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.