Ode to the Year that 'Was'

I was just reading this really cool blog and the author had had the idea to make a blog summing up 2008, with a rather delightful display of images accompanying it, one for each month. Now I'm not as much of a photo enthusiast as the author of said cool blog, but nevertheless I decided I'd have a go at copying the template, though it will probably result in some poor photoshop 'wizard' getting sick all over the walls after having stumbled across this page. Who am I kidding, I WISH people stumbled over this piece o crap... anyway.
WARNING: Because I don't have very many photos of myself in what you might call everyday situations, the images I have selected may be misrepresentative of what my year was actually like; for example, I didn't spend that much of January or February skiing, but the winter wonderland pictures make for a better collage than 12 pictures of me on the bus on my way to school every morning, my head resting against the window, the sun still not risen outside... In fact, remind me to do that idea too some other time if I you ever want me to do a feature on shit school is...
But ye. Without further shit: 2008, let us adore thee!

January: Kicked off the new year in style skiing at Monte Tremblante, Canada with my cousins who live there. The full-on decadence of skiing, and all of its apres-activites began in me a penchant for the sport. I decided I wanted to do it again, and soon. After I got home to Ireland most of the month was then spent cursing the horrible weather (I don't even particularly remember how horrible it was, but in this country it's always safe to assume it was pretty shite) and failing to buckle down to my studies.

February: More study buckling ensued... my friend Hobbes (love making up these nicknames) and his family bring me on a whirlwind adventure to France, where I got in a few days of skiing (score-age!). A bit of mischief involving a disillusioned waiter and a wooden statue of a woman with giant boobies was had, and I stole loads of yoghurts and mars bars from the chalet we were staying in (they were free, and for us...but I'm not that 'out there' so it seemed like a big deal at the time...). My love of skiing grew even stronger.

March: I didn't include a photo of March, because I can't remember anything interesting happening. In a whole month. In fact, looking down though this, if it's not someones birthday and I'm not in another country I don't really do much. Perhaps in March I pondered my own laziness and lack of motivation to be fun. Probably not though.

April: The blurry events of March ran into April, where not much happened again. I probably eventually succeeded around this time in actually starting to do my homework (after the Christmas break it's always so hard to get back down to it..). Denniskerry (oh I like that one) had a party; it was good. That is all.

May: Bituv an old fluctuating one there.. Exam stress and the first anniversary of my Mum's death intermingled with the end of school for summer and my 18th birthday party in a most nauseating concoction. That aside, my birthday was one of the best nights of my life - I was pleasantly pissed, I was so happy everyone was there, and I never wanted it to end.

June: But end it did. Me and the gang jetted off to the hellhole that is Montpellier for a bit of French-learning and whatever you're having yourself. Unfortunately, no one was having anything fun - mostly milk. with a straw. Because it was too hot. And they were tired. I tried to look on the brightside for the whole thing, but this wasn't always easy. The verdict was that it was a trip I was glad I did, but would never do again.

July: In order to make up numbers I've included 2 photos from this most epic of months. Four words: OXEGEN WAS HELLA-FUCKIN-BALLS-TO-THE-WALL AWESOME! Drunkness was the order of the month. The concerts were unbelieveable and I made some really great friends, namely Bert, Harry, and Fred. It was so good that the gang spent the following Monday at Bert's house singing 'I'm in the mood for dancing', eating knacker pizza and generally being messes. I later took up residence in Bert's house for the rest of the summer.

August:It wouldn't be August without a minibreak to the Gee. The usual spots were visited: the heritage centre, the GAA pitch, the Skellig Mist, behind the community centre, to name but a few. Possibly the best minibreak to date? I can never compare them, they're all so good, and I remember so very little of any of them... In any case, it was the perfect end to the summer, if that's not a paradox in terms.

September:6th year began. I was not best pleased. This was one of the busiest months in my living memory - school work was tiring enough without being involved in our school's production of Danton's Death (our 6th year play). The play was very much worth it though. I learned a lot about painting techniques through creating the set, which was a huge plus. And the after party was amazing (though I think that was actually in October... oh screw it it's staying in September: I'm just feeling a little bit crazy!)

October:Midterm came and I breathed a sigh of relief. But, when I opened my mouth to inhale, I found myself uncontrollably filling it with vodka. I attended my sister's 21st birthday, after having predrinks at a Latin lecture in UCD (it was really surreal that...) which was even better than my own milestone in May. Many crazy nights, including a reunion of the oxegen crew, were had, in between which I locked myself away in Stillorgan library to see if they had any books on how to beat the Leaving Cert.

November:I was very proud of myself in this month because I was really getting on top of my school work. AND I was finding time for 'play', which is an equilibrium I had never before reached. It was the real sort of working man's grind you see on T.V: slaving away Monday to Friday and then going on a bender at the weekends.

December:My heart filled with Christmas joy in the lead up to the end of 2008, and I really started to buckle down to the old studies. The whole thing has been a bit of an intense flurry of present buying and cramming for exams (which are over tomorrow thank God), punctuated by brief periods of inebriated relief. I went to see the Snowman in the 'nch', and it was unbelieveable. What about the days to come? It promises to a be a stressful Christmas, with my Dad the way he is trying to pretend that everything is normal this year (when it clearly is not), doing the whole big turkey shabang and inviting everyone we know around for drinks. But it also promises to be a great one. I can't wait to relax, fill myself with food and drink and see all of my friends. AND we're going skiing for New Years! I couldn't have planned it better if I had been devising this blog all year (for anyone who thinks I'm that weird, I assure you I haven't).

Yes, when I put it like that it seems like I had a really great year. And I feel like it was a really great year too. Though I have the Leaving Cert looming next year and the dreaded recession and all I feel like I'm looking forward to more of the same good times. As of now, I feel like life is treating me pretty well.

Frosty The Blogman

I'm off to see a showing of the Snowman in the National Concert Hall, or the 'nch' for those of us who are 'in the know' ie. completely up themselves. The National Symphony Orchestra (no abbreviation for that, 'unforch') are performing the soundtrack live as you watch the film, sitting right in front of you, live, Alive, in a state of living. I mean talk about excessive Christmas jubilations here. Getting into the spirit of things this much just seems wrong. I have a vague feeling someone should be arrested on account of this, though I know not who or why.

I will post my impressions on the morrow with any luck. Though I might not get the chance... I must apologise for my recent lack of blog-tivity, Christmas exams have taken over my life a lil' bit so whenever I find the time to blog I have nothing interesting about which to write; instead of boring you all I take the lazy way out, which works for everyone, except not everyone just me. Once these finish up and the festivities begin you can expect a little more frequency on my part. Or you can not do that, that's totally fine too... WHATEVER YOU WANT... I must go.

Fair Play duit a Facebook!

Up until recently I have hated Facebook with a burning passion; unlike Bebo it never uploads my photos, refuses to let me perve on people I vaguely/don't know, simply will not entertain the idea of allowing me to add any of its applications or do anything that might make the experience of using it even minutely engaging, and is just made of poo to be honest. That was my opinion up until recently, this is, up until my discovery of FACEBOOK AS GAEILGE, which, as I will explain, is a revelation that has, if it has not changed my life or me as a person in really any way, at least given me a few brief moments of mildly satisfactory life experience being the nerd that I am.

I had heard about how Facebook was making itself available in different languages when everyone started talking about the comical (for some...) 'Pirate Language' which is basically just Facebook in English with 'arr!'s all over the place (very annoying... or 'quirky and fun', if you happen to be female, and retarded). Now this prompts two thoughts: firstly that the idea that Facebook has actually become so advanced that it could actually programme itself in new languages independently is pretty chilling, so much so that you may actually switch off your computer and burn it, lock it in a cage, roll it up in a carpet and throw it off a bridge, and secondly that this could be a very useful feature for users of Facebook who speak some of the less well-known languages of the world.

After much infuriating messing about trying to install the 'Translations' application onto my profile involving a lot of switching back and forth between Mozilla, Safari and Explorer (perish the thought!), the pressing of the refresh button approximately 376, 228 times, and ordering some advanced scientific lab equipment on e-bay that would magnify my computer screen sufficiently that I could actually locate the ovum-sized icon on my profile allowing me to access the application, I succeeded in setting the thing up. Oh was I pleased with what I found! My whole page was translated instantly into (almost) flawless Irish, feeding deliciously into my delusions about Irish having a place in modern society.

In nerdy raptures did I find myself. This was because of the ingenious idea behind Translations: instead of going to the trouble of employing people who are fluent in the many obscure languages Facebook gives you, yes you the opportunity to translate everything yourself! And then you vote for the most appropriate versions of everything from 'Send your friend a gift of a Juno Burger Phone' to 'Rawanda Jackson has tagged you in her photo album "Christmas in TJ" ' and these become incorporated into your page according to popular opinion of which translations are best. Needless to say I immediately began voting, sighing happily to myself as I came across particularly eloquent sentences and swooping down in annoyance to correct any grammatical errors. I'm going to go so far as to use the phrase 'I was in my element'.

From there my interest has just dissipated, and I'm kind of over it now. However, I'm keeping my profile as Gaeilge: 'is tá sé i bhfad níos fearr dá bharr.

Something.....

It's been one of those weekends. I've been up and down like a yoyo at Alton Towers. I don't know what to make of my own mood... like right now I'm searching for predebs photos while listening to Faure's Requiem (best Requiem ever by the way), what is wrong with me? I didn't even know whether or not I felt like writing a blog: one minute I'd be all up for it and the next I wouldn't have the energy or interest. Not that I feel I have nothing about which to write, it's just that my mind's all over the place, totally restless. So I'll try my best to keep this moving and coherent and not whiny.

I had decided that this weekend was to be a very 'getting things done' weekend; chemistry notes were to be written up, Christmas presents were to be bought, study for exams was to be at least attempted, and merriment was to be had at the predebs (though not so much that I'd regret it the next morning). Alas, it didn't quite evolve in the way I had hoped it would... all I can really say is that I got good and pissed at the prebs, but considering my capacities that's hardly admirable or surprising.

Like I guess I had a good weekend on paper, but between the periods of fun I was in a state of total gloom... I think sometimes my expectations of people are too high. But then I second guess myself, thinking that maybe I'm just used to going along with what other people want all the time because I don't have the confidence to do my own thing so I don't speak out when people are treating you like a piece of shit. I'm in one of those moods when you're longing for a really nice, relaxed hang-out with friends, but everyone's off doing other things, and whenever you're around anyone anyway they just piss you off, and you them. It's times like these you ask yourself panicked questions like 'Do I have any real friends? Like I know I have friends, but do I really have any of those friends that you can always turn to when time are tough, the ones you see in movies, like who spat on their hands as children and joined them together and promised they'd always be friends etc.' and feel like you're drifting away in this slow inevitable movement from everyone you once felt close to...

OMFG I AM SOOOOOOOOO EMO LOIKE!!!!!!!

It had to be said... But ye, I really should be able to explain myself, to reference whatever events set me off on this self-absorbed rant (or is it a spell of clear thinking? See, I really couldn't tell you. But I'll stop now) however I'm finding this difficult. It's probably just a tumult of lots of things, the time of year, looming exams, everybody feeling stressed out... I've just got this overwhelming feeling of longing for something I can't even identify. I try to fill it with food, with t.v, with conversation, with exercise, with study even, with... other, offbeat things... but it's like the hopes I bring to every task that this will be the one thing that will bring me back to normal make everything futile to begin with.

I want something new, something wild, something fresh, something crazy, something altogether different, something I've never thought of, something I've never experienced, someone who'll really get me, something that'll take my mind off everything, something inspirational, something enriching, something that I'll need, something that'll need me, something that'll make me feel close to something, something that'll make me feel achievement, something that'll demand all of my attention. blaffhjgjjhghjghjgjh!!!!!!!!!

The Morning After

Have just brewed and ingested some of the hallowed Hot Apple Cider: 

Like doing mouth-sex in an extremely violent and illegal position. It was just like I imagined it would be. I feel utterly fulfilled, and yet I still want more, much more, if that makes any ounce of sense. Unfortunately, I forgot to get a snapshot of me climaxing as the delicious, golden liquid was slipping down my throat, but this will by no means be the last batch of the stuff (I bought enough cider for another round sometime this weekend) so don't fret (not that you would fret about not seeing a picture of me with a big orgasm face on me, but that is entirely irrelevant).

I'm feeling that sleepy feeling you get after you do dirty things, so I'll leave this blog with you here. Tomorrow when my body and mind have recovered I will hopefully write something more extensive and entertaining, and with any luck not related to beverages, but to be honest I wouldn't exactly hold my breath on that one. Hot Apple Cider FTW

'Did someone say Fristmas?'

As if my excitement for Christmas couldn't be any greater than it had already been, my excitement for Christmas has become even greater than it had already been: I've been officially invited to a celebration of  'Fristmas' ('Friends Christmas') on the day we finish exams - we're talking the full Christmas works: the food, the presents (Fris Frindel of course), the crackers, the drink (there was even a specific reference to mulled wine somewhere, no joke), but with the added pleasure of company of friends, and minus the excruciating displeasure of having to make conversation with weird uncles and listen to nana farting all through dinner. Whoever came up with this Fristmas idea should seriously be given very extensive supplies of both mulled wine AND hot apple cider.

I'm looking forward to it soooo damn much now. Despite all my talk of Christmas spirit, I have to say I had been a little worried about being stuck with family for the entire holiday. This will be our first Christmas spent 'normally' since my Mum died, and I know though we'll try our hardest to make it as enjoyable as we can that there's going to be times when we all feel dark and lonely. It really is going to be strange... Even as I write that it's our first normal Christmas I'm amazed by how unthinkable this idea is to me, how mysteriously time works; it has been so long since it happened, and yet it could still be yesterday to me. It's been the longest and the shortest time of my life. And I don't mind that that's going to be an unavoidable part of our Christmas from now on, that it's never going to be a wholly joyous event in our house, that there'll always be a cloud. It's just that when those lonely moments arise it's being around my friends that puts a smile back on my face, and I couldn't imagine not seeing them at all, being stuck in our empty house in the middle of Winter... And aside from that, there are the more obvious reasons why I'm looking forward to Fristmas, the chance to get absolutely langered namely. So bring on the Fristmas!

In other news, I finally have an update on the Missing Artist (breath, reader, breath; I know this is exciting for you): Our Art Teacher has informed us that he will be visiting us some time in the coming year, as he is 'otherwise engaged' with art stuff in London... shit. Still, better late than never!

Propa Crimbo

It's that time of year again! And I couldn't be more full of holiday cheer if you hooked the stuff up to my veins, or if you killed me, hollowed me out like a turkey, made holiday cheer stuffing, and crammed it up my ass.

I'm just one of those people who loves the Christmas Season. I can't help it. I wouldn't want to help it. While the rest of you scrooges were moaning about how the sudden drop in temperature these last few days has been giving you nipple frostbite, I've been relishing in this winter wonderland, licking frost off the ground like there's no tomorrow (not actually licking frost off the ground, because that's just dirty, but I was licking it with my eyes, as a watched it from the comfort of a warm fireside couch indoors, if that makes any sense at all, which it doesn't). Maybe it's my memories of last Christmas, which I spent in Canada with my cousins in their big mansion (expect some kind of look-back-to-last-Christmas blog in the near future for reasons why this was so amazing), which mean the cold weather evokes a sense of joy in my usually bitter and cold heart, I don't know. Whatever the reason is, I'm Christmas crazy and I'm hear to stay.

What do I love the most about Christmas you ask? Well, I'm a self-confessed lover of literally anything and everything to do with Christmas, but this year for some reason I've developed a deep desire, a craving much like the ones I assume pregnant women get, for mulled wine. I've only ever had mulled wine once, and that was years ago. I can barely remember the taste. But for some reason I want more of it, I want it so damn bad, I want pots and pots of it right now, steamy, sweet, warming, wholesome, liquidy, tasty, alcoholic, sexy mulled wine, and I want to be sitting around a real fire with my friends and we all have mulled wine in our hands and it's just starting to snow outside and there might be carollers somewhere maybe outside down the other end of the road I don't know.

When I sit and look at the frost outside I remember coming into my cousins house last year out of the bitter cold after a morning spent skiing - the wave of warmth when you get inside, the relief of peeling off the awkward ski-gear - lying down on the couch with the Little Sis watching Christmas with the Kranks drinking 'hot apple cider' to get some heat back into our frozen limbs. In fact, I like to imagine that mulled wine tastes a LOT like that hot apple cider did, which is probably just shameless nostalgia but anyway... it's weird though, who don't I just want hot apple cider? That would actually make sense... How fucked up do you have to be, honestly?

I went so far as to look up mulled wine on the interweb: it's a lot more complicated than I thought, I thought you just fucked wine in a pot and heated it, but as it turns out there are a number of finicky flavourings you need which probably make all the difference, most of which we just don't have, no matter how many times I empty the contents of our entire kitchen in search of them. So I've decided to make the Big Sis do it (what are women for anyway?); she'll probably make it better, and it means I don't have to do anything. So expect a euphoric after-sex mulled wine blog to follow this one, hopefully with a photo of me and the mulled wine in all its hot apple cider-esque glory. Alternatively, expect this to be my last ever blog, as I may die if and when the mulled wine does not taste exactly like the hot apple cider I had one time last year in Canada.

Adieu!

Meeting with a Madyoke

Was in the Academy of Music today for a piano exam. Cakeman (instead of using letters for people's names as I had previously been doing, I'm now switching to using code names, just because I thought I might make the effort to 'spice things up' a little.... oh, i hate my life...) had our exams one after another so we went in together. Sitting in a hallway waiting during Cakeman's exam I ended up beside possibly the biggest Looper ever born of woman. 

No sooner had the door closed behind Cakeman as he went in for his one when one of her clammy talons grasped my shoulder, and turning my head I beheld the jibbering nutcase in all her desperate madness, gobbling down her fingernails and fumbling to open her music book so that she could show me what pieces she was doing.

This wasn't the first time I had encountered someone with a tendency towards insanity waiting for a piano exam; the Academy where the exams are held is just the sort of place where you might run into ex-convicts, child savants and the like. Often it's someone who found music on the back of a particularly unhinging mid-life crisis, but I suspect that the woman who accosted me today was of a more disturbing variety - she seemed like the sort of person who had mid-life crises for kicks. Hoping I could dispel her interest in talking to me, I did my usual act that I do in these situations: put on a vaguely interested smile and say things like 'yes, thats always the way', trying to be discrete about taking out my phone to check the time every fifteen seconds.

Oh she was a talker. Talk talk talk talk talk talk talk. How she talked! She was certainly one who liked a good chat now and again, though preferably now. She must've asked me was I nervous about 10 times, although she clearly saw me already come out from having my exam, and each time she put forth the question I let it be known to her in an increasingly pissed-off tone of voice that I had already done the fucking exam so what was there to be nervous about now, you stupid, stupid bat. 

I was becoming desperate enough to pretend-call my Dad to get her to go away and leave me be when she mentioned a name which drained the blood from my face - HG (for an explanation, read my old blog concerning this... creature) . As it turned out, this mad person was also a product of that annoying little rat! Turns out HG told this psychotic woman to look out for me:

Crazy: 'Ye theres this guy Patrick/wefklsl;dfslslkalallives around clonskeagh...woeihfio HG ye she saidnell ye golddkajlad gold medalsjfilsjls oh ye golden ye teachesnsepojf out in clonskeaghsehs'

Me: 'Oh ye?'

Crazy: 'Ye!jsiejfsljrwelsjklfsjl, kind of dark curly hair,aewhakldoingehwjkan exam todayasawbndvbn might runaw intu himdahakk;'

Me:'Oh ye?'

Crazy: 'Ye!sjksjkllives in clonskeaghgjsdsiojslk'

Me: 'Oh ye?'

You get the picture. It was sad really, because I had explained already what my name was, where I lived, what exam I was doing, everything... At one stage she did look at me and I could swear some small broken fuse in the depths of her distorted brain clicked and she realised that I was in fact the person she was describing. But since I never let on that it was me she must have thought it couldn't possibly be. Inside I was cracking up though.

I had a little more fun with her then, because by then I had realised the true depths of her disillusionment. I played along as she told me stories about her kids (none of which i understood, but it involved a lot of her slapping herself in the shoulder and wagging her finger at me) and showed me a photo of her piano, which she had brought with her to show the examiner(wtf?). When Cakeman was finished we made a speedy exit and shouted to eachother  all the way through town about what a madyoke the madyoke had been - she had shown him the photo too, and what pieces she was going to play.

I can't wait to tell HG what I thought of the madyoke

 

The things people do

Woke up today with a horrible sore throat so I stayed home from school. 

Unable to believe that when you're sick you sometimes just have to let your illness run its course, and that there's nothing you can do except to stay in bed and drink buckets of water, I sat on the kitchen floor and opened up all the cupboards trying to find the antidote, dosing myself with whatever seemed like it could have vaguely medicinal qualities at the time. Mostly this amounted to a pile of vitamin tablets and jar of honey, which I went through determinedly with a teaspoon. Of course, with such things there always reaches a point when something brings you back down to earth and you realise what the hell you've been doing for the past 4 hours; for me it was in the early afternoon when a call I got a call from my Dad and I looked down and saw that I was sitting on the hard, cold kitchen floor wearing a t-shirt and boxers having systematically eaten an entire jar of honey. I've probably contracted something worse now... next time I'll eat two jars... 

Missing

No sign of the famous artist today... I bopped into the art room today full of anticipation to be greeted not by a supremely talented young artist fast becoming recognised internationally as such (as he rightly should be), but to my dismay the only one to be found there was a cantankerous old gremlin-queen on a P.M.T related hissy fit about Michelangello (ah Mr. O'C, we love you really). I felt dismayed, but was determined to uncover the truth behind the absence of our 'guest speaker'.

I should explain: it was in fact said gremlin-queen (I'm going to stop referring to him as gremlin-queen now because I actually respect him a lot and think he's an amazing teacher... he can just be a bit of a bitch from time to time...) who had announced to us last Friday that on Monday Cian McLoughlin would be 'flying in from London', where he currently has an exhibition, to speak to the class about continuing a career in art. I didn't question the obvious absurdity in this because I figured since Cian Mc Loughlin is a former student of O'C's he was allowed to call in a favour once in a while. But when McLoughlin never showed today, and O'C was subsequently in a supremely 'trollish' humour, I began to smell a rat.

Inquiring as to the whereabouts of the missing artist after a horrifyingly boring art history class on the Cistine Ceiling, O'C snapped that he had been 'delayed', in a tone which suggested perhaps there were underlying causes at play; his manner put me in mind of an embittered ex-lover , perhaps, whose heart had been broken by some insensitive bastard along the way, or of a hurt and confused Ghilberti, teacher of Donatello, who was eventually overtaken by his more talented pupil. I couldn't help but feel sorry for the man (but mostly I just hated him for the shite class we had just had.. but anyway).

Now all I can do is hope that Cian McLoughlin will keep his commitment, if he's not jetting of somewhere else because of his sold-out high-powered money-spinning 'fame art'... Ungrateful little brat... I gave him all I had... And he discarded me like an old oil paintbrush that hadn't been washed properly in white spirits immediately after use... ahem.

Wow @ Artdude

Cian McLoughlin, one of my favourite artists ("and he's also a past pupil of my school - just throwing that out there, as you do... You know, I do a bit of sketching from time to time myself... What? Oh, these things?... Oh no, they're nothing special, just preliminary drawings really in preparation for a more major work of mine... Oh, you couldn't possibly think that! What? Why, yes, I'd be delighted to have you commission me to create a piece inspired by the the next up and coming dramatic production in the Temple Bar Arts Centre, though I can't for the life of me think why I would even be considered for such a prestigious commission as this, but you definitely will not regret this decision, my beloved patron..."), is coming in to speak to our class next week. I can barely believe it. I'm a little sick in my stomach. This is like how a normal person might feel if... Bono (as soon as I typed that I realised how embarrassingly uncool that would be and I'm about 20 years too late) came into give their class a talk, on the the virtues of carefully selected eyeware.

Just look at his stuff. It's absolutely awe-inspiring. It's like he a creates this dark room behind every drawing he does and has the figure emerging out of it into the light, making it all feel so real. And check out his website for more of the mindblowing same.

Gona' bake a pie, gona' bake a pie

We had apple pie for desert again today. My Dad makes terrible apple pies, and he makes them with unpleasant frequency. You walk into the kitchen and you just know - the warm, stale smell wafting, the green and brown apple skins piled up in the compost bin, the awful mess itself waiting in the shadows at the back of the low oven, growing crustier and crustier. It's become his stock-desert, turning up on the counter whenever a certain number of days has passed, or, you know, whenever he's just at a loose end for twenty minutes.

C and I talk about it in hushed whispers - we don't want him to know the truth. What can we do about it anyway? Coming right out and saying it would only make Dad go off into a sulk, probably baking several self-pity pies to make himself feel better. Sometimes one of us will remark, offhandedly, on how sweet and delicious the ones Granny makes are: 'One of these days we should really squeeze the recipe out of her', we chuckle desperately, pleadingly. But to no avail.

The leftovers are set to rest in the fridge, rotting gleefully. No one eats it except for S, who doesn't actually eat it, just puts it in her lunch box and throws it out when she comes home from school. When it's all gone the cycle begins again, like groundhog day. And we sit there, chewing away on the pastry dust and bitter, dry apple-goo, not saying a word to save his feelings... 'mnamnam, delicious, mnamnam'...

Oh how I would love to take a hammer to one of those pies.

Tidbit of Crap

I've just finished reading over the blog I wrote on Sunday, and it seems to me that it's kind of unsatisfactory (from a reader's point of view, of course: my writing was impeccable as always, being distantly related to James Joyce as I am, ye, 1st cousin twice removed, pretty cool eh? I think so... anyway...). I come back to blogging like this, all of a sudden, diving right in at the morbid end, with no explanation of any kind of what I've been up to these, I don't know, how long has it been, 6 months?

As a reader I was yearning, no, aching to know what I had missed out on in the supremely captivating life of myself over the past half a year. Really, it was tearing me up inside. So now, rotating back to the writer's point of view, I think I should probably write some sort of flashback blog or something to set the minds of my many, many fans at ease.
But then, another thought entered my mind, a four letter word which would send me on to write the insubstantial blog in front of you - trek. Who's bothered recording a whole 6 months of their life into a single blog? not me it would seem. Anyway, in the process of carrying out that unsavoury task I might realise how little I actually DO, and that wouldn't do at all. That would send me on a shame spiral so deeply coiled I might never, ever recover, and all my blogs would take on a real 'woe is me' vibe. No, that wouldn't do at all.

Instead, I've decided to give you little snippets of stuff relating to 'the missing months', as they're forthwith to be called, and hopefully this will give you an overall picture of what's changed and what's stayed the same, and give me something to actually write about in the absence of me having any kind of actual life. So here we go:

One thing that that has happened is that I've developed a bit of an interest in 'the theatre',
put in inverted commas for fear of sounding unforgivably gay. It all began with our 6th year play, in which I had a miniscule part and was the stage manager for (quite an honour really...ahem) ... I kind of regretted having signed up to do all that stuff sometimes when I was back after school every day doing this or that to help out, but the final product was completely worth it; seeing it all come together, seeing all the work everyone had done come into fruition, seeing the set I had helped to build, seeing the look on the faces in the audience - it was an unforgettable experience.
Since then I have been to see 2 plays, something I never would have considered doing beforehand because I had little interest, but now with an appreciation of the work that goes into them, the sense of intimacy and spectacle the finished work can create, I rushed headfirst into the first play that came my way. I'll give a brief summary of the plays:

The first one I saw was called Daily Bread, and was performed by the Dublin Youth Theatre company in the Templebar Arts Centre. I have to say the only real reason I went to this was because I knew someone who was in it. But it was absolutely amazing, really different to anything I had ever seen before (which is nothing I suppose... but anyway) . It was a play about the ratrace of the working world, with 7 work-weary work-orientated individuals talking about their lives in one long spiel, one persons speech running into the next, and the whole play was carried on in this way, in one long scene (this effect was so cool). I read a review of this play which said that because the cast were all in their late teens and early twenties, the play was an odd choice as the cast could not connect with the more mature characters they were meant to be portraying. This wasn't really a big factor in the end - I thought it was hilarious, and the actors definitely got something of the 30something officeworker across to me. One great line which I still remember, used by a highpowered, embittered, lonely executive woman to express her distaste for a waitress who tried to talk to her, had my sides splitting: 'I don't deserve to have an encounter with human misery just because I want some light refreshment'.

Right, so the first play was great, and I was hungry for more of the same. More of the same came along in the form of The Nose, which I saw only last night. This play, a post-modern production adapted from a work written by a Russian novelist called 'Gogol' (what a name!), was also on in the Templebar Arts Centre (as you may have guessed this isn't exactly a haunt of mine, I just saw the poster for The Nose there while I was going to see Daily Bread... yes, I'm a sham), this time in their main auditorium, which was really cool and dark and the set was absolutely incredible. The play was about a guy who wakes up without a nose, only to find that the nose has taken on an identity of its own and is causing mayhem for its previous owner. This sounds mental, and it really was - it was very surreal, but not too 'art' that it was pretentious or anything. The acting was particularly good, especially considering most of the 6 actors involved had to play at least 3 parts, and had some unbelievably rapid costume changes. The best scene out of the play was this one that was taking the piss out of t.v reporters, with one of the actresses playing this really over-the-top version of one. I couldn't stop laughing at her, she totally captured the whole t.v reporter bit, and she kept sitting down beside audience members and talking about them into her mic., which was absolutely hilarious.

So that's about all I can think to say about those, but hopefully I've got across the general feeling of what they were like. And I urge anyone who like me used to think theatre was a load of bollocks to give it a go. 'Don't knock it til you've tried it' as they say... As for me, I'll be looking out for plays meself, so if you hear of a good(cheap) one, tell me about it!

Don't forget to tune in again soon for my next tidbit of crap...

Ghostworld

After an long-extended break from writing in this, it seems a bit strange that in my first blog-back I would be writing about aimlessness... But I suppose it's down to aimlessness that I've ended up back here in this haven for the lost and loserly, recording my moanings so that you can all feast upon them from some safe and secret corner, your spotty, pale face, made even paler by the glow of the computer screen, your brow rising and falling ever so slightly as you read, indicating that yes, you do still have some semblance of a human heart left after bebo has had its fun with you and tossed you back down into dark abyss from whence you came, after even the most violent and despicable porn sites have become banal to your small, scrutinous, squinting eyes.

So ye... I'm just feeling in a bit of a nowhere place right now... Although I'm still in school (though only for a few more months, thank god) I feel like it's already over. I'm attributing this to that fact that I've been 18 for almost 6 months now (wow I just realised that); everything about 'growing up', all the rites of passage and all that just feels like bullshit at this stage, and I know that sounds terribly up myself but it's true. I'm sure once I hit college everything will seem fresh again, and there'll be a whole new set of occasions to look forward to. But right now, I've still got to go to school, fill in my homework journal and drink my little carton of milk at big break, and think about the Leaving Cert. I just feel like I'm in a transition phase, while logically I'm just heading towards an inevitable point, one for which I really should start getting ready.
Come to think of it this feeling is probably due to some subconscious fear of disappointment, I'm just opting out of the present so I don't have to worry about the future or something like that
fancier language. Oh deary deary me...

So ye I think this has been a pretty good return blog so I'm just going to leave it at that. I'll leave you with a quote from Ghostworld, the movie whose title I stole for this blog:

'I'm taking a remedial art class for retards and fuck-ups'...(it's a really, really weird movie)

Tributes

I have crossed the threshold of maturity: 18 today! It is so strange, I feel a genuine sense of pleasure at becoming one year older today, as opposed to the usual indifference which has accompanied previous birthdays. I am attributing this solely to that fact that I actually put some effort into organising some birthday celebrations this year, and this upholds my adamant belief that it is the people who celebrate with you and not the celebration itself which makes an occasion: in a way you're not even celebrating the birthday in the end - you're just marveling at simply being together, at having each other as fucking great friends. And so it is with this sentiment, as well as a terrible hangover, that I begin my blog of Tributes to those people who made my party great (Yes I'm that proud: it was fucking AWESOME), those people who threw their study out the window in favour of slaving away making playlists into the wee hours of the morning, who taped together literally hundreds of thousands of pieces of crepe paper which would never be appreciated in the way that they deserved, who generally rocked on and got everybody in the mood with a great set which no-one wanted to end, who bounced the bounce and bombed the bombs, or who simply by their natural likeability and love for fun created the atmosphere.

Let's start with Lisa. When I innocently asked her a month ago would she mind if I asked her to organise the music for the party, and she stepped up to the challenge, little did she know what would lie ahead: formatting issues, a far too extensive number of songs, crises involving arrangement on playlists and the final stretch of burning it all and hoping everyone would like it. With admirably little moaning she carried out The Task, as it was to be so befittingly capitalised, and on the night it was received extremely well. Infinite kudos and a regrettable promise to return the favour go out to her, wherever she may be, most likely somewhere between this world and that of "you-tube".

Next we move along to those who helped me get the house prepared and stocked up: Declan, who lent us the use of his car and was not only overflowing with great ideas for the party but also handled the delicate matter of getting the booze, being one of the few people there who was 'come of age'. To put it simply: if Carlsberg did friends...

Then there was Cian, who worked away through one of the hottest days of the year helping me move around furniture and clear away the breakables, not to mention the inventive creation of 'atmospheric lighting' using crepe paper, a lot of crepe paper, with never a frown. This was horribly undervalued by everyone at the party, but I still think it was worth making - it was certainly difficult enough: why don't you try sticking up paper over your bulbs so pathetic that the power of the light emitted is powerful enough to knock it to the floor? Clare D also assisted at this time, though I can't for the life of me remember what she did to help... oh well, I'm sure she was a great support. (...)

Of course it would be just immoral to go any further without giving a mention to what certain informed insider sources in the music industry are calling 'the next big thing' - yes, that's right goys - it's Funky Thursday! Having seen them play a number of times before I honestly didn't expect them to surprise me last night by how good they were; but alas, they went far beyond my expectations. 'Showstopping'; they had everyone, to borrow a well-known phrase, 'rockin' and jivin' (with jesus!)'. A special tribute to Neil should be made here for overcoming a mid-set vocal problem when in typical diva fashion he demanded pure honey to soothe his aching chords.

Ok I really would love to go on and on and on and I seriously could, but I'm very tired so I'm going to list briefly everyone else that sticks in my mind. Paul, for doing what he does best, baking kick-ass cakes (yez...). Cathy, for raising the tone somewhat with her somewhat more cool college friends who know how to play everything on the guitar ever, and for acting well the part of the cool older sister. Stef, for cleaning up the kitchen better than it has ever been cleaned up before. A number of people for just effortlessly being the ones who made friends with everyone: Hugo (everybody loves you), Clare D, Tiernan, Declan, Aido, and many more. 

The last thing goes out to everyone who came for makes a memorable birthday for me: because it's not every day you turn 18 (and people love an excuse for a party). All that's left to say is: THANK YOU!

Exams!

Yes, it's that time of the year again. And since I've been cooped up inside for the past week alternating between studying desperately, tearing page after page out of my notepad, on the verge of paralysis from the horror of how much Maths I do not know, and watching The Inbetweeners on 4od, I can think of nothing better to write about other than the matter at hand.

Friday - Irish

I did a very disproportionate amount of study for this one as it was my first exam. I spent the previous week writing and rewriting essays about 'Gealt' (For our international readers that's 'crazy person/maniac/looper') and 'Jack', probably the two worst poems ever written in any language, and 'An Bhean Óg' ('the young woman'), a story in which nothing happens for a very long time. Needless to say, I excelled in the exam, and felt extremely pleased afterwards, but this was followed immediately by a feeling of impending doom about all the other subjects, for which I hadn't done a tap.

Monday - English and Music

Both of these went well since they don't involve much learning off of reels of useless shite, and suit well the winger of exams. Our music teacher Ms. Dunne put the same question on the paper that she gave us at Christmas, pretending that it was a favour she was doing us instead of the truth that she just hadn't bothered to make out a new one. All's well that ends well, I suppose...

Tuesday - Latin

Can I just start by stating that Virgil had NO MATES. He writes terrible poetry. His hateful text has caused nothing but woe, and we all would have been better off if he had never been born, in order that we might be saved from his diabolical similes, which are always utterly unsuitable and go on infinitely, every time he wrote one of those similes he just should have started a new book just for that one simile, but yet again I stress that it would have been even better if he had just never existed... So ye, expect for the Virgil everything went fine.

Wednesday - Maths and Art History

The worst ones so far... Math's was a train wreck, Art History not much better. I'd rather not talk about it...

Coming Soon - Chemistry and French

What I should be studying right now while I write this. Alright I'm going to go do that now. Bubye.

A Year in a Day

A year ago today my mum died. Things didn't feel like I imagined they would.

Our Summer Exam's started this morning with Irish, and I got through that very well; the questions all suited what study I had done, and I didn't freeze or anything disastrous like that. In fact, I think I may have written one of the best Irish exams of my life, and this thought put me in a good mood for the rest of the morning. I wasn't feeling sad at all. I knew what this day meant, but it didn't seem to matter: it was just another day after all. Having gone home after the exam to get a change of clothes and something to eat I headed into town to meet up with some friends to relax after the day's work. This was nice enough - strolling around the usual streets, lounging on the grass in Stephen's Green. But I didn't seem to be thinking on the same level as the other guys. I couldn't enjoy the conversation or take part in it. They were enjoying a beautiful summer's day in the park, albeit with exams just behind them and more again looming in front, but I wasn't there. Sure enough, it was all being replayed - the lonely, awkward feeling that no-one understands.

We headed back to a friend's house and was feeling pretty down. I stayed on for hours doing very little, probably putting off facing my own thoughts in some subconscious way. It wasn't until I was halfway home on the Luas that it all seemed to hit me.

I started to go over the moment I found out, something I used to do very often but hadn't done in a while before today. Being led into the office where my Dad and C were waiting. I remember the how utterly destroyed they looked. The sinking realisation of despair that exploded inside me that it was all over when he told me. Saying stupid things, stumbling in a daze down the corridor to find my bag so that I could get out. Balling my eyes out in the carpark as Cathy told me about what she had been through that awful day, which I still can't begin to imagine, it makes my mind go blank when I try to think about the feelings. It was all today, even everything afterwards, the detached feelings, the unbearable reality that life goes on, the sympathetic neighbours and the unconscious friends. A year today. A year in a day.

Later on I tried hanging out with my old road friends to see if they'd realise what I was going through. I didn't want to be alone. But they too didn't seem to get it, and it was a much more bitter blow with them. I felt so alienated. I got a lift home with my friend Dc even though it was hardly warranted, as I live no more than two minutes walks away from the person's house I was in. We dropped off N at his house, and once the doors were closed and it was just me and him, plain as you like Dc says "So how are you doing considering the day that's in it?". To be honest at first I didn't even know what he was talking about; he was the first one to say it out loud, and I had been resigned to the fact that no one was going to. It cheered me up somewhat to be able to talk about it a bit. Dc really is a great friend who's always there if you really need him. But it didn't stop me wondering: when it all happened a year ago it felt like I always had someone to talk to. Now it feels like there's no-one. But I know it's just because life has to continue, and I have to live with it. And there's no comfort in that. And there's nothing anyone can say.

Crazy Organ Lady Goes to Lapland

Sunday was not a good day.

My deranged piano teacher HG, who for those of you without the limitless pleasure of having made her acquaintance is a Canadian-Irish hypochondriac rodent-woman whose interests include sacred organ music, apple juice, endless talk about nothing, and endless talk about herself (but we love her for it... ahem), took me out piano shopping (yes, I say it as off-handedly as that) to Pianos Plus. Unfortunately Pianos Plus is situated in the dead-centre of the middle of fucking nowhere, and to reach it one has to navigate around the notorious 'Mad Cow Roundabout', as HG so comically called it, which manages to keep up the road quality and bumpiness of an off-road rally track while still retaining the disorientating charm of a labyrinth. Not too fun. And I was tired. And HG was exceptionally animated and self-obsessed. A recipe for disaster.

She just wouldn't shut up about her beloved Pipeworks organ festival, with whose organisation she is vaguely involved and in which she probably wasn't even asked to take part, but still horned in on on account of her unfaltering self-importance. And for the love of jesus I do not care, have never cared, and will never, ever care about anything that concerns your friend Dk.

HG, while at the wheel:"Oh gosh, I have a cut on my arm! Oh, it goes right the way round! I don't even remember how I got that! That's so annoying, eh? It's actually really sore".

Me, unable to contain my utter disinterest:"Oh, that's awful. You should put a bandage on that."

HG:"No, it's completely fine. I know, it's awful! The funny thing is I don't even remember how I got it you know? That's the worst... It's still quite painful though, I just know it's going to be bothering me all day!"

Me:"Well it doesn't really look too serious, it almost looks like it's healed already."

HG:"No but it's really very sore. Oh gosh, but it's just so FUNNY..."

Oh yeah? Is that funny? Do you know what else would be really FUNNY? If I shoved your pathetic child's carton of apple juice down your throat!! UGGHHHHH!!!!

And do you know what else was really funny? When HG finally listened to my directions after about an hour of driving around in circles, when we finally arrived at the godforsaken place, it turned out that it was closed for Sunday. Oh joy.

"Oh noooooo... that's just awful, eh? Oh, I'm terrible I really should have checked, I knew that it was open on a Saturday and I just presumed it would be on a Sunday too... This is just so annoying eh? I really thought it would be open, I really did, I should have rang to check though... Gosh, it's just so FUNNY though.."

Don't tempt me woman.

New Name

So I decided to change my name, and for no reason really, other than I hated the old one and thought it was stupid and everytime I looked at it I screamed inwardly with shame and thought to myself 'I would NEVER read a blog with the name *****i*** *****h* *a***** (I can't even bare to write it out again). Thankfully now I can look at the name with some degree of...well, mild indifference; but at least I will never again find myself recoiling from the sheer tear-your-own-skin-off embarrassment whenever I see it.

Nothing much else to say with this blog; I've been spending my days practicing the piano and trying to start studying which aren't topics writing on which I can really nail you to your seat; so why not make like me and feast your ears on a bih'ra Beethoven? Hopefully I'll be able to play it this well eventually.

On Depression

While I'm pretty sure I have never been depressed, taking the clinical usage of the word(I've thought about it, have had to think about it, have been very confused by it, and I'm almost completely certain), but I've suffered from the effects of depression for the most part of my life. Some of my oldest and most defined memories concern it, and I can say confidently that it has played a huge part in shaping the person who I have become.

People who have never experienced depression hands on can only assume it is an awful thing, and in one way they're completely spot on: it throws your whole perspective on life and relationships into confusion, puts unbelievable stress on any individual who has depression or knows someone who does, can be enraging at times, and tests you to your very limits of patience and understanding. It is terribly painful to face, the main reason why it is not spoken about publicly: some go so far as to say it is stigmatising (they're right).

I'd be willing to wager I have more understanding of, or at least have given more thought to depression than, say, most people in my year would have, but of course you can never really know what's going on behind closed doors, and so maybe we're all dealing with it, in one way or another. But why can't we know about it? Why can't it be discussed? It's extremely relevant in society today, figures will tell you, and the devastating effects that it can have should arguably provoke some public debate. What's with the big cover up people?

People don't mind talking about cancer do they? or diabetes?  'Manic depression' is now a recognised illness, and is treated by trained medical professionals where appropriate. So why all the taboo? The very existence of something as innately dangerous and threatening as depression is a big factor. The fact that it occurs at all raises serious questions about our understanding of human life, and the idea of the success of the western world (don't even get me started) - shouldn't we all be happy now? The idea that a naturally occurring tendency can become even more powerful than our need to procreate forces us to raise questions about any understanding of the meaning of life we might have within ourselves, something many people would rather just avoid, even when doing this comes at a horrible price.

I have half a mind that depression is not an 'illness' at all, it's just that to define it as one is so much more convenient than asking the questions that would crop up if that were untrue; after all, the fact that people who are medicated for depression experience even worse bouts of mania every time they go off the drugs suggests that we're not really treating it at all. I think it's not treatable; because it's just people (don't get me wrong; the drugs have there uses, but they do not cure mental 'illness'. fact.)

But I don't know enough about that to say anything for certain, it's just a thought. And now I gone and gone off the point, damnit. What I was trying to get to was that I think depression should be more openly discussed, especially among guys, who in my experience are worse for pretending it's nothing too serious, or that it's not there. I'm not saying people should shout it from the rooftops and make personalised t-shirts proclaiming their state of mind, but if you can't talk to your friends or your family, chances are you won't talk to anyone. 

Once or twice I've had reason to think that one of my friend's was suffering from depression, and that other friends weren't giving the thing the seriousness it deserved or didn't really know what to make of it. I wanted to talk to the person but they were extremely difficult to approach about it. I knew the person would definitely have seen it as personal weakness to admit to something as basically human as feeling sad. It made me feel terrible that I couldn't bring myself to just give them a hug and say 'I'm there for you', but I couldn't as long as the person remained so outwardly unfazed. And it fucking pisses me off that the situation can exist where someone feels they can't admit something like that, because of the shame or the stigma, the associations. 

This person seems to be ok now. I think the thing has sorted itself out for now at least, so they're in no danger. But if something were to happen again, I'd like to know that they wouldn't have doubts about telling someone what they're going through. That's all really.

God don't really want to end on a 'where is the love?' note but that's where it's heading, so I'm going to just leave it here. See'yall soon now!

Frustrated Artist

Every year for sports day my school holds an exhibition of all the students' art from that year. The fifth year art class are usually rounded up the day before to crop, mount and stick everything up all over the school, which means a lot of mitching for me. And that day was today. After pretending to be thoughtfully considering the placement of some truly abysmal and shite first year comic strips for half an hour, then eventually throwing most of them away and halfheartedly sticking up a few decent ones, I strolled around to look at the rest of work. 

It struck me that almost nothing of my own art was to be seen anywhere. Then, horribly, it struck me that I hadn't really done anything good this whole year. I felt nothing did me justice, anyway. That made me pretty sad. Art is something I love and I enjoy everything that it encompasses, from the little intricate pen doodles you do in class of teachers, to the beautiful feeling you get when you capture the humanity of a face you're sketching, to lashing red paint onto a big white sheet and letting it dribble all the way down. And it's something I think I'm pretty good at. Or could be pretty good at. And it sucks to feel like you're wasting your own potential, especially in something about which you care a lot.

My own lack of material was especially obvious beside the emerging ridiculous talent of some of the other guys in my class. One person in particular had done some absolutely awe-inspiring stuff that showed the skill and freedom of a professional artist - and this guy's in my class, in 5th year! He's so much more focused and his style is far more developed that mine, it's amazing. 

But I'm not trying to put this guy up on a pedestal or anything. In fact, I'm so glad that he did such great art because it's made me want to wake up and do myself as much justice as he's done to himself. His work has made me so jealous, it's sickening, and I'm pretty sure that feeling is shared by a lot of other guys in my class. It's the good side to competitiveness, where it urges you on to do better things for yourself and not just so you rub it in other peoples' faces.

All that said I still have to get up off my ass and do some art.......... Probably not going to start right now, so I'll set a goal for myself I think: by the end of Summer, I'm going to be back in the game.

P.S go read Kate's rant about competitiveness on her blog, it's hilarious and made me think of writing this blog (btw major thanks for Kate).

Boy Reads Great Book

Last Christmas I bought my sister C Stephen Fry's autobiography, 'Moab is my Washpot' (either haven't a clue what the title means or can't remember if it was mentioned in the book). In typical fashion she digested it in about 45 minutes, then stuffed it into a shelf somewhere to gather dust. I'm not a very big reader, and am definitely not a fan of non-fiction. Even 'The God Delusion' didn't stir me, a book many called 'unputdownable' and one I thought would be really fascinating, but I didn't even reach the halfway mark. So when I picked up 'Moab is my Washpot' it was because of vague interest in 'that guy off QI' rather than a belief that the story of his life would get through the fifty page test.

But I couldn't put it down. Fry writes extremely well and has a great sense of humour, always nudging the book's pace along in the same way you might do if you were having a very leisurely conversation with an old friend, probably after a few drinks though. His complete honesty when talking about himself is evident because after reading it you feel as if you've known him as a real person rather than as a t.v personality or general funny-man, and you mentally laugh and cry at all the right moments. And it doesn't hurt that his life makes for an extremely compelling story. But I wont ruin the plot on you.

Reading the book gave me a way stronger interest in the great man that is Stephen Fry, and by now I've seen loads of his comedy work for t.v, and his various documentaries, which are always informative, frank and excellently put-together, and I've just, right this very moment, found  out that he has his own blog (...here I take a break to read his blog...) which on first reading isn't what I'd hoped* when I initially saw that he had his own blog and nearly fell off my chair; but it's great nonetheless.

*never meet your heroes.

Let there be Light!

The Summer Exams are in two weeks and I'm dreading them, I'm playing in a feis tomorrow with a piece for which I have absolutely no love left and My bloody 18th still needs sorting out. This is more than enough crap to have me tearing my all my hair out from the strain. Normally, that is. But how could anyone sit inside weeping and feeling sorry for themselves, eating slice after slice of charleville cheddar cheese as I can sometimes be found doing in these times, when the weather has been so brilliant these last few days?

If anyone who is not from Ireland happens to be reading this, and that's being more than a bit optimistic on my part, you probably won't understand how much joy an Irish person feels when the weather is actually good for once. It just makes you want to go outside and take off all your clothes and scream 'I'm alive!'... While I haven't quite got to that stage yet, over the last few days I've at least tried to soak up as much of the sun as I can.

Monday was the best day - I was over at my friend Br's house for her 18th birthday, and it looked so nice outside some of us ended up heading out to Belgrave Square for a picnic. It was one of those lazy summer days that we only hear about over here; lying there on the grass in complete contentment, messing around doing cartwheels (well, I being an almighty sourpuss didn't manage to but some others did) and such. Everything seems to look better when it's sunny; the shapes that the shadows of trees make on the grass, the light glinting off a metal railing, even the people look more attractive. I think I could get used to this living, even if experience has taught me to watch the weather forecast and expect the worst. Still, I can hope...

There Ain't No Party Like Your Own Birthday Party

I'm going to be turning 18 at the end of this month. Against my better judgement I've decided to organize a reasonably-sized bash at my house to commemorate the occasion. I'll confess that it has me a bit nervous. Usually my birthday falls mercifully during the week of summer exams at the end of the school term, and that's the excuse I give to justify why I never have a birthday (everyone will be too busy with their nose in the books to have fun! oh well!) but the truth is, like a lot of people I think, I just hate having to organize my own party.

A simple question from a relative or friend can send me into a catatonic state from the pure terror: 'so, what are you doing for music?' ' fingerfood or a proper meal?' 'how many people are coming?'. Now that you mention it, I haven't thought about any of that, actually........ Oh god. What if people don't like my taste in music, they all stop 'movin-and groovin' and say 'let's get out of here man....' and I'm forever known as the guy whose 18th was completely shite. 

Do people like Digitalism? Queen? Justice? That funny song by The Rasmus? Am I that sad that I like anything by The Rasmus? What do you all want from me????

Dude, You Gotta Get Out More...

Have been having a great long weekend so far, feels like I'm emerging back out into the world after being shut away inside for too long.

Yesterday I went to the cinema for the first time in ages to see 21 with Cl. The first thing to say about this was that I really liked the soundtrack, which contained a lot of slow beats and trancesque songs and really suited the film, and is well worth checking out. The film itself does exactly what it says on the tin, ie. it's an average heist thriller complete with plenty of slick montages of Las Vegas and a thoroughly predictable twist at the end. That said I really enjoyed it, mainly because I'm one of those people on whom the novelty of going to cinema never seems to wear off, and the fact that I was there with Cl. I think there's something fundamentally pleasing about watching a film in the cinema; the epic presentation, the way it's so intimate and so communal at the same time; or maybe I'm just a guy who likes watching movies, who knows.

Today I met up with some friends that I hadn't seen in ages, A and C we'll call them for privacy's sake. Seeing old friends is a truly amazing feeling, especially when it feels as if no time has passed at all since you last spoke and you fall effortlessly back into getting on dandily. I also came into contact with a group of regular old nerd camp freaks, a body of people that once mixed in some of the same circles as me but now, thankfully, do not, and A and I were slagging and bitching about them just like old times, an experience which evoked fond memories of 2nd and 3rd year.

I feel like just saying "ahhhh......."

Dirty Sexy Long Weekend

The long weekend has arrived!  I'm so glad to have five whole days off from school to relax and finally purge my body of this f****** cough, people have stopped being sympathetic and are now pissed off and/or laughing at my incessant wheezing. I am in a really summerish mood which doesn't really reflect the weather at the moment (it's still cold, despite the sun) and I hope things pick up over the weekend so that I can have a bit of outdoors fun, I feel like I've spent the last six months stuck inside. If that doesn't happen, and this is more likely, I have plenty of back ups, films I want to see, friends I want to meet up with, and the like.

One time I'll definitely be staying indoors is tomorrow night for dirty sexy money, my new t.v fix. If you haven't heard of it or haven't had the chance to watch it it's something I'd definitely recommend. Nothing beats putting your feet up with a take-away and switching off to the ridiculously luxurious lifestyle of the Darlings, the family around which the whole thing revolves. The only problem.......it's on on a Friday night, which can be pretty inconvenient to say the least. Luckily this week I've designated the time to watch it with a my friend Cn, a dirty sexy money party even, if that doesn't sound too wrong. But if you fall into the box of people that tends to be busy around that time, I would suggest getting 4od, an online service set up by Channel 4 to allow you to download programs televised on Channel 4 or its subsidiaries on demand, for free, with no catches. It's helped me out of tight situations more than once I can tell you. Think I'll go browse it now and zone out in front of brothers and sisters or some shite... Enjoy the long weekend everybody, all two of you who read this!

Surprising Myself

Last year at around this time my Mum decided to end her life. It might seem a bit weird that I'm phrasing it in that particular way, "decided to end her life", but I've struggled a lot with trying to find a suitable way of expressing the action. I hate it when people try to put it euphemistically by saying she died "tragically" or even worse, that she "passed on" or "passed away". I can't stand everything that "passed on" suggests: that it was 'just another step along the way', that it was somehow majestic or even beautiful; everything that it wasn't, basically. I also don't like saying it in a complete matter-of-fact way, because that can be pretty upsetting at times too. I think the way I've found to say it is very appropriate; honest, definite, but not going into unnecessary detail and not prettying it up.

That's something that I've put a bit of thought into, but it's veering off the point a bit, so I'll continue. The anniversary of her death is coming up later this month, but it hasn't really been bothering me as much as I thought it might. In fact, I wasn't even thinking about it at all until a few nights ago, when it came up as a matter of practicality. Dad and Granny want the engraving on her gravestone to be done before the anniversary, and my sis C and I were given a draft of the text as written by my Granny to look over. Dad was clearly not pleased with the way Granny had phrased it and the reason for this was very obvious to both of us immediately, so he was hoping for us to feed him back his own opinion on it.

At first I didn't really care about it; I was pretty exhausted at the time. I liked Dad's version a lot more than I did Granny's, so I just told him whatever they decided was fine. In any case, all that stuff -visiting the grave with flowers and looking at the lovely inscription etc.- never seemed important to me in the slightest, completely detached as it is from my Mum. He told C and I to think about it for a few days and come back to him. And sure enough, over those few days as I turned the thing over and over in my mind I started to find that no, I wasn't that pleased with either version of things. Typical. When he came back to me last night, I completely surprised myself by getting pretty fired up about it. I said that I wouldn't let Granny pick an engraving that we wouldn't all agree on and that I wouldn't concede even a single word. Despite my dad agreeing with a version that I had come up with completely, he rather pathetically suggested that we " compromise" over the issue, that we should "pick our battles". Bollox to that! After all, C and I are going to be looking at whatever inscription we choose for a lot longer than either Dad or Granny. "But Granny is old, it's hard for her". "She's only thinking of Mum". Those were Dad's two main points on the issue, the former of which is just an equivocation that Granny might use to justify herself but not one I'll be fooled by, and the latter is just not true. So in the end, I told Dad this is what we want, tell Granny that, and we can discuss things with her if she wants, and if she doesn't like it she can piss off(except maybe not that last part).

Oh, and I surprised myself again today by having a really great audition for our school's music competition (I play the piano), on the kind of occasion where I usually fall apart horribly and scream abuse at the piano, which doesn't usually win me many gold stars...Roll on the final!

A Schoolboy Error

Spent the whole day kicking myself under the desk that I hadn't taken the day off school.

I failed to mention it, but the reason I had enough time to write such an extensive (the wrong word to use...it implies I got so much "material" "covered") blog the first time around, not to mention reading plenty of my old piano teacher's blog (figured it out!) was because I was at home all day with a sore throat that wouldn't quit. Every time that I tried to eat/drink/speak/breath it would rear its ugly head and spit phlegm at me. Despite being happy about starting the blog and all I had a pretty boring day... so today I decided to give my mild illness the finger and go into school anyway.

What a mistake that was. Most of the day I was choking down strepsils or wheezing uncontrollably, and in the rare moments where that subsided I was assaulted with the work I hadn't done from yesterday. Not too fun, I assure you. The worst part was feeling like a stereotypical selfish sick patient when people were speaking to me and I'd have to keep saying 'what???' or just losing interest because my own coughing and 'aches and pains' were more enthralling.. Some people were not amused. But on that note, who's it up to say how much self-involvedness is ok when you're going through something bad? when you don't feel well, do whatever you can do to feel better, that's what I say. So, what I'm really saying is that I should have just stayed at home... Gona go drown myself in lemsip, see if that does any good...

It Begins....

Let me start by warning you not to let that title fool you...While it might suggest that something epic is on the way, I'm sure that for a least the first couple of entries this blog will consist of nothing more than padded promises that the quality of the writing and the relevancy of the content will indeed get better. Hopefully soon I'll get some perspective myself on where this thing might be headed. For now, just try to sit through this painful beginning and perhaps you'll be rewarded sometime in the future for your patience...jesus I'm already assuming that someone, somewhere will chance upon this site and that, against all the odds, they'll take a shine to it, based on their impression of the first couple of lines, which looking back really aren't very good. I'm sure I can count on my friends to act as my loyal readership: Lisa at least will read it, as it was she who finally pushed me over the edge of my boredom into starting this, and as it stands she spends too much time on the internet not to end up reading it.

If you had told me a week ago that right now I'd be sitting here typing away at my brand spanking new blog I'd probably have laughed cruelly in your face and judged you forever for making such an ill-advised and inaccurate forecast of what I might be likely to do at any given time. Stupid person I'd have said. Well if that had been the case it would now be they, not I, who would be laughing cruelly and feasting greedily on sweet success, which in this context I will imagine as a delicious chocolate cake, while I skulk around the edges of the room, nibbling sullenly on my piece of bitter humble pie.
To tell the truth I never thought much of blogs; just the result of thousands of people who all believe they have some nice insight to make on life and who honestly believe that not broadcasting their utterly original and groundbreaking views to the world would be doing a disservice to the human race. What turned my opinion around was the chance encounter last week with the blog of my old piano teacher of 7 years upon which I stumbled while googling a book that she has recently published. I started to read the latest entries, which were all about the book I had been originally researching, and it really caught my interest.
Over the next few days I read back through the last year of her life, more out of interest of what she had been up to since she was no longer my teacher than anything else. After a long time spent reading her blog I found myself viewing blogs in a whole different light. My teacher herself said something very interesting about blogs with which I now completely agree:

"I think that’s one of the ways in which blogging is truly revolutionary – the fact that you can now get a first-hand insight into how certain events and situations affect people’s lives. It’s a job that was previously left up to authors, playwrights and scriptwriters and that usually meant compressing the information into a specific format. Now people can read about almost any issue, no matter how difficult or personal, as it happens and in whatever format or style the author wishes."

I'm not too sure how to work links just yet but once I work it out I will attribute that piece to its rightful claimer. I'm not sure if that will mean anything to anyone reading this, but after having followed my old piano teacher through the ups and downs of the past year of her life I can now safely say that I understand her better than I did even after having known her for 7 years, albeit as a semi-formal student in his teens, and that I would be more understanding of others who have had similar experiences to her were I to meet them. But most important of all, reading it has taught me to respect the blog's ability to share how a person feels to the world in a way that can't be denied or written off, because it's not like spoken words that can be delivered poorly or twisted or forgotten , it's staring at you in a back and white, no matter how many times you press the refresh button.

So....................self-explanatory bit over with. I think I'll leave it at that for my first blog entry (even saying that feels wrong....My old prejudices are obviously not going without a fight). Oh, and because it's my first one: I promise it'll get better soon!.............lol!