Fever Pitch

It's been the bones of five years since I stepped foot in Dublin's Savoy cinema to take on my first shift as a festival volunteer (nowadays, I wouldn't get out of bed if someone's not gonna pay me for my certain set of skills....I rarely leave bed anymore). It's been close to five years of this gem on repeat:

"Football? But....you like films....and stuff...."

Apparently the two are seen as mutually exclusive to many. To this day I spend a solid 95% of my waking life watching football, talking about football, or reading about football. Up until I started college at 19, I used to play a bit too. Four or five days a week to be accurate. I was on a couple of teams. Never a great player, but I could hold my own, had an eye for a pass and a solid finish. Still could get knocked off a ball by so much as a persistent breeze, mind, and had the pace of a geriatric turtle....with one remaining leg....a leg which was broken.....a comatose geriatric turtle. College saw me reduced to playing only once or twice a month. And aside from a couple of lazy kickabouts every couple of years, I've scarcely put foot to ball in a solid six years. I still remember the last couple of times I played.....

The penultimate was a bit of a fun 5-a-side with a mate on a pitch featuring some of his college compadres. I was kinda pumped because the girl I was going out with was sitting on the sidelines "cheering me on" (she took the piss....relentlessly) and I wanted to show her what I could do. I stepped out onto the pitch with an assured, borderline cocky swagger (I still sometimes feel that surge of cockiness when I glimpse myself in the mirror and think "holy shit, I get to sleep with that!"). Within five minutes I could no longer stand; I had somehow developed and burst a blister on the base of my foot. It looked like I'd been shot. I tried to fight on, jumping in between the sticks, but I was gimped. My last, and only notable contribution on that day was to hurl myself to the ground in an effort to block a shot, bruise the fuck out of my tailbone and crawl off to the side like a dejected slug at a snail soiree. I looked to the girl for those crumbs of comfort from a loved one- the disgust was palpable.

The final outing was just a few weeks later. Same venue, same guys, one spectator light. Apparently my girlfriend didn't want to experience such shame again. I could not fault her decision. Nonetheless, what turned out to be my apparent swan-song, was a rousing success. A few minutes of uncertainty from team-mates whose only previous exposure to my merits had been greatly underwhelming, turned to a focal point position after I cracked one in off the bar from range. Played a stormer (girlfriend never did believe me on that one), and settled into retirement....

....or so I thought.

"Fancy 7-a-side tonight?"

And that is how this week began. My overseas debut, after six years out of the game. Bring it on, Scotland!

Suffice to say, I wasn't awash with my previous self-assuredness. Six years was a long time to have been out of the game. When last I played, I very rarely drank. I'd only been drunk once, perhaps twice in my young life. Now, I was a football cliche- the washed-up superstar who struggles to replace the feeling of adulation that comes with that glory on the field of play, and so drowns his ever-deepening depression under a flood of alcohol and regret. I didn't even have the right attire. I wasn't sure if I could still move the long dormant left side of my body. I guessed I'd learn soon enough.

Standing there, overlooking the astro-turf at 22.30 on a freezing Monday night, in mismatched attire (an outfit that went from Dublin jersey down past long black shorts and chicken legs all the way to the bright green runners with no grip to speak of), I was amazed at how massive the pitch looked. It was daunting. Would I have any of my craft, touch or finesse remaining? And then it was time to find out....

The ball rolled to my feet, my right shot out as a long forgotten reflex and that ball was under my control. I looked up for an out ball, but I didn't even know who most of the guys were at that point, let alone who was on my side. Shit, I'd give it a whirl and throw myself in at the deep end. I turned to face the dude closing in on me in his Barca jersey, Messi on the back as if to broadcast the confidence he had in his own abilities. Cock it, I was gonna teach this fuck-weasel! I shaped to go right, dropped a shoulder and dragged it past him like he wasn't even there.

It was instinct. I'd never left the game, and it hadn't left me. Time to put on a masterclass. Past one, I lifted my head up to pick out a pass, half thinking about snaking past the next lad while I was at it, and then....wait....I didn't have the ball anymore. Fucking Messi! I turned to give chase, a quick burst of acceleration belying my years in the wilderness, as he closed in on goal. Then things got a bit fuzzy.

I found myself staring at the ceiling.

Seems I'd stumbled a bit in my pursuit, about three steps in. Small amount of blood on the knee, a feeling of momentary shame on the mind. Fuck it. Dusted myself off and jumped back to my feet. Maybe I needed to ease myself back into the swing of things a bit slower. I hung back dutifully, taking up a spot of man-marking, and watching things unfold ahead. Long ball chipped forward, and my quarry had spun in behind in eager anticipation of the ball dropping in beyond our haphazard backline. Nah, I read it dropping short. Got my head to it with a satisfying *thwack* and settled back into shoring up the defence. That was more like it.

Messi. The ball had been sprayed out wide to him, and he was whippet quick. Fleet footed and single-minded, he pulsed down the wing unguarded. Surprise motherfucker! I'm gonna Doakes your shit up, and avenge the mockery we had combined to make of me at the start, I backed off, holding him up to let my comrades get back in position. A little feint right, a shimmy left and a slightly heavy touch....he was mine now.

I was staring at the ceiling again. Except this time, I could only make out the half that my left eye was checking. In my right, nothing but the dark remnants of this thumbprint. Patted myself down once more, and got on with it. We were one down now. I offered up a hand in apology for my wild swipe at the ball that had essentially driven Messi's thumb into my eye and knew I needed to get up the other end to show my strengths didn't just lie in making angels on the astro-turf. As the ball broke loose up top, I sprinted forward....

.....nope. Fuck that! Not gonna happen. I clutched my chest for a moment and tried to catch whatever breath remained. Once the shooting pains had subsided down my left arm, I knew this was not going to be a glorious tour de force. For the next hour or so, I was mostly a passenger. A gasping, wheezing passenger, drooling with every uncoordinated step as I lurched up and down the pitch. There was a second wind. Third and fourth winds too. Only these weren't the winds of change that come from an athlete pushing themselves on to succeed and breaking through the wall. No, these were the kinds of wind you'd find from your grandad after Christmas dinner. One or two touches that reminded me of what I once could do, and one tragically wild slapshot at goal aside, I stuck to covering space and picking up loose men (like a Vietnamese hooker). I even took up the gloves and went in nets for the last couple of minutes. I was called on to make one save. Still, a clean sheet's a clean sheet.

Trudging to the bus stop like Igor up the steps to Castle Frankenstein, my limbs screaming with the silent agony of fifty burning mimes, we shared tales of our painful exploits.

Guy #1: "I did my knee in a couple of months back in a league game against some Raith Rovers fans. Slight twinge when I chipped in the last one, but a decent run out."

Guy #2: "Yeah, when I put my second past the keeper, I did feel a little ripple going up the back of my hamstrings."

Deebs: "Er....felt a bit of a jolt in my elbow while I was applauding your hat-trick."

And it was with that final nail in the coffin of my night's pride that I declared my intentions to get in shape. Not a resolution for a new year, but an immediate statement of intent to be realised. No half measures this time.

Just watch me.

Typing this in hour 12 of consecutive couch sitting as I procrastinate to avoid washing away the dish based remnants of last night's Chinese take-away, I know the truth of this failure as well as you. Fuck it. Perhaps, instead of lying to myself about attaining some measure of physical fitness, I'll just accept my fate and embrace it.

If you need me, I'll be over here smoking a pipe.

My Frankenstein

Some of the truly foolish things that I have done in the last couple of years have been documented in excruciating detail on these pages. People have been reading tales of my embarrassment across the world, having good cause to laugh at my idiocy and wonder why I'd open myself up to such ridicule. And the answer has been simple- I've not written about many things I have been genuinely ashamed of, and nobody else is being hurt by my own inane, self-centred ramblings.

However, there is one story that stands out. One story that was the zenith of my crusades in the name of stupidity. One that led some to express irritation at the inherent disrespect displayed to the other person involved by my ever having related the events. And so I never published anything more than subtle allusions to the night in question.

Fuck it.

Nobody comes out of this looking bad, except for me. And the other party goes nameless in any event. It's not about them. This is the one that ignited and overshadows all of my jester-like buffoonery. This made me.

If you don't know the story, you will. If you do know the story, only one word is necessary as an introduction.

Twirl.

A little bit of background to ease you in:

I'd just come off a bad break up. And I mean a really bad break up. The kind that drags on for months and fucks you up good and proper for a solid spell of time. The kind that turns you into a whining tart and generally just makes you into an idiot for an indefinite number of sand grains falling in the hour glass. I'd finally started to get my shit together and have a good time again, and was on the lookout for new horizons and a complete abandonment of personal responsibility.

Shazam! (What? It's the internationally recognised sound of a genie granting a wish. Don't give the screen that cock-eyed look.)

Short term, genuinely exciting job away from most people I knew. With girls. Pretty girls. Shit, that one is really pretty....

Classic Deebs manoeuvring meant that subtle hints on her part were missed. Blatant ones too. Hell, I managed to misinterpret outright statements of intent ("'Statements of intent'? Oh Deebs, with this language of romance, you are really spoiling us.") and still make no move.

She lived on my way home, which was a handy excuse to walk her to her door after work with frequency.

Standard example:
Outwardly: "Well, this is you, then." *hug* "Bye, platonic friend." *frantic waving*
Inwardly: "Well, I'm a fucking idiot." *cock-blocks self* "Fuck!" *desperately trying to keep extremities active, lest they start gripping my neck and constricting my airways*

One night involved a pub. In the course of this night, I was made aware that pubs involve alcohol. Alcohol involves allegedly reduced inhibitions. Alcohol still could not trick me into dancing in public. Alcohol still could not allow me to be less of a tit. And so it came time to walk home. With my flatmate in tow. Wouldn't it be hilarious if he or I had an injured foot and I could turn this into a pun about being "in toe"? No? Just me? Fine....

And so it came time to walk home. With my flatmate in tow, dutifully keeping a distance of ten feet at all times, so as to be the consummate wingman to aid consummation.

Apparent woman: "Well, this is you, then." *hug*....
Actual woman: "No, not this time." *kiss*

With flatmate having averted his eyes, and concentrated all of his focus on traffic, we broke off for the night. I whistled with powerful masculinity to catch his attention, whilst simultaneously flicking my grounded hat into my hands with a swift jab of my foot (too late for the "in toe" thing?). and spinning on my heels to turn in the direction of our abode. At this moment I knew that I would never again feel as cool as I had right then. In the time since, I have come to realise that I was probably right.

"D'ya wanna go on an actual date? With food and stuff."
"Yeah, alright. I know somewhere we can get a discount. Food AND wine."

Holy fuck! Not only had she said "yes", there was a bargain involved? If there was one more positive in this scenario, then I would be destined to fuck it up in spectacular fashion.

She was cute and cool.

That's two positives. I was doomed.

It all started so well. I was charming company (even more so than usual). The food was good. The wine was in glasses. No paper bag drinking for me....not this time! The conversation was equal parts fun and deep, and always easy. The moon, by the time we left the restaurant, was full. I hadn't fucked it up yet.

A couple more glasses of wine later, we decided to catch up with some workmates who were about town. More drinks were had. And so it came time to walk home. With my flatmate in tow, drunkenly drunking about the place like a slightly drunker version of the two relatively drunk people who were part of our drunken trio, among which I was probably the closest to sobriety.

Deebs: "Well, this is you, then." *kiss* *gesture at intoxicated flatmate* "I better go."
Not Deebs: "Do you want to come up?"
Deebs: *looks around at flatmate standing mere feet away....goes inside without saying a word*

Maybe it was the still full moon hanging in the night sky. Maybe it was the alcohol flowing through my veins. Maybe it was the guilty thrill of having abandoned my friend so heartlessly in the cold dark. More likely it was the way she looked deep into my eyes while seductively biting her lip, but something told me things were going pretty well. I still hadn't fucked it up yet.

Text message: "Are you going to come back down or should I just go on home without you?"

Lips were locked, fun times were had and hair was recklessly brushed over ears. Things were going far better than I could have hoped.

Text message: "I've accepted that you are probably dead. In the morning I'll search for the body and mourn appropriately, but for now I'm going home to sleep."

Deebs: *stifled yawn for effect* "Wow, it's 6am. I really should go home. Work in the morning...." *looks hopefully at girl*
Girl: (seductively) "You could stay. You should stay....the night."
Deebs: "Actually, I....er....I have a Twirl at home I really should attend to."

Ladies and gentlemen, please return your seats to the full, upright position.

This girl was beautiful, interesting and apparently liked me about as much as I liked her. She was asking me to spend the night. I was turning that down by telling her I had a chocolate bar at home that demanded my immediate attention. This is not fiction. This actually happened. This is something I did. I said this....and left. I became the nutter you hope to avoid running into on a still dark street as the first glimpses of light give thought to streaking the sky. I was babbling incoherently to myself as I shuffled down the street. I probably slapped myself once or twice- on the face of it, just to wake myself up a bit as I trudged, but hard enough to conceivably teach myself a lesson- and certainly looked like I was about to erupt in a cataclysmic ball of fury and tears at my own ridiculousness.

I didn't want the Twirl. I did have one back at the flat though, so you better believe I ate it out of principle. And, for reasons I'm still not entirely in full comprehension of to this day, I texted her as I was eating that Twirl. I texted and told her it was the most bitter tasting thing I had ever consumed. I doubt I slept. I doubt I dared close my eyes, lest I choke on my own self loathing at that point. But one thing I don't doubt is that, when I went into work that day, I brought a Twirl....and I gave it to her....the Twirl, I mean.

Now, I know that on that night and in that moment, I was probably a little scared. And I know that I thought I was doing the right, and gentlemanly thing by not rushing her into something she might regret. Moreover I know that we'd joked over dinner about me having somewhere better to be, somewhere involving a Twirl. And most importantly of all, I know that she later told me it was one of the most considerate things anyone had ever done for her. Yet none of that changes the fact that I turned down sex for a Twirl.

I had choc-blocked myself. I was The Reverse Milk Tray Man, breaking into girls' rooms on precarious cliff tops to steal their chocolate and leave.

The kicker was that I actually got a second date, promised to me on the condition that I would go a full day without eating chocolate.

Now, if, after reading that, you want to tell me I've been disrespectful, then so be it. I write about stupid things I do. I have complete respect for the people lost in the wake of my mistakes, because they're better than me.

They snack at appropriate moments.

Locked In

Irn Bru and Jager? It ended with the Haggis Bomb.

I have taken to a tradition of describing my hangovers in terms of how they relate to films. This much has been covered in previous rambles on forlorn post-drunken regret. Today, I choose to dwell on the feeling of utter helplessness that overwhelmed me as I was mired deep in intoxication.

STAGE ONE
Have you ever seen The Diving Bell and the Butterfly?

Alive behind the eyes, in a world of existential terror. I thought, but I was not. Screw you, Descartes! Let me break it down for you, kids (imagine me throwing a blazer over my shoulder while leaning a raised foot on a chair, for optimum levels of undue and unintended condescension). In my head, I was barking instructions to my body, rising in desperation with each clumsy drunken act. I was Krang to my feeble plastic body's mad whims. My body had gained sentience all of its very own, but had no fucking clue how to put it to use.

Sobriety: "OK, we need to concentrate here. Be careful. There are witnesses but I don't think they....Oh God, they're looking. Are they....they're asking us something! Play it cool. Good, good, strong and silent....well, that.....that really was more of a whimper, but we can work with this. Now, very slowly.....SLOWLY....extend Right Hand. Right Hand? Right Hand, are you paying attention? Reach out and grab the glass. I know, I know, none of us want any more of it but we have to finish the pint. It's what Dignity would have wanted if he were still with us. Slowly now....careful.....careful....there you go...."

Intoxication: *knocks over glass* *giggles pitifully*

I am reliably informed that there was visible terror behind the glaze. I was fighting to be understood, to be coherent and to be the notoriously hard to read drunk I'm said to be. This time, I was just the drunk who found it hard to read (hysterical blindness), struggled when reaching a road to cross (mass hysteria) and who hoped he was merely retaining water (hysterical pregnancy).

Sobriety: "Pull it together. We're on the home stretch here. Stomach is doing his bit. Can we all take a minute to appreciate Stomach's contribution in keeping everything down? God damn it, Right Hand, nobody knows why you're saluting. Mouth, explain it to them. Explain it to....oh for fuck's sake! Just....just stop drooling, alright? And, Legs, enough of your fancy walking. Straight lines. Arms, what are you....STOP! Stop hugging her! OK, fine, one hug. Now, let her go. LET HER GO! You're in danger of making a Steinbeck situation of this, Good. Now, Legs, lead us to safety....ANOTHER HUG!? Legs, this hug does not involve you!"

And then came the next phase in the night's cinematic progression....

STAGE TWO
The Incredible Hulk.

Concerned Party: "Deebs, maybe you should stay in my place tonight. I'm not sure you're....you can stop hugging me now, really....I'm not sure you're in any state to walk home."

Sobriety: "Isn't that nice? You'd like that, wouldn't you? A bed? Sleep? Let's just lie here for a....Stomach! Keep it together. Alright, I can see I can't trust any of you tonight. Let's be cool about this. Can you do cool? I know it's not going to be easy but if we can all pull it together we can at least make a classy exit here...."

Intoxication: "GUUUUUUAAAAAAAHHHHH! DEEBS SMASH!"

Sobriety: "You just walked straight into that door. You know that, right? Right Hand! Turn the fucking handle already! We cannot go through the door. We are NOT The Hulk!"


STAGE THREE
Tarantino.

Vague flashes of memories half repressed, rememberings aborted for fear of re-triggering the shame spiral. It's a jumbled mess of a timeline in my skull; the middle at the end, the beginning at the middle and the end had come all those hours before with that damn Haggis Bomb. Yet, for sure, my legs moved to their own incomprehensibly effervescent soundtrack. Limb to ground in irregular rhythm outside of the collective consciousness. All the while, there remained that lingering spectre of ultra-violence....

Sobriety: "I'm going to fuck you up. Every inch of you. You'll want to turn to me tomorrow, turn to me to carry you through this. I won't. You unleashed the inebriation and the destruction it has wrought is on you. And just when you feel that you've turned that corner, when Stomach has finally forgiven you, I'm going to prick you with recollection. You are going to recall the fragments, the forgotten follicles that birth the strands of regret in you. Me and Stomach, we're in this together. Isn't that....AAAAHHH! Stomach! I was making a point...."

STAGE FOUR
Highlander.

The only way my turmoil would cease, the only way that my sober mind could process and let me get on with life was to promise myself that I wouldn't get spiritual again....the kind of spiritual that relies on actual spirits.

Intoxication or Sobriety.

There could be only one.

Sobriety: "You've made the right choice. Thank you. Maybe we'll see about mild intake of alcohol again after a few days. Let's just get through today and we'll table it for discussion. OK, champ? I'm glad you....wait....what's Right Hand doing? Put it....PUT THAT BEER DOWN!"

You should have been in my head when the vodka kicked in. Sobriety was pissed!

Important Blog Post

We're no strangers to love
You know the rules and so do I
A full commitment's what I'm thinking of
You wouldn't get this from any other guy
I just wanna tell you how I'm feeling
Gotta make you understand

Never gonna give you up
Never gonna let you down
Never gonna run around and desert you
Never gonna make you cry
Never gonna say goodbye
Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you

We've known each other for so long
You're heart's been aching but you're too shy to say it
Inside we both know what's been going on
We know the game and we're gonna play it
And if you ask me how I'm feeling
Don't tell me you're too blind to see

Never gonna give you up
Never gonna let you down
Never gonna run around and desert you
Never gonna make you cry
Never gonna say goodbye
Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you

Never gonna give you up
Never gonna let you down
Never gonna run around and desert you
Never gonna make you cry
Never gonna say goodbye
Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you

(Ooh give you up)
(Ooh give you up)
(Ooh) never gonna give, never gonna give
(give you up)
(Ooh) never gonna give, never gonna give
(give you up)

We've known each other for so long
You're heart's been aching but you're too shy to say it
Inside we both know what's been going on
We know the game and we're gonna play it

I just wanna tell you how I'm feeling
Gotta make you understand

Never gonna give you up
Never gonna let you down
Never gonna run around and desert you
Never gonna make you cry
Never gonna say goodbye
Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you

Never gonna give you up
Never gonna let you down
Never gonna run around and desert you
Never gonna make you cry
Never gonna say goodbye
Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you

Never gonna give you up
Never gonna let you down
Never gonna run around and desert you
Never gonna make you cry
Never gonna say goodbye
Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you

Never gonna give you up
Never gonna let you down
Never gonna run around and desert you
Never gonna make you cry
Never gonna say goodbye
Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you


SORRY.

Also, I never realised how psychotic this song was. Those are some fucking dark lyrics right there. At night, I check under my bed for Rick Astley. I fear finding him, almost as much as I fear him giving me up.

50 Shapes

I hadn't anticipated the length of it. Stiff, unyielding and just the right fit; it slipped into place and filled the hole perfectly. Everything melted away as she smiled slyly to herself, instantly satisfied.

So, I've been writing erotic Tetris fiction.

There've been some long hours in work, undulating waves of customers. Peaks and troughs in the number of demanding voices has led to semi-regular periods of dead air. Waiting dutifully for another opportunity to use our pleasant and helpful manner to bring about joy in the lives of our high-brow customers- there have been Sirs, Ladies, and I even served a Sheriff....but I did not serve the Deputy (credit to Mini Coop)- has sometimes not been enough to distract us from the silent expectation. Thus, a rampant Tetris addiction has taken hold of some. A bit more Tetris Typhoid than a mere fever, the competition has been fierce, if a little uneven....like some of the stacks. Yet the severity of addiction has bled into other areas of my world. My mind's been awash with it. And thus, I shall present further extracts from my forthcoming novel.

From the best selling author of "Blake Hardcastle: Child Persuader" and the acclaimed follow up, "Blake Hardastle is: Conspiculously Absent" comes a dramatic shift in direction:

50 Shapes of Tetris

Melody Block, an aspiring engineer fresh out of university, comes under the tutelage of the reclusive Maximillian Hoight, a gifted but troubled structural integrity expert with dark desires and a dangerous allure. Slowly, she comes to find herself entangled in his web of depraved Tetris manoeuvres, like a T-shaped piece in a world of squares. Before she knows it, she finds her career climbing into the stratosphere, but fears reaching the ceiling of the damned; Max toying with her, as may a gifted player acting as the puppet-master to his massing pieces.

"Hesitantly, she entered the office, her every footstep cacophonous against his marble floor. She sat, in awe of the stacks of books that sat serene and unmoving on his immaculate mohogany shelves. This man was all she had heard he may be. A bead of sweat rolled from her brow, as may a tractor through a field of rabid sheep. And then she saw him, crouched awkwardly beneath his desk. To know one's gaps, one must embrace the absence of space. She slowly extended her hand to meet his, now outstretched from beneath, his hand twisting lithely, effortlessly into position. He was all that she had heard he could be."

" 'Not so hastily. No!' he hissed, an anguished expression betraying the pain this failure was bringing him.
'I'm not....it's....sabotage!' she screamed, pressing her hand firmly on the button to make the pieces fall quicker, bringing forward her inevitable failure.
'I will teach you.' "

"He lowered his L piece into her gap, slowly at first, then quicker as his impatience began to grow. As the music built to a crescendo, she groaned with delight, the line disappearing before her eyes."

"He rotated furiously, interlocking the Z pieces expertly. Yet she was amazed at how quickly things came to a climax, the stacks rising with their passion. And then, they could stack no further."

" 'Closer', she groaned breathlessly, '....pivot! Pivot!....pih....vuh....tuh....'
At once he took her in his arms and whispered softly, yet with a force that shook her:
'I cannot. It's a square.' "
             -----------------------------------------------------------

Critical reception to this latest work has been somewhat mixed, to say the least.

"Finally, a literary piece to cater to the needs of awkward female Nintendo enthusiasts."- Some guy.

"The fuck is....Why? Why would anyone read this? Why would anyone write this!?"- Everybody else.


Pretty sure I'm writing the new Bible here, kids.

Another Letter to Michael

Dear Michael,

Hey buddy. I hope you got the fact that my previous letter to you (http://fooltide.blogspot.co.uk/2012/07/letter-to-michael.html) was a joke. I'm pretty sure you're the kind of mouse who gets my sense of humour. Not that failing to get it would mean anything negative about you personally. When I say "failing", I don't mean failing, obviously. I mean, you're clearly a very smart creature. And handsome too. Have I told you how handsome you probably are? I can find you a lady mouse! One with a sexy tail or something. Not that you need my help.... I'm babbling.

Let me start over.

I didn't realise that you were The Batrat, sworn to avenge the death of your parents. Sure, your mother probably would have tried to eat you eventually, but they were probably lovely. And I'm sure you would have been very tasty. I promise I won't tell anyone about your secret identity, nor your glorious lair just beyond my ceiling. This blog thing? Don't worry, pal, nobody reads this stuff. What kind of man-clown would post this kind of rubbish somewhere people are likely to visit? Exactly, this kind of....NO, nobody will know. Please, Michael....sir....don't hurt me. I've never done anything to you. The previous letter, the late night threats spat out seemingly in hate, that time I threw a shoe at what turned out to another shoe- all a clever charade of humour and japes. The traps? No, no, no I was just....er....trying to build a....something believable....large scale version of that game, Mousetrap. Without the mouse trapping portion, of course. I....love....you....?

You're not buying any of this, are you?

Fine.

Don't push me, ratjerk. You don't want any of this fight. Those parents of yours? Oh, you were probably too young to remember. I remember you though. Pest. Want to know which of your parents was a coward? You cannot win this one. I knew all along that you lived in the ceiling. My ignorance a clever deception. You think you can throw on a cape and strike some manner of fear in the hearts of slumbering souls? You just look ridiculous. Hell, you look downright cute. A mouse in a cape? The internet exists for the sole purpose of adorably mis-spelling words in captions of you. Well, that and porn. Lots and lots of porn, only a small niche section of which involves mice in capes....probably. What have I told you about wondering after my unhealthy sexual interest in mice!? That sound you heard was of me reading the articles!

Stop going all Shallow Grave on me with your ceiling based voyeurism and come face me like the rat bastard you are. I shall be your greatest trial, your nemesis among nemeses. You can call me....

*drum roll to heighten the tension before revealing my astounding supervillain name*

That Guy Who Kills Mice Sometimes I Guess.

Yeah, I need some fine-tuning on that one. Still, knock it off or the next shoe I throw will hit something other than another shoe....or the ceiling....or my bottle of whisky, which I'm not presently drinking. Stay out of my stuff!

Yours in continuing animosity,
Deebs

Letter to Michael

Dear Michael,

Can I call you Mike? I think we know each other well enough at this stage. Is that alright? OK. Well, you're a cunt, Mike.

Seriously, it's gone on for far too long now. The time has come for one of us to draw a line in the sand, and clearly it is I to whom that task has fallen. Really, are you a man or a mouse? Well, obviously you are a mouse. I know that. Hopefully, you do too, and you're not harbouring delusions of humanity. I mean, you squeak. People don't squeak, Mike. Certainly they don't do so with the regularity you have demonstrated, at least. Days ago, when I was still blissfully ignorant of your presence, I came frighteningly close to turning on a houseguest whom I had erroneously believed to be the source of the high pitched tones. What kind of person snores in such octaves? No man, and no mouse shall live to tell the tale of interrupting my sleep, Mike. You think this is over? It's just the beginning....you dick.

I know the resonance of those sounds, Mikey boy. Those were clearly the heavy breaths of an aroused mouse. Don't ask me how I know that. This isn't about me, nor my bizarre sexual proclivites, so don't you try turning this around on me, rodent. The point is, what's got you so turned on? I know I should have cleared all those clothes off the floor. I know it looks like there's been an explosion at The Gentleman Factory (not a euphemism, although I may need to coin it as such in future), but I'd greatly appreciate it if you'd stop getting your rocks off underneath my waistcoats. If you fuck my top-hat I will end you.

You went too far last night, mouse. Consecutive nights waking me on the fringes of 5am was bad enough. That irked me. Taking an obscene amount of erotic enjoyment from my clothes strewn across the floor was disgraceful. But you had to push it further didn't you, you low down dirty rat! You think this (I just pointed at myself, paying particular attention to my startlingly beautiful face bones) happens without effort? Let me assure you, you can't throw together a masterpiece of this magnitude without effort, preparation and sacrifice. Read that sentence carefully, Mike. Did you see any reference there to the events from last night? No? Of course you didn't, you fuckwit! Oh....you can't read, can you? Shite....I may need to reconsider the merits of this strongly worded letter. Give me a minute here....

Fuck it, I'll dictate it to you later, you little geebag.

Now, as I was asking you before, what happened last night, huh? Michael, Michael, Michael....you went too far, didn't you? Yes, you woke me again. Yes, you probably made sweet romantic love to various garments. I will admit that shining my phone into the darkness from atop my perched bed may have startled you. Perhaps shouting that "I will find you, I will kill you, and I will make your family watch, you little shit!" may have done little to ease relations between us. Still, I heard your little mouse laughter. Taunting me, you were! Clearly taken aback by your refusal to fuck right off into the night like the little cheese whore that you are, I recoiled in shock and disgust.

*THWACK*

Yeah, I bet you thought it was funny, me near enough knocking myself unconscious against the ceiling. I've got priors in that regard. How do you know about that? Have you been researching me!? WHAT DO YOU KNOW!?

If I hear your pathetic squeals of delight one more time in the dead of the night, I will find you. You will get cocky, and you will make a mistake. Then you'll be mine, Mike. Then I will make your family watch. The last thing little Casey Poe smells will be my, stinking breath!

Yours in eternal loathing,
Deebs

The Drunk Fairy

The signs have been there.

An email from a person I have not yet met asking if I'd been involved in any more "drunken shenanigans".

An afternoon phone call from my father that began with
"I'm not interrupting you at a pub am I?".

This conversational fragment:
"I don't always do stupid things when I'm drunk."
"You have a blog dedicated to the stupid things you do when drunk!" she replied, incredulously.
"It's not just about th....shit. It is."

And so it was that I came to realise that I have written with an alarming frequency of the antics my liver has been forced to endure. I feel as though I should apologise to it for this, and to you, dear reader, for what you have been put through. I started this blog with noble intentions, and have spiralled downward to the gutter. As such, I promise that my next few forthcoming posts shall not be about the terrible ruins that accursed elixir has reduced me to. Should I break this pledge, I promise that I shall compose a post entirely from the viewpoint of my liver and remind myself of why I need to cease chronicling the life of a seemingly functioning alcoholic.

That amnesty kicks in after today. For today I must regale you with tales of The Drunk Fairy..

It started with The Pear Tree. Well, more specifically, the not so gradual descent into madness did; that special kind of madness that alcohol fuels. An innocent beginning. It ended, as so often innocence does, with Opium. Opium always has been my tipping point. Sherlock Holmes, I am not. His intuitive investigative skills dwarf my pathetic inability to even find my....self. I should clarify, for the uninitiated, that The Pear Tree and Opium are the names of establishments that trade in the sale of liquid inebriants. And the monikers reflect their differing natures with sublime accuracy- The Pear Tree, famous for its beer garden, is quite light, bright and seems the type of place where life could grow and flourish. Opium underneath a bridge, in an area once famous for its squalid Irish tenements, is cheap, dark and dank in all the right places.

For precisely the above reasons it made sense that we would abandon The Pear Tree after a few pints, given that the weather was grotesque; we're talking rain to sink an ark, and wind to dislodge the gods. With two outsiders (capes and mutants abound in the 'burgh) for company, we took flight and made for the cheapest venue I could commit to thought. Opium is where the vodka lived in a manner of bliss alongside all of the beer. Transferring them to a new home within me managed to destroy the uneasy peace between them. Doom was my reward, yet neither I nor my associates knew so at that stage. I walked them to their residence for the night, taking care to point out a few sights as we moseyed. Then came the simple task of walking the roughly 20 minute path to my own front door, straight line through The Meadows.

At this point I put my transit (and life) in the hands of The Drunk Fairy. The Drunk Fairy is an entity not unlike that one so famously preoccupied with dentistry, only tasked with far more taxing trials- to act as a guide and protector of those under the spell of intoxicants. Caring solely for your survival, making that toothy fucker look every bit the unscrupulous prick it is. That same fairy that, lacking correct change to pay a £5 denture deposit to my young niece, instead had to dole out a tenner. Rightly served. Woken up in your bed with no recollection of how you made it home in one miraculous piece? Found that all of your priceless possessions have made it home with you? You better believe you didn't accomplish these goals under your own power.

Sadly, on this night, Poland had been eliminated from Euro 2012, and her Scottish based comunity were drowning their sorrows appropriately. The Drunk Fairy had its hands full. My need for safe-guarding was of lesser strength than their collective anguish. I was on my own. A wandering drunk in the night with only the darkness and the rain for company.

And my own words. That's right, I was muttering to myself as may a drunken lunatic....because that is what I was. And my obscenity laced one-man show only grew in volume as I began to realise that I had been walking for hours, maybe even days (dramatic licence) and was no closer to my destination. To be exact, I was growing further from it, and it was dawning on me that I had managed to get lost and end up right back where I started. This is what happens when mystical entities are not around to guide you home after a night of drunken delirium- you get lost walking a straight path. I whimpered audibly as despair sank in deeper. Taxi!

Better late than dead in a ditch, the fairy made a welcome appearance at this point. Coaching me through a vomit free journey to my door, up the stairs, and successfully climbing the ladder to my bed* without dying. Anything beyond that would have been a bonus. Sadly, much like many innocent bank employees around Christmas time, bonuses were not forthcoming.

* My bed is atop a ladder. It means I now sleep in what can be described as equal parts bed, obstacle course and the perfect metaphor for loneliness (it's more or less the top half of a bunk bed, without the bottom). So many cold and lonely nights wasted, clinging to the third rung, too frightened to ascend, descend or rotate counter clockwise....

Polish preoccupations had otherwise garnered the attentions of my alcoholic abetter to sufficient degree as to render the job incomplete. I may have woken up in my bed, and in full possession of all my goods and virtues. Alas, my phone was not granted such divine favour and fortune. It could not be revived; not waving, but drowning. And just two days to go before retirement....or rather the opposite. Just two days before I would have been able to finally use it on a regular basis again, as my Irish phone contract had run its course. At long last I had dreamed of being able to avail of all the services open to a smartphone owning person, rather than merely paying monthly costs for a shiny and expensive egg-timer. Yet now it had been rendered useless as anything other than a paper-weight. Bollocks! I TRUSTED YOU, DRUNK FAIRY!

Worse still was the resulting hangover. Once your sobriety returns, you're on your own. There is no all powerful deity to help you crawl from that chasm, the alcoholic's abyss. Three hours it took for me to work up the courage to attempt the climb down from my bed. It took the rest of a day spent crawling on hands and knees solely for the purposes of vomit venting to muster the strength of character necessary to clamber back up again.

And right then and there I made a pledge to myself:. A pledge that no more liquid death would pass my lips. I was going to stay sober, at all costs.

One week, one bottle of wine, a couple of whiskeys and several cans later I suspected I had not been entirely honest with myself. Still, it was a double birthday bonanza, and I am but a simple, easily corrupted man. Throw in a long distance shout out to Mongolia, and a John Williams medley sing-along as we walked from the Lebanese restaurant to the tiki bar and you've got yourself a recipe for an excellent night. Also, an opportunity for my body to fuck me over in typically extravagant fashion.

Attempting to imitate a flatmate being dragged across a road by his girlfriend as though a toddler being escorted by his mother was not, on the face of it, beyond me. "On the face of it"- exactly where the bottle of wine consumed at that juncture designed to put me.

My mind and body don't work well together. Putting the simple movement into action caused my legs and torso to have a conniption as they struggled to comprehend my mind's simple requests.

"Running? We're in danger....combat roll!"

Yet, on this night, The Drunk Fairy was poised. The Drunk Fairy had been primed by the previous week's chicanery. The Drunk Fairy was positioned to cushion my impact from imprinting me with the evening's regret, and even to catch my flailing pocket-watch as it hurtled from my waistcoat (a transparent, but also entirely true, attempt to suggest dignity in the face of my pathetic concrete collision).

A stray arm flung about with reckless abandon, a spaghetti string tethering a brick in a hurricane, as I shuffled to the dancefloor was timed to catastrophic perfection. My future children fading from photographs in their DeLorean as the fist struck my innocently jangling testicles (picture it....picture THEM!). Thank you, Drunk Fairy, for deflecting the blow to a marginal extent.

Clearly the reason I walked five minutes out of my way, avoiding The Meadows, was because some outside element was guiding me home. Once more I awoke the next day with minimal recollection of how I had succesfully navigated the path home and skyward. Incredibly, my brain bore no ill will. My mind was free, fresh and devoid of devastation. More astonishingly, venturing that perhaps The Drunk Fairy giveth in addition to taking away, I approached my still lifeless phone. Cautiously, as if sudden movements may damn my faint hopes for its revival, I neared its resting spot. Cables unplugged when the life-support machine had finally been deemed superfluous days before, were re-inserted. A flicker. Nothing new in that, as had been the case several times in the week. A further glimmer. Brief hope rising, falling with the silence that suggested she was not to wake fully. I turned, heavy with dismay, shoulders slumped under the weight of my aching despair, and made to trudge out in further rain. Beep. IT'S ALIIIIIIIIVE! And the sun- shining! I embraced it deeply, held close to my heart, swore never to endanger its existence again and playfully lobbed it to my mattress....*bounce*....*bounce*....*CRASH*

Fuck.

The Hot Nerds

T'other day, I had occasion to contemplate and consider my future. My present job is contracted to come to an end in early September of this year, meaning I will have to seek alternative means of making my living in mere months. As such, I have to think long and hard about what I want to do next. After much deliberation, I was struck by the only logical choice- I'm going to set up an all-male stipping agency.

And a key part of our mission statement (at this point I'd like to throw a shout-out to co-owner of the agency, and Head of Irish Operations, Mr Cashin, and also Artistic Director in charge of Spoken Word Artistry, Ms Cox), will fall on our cornering of the lucrative "funeral strippers" market.

"What's that in Grandpa's will? Mandatory strippers at the funeral, really? Well I suppose it explains a lot. Now to get this bedazzled thong to the undertakers so he can be dressed as stipulated...."

Don't look at me like that. You've all thought about it, you're just pissed off that I had the guts to make a go of it before you.

"Wait a minute, this reads as though you've done more than just think about this. Have you d...."

Let me cut you off right there, disembodied voice in my head. Yes, I have done more than just think about this. Sadly, Gumtree refused to post my first advertisement. The Man tried to censor my future art, apparently objecting to my replacement of the word "dance" with "the art of erotic movement" in the context of a children's birthday party. Prudes. Undeterred, I went back to the drawing board to remove any potential red flags. What follows is a far more PC (less penis-y) declaration of intent:

Geek Chic Male Dance Brigade

Are you looking for a talented all-male "dance" troupe to provide entertainment at your event? Need athletic performers to captivate at your hen party? Children's birthday party? Bar Mitzvah? Funeral for a dearly departed friend, family member or beloved pet hamster? Then we are the guys for you!

We four returning kings are....The Hot Nerds!

More than just pretty faces and slick routines, we are gentlemen with rippling pecs and keen intellects. We honestly believe we are the men to avail of the lucrative niche of the interpretive dance market that is "geek chic".

"Did somebody call for I.T. support?" *cue music*

Nothing too racy, as we are classically trained and in the vein of such televisual phenomena as Flawless and....the other guys that dance.

Marvel as we effortlessly blend Swan Lake with the car chase scene from Matrix Reloaded to the accompaniment of The Imperial March. And be prepared to weep with joy at our moving rendition of The Nutcracker, through interpretive jazz hand chorus to spoken word versions of classic musical pieces by Barry Manilow, N.E.R.D., Daft Punk and more!

Let us bring the Magic to your Gathering. Set your phasers to stun, ladies, boys and everybody in between, because we're back in the hobbit. If it's hip to be square, then we are the droids you're looking for and we are tolkien no prisoners!

Reply to this ad for more details about pricing, performance details and exclusive group photos.
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And, in a promising turn of events for my future endeavours as an erotic entrepreneur, somebody did just that:


Hi,would you do a bar~b~q can I have more details please?
From: richard
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I knew what needed to be done:


Hi Richard,

Providing we can come to an agreement, we'll be there with bells on (we will provide our own bells).

As you can imagine, we would require access to an area in which we can privately dress, as our performance does require occasional quick costume changes. Also, we would need to ensure that flash photography is kept to a minimum, as it can interfere with the tightly choreographed routines in motion. Would any of your party class themselves as having even a working knowledge of Microsoft Powerpoint? This would be especially useful, as a slideshow presentation accompanying our routines can really make the whole thing *pop*.

In addition, I should ask if there will be any dogs present at the event? This is simply as Sebastian was once mauled by a particularly vicious Basset Hound- he was lulled into a false sense of security by its sad eyes and comically low hanging ears- and is, understandably, wary of all canines as a result. Thankfully, the panic attacks have subsided, and are unlikely to impact upon his mad dance skillz in any discernible fashion.

In terms of fees, we understand the trepidation in paying in advance prior to having met the performers. As such we are willing to accept full payment on completion of our roles at the event. Our standard fee charged for a private event of this scale would be £600. However, in extreme circumstances and depending on the scenario, we are open to negotating down to working for as little as three chicken wings, eight pork sausages and four miniature parasols.

We will, of course, provide our own baby oil and vaseline (simply a precaution, in the event of catastrophic nipple chafing).

These industry standard conditions being met, we would be more than willing to participate in this gala event of a barbecue. Although, we are legally required to inform you that we cannot, technically, classify ourselves as a "dance act". A court order stipulates that we refer to ourselves as an "advanced mime outfit, with mild erotic overtones".

I look forward to hearing from you once again, regarding further details.

Kind regards,
Deebs
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I left out any reference to nipple tassels, as I needed to keep the advert sufficiently masculine. I'll keep you updated on the negotations as they progress.

If these negotations do progress, I think it's safe to say that "Richard" is a serial killer with an appetite for Dance Dance Destruction, yet if he's willing to pay, I'm willing to cobble together a group to make this happen.

*****************UPDATE*****************

Confirmation-  we have a serial killer. Richard is a potential mass murdering monster. I know what meat he wants to serve at this barbecue- Hot Nerd meat! And not in a sexy way. This man has designs on our respective pancreases (pancrei?). His stomach is making the rumblies that only hands will satisfy. How many all-male advanced mime outfits (with mild erotic overtones) has he grilled over the coals, while donning a macabre chef's hat and whimsical "Kiss The Chef" apron combo? Dozens, I'd wager. In short, he's a ritualistic, cannibalistic, man-murdering barbecue enthusiast....possibly. I mean, how else can I interpret this?:


Hi,could you send me some photos,how many are in your act?every thing else sounds great. Richard
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Time to grease up or shut up. Hand me that camera, boy. We have a customer.

Panic

Start strong, keep the reader's interest and finish with a flourish.

Nah, you'll accept what I give you and you will like it. Dance, supposedly literate monkey, dance!

I'm going to offer up a stunning revelation, the likes of which could close out the week in any sensational soap opera (right up there on the dramatic spectrum of sensationalism alongside discovery of evil twin, marriage to said evil twin, committing murder of evil twin in complex self-defense plot twist and finally engaging in evil twin necrophilia....it's a dark vision of the televisual future when I rule all with an iron fist):

My mind panics and fucks up in curious ways under miniscule amounts of pressure. It's a finely tuned, fully functioning piece of meat-apparatus (giggle) under mild to extreme levels of duress, but as a general rule, its resting state is one of confused, hysterical terror (think puppy faced with a Hoover....of cats). As you will no doubt be aware by now though, this blog is no arena in which for me to provide specific examples of such duncery. Ha! Tuck yourself in and marvel once more at my continuing defiance of normalcy. My ongoing rebellion against sensibility. A dirty protest upon the walls of considered thought. The typed equivalent of stabbing oneself in the eyeball with a fork while trying to eat at a buffet (shout out to Mr Phil). Or inadvertently vomiting in one's own face after a night of excessive drinking (*citation needed*). Now, on with the show.

"I have an idea for Mother's Day...."

A simple request emerged from the ether of silence in Number 63.

"I want to get as many people as possible to ring my parents' place back in Ireland, and leave a voicemail wishing my mum a happy Mother's Day. You can say whatever you want in the message; tell a story about me, insult me....anything."

Straightforward. Problem being that I loathe talking over the phone. I lose all control over my ability to express even the simplest thoughts, stumble relentlessly over my words and trip hopelessly through whole conversations without making a midget's molehill of sense. The tension rose internally. Alfred Hitchcock was conducting the synapses while my heart beat to a John Williams score. I lifted the receiver.

"Hi, Mrs Kelly. This is Deebs, your son's flatmate. I'm just calling to say 'Happy Mother's Day' and thank you for giving us your son...."

So far so good. Turning a bit religious at the end there, as if I'm in the presence of The Chosen One, but it's salvageable.

"....with his lovely blue eyes and his....scraggly beard...."

Alright, probably shouldn't have turned to make eye contact with him there, examining his face as may a lovelorn cannibal. Still, nothing out of the ordinary said so it could have gone worse. Now just wrap it up and it's done.

"....so....er....happy....day....to you."

What in the ever-loving fuck? Was it too hard just to part without saying something unusual? Why "happy....day"? Fuck you, Alexander Graham Bell! Your invention renders me dickish and verbally uncoordinated.

That, though, is hardly going to have any long-lasting ramifactions on my psyche. No harm, no foul as they say. It's not as if I repeated my party trick of doing/saying outlandish things to let down a girl rather than just, you know, being up-front and clear about my intentions, or lack-there-of. Well, now that you mention it....

"I've hit women before."

I'm really not in the habit of abusing lady-folk. I cannot stress enough how much of a woman beater I am not. Equally, I cannot begin to place enough empasis on the lengths to which my mind will go to distance me from (nothing resembling so much as mildest) peril. There was a context to the remark within the conversation that led to my remark. There was not a justification for saying it. The horrified silence was reaching into a vast, timeless expanse of space beyond mortal comprehension. I knew I needed to say something to set the record straight. I am not the Tyler Durden of Female Fight Club. I had to retract that explosive soundbite.

"Yeah....it's been warranted. They had it coming...."

Another woman successfully spurned by the most abstract methods. If nothing else, my rejections offer with them a degree of finality that just saying "no" can never hope to match. There really is no coming back from those iterations. Far worse than simply Twirling about the place, poking girls in their ears and pretending it didn't happen. I was in receipt of significant flak for the cultivated mirage of my violent tendencies towards the supposedly fairer sex, from members of it.

"Would you rather hit a woman or a dog!?"

I don't hit women! We had established this. Nor would I hope to ever find myself in the, frankly ludicrous, hypothetical situation of having to decide between assaulting a girl or a canine. Honestly, I had to think about it.

"Dogs are only barely sentient!"

Neither are a lot of women I know! And it's not like I go around inflicting harm upon ficitonal dogs either. Well, now that you mention it....

"Never have I ever killed any animal bigger than a rodent."

Dateline- Edinburgh. January 2012. A cold and windswept winter's eve. The scene- a top floor flat, inhabited by students of a feminine origin and seemingly a conductor of all known weather ills. The gale was drawn to the place. And apparently we had exhausted all the sexy questions in the drinking game by this point.

I drank.

For those not schooled in the intricacies of this particular endeavour, this was a signal that I had, in my (remarkably) continuing life, on one or more occasions been responsible for the death of a creature larger than that of the rodent family. The murmurs rose in number and volume within the group.

"What did you kill?"

Not a woman. I haven't killed a woman.

A few years ago, when she was clearly very sick, and I was horrified at the merest hint that she would suffer in any way, I made the decision to put my dog down. I'm not meaning that I shotgunned her in her adorable, fluffy little face, oh no. I'm saying that I made the choice to carry her to the local vet and ask him to do the right thing. It was heartbreaking. Tears were shed. I loved that dog. That was my tale of animal woe. I'd had my dog put down. Did that count? No. No, that wasn't the same as killing her myself. My answer had been a sham. I was an accidental fraud. Set the circle straight, that's what I had to do. Either that, or communicate that, perhaps, in choosing to bring Mins (for t'was her name) to the vet, I still harboured residual guilt for my decison. I looked around the gathered assortment of characters (my two flatmates, six girls and I formed the nucleus), searching their faces for the correct route of clarification. Recant or tell the heartwrenching tale; there was no third option.

"I hit a dog with my car."

WHAT THE FUCK, BRAIN!?

"But....you don't drive."

Good point. I don't drive. Back down. Back away from the fiction, brain. Let sanity shine through, just this once.

"Yeah, it was while I was learning."

A collective gasp and groan of horror enveloped the room.

"What kind of dog?"

A reasonable question. What type of dog had I mown down on my imagined escapade? An invisible dog? A dog of the mind? Clarify for the nice people.

"A small one. A terrier."

Great. Yep. Why help yourself at all, mind? Pick a cute dog. Go on, make it the most adorable squished thing since someone stood on sliced bread. You fuckwit!

I've been reliably informed that backing out after drinking, and setting the record straight (pre-canine murder), would have been scarcely remarked upon. Revealing the true tale of pet loss would have been met with group-wide synpathy and an "aaaaaaaawwwwwwww" from the assembled lady (and even lad) folk. But no, I had to go and kill a false beast. Had the subject not been hastily changed by those wishing not to drown in their own tears at that point, I likely would have continued to speak of the adorably deceased creature that I had concocted for no logical reason.

"Yeah, there was a kid there too. Really cute kid. Holding a lead. No dog attached. Well, certainly nothing that could be classified as "dog" anymore. Yeah, poor kid, crying. Think he'd dropped his ice-cream in all the shock too...."

Fuck you, tangled, irrational thought processes!

****No women, children, animals or ice-cream were harmed in the composition of this post.****

The Ballad of Doobs

If you'll permit me the simile, employment is like a nun: at times daunting to approach, deserving of a healthy respect, and next to impossible to get into.

No, you didn't imagine that. I started with a nun sex joke. I felt it appropriate to lower the tone from the off. Any lingering respect for my character should be held at that level from the outset, because it shall get no better from this point. More likely, if you are one of those people who converses with me, you won't continue to be after this.

In light of my having made a somewhat successful return to the table of the gainfully employed, I feel it would be remiss of me not to broach the topic of that time I did that thing, back when I was still a creature of the day and a reputable sort (relatively speaking. I was still having imaginary nun sex, after all). Them were the days alright. I was in a long term relationship which was mostly consensual. There was a respectable, full-time job being held down in an office. My hats could reasonably be stored within a box, rather than numbering an amount to inspire mild panic in the spatially impoverished. I could even boast that the number of hairs atop my head could be considered respectable. There was occasion for me to wear a suit, and tuck my shirt in. I was a regular, productive member of society.

Also, I had an evil twin.

Doobs came about in the course of conspiring to avoid facing the horrors and travails of working life within the arena I found myself. More specifically, his genesis was rooted in my commitment to taking a week long Spanish holiday, as malicious doppelgangers are wont to do. Classic evil twin origin story stuff.

I tended to have my work for the week finished in 3 days. In fact, given her spectacular ineptitude, I tended to have my boss's work done for her in 3 days. There's a belief that states that people are continually promoted until they reach one level higher than their ability enables them to perform at. This is called the Peter Principle and I have long since espoused the accuracy of its tenets, largely based upon this experience. My superior had, presumably, been a committed employee of sufficient merit as to be deemed worthy of promotion to the lofty perch upon which she found herself. Yet (to take the bird metaphor and run with it here....fly with it?) she seemed now quite content to cling to that perch, staring at herself in the mirror and squawking gibberish without any true comprehension outside of her little cage. I'll admit this may have helped to colour my opinion of her as a person, but she was also a quite detestable creature. Perhaps outside of the role she was a lovely woman, full of joy, laughter, sunshine and rainbow coloured unicorns of delight and whimsy, but whilst behind that desk she was a behemoth of benevolence and torturous turmoil.

Nonetheless, occasional verbal sparring aside, I managed to contain my growing hostility towards her and not allow it to outwardly effect my performance....when I was in. Doobs was quelled and restrained.

She did once attempt to give me a verbal dressing down in front of the office for my allegedly poor punctuality, conveniently failing to pick up on the fact that we had discussed the difficult transport links delaying my arrival each morning. Apparently I was not working a full day, as my starting work 15 or 30 minutes later than regular would suggest, and thus letting the team down. When she took issue with me in such a public fashion on this occasion, all bets were off. I loudly corrected the several inconsistencies in her accusations and pointed out that I was, as we had previously arranged, staying late in order to account for the time I couldn't make in the morning. In fact, in doing so, I was working longer hours than stipulated and accepting it as unpaid overtime. Unpaid overtime that was made necessary by her handing tasks off to me at her day's end that were in fact solely her responsibility. And just like that she was put back in her box and instead requested a private word.

Foolish woman. She had released the Doobs.

From this point, I made a point of doing my work (and doing it damn well, might I say), accepting whatever else was placed in front of me, but no longer volunteering to help her and ease the burden of her workload. Given that she spent most of her time engaged and engrossed in personal phone calls (probably comparing and contrasting the cuteness of the cats she'd spent all day Googling), her workload could not have been all that severe anyway. Just enough to turn her into a stressed-out bitch-monster beyond rhyme, reason or choclate based bribery. And I was sitting on a ticket to Spain, booked before I'd even taken on this thankless job. I'd been hesistant about declaring it in the first place, as I was wary that it could queer the deal (sometimes, I just like to find excuses to use phrases that are in my mind at a given moment). Screw it, if they weren't going to acquiesce to my demands and grant me my holiday, I would have no option but to hand in my resignation. Given the devilishly restrictive deadlines of the massive project we were working on, I knew that the granting of my freedom would be unlikely. My resignation was typed up and burning a hole in my back pocket as I prepared to throw it in her fat, frumpy, ferret-featured face....like a gentleman. I requested a private moment of her precious time and we descended the staircase that would lead me into unemployment once more.

....but I do like money....

....PLAN B!

It was time for a fantastical tale. I surrendered myself to Doobs and let that bastard take the wheel. This is the point that any lingering respect will dissipate. Read on if you still think it wise....or if you already know the bastardry of which I am capable..

Boss Monster: "So, what do you need to talk to me regarding, David?" (chalk one up to overly formal speech in a work environment....and THAT name)
Deebs: "I felt I should talk to you to let you know that I'm going to need to take some time off work next month."
Boss Monster: *eyebrows raise quizically; first one, then the other struggling to match its incline* (this gave her the appearance of a confused and constipated child about to have the facts of life explained to her)
Deebs: "You see....er...."

****Enter Doobs****

Doobs: "It's my cousin, see? He's got problems. I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but he's got a drinking problem. It's been tearing the family apart. They tried to talk to him, a bit like an intervention, but he just ran out on them. Thing is, I'm the only one in the family he talks to. We're very close. And they want me to try to get through to him. Problem is, he's fled to his mum's place in Spain. I've managed to get him talking, but I'm going to need to go out to Spain for a week or so to try to bring him home to get the help he needs."

I knew it was ridiculous. I knew it was a low move to pull. More importantly, I knew it wasn't going to work. I would have known that much without even looking at her face, still contorted in that awkwardly bemused state. I reached for the letter in my back pocket....

....her face thawed, and released her from its ice-cold grip of apprehensive quandery, or stroke, or whatever it was.

Boss Monster: "Oh, I understand completely. I really do. A member of my family is an alcoholic. It's so awful. You go, and take as much time as you need."

OK, so this looks bad for me. I know that my conscience should have Jiminy Cricketed into action at this point. I should have found some way to back down. This woman had suffered through the horrors of alcoholism. She knew the pain all too well that I was attempting to fabricate. I could have sworn a tear was beginning to form in her eye. Abort! Abort!

Doobs was in control now. Deebs was captain of this damned ship. Doobs was not going to back down. Doobs was going on a holiday with my girlfriend. And that man was cold. He did not waiver, even as my boss came acropper with some personal troubles that reduced her to tears in work on more than one occasion. Even then she would periodically check in with Doobs, to see how this fictional cousin was getting on.

Boss Human: "Look at me, making a fuss when you've got your own problems to deal with.*wiping tears from her eyes* How is your cousin?"

Doobs: "It's a journey. One day at a time, but I really think he's getting there."

And you better believe that "cousin" showed convenient signs of relapsing whenever I needed a lie in.

But what if I don't have an evil twin? Deebs had a steady job, luscious locks, a long-term girlfriend, relatively promising career prospects and a puzzling inability to grow facial hair. Doobs was a hard-drinking cad with none of these things.

What if I am Doobs? Maybe Deebs is that guy whose body I stuffed in a cellar off Cockburn Street.

I have some deep thinking to do on this subject....twirling my moustache and laughing until my monocle shatters on the floor.

Spies Like I

"That glass of water is half empty." says the pessimist.
"That glass of water is half full." says the optimist.
"While you two were busy arguing, I drank the water." crows the opportunist.
"That wasn't water." reveals the optometrist.
"Really guys? Get out of this bar! I'm sick of clearing away your glasses of piss." laments this Deebs.

It's been an interesting month and a bit in the world of barkeepery. I went in with two expectations, indicated below by Roman numerals:
i) The work would be hard.
ii) I would, at least seven times per shift, get the opportunity to comfort a saddened and distracted woman by offering her a light and saying "Tough day? Wanna talk about it?".

Well thank you very much, smoking ban, for ensuring that only the former of those expectations would be met. My time on the other side of the bar has shown me enough to know that my previous perceptions of drunkards as one of the banes of civilised society were entirely misplaced. Inebriates are not one of the banes of civilised society, they are the single greatest evolutionary speed-bump that must be bulldozed in order to guarantee our survival as a species. The problem being that they are the ones who will breed in greater numbers. They lack standards, restraint or even basic motor skills (presumably as all blood flow is focussed on the retard production facilities they like to slam together after hours). They are, essentially, the zombies of sex, who quit holding out and drew another breath.

"Brains....brains....must....find....girls....without brains!"

Working the floor there is akin to taking your life in your hands. Patrolling the arena, as may a gazelle tasked with wiping the saliva from the chins of savanna predators, I grew to understand how to pick my moments. With all the cunning of a raptor testing electrified fences for weaknesses, I came to learn the safe windows in which I could break for the dancefloor to gather discarded glasses. Sadly, much like fence fried raptors, the accruement of such knowledge was only possible through trial and error. I do so long for the day when memories will have been repressed of my being molested having mis-stepped into a ring of desperate wenches belting out "All The Single Ladies". I still wake up sweating at the thought of my pelvis being bumped and ground to dust to the strains of Rihanna (fuck you, Rihanna!) by some guy, his friends watching on, alternating between horror and amusement, as my eyes darted around the swarm of bodies in desperate search for an escape route. They just watched! Then there were the notes that resonate deep within the chamber of horrors section of my soul. As gun shots hang in the air long after the smoke has cleared and the bodies have fallen, so does the caterwauling of banshees to the medleys from the soundtrack to Grease. Happening upon a batch of sex-starved cougars at that moment will stay with me. I got chills, they multiplied and they lost all control. Yet more furtive, fearful and ultimately fruitless glances about the scene told me that I would not find safe haven. Cornered, crushed and crestfallen, I could swear one of them instructed me to squeal like a pig, as another of their party tuned up her banjo with her bingo wings. Why is it never the pretty ones!?

Other, less scarring memories that I will take with me include being crouched in the toilets, sweeping up shards of glass awash in an ocean of piss, as an embittered Swede implored me to abandon my post and join the army instead; deployment in Afghanistan being an apparently far less manic and life-shortening field. Outside of that, there was the momentary entertainment of cock-blocking a guy in the most literal of senses imaginable. I literally acted as a buffer between his and her genitalia, swooping in to collect empty bottles as they swayed together in the halls. Still, nothing prepares you for the sudden dawning of the realisation that your head is within startling proximity of another dude's probable erection, and your body's spastic fright slamming your skull into the low-hanging speaker overhead as you attempt to extricate yourself from the scene.

A gentleman (loose use of a kind term) of large carriage, without a single passenger for company, sporting a false beard and "leprechaun hat"? What kind of person does that? Who is that desperate to disguise the vacuum where their personality should reside by way of wearing an outlandish hat? That man would, rightfully, stay untroubled by human interaction for the entirety of his night. All of these points I preached to a colleague from atop my soap-box, until the fail-safe in my cranium kicked into life a moment too late to save me from the occurring thought that I am the last person in a position to judge such a creature.

The 20 year old girl serving drinks by my side who stunned me by having never heard of The Doors. I went so far as to sing (more akin to spoken word) some lines of a couple of songs. Nothing. Jim Morrison? Nothing.

"Do you know The Corrs?"
"Yes!"
"Well, they're nothing like The Corrs. Except for the rhyme."

And then I consider the clientèle who plied their patronage at the bars while I pulled their pints (or more often bombed their Jager). An Iberian fellow who found himself enamoured with my being Irish on St Paddy's weekend opted to pounce (thankfully only through verbal and gesticulating means), catching me off guard in my temporary pre-occupation with having elbowed a co-worker in her head (she shouldn't have mouthed off life that!). I spurned his affection with a calm fist-bump, while my eyes presumably screamed furiously of the total absence of desire to fornicate with a member of my own gender.

Likewise, I have never been tempted to engage in carnal acts with any number of a third, mystery gender that seems to crop up in sweat-box regions of the club. Luckily, I think that one is contained in a lab somewhere within the walls....for now.

Thankfully, there have been more palatable potential paramours. Honourable mention to the gutsy girl who caught me all types of unprepared when she responded to my quoting of the total price of her drinks order, with:
"And how much for YOUR number?"
Had I not been so uncertain of her legality as I checked her ID, I would probably have managed more than a wry smile and fumbled words of excuse.

Yet there are two ladies who belong in my own personal hall of fame, alongside any number of others mentioned in the annals of this page, and many not listed. Those exchanges speak for themselves, as does a sock for a puppeteer.

Respectable Lass: "Where are you from?"
Assured Alcoholic Enabler: "Dublin."
Respectable Lass: "Aww my husband's from Dublin! Could you say something for me?"
Assured Alcoholic Enabler: "Sure. What did you have in mind?"
"Respectable" Lass: "Could you say 'I've just shit meself.'?"
Alarmed Alcoholic Enabler: *long pause* "O....K....I've just....er....shit meself."
"Respectable" Lass: "Aww see? Every word you say sounds sexy! You need to promise me you'll take advantage of that and use it on the ladies over here."

Still working on that last part, but I am genuinely concerned as to what could have happened in her allegedly married life that would leave her craving words of such questionable substance.

And then came last night, as I cleared away the dregs from the table of a bunch of girls out galavanting for a hen night, casually conversing with a member of their group as I went about my task:

Irish & Intoxicated: "You wouldn't get the relationship between the Irish and alcohol cos you're Scottish. You've got a sexy accent though."

I nearly dropped me lucky charms in sheer shock and holy horror.

However, the most important thing I have gleamed (you have no idea how much I have wanted to fit the word 'gleamed' into this post somewhere) from my various duties was from my time spent manning the hot-dog stand (this is not a euphemism).

There's always money in the hot-dog stand. No, seriously, I left all my tips in its cash box. Burn it down!

Awake

You know them there rock 'n' roll deities with the screaming legions of lady fans? The screaming legions of lady fans who done want nothing more than to violently hump the ever-loving shit out of their barely breathing, coked out torsos? The coked out torsos that are now little more than a shrine to years of debauched lady legion humping? Yeah? Well then you know that there exists a cliché of song dedication such as:

"This one goes out to all the ladies out there."

Well, I know my audience. I'm a bar working, festival whoring, occasional blog writer with an ever-developing penchant for self destruction. I dress like a drummer with delusions of becoming the front man. My screaming legion of lady fans is actually a silent group of people sitting at desks, with time to kill and low standards of entertainment that may be the death of them. And the only humps we may eventually share are our matching hunchbacks, developed from poor typing posture.

This one goes out to all the bored people out there, who really should know better.

So you've woken up in last night's shreds. You're not immediately certain of what state you can class yourself as being in. You've opened your eyes ever so slowly, as if to delay the potential horror from registering. There are a few ways this could go. It's time for some self-diagnosis.

The lucky few, a number of which I can usually count myself as being, emerge unscathed, whether through careful moderation of your indulgence, or mindless good fortune. You were pleasantly behaved throughout the preceding night's meandering course and have your dignity to show for it. You will be happily lording it over your fallen comrades for some time to come. Open those eyes wide, cartwheel out of bed and treat yourself to as bright and productive a day as you see fit.

You are fine.

Alternatively, you awake with confusion. You're not entirely sure how you ended up back in your own bed. Hell, you're not entirely sure that this is your bed. It's not? Hearty, post-coital self-congratulation time. It is your bed? You're sure you're alone? Oh well, at least you still have every necessary limb attached. Check to be sure. Yep, they're all there, and none of these loyal body parts seem to hate you. In fact, you know in that moment that, even though you may not remember the minutiae of last night, this is going to be one of the best days you have ever had.

You're still drunk, my friend. You're not out of the woods yet, In fact, those woods are going to come looking for you later.

Then there is that other circle of hell. Your eyes don't respond to your commands. Lying there you realise too late, that maybe, just maybe, they're trying to protect you from what awaits. You have no idea what you got up to last night. Your hands are coloured and deformed by the many tiny cuts of origins unknown. Judging by their number, size and cluster you either clawed your way out of a shallow grave, provoked a midget into a fistfight (....again) or your bottle opening skills are truly sub-par. This is of particular concern if you've just recently been employed to work in a bar (any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental). That cigarette burn on your stomach is a new addition, and you're not sure how well it matches the aesthetic you were aiming for. With every fresh recollection of the night before your body contorts in horrified spasm. Yes, you did do all those things. The story you accidentally managed to spin about killing a fictional dog? Yep. And you know that that was actually the high point of proceedings. You know it because there's that gnawing, clawing, prowling and vicious sensation bubbling up in your grey matter. This may be a hangover. You can't yet be certain. You're unsure of how to proceed. This is Schrödinger's Hangover. Do not open that box.

No.

Sudden.

Movements.

You've had it with this purgatory; you need to know! You're still too frightened to endanger your desired future of having a functioning head atop your shoulders to do anything in a fashion other than can be described as "gingerly". This may not be a hangover. This could be general malaise brought about by a lack of sleep. For the avoidance of all doubt, there is one inescapable litmus test:

Know where to turn in Edinburgh (I cannot stress how fictional this scenario could be) and you can find a bagpipe player....a bagpiper....a bagpipist....a dude with a big sack of air and tubes that legend deems an instrument. It will remove any uncertainty. If only you could summon up the courage to crawl from your bed/safety nest to seek out this resolution. This will determine whether you spend your day seeking out ducks to feed or seeking out ducks to shout at for illogical reasons while sobbing uncontrollably.

Then you hear them. They're outside your window. No, not a brace of mallards finally giving you your longed for justification to take them to task for refusing to wear the paper hats you made them, but people. They're arguing with such ferocity as to render anything other than inevitable murder as a preposterous outcome. Either that or they're old friends exchanging regular pleasantries. They're Scottish; differences are frequently incomprehensible to the naked ear....and the very suggestion of clothed ears would be enough to make you giggle.

AND RIGHT NOW GIGGLING WILL MOST LIKELY ATTRACT THE IRE/FRIENDSHIP OF THE PEOPLE OUTSIDE THE WINDOW WHICH WILL CAUSE THEM TO MURDER-HUG YOU IN YOUR SAFETY NEST!

Congratulations, you are in that grey little place between living and death that we call "a hangover". You will yearn for the latter, and convince yourself you had imagined the former. Nobody has ever suffered before as you are suffering now. You will never touch a drop of alcohol again so long as you walk this earth.

You're drinking as you type this.

Blackboard Jungle

In these modern, enlightened times in which we live, it seems common place for people to attempt to add gravitas to their musings or lamentations through the butchering of quotes from supposedly inspirational people. Let me be clear by saying that the majority of those people are devoid of anything resembling sense, intelligence or original thought. They are using the ideas of others as a parasite may use a host. Now that's out of the way, I would like to quote a person who played a profoundly important role in shaping me into the person I am today:

"Hold onto your butts."

Ray Arnold (Jurassic Park)

Things are about to get a bit experimental in tonight's episode of "What The Fuck Am I Reading!?", as I employ the use of visual aids. Use of these visual aids are a somewhat inevitable progression from my recent use of pictures which we shall term as "visual HIV". Thus, there shall be a decreased emphasis on words and coherency, It begins....

I've been giving some consideration to the way in which I am viewed by others. In the last few weeks, as a sample time span, I've been introduced to many new people. Reactions upon making my acquaintance have fallen into simple categories.

In Dublin
Their reaction: "Oh I've heard about Deebs. We all have."
My reaction: Instant terror
What they see/hear: "Oh fuck!" -insert foolish behaviour-

In Edinburgh

Their reaction: "Oh you're Irish? Are you from the north or south?."

My reaction: "They're going to make naive assumptions about my being Irish, aren't they?"

What they see/hear: "Potato. Potato. Potato. Leprechaun. Potato."

One unified characteristic across the board, however, has been in the comparisons drawn between your beloved blog writer and a whiny musician with a penchant for crap lyrics and curious naming practices. And so, in that regard, I would like to set things straight.

I was moseying down the street on my way back to the flat a couple of weeks ago, minding my own business and generally being the innocent sage that I am, when a young lady stopped me to ask for directions. Being the gentleman I am, I advised as best I could.

"Has anyone ever told you that you look like Chris Martin?"

She did not reach her destination. She is deceased.

I do not look like Chris Martin.

Now that I've got that out of the way, it's time for the picture round. You see, while all the other kids in Edinburgh were out drinking, debauching and desecrating the idea of being Irish in the name of Paddy's Day this past Saturday, I was enjoying an altogether different type of evening in our flat. Seeing as I couldn't engage in the profane abuse of my liver, owing to the impending onset of my shift at work (oh yeah, I work in a bar now), one flatmate was too broke to see the world beyond our door, and the other had just arrived back with beer and his girlfriend in tow, we got to thinking. Our thoughts led to us making use of The Board of Truth which hangs in our kitchen. We set to drawing each other like many of our French girls. I present:

Portraits of Deebs

First up, we have Dave's interesting perspective of a gigantic, half-sasquatch who may be more beard than man.

Next we see the continuation of an original Barton series entitled "Sad Deebs in a Top Hat". The obscenely accurate speech bubble dwarfing the character proving to be a touch of undeniable genius.

And so we arrived at the inscrutable work of Phil. Many minutes were spent trying to decipher the chaotic, abstract works of Mr Kelly, before we just settled on it being beyond mortal comprehension.

Finally comes the self-portrait which I just etched a few minutes ago.

Interestingly, there does seem to be a story when all these images are laid out in chronological order, as above. A tale of how I progressed from unkempt vagabond, to discovering a fondness for hats and self deprecation before my mind exploded and I became Jack the Ripper*.

(*citation needed)

Enjoy waking up to that one, boys. I'll see you in your nightmares.