel ways to amuse themselves in the course of the journey. Surely you've spotted that they seem to stop for imaginary obstacles whenever a particularly sickly soul stands to attention. I will some day prove that they slam the brakes for these phantom stops purely for their own amusement. A wager among colleagues to see who can throw a passenger the farthest. I've been a victim. I found a twisted humour in my own demise.

I was cutting it close to ring the bell for my stop. All in the pursuit of achieving a semblance of perceived casualness. Forcing myself to recline in repose at a seemingly comfortable angle, while secretly fretting at the proximity of my point of disembarking. Can't stand the eager kids. Relax, your turn to depart shall come. Still, I try to make clear my non-plussed feeling on such matters to an audience of my own imagining. I skipped, for all intents and purposes frolicked, down the stairs, when the vehicle halted without warning. That weasel knew! My peripheral world slowed as I banked forward toward the bottom of the steps. There's no pretty way to peel your face off the floor after a swan-dive like that. Reflexively, I threw out my right hand to keep upright against the wall. My left would have kept me standing. Ol' righty merely glided past the partition as my face and torso rammed with loud impact into it. I'd kept my feet, but left a permanent shadow on that wall. Fellow commuters attempted to hide their sniggers behind their hands. I'm sure some arms shot out instinctively to catch me from many helpless feet away. At least, I hope they did. I reacted in the only fitting manner. I grinned, tipped my hat and bowed as I disembarked. You win this round, Mr Bus Driverman.

Oh I've embarrassed myself in some form or another in most locations, locales and legends. Yet buses have a particular hold over my beaten ego, for one reason, and one reason only.

"Nice phone man, I've got one just like it". Bollocks!

Times were different then. I was a fresh-faced college student on his way to class (a truly rare occurrence), with a head of messily spiked hair, a red cheeked face left entirely clean-shaven by nature alone, and a Munster rugby jersey adorning my upper body. Yes, times were distinctly different (the fuck was I thinking!?). The new friend who had just taken up residence, and struck up conversation, beside me had taken the seat immediately to my left, on an almost deserted single decker due to terminate in Drimnagh. My paranoia told me this was unusual. Fuck it. He sounds rough, he looks rough, but no point in profiling the git. He's just a little weird. Doesn't mean he's going to mug me. Still, if he asks for a hug, I'm going to set ground-rules.

New friend: "Where ya from?"

Blog hero: "Lucan. You?"

New friend: "Know Pete? Pete Reilly? Nah? How about John Kelly?"

Blog hero: "Nah, don't think so. Don't sound familiar anyway."

New friend: "Yeah that phone of yours, can I've a look at it?"

Alright, so I'm not an idiot. At this stage, my suspicions had hardened to a concrete degree. This was going south.

Blog hero: "Nah, man, if that's alright".

New friend: "It's a nice phone. I'm always thinkin someone's gonna nick mine. That's why I carry a knife....more of a meat cleaver, with me".

He pointed at his crotch at this point. I don't anticipate any occasion where that doesn't set alarm bells ringing for me on a bus. Or in a dark alley. Anywhere strange male crotches are likely to roam.

New friend: "See my mates at the front there? They'd probably shank ya to get that phone. Can I've a look?".

I handed the phone over pretty quickly to the man with meat cleaving genitals. Dishearteningly quickly to be fair. I hadn't seen the knife, but I trusted him. He seemed like a pretty straight shooting kinda guy. We were mates now. If you can't trust newly acquired bus amigos with sharp groins, then who can you trust?

Friend?: "Where you gettin off anyway?"

Blog hero: "What's it matter?"

Friend?: "Gimme a call later, I'll meet ya down the road and I'll sell it back to ya for €80. Fuck it, you're a nice guy, call it €50."

At this moment, a new low was breached.

Single mother: "Ah ya don't do that on a bus. Not to someone like him. Look at him! On O'Connell Street, fair enough, but not on the bus. I know you!"

Friend?: "No ya don't!"

They argued amongst themselves for a while, as I tried to tell her it was alright. She didn't need to get involved. I'd handle it. I was also talking to the kindly Romanian guy in front who was asking if I had the phone insured. Nice help there, man. My would-be-assailant stood to get off. I grabbed him and threw him back to the chair. Satisfying crunch of bone against plastic.

Blog hero: "Give, Me. The. FUCKING! Phone. Now."

Friend?: "Don't do that again. I'll sell it to ya later. If my mates see this, they'll shank ya."

Blog hero: "I need the numbers on that phone. At least give me the sim card."

Weirdly, as some sign of comradery and good faith, he did. I still have it in fact. Kinda defeated his planned purpose of having me call him to arrange a meet later. Now, I would never be able to call him up to arrange a pint or other mately pursuits. He hopped off alongside me at college.

Friend?: "What'll I do with the phone so?"

Blog hero: "Shove it up your fucking arse, man!"

Friend?: "The fuck was tha....!?"

I was a brave bastard now that I was walking away into familiar confines, surrounded by witnesses. I walked to class. Cancelled. Ah for fux ache!

That was the end of a fleeting friendship. He had me at "hello".

Maybe, he had me at "shank". Him and his invisible crotch weapon.

Driving Miss Deebsy

Hey, hands up who's destined for damnation?

Not a one of you put up a hand did you?

Well perhaps you've mastered the art of motoring, clever-tits. Some of us are fated to be taken down in pursuit of attaining such a skill. I shall now endeavour to take you back some seven years and a half. Way back when I first looked at a car and said:

"Soon I shall be inside you, and take you to places you've never dreamed of."

The car did not respond. I admired its stoicism. I decided to break its will. The game had begun.

There were a couple of lessons here and there, yet scattered they were, as college had entered my life and I was awash in a world of avoiding class and everything else that I deemed an unnecessary intrusion upon my life. Still, I had apparently garnered enough respect in my automotive abilities from my parents for my dear sweet mother to suggest I pull the car into the drive one day.

The poor misguided woman.

As we approached our homestead at the break-neck speed of, ooh, 5 maybe 10 miles per hour, I realised with dismay that I couldn't tell the pedals apart in my rather chunky footwear. I knew there was a brake beneath my soles. There was also an accelerator. And a clutch, but who gives a fuck about the clutch at this moment!? It's the ginger midget child in a family of tall blond Adonises in the pedal family at such a time. It wasn't until a few months ago that someone wondered why I hadn't just pulled the handbrake. Well that would have been dandy, but I'm a bit slow, evidently.

Anyway, back to my Speed 3 moment. Deirdre's voice, screaming "Stop!" grew in volume to match her rising concern and eventual grudging acceptance. We were going to stop alright, but the word was "crash" (Con Air reference bonus point). We greeted the house with a less than satisfying *thud* Damage was minimal. A few scratches and a cocked up licence plate. The psychological scarring was far more severe.

Now, I'm not the God fearing type, seeing as I don't believe 'n' all but I have, in the past, exhibited occasionally mild superstitious tendencies. As such, I trust that this was not my fault. Some force was out to get me. I went for a walk to clear my head....alone....through a pitch black wooded area....when the moon was full....wolves....murderers....rapists with low standards....and enjoyed too many near-death experiences for it to be deemed mere coincidence. All in my head, some argued. Mainly because it was daylight and nobody will believe my claims that the moon is following me, and writing horrendously graphic, sexually explicit limericks to leave under my pillow at night. Yet, I assure you that spider had murder in its eyes til I crushed it into the floor with my boot....seven times, for certainty's sake.

....and relax....

And so it came to pass that I decided to dismiss my harboured desire to be a motorised citizen. Thus, I remained steadfastly pedestrianised for more than six years. A lot happened in those years. I grew a chest hair. I named him Steve. Others eventually followed. They remain nameless. This in direct contrast to what I have come to refer to as my French hairline- constantly retreating. Other stuff took place too. Probably. There were world events and....er....some such things, I guess. Also, there eventually came to be a renewed reasoning to thrust me back behind a steering wheel. I returned with less restrained vigour and a shred of valiant commitment. No excuses. I already had a test date awaiting me. The final countdown (song in your head, no?).

Numerous lessons were undertaken. A fine man was Barney, my instructor. I'm not entirely sure why I refer to him in the past tense. I'm even confident he survived his spell as my tutor. If not, I must have looked odd driving around with that corpse in the car. That one funeral taught me that nobody goes for my Weekend At Bernie's routines. "Bad taste" apparently. Pah! Now, where was I? Oh yeah, that thing I did....

The test was thirteen days away and I had been growing in confidence. My abilities were growing to a level almost approaching adequacy. An opportunity then presented itself. My beloved life-givers were afforded a night in deepest, darkest, culshie-est Kildare at the manor of their favourite daughter (the one they didn't castrate and raise as a boy called David....wait....fuck). The motherly car remained. Mere moments they had been gone, when their son scampered (sickeningly apt description of the manner in which I moved) into the chariot. I would simply swing the old girl around, angle her as appropriate and glide easily into the driveway. Foolproof.

I had underestimated the degree of my foolishness once more. I stalled. I never stalled. This should have acted as an omen. Yet, I continued apace. As I slowly rolled towards the gate from the road, I thought better of my scheme. This was lined up all wrong. Repressed memories of slow moving destruction from yesteryear flooded back. No way was I going to crash into my own abode a second time! I put it in reverse and backed forlornly away, choosing wisely to park on the road instead.

Stupidity Sense: "Wait. Now that we've reversed ever so slightly, this looks manageable."

Like a shy, slovenly thirty-six year old virgin eyeing the disease riddled prostitute beckoning him closer with her siren song of guttural wretches, I approached the entry-way with trepidation and intrigue as I pondered the many ways in which entering this weather-beaten alley would make me a man. And then she leaves her mark, and a professional must be consulted to rid you of her impact.

There was a shrieking sound emanating from the driver's side to the rear. A banshee's call signifying my own imminent demise. It was a pathetic re-hash of the scene of impact from Titanic. The damage was done. I had hit. This is where my mind pulled out one of its trademark moments of lunacy.

Stupidity Sense: "Well, we've connected already. The harm has happened. Might as well keep going".

There was a calm serenity to my progress, never batting an eyelid as I continued to rake the car along the pillar on my entry to the house. I was in. I began to hum to myself, aloud. I don't usually hum, but it felt right at the time. I strolled leisurely around to the injured section of automobile. The humming did not break stride or tune as I bent toward the wound. I poked a few fingers through the hole in the rear door. A scar had been gouged along the side. It was severe.

Psychotically calm hummer: "Yep, just as I thought. Hmm....".

I walked cooly away, as though I had intended this outcome, perhaps as some elaborate insurance scam designed to financially cripple that malicious pillar. I twirled the keys in my hand as I moseyed to my door. Humming still as I turned the key in the lock. I eased the door open, walked in and shut it silently behind me. No longer humming.

Wide-eyed maniac: "Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuucccckkkkkkk!!!!!".

A sort of shell-shock descended upon my person. I wandered upstairs, stared out the window for some time before even realising I was on the phone to a friend and arranged to meet him in town. It took me 45 minutes to get there. I did not blink once in that time. Nor did I entertain the thought of calling my parents to inform them of my calamity. It was time to formulate an excuse so magnificent I could not feasibly be held accountable. We brainstormed. These were the better ideas:

Excuse #1: "A hawk swooped down and attacked the car. It's a miracle that nobody was hurt." (amusing side-note being the beer mat image below found several hours after this story was concocted)

Excuse #2: "That person you dislike tried to steal the car. I tried to stop her, but she incapacitated me with voodoo and drove with reckless abandon into our pillar before fleeing in a puff of smoke. It's a miracle that nobody was hurt." (long-time front-runner in the race to be my chosen excuse)

Excuse #3: "I crashed the car. I'm truly sorry and I will accept the consequences of my actions and pay all the necessary costs. It will be a miracle if I escape your reprisals unhurt." (every word of this would be said over a phoneline, from Mexico)

In the end, I decided to call my sister, use subtle, coded language to ascertain the proximity of my parents to her and instruct her to ask them to call me when it was least likely to ruin their dinner and subsequent night. I had hoped she would ease my fear of likely disembowelment.

Frightened brother: "Dad's gonna kill me, isn't he? He's going to kill me?"

Reassuring sister: "Yes. He's going to kill you."

She offered to tell them for me. I would never dream of letting her do that. I had to be a man and face up to my decision. Consequences were mine to face. I may not be much, but I'm not a coward. I'd face the music.

She offered again. I accepted before she'd even finished the sentence.

My parents rang within minutes. They were cool as fuck. They took the piss out of me relentlessly. Happens to the best of us apparently. Wow, that was unexpected. Their humour darkened somewhat when the cost of repairs tipped the scale at near enough €3000 but they really were remarkably understanding of my transgression.

Perhaps it should go without saying that I failed my test not long after. That was more than seven months ago now. So why the talk of impending damnation? Well, tomorrow I intend to sit back into the very same car (one that no doubt holds a grudge against me, as only an inanimate object can) for the first time since the day of test failure and commence battle once more. It is unlikely to end well.

Although, I've only ever crashed twice, both times into my own house. If I can just get someone to push the car down the road every time I need to drive it, then I'll be clear, right? Probably not.

Seems I'm to be doomed. Ah well, I've lived a full (actually, no)....good (nah, scratch that)....adequate (not even this)....life.

Shit! I haven't lived! I've barely left the couch! Right, I'M TOO YOUNG AND HANDSOME TO DIE!

Distinguished By Disgrace

You wished for yet more barely coherent, belligerent bullshit? Happy to oblige, dear reader.

Since last I partook of the opportunity to use the internet as my own personal grimy soapbox, from which to silently shout crude racial epithets and slurs against women folk, I have defrauded my way through yet another festival. Seriously, how have they not yet picked up on my glaring shortcomings? OK, not my shortcomings in glaring. I glare good. I mean....oh for fuck's sake, can I start over?

Festival done. Nothing new or exciting in this increasingly common happening, save for the absence of pinpointable moment of injury. If you're not aware of why that is worthy of note, then strap yourself in, for this may get uncomfortable and will probably end with one of us being hobbled. Fret not, it'll be me. Repeatedly.

It all began so long ago. Yet it feels like it was just yesterday....yesterday....yesterday....

.....do you have any idea how hard it is to enact a textual flashback?

.....yesterday.....

....."Congratulations, Mrs Byrne, a bouncing baby boy. Stop bouncing him? Ah come on, what damage could it do to his mind really".....

.....too far back....

A year ago, I had my first moment of infamous injury. Actually, for the sake of total accuracy, it was merely more lamentable than many other such occurrences by virtue of its continuing consequences. I've broken knuckles in violent outbursts at tables, broken toes in moments of indoor football folly and aerated walls with my foot through acts of sheer lunacy, yet those were outbursts of anger or the rises of a competitive temperament. Not so one year ago.

Ever been so monumentally moronic that you injured yourself in a more benign manner than I? Trust me, you've not. Patrolling a cinema in the aim of deluding others as to my employable merits, I came across a barricade of no great consequence. I could have walked around it, at an addition to my slight journey of a negligible 20 seconds. I could have stepped over it, at a cost of minute amounts of dignity at the public viewing of such an ungamely clambering. I could have chosen the path of least resistance and walked through it. I chose the route of most flamboyance. A month of gentlemanly garnishings later, I ditched the resultant walking stick, relegated the accompanying long coat, waistcoat and top hat ensemble to the back of the wardrobe and visited my local general practitioner.

There's no cool way to broach the topic of limbo injury. Still, being occasionally misheard as suffering a "limo injury" added a veneer of opulent class to the whole affair. Soft tissue damage to the knee and a notable dose of shame should be enough to cease such activity in future, it was wearily ventured. And if that didn't, then the disbelievers kicking the wounded knee as they whipped the cane from my grasp would do enough of a number to engender the necessary regret.

Lesson learned. No more limbo.

So six months later, there I am in a false idol "Spiegeltent" in the bosom of Edinburgh at my next festivalian employment. My birthday hath dawned. As before, I am sober. There are people to my left who I am in the process of getting to know, in my first week in the achingly gloriously architectured city. There are those to my right who I have only just encountered for the first and last time, and whose names, passingly offered, I would continue to willfully distort. Discomfort growing at the claustrophobic surroundings, I itched to take my leave for a moment. Then the impulsive idiocy struck me as it will. I was trapped betwixt peoples, penned in by a table. Only one way out. Flamboyance, don't fail me now, you saucy devil. And so the limbo did commence once more. Heck, at this stage I was cocky enough that, presented with a disgruntled midget, I would ably limbo between the fucker's legs, if required by curious circumstance. This time, thankfully, my notably posable legs did not let me down. Yet, just as suddenly as the thought had hit me, so did the table. It shook with the force of the impact. Scarcely controlled laughter coursed across the booth, growing from a mild giggle to a reverberating riot as I rose to my still usable legs. I turned to accept my latest shambolic moment of very mild public failing. The laughter faded only momentarily as the blood trickling down my once useful features registered with my audience. A cacophony of cackling commenced anew as my own personal smirk sullied my visage.

The two day hangover/mild concussion and slight scarring would certainly end my willful abuse of self through limbo. And so it did....

....for one month....

A return to Dublin, and the emergence of yet another festival had hastened the growth of my seasonal strut. I walked as may a man continually shaping to avoid the over-amorous intent of a dwarf sized rapist scaling his inner-thigh (to paraphrase a linguistically undistinguished soul, "there's an imagine for you"). With such swaggers came a decrease in my peripheral awareness, perhaps. Such I would have to believe given the injury to next befall my person.

An aged lady. A small car. A turn missed, necessitating reversal. A gangly fellow distracted by his own curious stride and some blues riffs. A collision not surprising. My belated efforts to evade her progress were in vain. Half-hearted shrieks ruined any remaining semblance of manhood in the affair. My knee was merely twisted in my efforts to reach safety and the impact was minimal. The poor auld girl was greatly perturbed by the events. I assured her of my being intact. We conversed briefly as I attempted to assuage her fears of my imminent demise. Apparently, I passingly resembled a Hollywood sex-symbol in her eyes in those fleeting moments. Sure, it was "that fella from the film about all the dru....Trainspotting!". Perhaps this was her telling me I looked like a junkie, but I'm gonna look to the bright side of this coin, just this once. And so to my reliance on a walking stick I returned. Scoffing was abundant at my expense come the time for work. Yet, in mere days I was feeling sufficiently steady as to no longer require the use of a support. A free-standing spirit once more.

Until the radio upon my waistband crackled into life midweek.

Siren beckoning me towards torment: "Deebs, limbo competition on the dance floor".

Totally worth it.

Regardless, that took me to three consecutive festival limbo injuries. Bizarrely, the streak of stupidity was only broken by the unusual circumstances of my next festival exposure, a month from the last one. Seems a friend had damaged a knee in a dancefloor disaster. Another volunteer had broken an ankle by similarly robust means. Could I fill in as a last minute favour? Sure. The universe evidently saw to it that enough limb damage had been sustained by others as to negate the need for any such sacrifice on my side. Sweet salvation for my tortured body.

Ravaged as I have come to be by leg trauma, the cane did re-emerge in the midst of my latest contracted work. Yet this was merely out of necessity of bodily degradation over time. I'm a husk. Yet the closest I got to limbo related distress this time out was the following exchange of words:

Deebs: "I wonder what I'll limbo into this year?"

Exasperated colleague: "Hopefully a woman".

Heck, I refrained from endangering my mobility throughout the course of the event. Once it came to a climax, all bets were off. Something I may need to keep in mind in future though:

Jump banisters, strut smoothly away- fine.

Jump banisters, clip banisters, fall down stairs in pub- painfully embarrassing. Kill witnesses.

And so I have retired from limbo. Until the next time. I do after all have a record to defend. 0 for 3 under the limbo pole. Replace my knees and radio me in.

Adventures in Evasion

This having been the day when Cupid pulls back and unleashes his volley of arrows upon the unarmed masses, I'm choosing to delve into my own personal treasure trove of romantic folly, for your amusement. Fret not, for there shall be no mention of the more notorious instances.

This full frontal assault on innocent civilians shall wreak a horribly beautiful kind of havoc. Some folk will have been struck cleanly, a piercing blow leading to a lifelong romantic entanglement. Others may not have been so lucky. There will have been mortal wounds. An arrow splintering on entry, devastating the recipient of its pointed glory (OK, so I'm aware that's treading down a very fine line of accidental pornographic intent so I'll pull out now....er....that too could have been worded better) resulting in a decisive tear to the heart. Others, perhaps the lucky ones in the short term, will have been dealt merely a glancing blow. Perhaps they should get a room, and they probably shall, for their fleeting fun shall entertain in its brevity. The lucky scamps! What follows, however, shall be the tales of a man struck moronic by his overriding stupidity in the face of such wars of the heart.

Of course, you already knew that. I am after all, a renowned imbecile. Some instances already live in infamy. These trials being lesser known, yet possessing no shallower indictment of my foolishness. Let's crack on shall we, kids?

It began, as so often such social car crashes do, with alcohol. Alcohol and music. And sweat. There was a distinct smell of sweat. Man, I could almost taste it. And as you're about to read, I very nearly ended up doing just that. At a "rock bar" with relatively trusted amigos (I say "relatively", as the majority of this trust sees me accept that they shall be my downfall), I soaked up the atmosphere (and the stench of perspiration. Did I mention that?). To the jukebox they went, with my trust to select some decent notes, leaving me to romance my beer. Adoring words were lavished, while it remained steadfast in its silence to me. Then arrived my new friend, a Frenchman. His name I cannot recall, so I shall dub him Jacques. He looked like a Jacques.

Jacques: "Uh....excuse me? Can I....sit here?"

Drunk In Training: "Yeah, work away man"

Jacques and his compadres took residence at our large table. Ample space. Pleasantries were exchanged in the broken English of men who could just as well have been raised in Broken England (stolen joke, yup). Eventually, with the return of my pair of jokers, we had ourselves a dual nationality posse of sorts. In time, I and Jacques were lost in conversation, when things took an unexpected turn. The overly tactile nature of his companionship had raised my eyebrows. It was growing clear to me that the legs he wished to nibble upon were not those of a frog. Finally, he made certain his intent:

Jacques: "Uh....would it be OK, if I were to....uh....have your number?"

D.I.T.: -with panic scarcely disguised by over exuberant tones- "Yeah, sure man!"

Ah, maybe he's just being really friendly. No harm. I'm imagining the romantic sub-plot.

Jacques: "You know, we could....uh....hang out, when friends are not with us.....uh....get coffee? Is this OK?"

Fuck. Let him down gently.

D.I.T.: "Yeah, of course. Sounds cool with me, man!"

What did I just say!? Why would I not just listen to myself!? Oh right, the idiocy. Anyway, eyes widened with barely contained fear in the face of awkwardness, I took possession of his phone, and entered my name and digits as appropriate. I gave him a false number. It was the best escape route available in light of my earlier choices in conversation. Sadly, I had not done so deliberately. I requested his phone once more, and inputted the number correctly. Wow. Smooth.

Jacques: "Um....we go outside now?"

Fuckity fuck. Alright, he wants to be alone with you outside, so as he may make his move. Be firm, yet polite ("Firm", not the wisest word selection once more) and let him know you are attracted to those of a more breastly nature.

D.I.T.: "Me and you? Sure, yeah."

At this point, my mind killed itself.

Jacques: "No, me and my friends. We go."

Thank fuck for that. I'm a polite man. Bizarrely accommodating. Really, you do not want to know just how far I would go to make sure I do not disappoint. I am loathed to let people down. I will, evidently, go to great lengths to placate out of some misguided notion of social niceties. One day this could land me in great despair. Kissing out of politeness? Apparently always on the cards with me. I fear I shall eventually meet a mostly loathsome woman, yet kindly consent to a polite kiss. A polite date shall follow. Sex will be remarkably polite. The marriage likewise. And we shall raise children in a house of thinly concealed resentment, barely hidden beneath a veneer of yet more politeness. And then I shall kill myself. The suicide note will be remarkably apologetic for any inconvenience I have caused. The epitaph shall read "killed by kindness".

As you'd imagine, the next while was fraught with fear and apprehension every time my phone rang. Then, one week on to the day, an unknown caller gave rise to mild panic. What ruse can clear me from this terror? An accent! Sorted. Just so long as I don't try to use an atrocious approximation of a French accent, a false pattern of speech is the way to go to throw Jacques off my trail.

Sober Idiot In Training: "'allo? Can I 'elp you?"

Really? A French accent? Seriously? I was dumb as a post. Not that I've improved of course. Luckily, it was not him. To this day, he has not called. It's been the bones of a year. Sometimes, I weep for him. What a tease!

Of course, there was another instance of overwhelming disgrace. This being more recent, and concerning a person of gender more agreeable to my predilections. I'll skip the foreplay of the story, and skip right to the spine of things. Amazonian she were, in my eyes. Tall, with physical strength I suspected could snap me in half, and a ravenous glint in her eyes that could stop a gazelle at a hundred paces. She had taken a liking to me it would seem. Kindly, I had, being at the bar ahead of her, offered to purchase a drink on her behalf. Her eyes widened with desire, while her mouth hung loose with surprise at such a small gesture.

The hunt was on.

I did as one would reasonably expect of me, and ran. There was also hiding. Behind furniture, people and in the shadows of darkness. Three times she caught me. The first such occasion brought a warning shot. A warning grind, rather. On the edge of the dance-floor, frozen in fear, I was pinned against a wall as she did her thing. My pelvis was in danger of being ground to dust. All I could hear was white noise. All save for the cheers of a friend who was well positioned to witness my plight. I shot a despairing glance in his direction. His eyes met mine and seemed to wordlessly echo his earlier advice to me-

"Go for it. She looks like she'd kill you during sex, but you'd probably die happy."

I resumed hiding once free from her assault. When next she divined my location, she continued her attempts by once more "flirtatiously" knocking her bottle down on top of mine. She had misjudged her own strength. My drink's vessel shattering in my hand. I stared at it in shocked wonder. My lady slinked away. She did not approach me anew til night's end.

Cornered. Only a giggling fellow who had passively watched the unfolding scenes for nearby company. Third time's the charm.

Lady: "Do you think I could have your number? We can meet up and hang out. Go to the cinema or something? See how it goes?"

Things followed more or less the same path as with Jacques beforehand. Number yielded, I realised just how shit a spy I would make. She began to interrogate me as to its veracity. The following minute lasted for hours. Nothing could assure her as to its reality. No coverage meant that calling my phone was bringing no proof. Drunk me made an impulsive decision as to how best to quieten my would-be paramore.

When I withdrew my face from hers, after what could only have been fleeting seconds, I was coated in saliva. She had even licked my chin. My facial hair dripped. Perhaps a result of my quick backing away when her tongue tasted my stomach acids.

Supposed Man: "That might be my real number."

I winked and strutted away.

Supposed Man: -to bemused cohort- "I did two stupid things. I think I just turned down sex. Worse, I gave her my real number."

Her eyes met mine across the emptying pub floor. I ran. Literally. It was another low point.

Now, I have since been informed that she remembers things a little differently. In her version, I being the aggressor come out far more masculine in my actions. I pursued her relentlessly. She asked to be my friend. At this point I cocked an eyebrow and with authority and heavy bass in my voice acted as follows:

Man As Alleged By Lady: "Friends!? I'll show you friends!"

As I took her in my arms, biceps glistening in the moonlight, the suddenly present wind machine blew my shirt open. My long, flowing locks tossed by the breeze. I dipped her extravagantly as I passionately ravished her lips with mine. A cad strikes once more.

Following on from this night I undertook a new strategy of blatant cowardice. I ignored her texts in the middle of a few nights over the next seven days. So long gentlemanly flourishes. Welcome to the new Deebs as he is now viewed. A man scared of women. Yet, I disagree. I do not fear women, nor female contact in any form. I've just allowed my distaste for letting people down to mutate to the point whereby I back away from confrontation until wholly necessary. It's not a viable option. Nor is it who I used to be. I never broached such lows as this conduct, yet scarcely was my behaviour better. I shant allow such veering from my usual instincts again though.

Form a queue ladies, he's single.

Ladies?

Anyone?

Jacques?