Week Twelve

Lads how dare I have neglected to write a post this week?! Here is a consolation post for all you die hard fans out there. This is from me to the both of ye.

I said to myself I'd take a little Christmas holiday from the blog but then I got a dose of the guilts after the page views shot up on Monday from bored people looking for their Monday fix.

I have to say that this Christmas was the best Christmas I had in years. Needless to say, like countless others, I regard Christmas dinner as the best dinner of the year, because of its ability to be doused in brown sauce, but THIS year's Christmas dinner (courtesy of my sister-in-law) ...well. Well. As a good friend of mine said the other night - I didn't know whether to eat it or ride it!

Surprisingly enough though, nobody pissed themselves, so no bottom-half showers were necessary. That didn't take away from the holiday however, which was just gorgeous and laid back. At least it was when Grandad wasn't trying to bend my finger back so far he nearly broke it. Or throwing Rose wrappers at me and then pretending to be asleep when I turned around. Or indeed pretending to drink a cup of tea next to me when really he was ramming his elbow into my ribcage and lettin on he wasn't. I loves him I does.

Of course my lovely Uncle Paddy (or Paddy the Prick as he is otherwise known - see here) came for his Christmas/Birthday dinner too. Except this year he said the wrong thing. Now I mean the wrong thing. As he was leaving he said to Grandad "I hope we'll be here next year." Now lads. Anyone who knows me knows that Grandad is my number one man, and the very mention of his age or the fact that he is pushin on at all reduces me to a weeping wretch. But as most of you don't know me, you can read about my feelings for Grandad here. Immediately the tears sprang to my eyes and I was trying to say goodbye to Paddy with them streaming down my cheeks, snot flying everywhere. Stop lads, me nerves. And of course here was Grandad munchin away on a bowl of trifle, happy as Larry on the couch, completely oblivious to what was going on. Shur God love him like.

Another thing that has been playing on my mind lately is how BBB is doing his trials for the Marines in April. All well and good, except literally every single magazine I open has some feature article about young war widows or "hero" soldiers and marines dying in Afghanistan or Iraq.

Now I am as soft hearted as they come, and I have always said I'd never marry a soldier or a sailor, because there is no way I am sitting at home worrying myself half to death about whether or not my husband is coming home in a box. Imagine me. I'm a bag of nerves even now with my Trinity scholarship and peachy life, imagine me if I actually had something to worry about!!! Stop now, I wouldn't be able.

Shur of course all he has to say about it is "I have loads of friends who came back alive, I'll be grand". Like all 19 year olds, he thinks he is invincible. He doesn't understand that it doesn't matter how big and strong you are, or how good a fighter you are - the landmines aren't going to come kickboxing at you! It's a battle between flesh and metal like, and guess what side you're on, Love?! But shur it's his dream and I just have to let on to be supportin him like. I mean there is no way he won't get in, he is really fit and really strong, so now I just have to work on my game face for when he tells me he gets in. "Oh did you that's great! Congratulations! I just have to go to the ladies room...for three hours...with this drip."

Sigh.

On the upside I'll be headin back next Friday. Back to our hovel. And our broken oven. And SNOW!!! Can't wait!

Well the end of another year is upon us and I have to say I'm looking forward to the next one. I wish ye all the very best for 2010. May ye all laugh so hard a bit of wee comes out! May bottom-half showers abound!

All the best until next week lads!

Week Eleven

Bit of an emotional rollercoaster this week, what with being fed up with being home but also being delighted that Christmas (and therefore Christmas Dinner) is just around the corner!

Monday 14^th Dec

Right. It’s official. I’m losing it. I’m going mad. I have to get out of here, I am so pissed off. Never mind that after yesterday’s ordeal I woke up with an arse like the Japanese flag. I just feel so fecking…fed up. Like fed up, only extreme to the max. In search of something that may actually interest me, I went on to breakingnews.ie. Now lads. Only in Ireland could there be the news headline “Ireland Heading for White Christmas, Says Postman”. Almost as good as the headline in the Waterford Today on the article about the hoodlums breaking off Mary’s hands. See here.

Get me the fuck out of here.

Tuesday 15^th Dec

Ok I’m over yesterday’s little mood swing. Today I’m going down to Shaws and I am packing plastic. Yes, that’s right folks, I’m bustin out the Shaw’s card! That’s right, the old faithful. You can get everything from a washing machine to a knickers in there on the aul card, god bless it. Where would we be without it? I LOVE Shaws.

Cut to two hours later.

That fuckin Shaws place. What a load of old shit. Not one thing. Not ONE feckin thing. I mean in fairness the fashion pendulum in there swings from old fat and horsey to young and hip but there wasn’t one thing in there. Everything was either old fat and horsey or young and “directional”. When did clothes become so shit? Everything is either way too “out there” or plain boring. There is not one classic piece to be found anywhere, unless you’re old fat and horsey. Me nerves.

Wednesday 16^th Dec

Right, I really must shake off this terrible mood I’m in. Must get in to the festive spirit.

Think festive thoughts.

If this was twenty years ago now myself and my sister Hazel would already have begun the annual frenzy of “practicing for Santa”.

Let me fill you in on our routine: every Christmas Eve myself and Hazel would go and sleep in the big double bed in the spare room, to get the buzz like. This was the only night of the year where I deemed it acceptable for her to sleep anywhere near me, as she breathes like a fucking foghorn. She doesn’t even snore, it’s just the fucking BREATHING. I can’t cope. Somehow though, for this one magical night a year, I had the ear equivalent of cataracts which rendered it bearable to share a room and a bed with her.

But the week before Christmas, sometimes even the month before, we would start “practicing or Santa”, whereby we would both go in to the spare room and lie on the bed and pretend to be asleep, and then pretend to wake up and pretend to check our stockings and pretend that Santy came. This may sound fairly innocent and childlike, but no; this was carried out with all the precision of a military operation. Every possible scenario was explored; me waking up first, her waking up first, us both waking up at the same time, an atom bomb going off resulting in neither of us waking up, an alien race from the planet Zorg coming to attack us and firing laser beams resulting in the liquidisation of said stockings. I mean the list was endless. And always every Christmas morning everything went according to plan.

Except this one particular Christmas morning.

About nineteen or twenty years ago, one of us woke up on Christmas morning and as we had practiced, gently woke the other before we quietly, with the stealth of ninjas, edged out of the bed and proceeded calmly toward the Christmas stockings. Ninja stealth in this case is necessary because my mother is the lightest sleeper on earth. She would hear a gnat fart in China. We couldn’t even turn on the light, as the click of the light switch would be enough to give her a heart attack.

So anyway we were both kneeling on the bed, elbow deep in our Christmas stockings.

“I got this and that and the other thing”, you’d be saying.

Next thing:

“…and I got Maltesers as well”, Hazel said.

“Did you?!” I said, inwardly thinking “that jammy fucking bitch”.

Mammy NEVER gave us sweeties at Christmas because everyone else always did. In our house, as in every house in Ireland, the child to selection box ratio was 1:86.

Anyway I couldn’t BELIEVE Hazel got Maltesers and I got shite all in the sweets department. So Hazel fished one out of the bottom of the stocking and popped it in her mouth and bit down for that satisfying honeycomb crunch.

But it never came.

Instead:

“BLEURGH!!!! They’re not Maltesers!!!!! Eeeeeeeeew! Bleurgh!”

It certainly was not a Malteser, oh no. Far from a fuckin Malteser.

It was a bubble bath pearl.

You know the ones, you got them down in Nectar. And you could get them in the shapes of bananas or penguins or rollerskates. But only if you were fancy.

I knew even then, as Hazel was dry retching down the side of the bed, that this was one of those moments that would stay with me forever. This, my friends, was Christmas Gold.

Thursday 17^th Dec & Friday 18^th Dec

Translated once again to the brink of insanity all day and then headed out to my sister’s house for a sleep over. Usually I hate staying over in people’s houses. I just abhor it. But I always sleep well in Hazel’s house. If I sleep in the front room. But if I sleep in the other guest room then I always get those weird black and white dreams about Tramore that hang over me and make me feel weird for the entire day. Plus I get to sleep in a double bed for a change.

Getting to sleep in a double bed while Hazel is in the building is nothing short of a miracle.

Allow me to explain.

When we were younger we used to spend every Friday night in our brother’s house. He had a double bed in his spare room, but on one side the mattress had a hole in it. Now I’m sure the hole was no bigger than a fist, but in my tiny imagination I saw it as a yawning chasm, a gaping abyss that feeds on the souls of the young. Fortunately we had a system where every week we swapped sides. At least this was in theory. In practice… well, guess who ended up getting their young soul sucked out of them every Friday night?

And this is not only Hazel’s fault, oh no. She had my brother Lenny on board. Every week the two of them would insist that the last week Hazel had slept on the side with the hole in it. And if I really kicked up a fuss, then Lenny would toss a coin to see who gets the bad side, but of course he would always fix the coin toss so that Hazel got to sleep on the good side.

What an evil sadistic bastard.

Things looked up when Lenny and his wife Becky moved into a new house though. I thought my bed-related woes were over. But no, they were just beginning. Now instead of a double bed in the spare room there was a double bed AND a single bed. Guess who always got the single bed?

At least I had my pink satin princess nightie to console me.

But it wasn’t long before that too was tainted.

One night when I was about 11, my sister Laura came home for a few days and we were all staying in Lenny’s. Hazel, being the drunken teenage delinquent she was, turned up in Lenny’s in the gazoolies and proceeded to puke her guts up. She was banished to the single bed while me and Laura took the double bed. Hazel was puking into a basin at the side of her bed. She also, by some miracle, had a bottle of Coke, which she kept drinking out of and then immediately puking it up. It was driving me mad. I whispered to Laura

“I don’t know why she keeps drinking that coke”.

“Mmm” Laura said, and shifted her leg into a more comfortable position.

Just then Hazel did another huge blood curdling retch.

“How uncouth”, I thought to myself and went to turn away from Laura.

But somehow I couldn’t. I seemed to be stuck. I tried to move again and again, but it was like I was pinned into place. What the fuck was going on? I lookerd under the covers. And nigh on wet my knickers with the laughing. Why was I stuck in place? Why couldn’t I move, I hear you asking?

Because, dear friends, my nightdress was caught between the cheeks of Laura’s arse.

When she moved her leg my nightdress moved with it and nestled in between her sisterly cheeks. So fierce was their grip that it rendered me unable to move. Of course then Laura pissed and my princess nightie was demoted to my pissy nightie.

Ah, youth.

Saturday 19^th Dec

Today is BBB’s Big Brown Birthday. He is hittin the big one-nine. Which means he is now only six years younger than me, making me less of a cradle robbing wretch. Excellent.

Sunday 20^th Dec

Went out for a for a run this morning. By the time I came back, I was convinced at least one of my toes had fallen off in my shoe. It was FREEZING. My lungs were burning the air was so icy. But it was lovely just running along in complete silence, looking out over the frozen fields, or forward onto my dog Fionn’s little arse toddling along ahead of me.

Back at the house anyway I spent the day organizing my Christmas presents. And by organizing, I mean making. This year, I am the poorest I have ever been, but Eddie says it’s ok, just make your presents. Thankfully I am brilliant at making just about anything. Except I am not allowed bake anything else before Christmas because Mammy said we will all get obese if I do. I didn’t hear her complaining when she ate the very last lemon square. Without asking.

I just don’t know anymore about the whole Ray D’Arcy thing. My facebook group has 91 members, but only about 2 of these actually realize its function, which is to attack Ray and his team with a barrage of emails, texts and phone calls until he bigs up my blog to the nation and therefore the nation rushes to my blog and feverishly clicks on all the ads thus ending all my financial worries. Oh yeah and Marian Keyes’ agent comes on and takes me on and holds my hand while I churn out a novel and pays me a squillion euro just in time to stop the Credit Union breaking my knuckles.

Sigh. If only.

Week Ten

Are ye ready? Like are ye ready for this post? Cos it certainly ain’t for the faint-hearted. Don’t say I didn’t warn ye!

Don’t worry, you won’t give a flying fuck what happened Monday-Saturday after you read this bad boy.

Sunday 13^th Dec

Oh Jesus. Oh Mary. Oh Holy Saint Joseph. Not even with your powers combined could ye have helped me today. Today is the day where I can honestly say my number one absolute WORST nightmare came true.

By now you have guessed that me nerves do be at me at the best of times. But never more so when it has something to do with bodily functions occurring outside the home. I hate puking. I hate it. But because I spend most of my time doing it because of my dodgy stomach (thank you Nerves) I can just about bear it, but only if it is in the comfort of my own home. As in I can’t even do it in BBB’s bathroom, I always run back into my bathroom to do it in peace. And that’s just puking, need I even mention what could potentially go on down south? Never, ever, ever must a poo take place outside my own home. I mean if I was after eating 47 Weetabix and 3 gallons of OJ I would hold it all day in work, no problem, and then go home and be in and out of the bathroom in 30 seconds. Cos that’s my style.

So with that in mind, let me recount my day. Got up and started working early on the new translation. Texted Siobhan and Gemma about watching the X Factor en masse that night. Gemma couldn’t make it but she text me “Tramore chips about 3?” Oh yeah I says. Lovely jubbly. So we went out and got a chip, shunning Dooley’s for once in my life and instead heading to an ominously empty Massimo’s, or “The Long Hall” as Mammy calls it. I got a cheeseburger and she got chips and onion rings and the like. So we headed down to the prom and sat and ate and watched the waves coming in and soaking the poor children of the knuckle draggers of Waterford who let them stand at the edge unsupervised. It was an absolutely beautiful day, the light was splendiferous.

So then we headed up to Freddie’s and we set about playing the game where you put the 2p in the slot and try and knock other 2ps off the sliding shelf. You know the one! Lads, I love it! If I had every 2p in Freddie’s I’d stand there all night playing it, not a bother on me. But not this night, oh no. Not this fateful night.

I was happily pushing the 2ps through the slot when I got a sudden pain in my stomach that literally took my breath away. It was like someone had stabbed me. I looked around for a bloody dagger, just to be sure, but no, this was really happening. This pain was actually coming from inside me. I went over to Gemma.

“Jesus I have some pain!” I said, clutching my stomach for dramatic effect.

“Come on and we go home” she said but on our way to the car, I had to sit down. Like I literally couldn’t make it. The pain was that unbearable. I was hoping it was some kind of alien fart pain from Mars that would go away if I could muster a fart but no. I knew it was something more untoward. Then suddenly, the realization dawned.

“Oh my God Gemma, I might have to go to a toilet”.

The blood drained from my face.

“Ah grand, there’s one over here,” she said.

Ah grand? Ah grand?? I became hysterical.

“You don’t understand Gemma! You don’t understand!”

Of course she was in the knots at how terror stricken I was, and I would be too, if I hadn’t just gone colour blind from the panic.

So we ventured down to the toilet. Which toilet? I hear you asking. Oh you know, just the disabled toilet next to the amusements. You know, the one they shot Trainspotting in.

Now bear in mind it was about 4 o clock now, so it was dark out. And there was no light in the toilet. So it was literally pitch black in there. And I mean pitch black. I could only imagine what horrors lurked in there.

“Oh God Gemma, I can’t, I can’t!”

I was whimpering, crouched on the ground trying to make the pain go away. Gemma ventured in there and took her phone as a torch to suss out the place.

“Look, it’s grand, just go in” she said.

“I will never…”, but at that moment, I knew I had no choice and I had to peg it in the door. I didn’t have enough strength in my legs to hover so I had to fashion a makeshift AIDS barrier out of toilet paper to put between myself and the seat, all the while wondering how I was going to pay for the years of therapy that would inevitably follow this incident.

And then the storm came.

I didn’t know how long I had been in there. Was it days, weeks, months?? I was fully expecting to emerge having grown a full beard. But it was when I had blocked up the sink with puke that the delicious irony dawned on me. I had caught the vomiting bug that was going around. It had lain dormant inside me for God knows how long, slowly festering to a crescendo before coming to fruition in he disabled toilets in Tramore. For my sins, like.

In the whole time I was in there, there was no window of ten minutes where I possibly could have made it to the car and subsequently home. I just had to ride it out, so to speak, in this tiny dark room. Gemma was outside the door talking me through it.

“Soon you’ll be in your lovely warm bed…”

“Soon? When is soon?! I’ll be dead by then. I’m gonna die in this disabled toilet. I just know I am,” says I, and I was serious. It was so bad I was about to walk into the light like.

Well after the longest couple of hours of my life, I emerged, broken, from the toilet.

“Well, what colour am I?” I said to Gemma, holding the phone under my chin.

“Jesus you’re…you’re glistening!” she said. Nice.

I couldn’t even stand up straight, it was like my muscles had contracted and would only permit me to walk bent over. The pain was unbearable. But I knew it was time to make a break for it. It was now or never.

So I proceeded to do the scrunchback shuffle to the car with Gemma half carrying me. And you can guarantee that everyone who saw us was thinking one of two things. They were either thinking: a) “Look at that poor young wan in the horrors and her friend carrying her home. Tut tut. The youth of today etc.” or b) “Ah will you look at that girl bringing her handicapped sister out for a walk, shur God love her. Isn’t she as good? It must be terrible hard. And she with a bit of a scrunchback as well…”

Made it to the car anyway, “thanks bit of God”, Gemma strapped me in and we were on our way, fully intending to break every speed limit on the way, were it not for the line of cars in front of us being driven by healthy people who don’t know the meaning of terror.

Well the second we pulled up the drive, I was overcome with joy. I still had the gut-wrenching pains but I literally didn’t care. Now I was at home I could piss out my arse and projectile vomit to my heart’s content! Hurrah!! There was nobody home but I ushered Gemma out the door in case she got a touch of leprosy off me and went down to the room and got into bed, literally elated. Pity there is no one home to share in my horror story though.

Of course now, I wasn’t thinking “I can’t believe that just happened to me, I better roll over and try to sleep it off”, oh no. I was thinking “ Who can I ring now that will really understand what just happened to me?” So I rang my sister in law who also shares my toilet concerns. She was satisfactorily horrified. Then for good measure I rang my other two sisters, just to share the terror like. A trouble shared, and all that.

Couldn’t fall asleep cos the pains were really bothering me so I settled for reading Chat magazine, curled up in a ball. In particular, the story entitled “Too Fat for Take That” was riveting.

So there you have it. The worst thing that could possibly ever happen to me actually happened. And I survived. As my friend texted me last night “Everybody’s life is made up of lots of different experiences, good and bad! And the bad ones define mostly who you are”. Whatever the fuck that means.

Right I’m going for a lie down. Shook I am. Until next week folks!

PS I want everyone to know that Gemma Grace is the bestest friend in the whole world and I literally could not have done it without her. Literally, I would have gone over to the dark side like. Thanks Gem, love you!

Week Nine

I had a big romantic notion of coming home for Christmas when I was in Pavia. Now I'm home and all my romantic notions pertain to how the fuck I am going to get back out!

Monday 30^th Nov

Ok so I got home, I’ve seen my family, I’ve squeezed the head off my nephew Jack, my niece Lily and the dog. Right. Check.

So now what the fuck am I going to do for a month?

Lurked around for the day, halfheartedly translating until the evening when I went spinnin down to Fungarvan to watch Twilight. Lads. Talk about substandard. Yer wan Kristin Stewart was an abomination. The big Portlaw Jaw on her – it nearly took the eye out of me head! Jacob was enjoyable, only because he has a bod that, whilst being somewhat inferior, is reminiscent of BBB. And Edward. Edward. He looked like someone flattened his face with a smack of a shovel. And his nipples? What’s going on there? Talk about uneven! Bit of penny farthing syndrome going on there Edward boy. Still, though, shovel face or no shovel face, I’d leave him throw me into a table any day!

Tuesday 1^st Dec

Got home from adventuring around 2am last night and snuggled up in the bed, SO comfy. Electric blanket, the works. The next thing through the fog of sleep I heard “Jack…Jack” but as I came up from the depths it was suddenly “Jack! Jaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack!” WTF? I lep up outta the bed boy, still half asleep, and ran out into the hall:

“What is it? What’s wrong?” (probably in Italian) No glasses on me, one tit in, one tit out, the usual like.

“Get your father! I’m siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiick!” Oh no. Dear Lord no. I think the worst thing that can ever happen to any child, even if you’re not a child any more, is that your parents could be sick. It’s distressing like, at any age. They are supposed to be mindin you, for the love of God. So poor Mammy then was dyin sick all night from a terrible bug. In the morning I text my sister, who said that she and her husband also had it. It must be going around.

A word about things “going around”. Having worked in a chemist in Waterford City Centre for a number of years, never have I heard a phrase being so overused, and so inappropriately. If someone came in with a cold or with flu-like symptoms I’d be like ah you poor thing, take two of these and take it easy for a few days. Inevitably, and I mean INEVITABLY, there will be some nosy fucker in the queue behind who says “Ah it’s going around girl”. In this instance the use of “going around”, although annoying, is acceptable.

But when someone comes in with something like an allergy, a rash, IBS or one leg hanging off and their head hangin on by a thread, blood flying everywhere and some one pipes up “ah its going around girl”, it gets my back up, BIG TIME. Guess what, fuck off and mind your own business you nosy bitch ( always a bitch, never a bastard). Oh, and for the record, when I ask you how you are as you wait for your prescription, I do NOT need a rundown of the consistency of your stools. Jesus Christ.

Wednesday 2^nd Dec

Translated all day to the point of madness, but was rescued at the last minute to go to the cinema and for a spin after. I just LOVE the cinema. And I just LOVE spins. So a combobulation of the two is enough to elate me, even at times like these.

Went in to see Law Abiding Citizen anyway. It was great, heads exploding all over the gaff. But that wasn’t what haunted me afterwards, oh no! What haunted me afterwards was the trailer for “The Crazies” that played before the film. Much like the time me and Sandra rented The Gift, but that night I lay awake in bed thinking about the trailer for Jeepers Creepers that came on before it.

After the cinema we went up to Mahon Falls. It was about half twelve at this point. The moon was bright enough that we cast shadows but it was still eerie and the like. The next thing, my so-called friend starts going “Jesus look, this looks right a right place for the crazies to come out of.” And the next thing a fuckin sheep jumps out from behind a rock. Now lads. Usually when one gets such a fright a bit of wee comes out, but in these situations, the wee goes so far back inside me, I think I expelled a drop or two from me ear.

We got down to the falls anyway and it was AMAZING. Freezing cold and high wind but just so peaceful but exhilarating at the same time. Next up we went to basically every beach looking for phosphorescence but the moon was too bright so I went home, freezing but happy around 3.

Thursday 3^rd Dec

Another day spent translating, trying to build up as much fundage as I can before I head back in a few weeks. As he evening wore on I drew ever closer to the end of my wick. Texted my friend Siobhan:

“What are you doing?”

“Watching emmerdale, what are you doing?”

“Think I might kill myself, you interested?”

“Ill be there at half eight”

Went for the inevitable spin, Saw Doctors blastin out, singin at the tops of our lungs. Pain in my face from being in the knots. Talk about cathartic. Went home, hit the leaba, happy days!

Friday 4^th Dec

Hit the translation hard all day today. In the evening went to Siobhan’s house for a bit of a DVD/Chicken Shop/Minstrels and Natural Confectionary Company combo. Bliss.

On the way though Siobhan told me that someone broke the hands off the Holy Mary statue at the grotto in the Cork Road. Now lads. I am no holy joe but my jaw literally hit the ground. I know the Catholic Church have turned out to be a shower of evil bastards as per the Murphy Report and the Ferns Inquiry and the like, but that’s not Mary’s fault! I’m shocked, so I am.

Like it’s not as if they could have accidentally knocked them off in passing, they would literally have had to climb over the railing, over the flower bed and then somehow mount the bit that Mary is standing on and then exert considerable force to wrench her praying stone hands from her wrists. Most likely with a group of drunken friends cheering them on.

This to me is just horrifying. I just can’t get my head around it. I get the feeling that whoever did it is not from Waterford, because this grotto has been there over 50 years, untouched until now. It’s just disgusting. I hope whoever did it is racked with guilt. I wish there was some way we could have CCTV footage of it and play it on the news and take a still from the video, a close up of the bastard’s face, preferably twisted into some drunken grimace, and print his picture in every newspaper in Ireland so that wherever they are from their mother will open the newspaper and her hands will fall off from the mortification of it all. Sounds fair to me.

Saturday 5^th Dec

God I just can’t believe this weather, pissin out all day! On the upside though I finished the translation. Whoop!

Sunday 6^th December

Wandered into town today to scout out the new Penneys. It always interests me to visit the site of origin of the Christmas Top that 72% of Waterford will be wearing this Christmas Day. Not great now lads I have to say. Bit lacking on the clothes front. It basically has the same stuff it had before, but now there is more space between the racks! The building is nicely done though, with the old city wall exposed. Very nice. Other than that tis a bit of a disappointment. Went up to Shaws then, got talking to the girl in Dorothy Perkins. "I just went down to the new Penneys" I said, "not great is it girl?" "Nah" she said, "all I got in there was the top with the sequins on it for Christmas. I got it in navy and my sister got it in white."

Case in point.

Although on this little excursion I did realise the extent of the economic differences between Ireland and Italy. The recession basically doesn’t exist over there like it does here. I mean over there they are hittin the shops hard for their Christmas presents. Over here in Ireland, we are hittin grannies over the head with our basket in the pound shop to get the last Old Spice set! I’m telling you now lads, there’s going to be plenty of Brut aftershave sets bought as presents this year. Or “Brutal” as a handsome man I know would put it. Between that now and the ever-classy “Denim” and “Maverick” offerings from Aldi and Lidl, I’d say we’d all want to be wearing gas masks to Christmas Mass! It’s sure to be an eye-watering experience.

Eamonn was in Waterford for the night so we headed to Geoff’s for quiet one or two. Went up to the bar to order and got chatted up by not one, not two, but three fellas. In quick succession. Love it lads. I must be givin off pheromones or something. That’s always the way. When you just start going out with someone new and you’re all luvved up, Jesus they just come out of the woodwork don’t they!

Anyway I was on my usual Paulita white, but holy moley, strange things were happening after only one glass! Then I copped on, over in Italy I always drink prosecco, which has only about 6% or so, depending, so I just got used to that. Well after one Paulita boy, I was in the goolies. After two I was in the horrors. And then the inevitable occurred. I had to pee. But here is the timeless problem with that. You have been sitting down for quite some time, your legs have forgotten how to walk. When you do get up to go to the loo, you will inevitably do the “drunk walk”, hands clamped by your sides, head bopping up and down, what you think is a look of sobriety on your face. The indignity of it. But then I saw a fat wan in a sparkly dress do it ahead of me and I felt better.

Finally got a kebab on my home, sat down in the sitting room with Dad to enjoy it. And by enjoy I mean ingesting half of it and spilling the other half on my face/top/boobs/jeans. It’s the only way to enjoy a kebab.

Something I’m noticing actually. I say Holy Mary and Jesus Christ a lot, and seeing as the ads on my page are determined by the content of my blog, all my ads are now “Total Union with God”, “Jesus Christ’s Real Story” (the uncut version, I’m guessing) and “Free Christian Books”. Now lets see what happens when we throw some more interesting vocab into the mix. Let’s say, for example, WILLY, BOOBS, and DIDDIES. Should be interesting to see the outcome! Until next week, m’dears!

Week Eight

Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday just didn’t seem to exist this week as they only served to bring me closer to Thursday, when Mammy and Hazel were coming over to visit me. I have been crossing off the days on my countdown calendar for WEEKS and it’s finally here! Of course now 5 mins after the novelty wears off we’ll be at each others throats. Except we will be repressing the rage and acting like we are grand. You know how these things go.

Thursday 26^th Nov

Today is the day lads – when the Jacques women take Pavia by storm! Was delighted to meet Mammy and Hazel at the station, then we headed out for a bit of lunch, turning every head in Pavia on the way to the restaurant. Had a great laugh eating our pizza, watching yer wan next to us try to cut her pizza with the wrong edge of the knife. Talk about a pizza cutting fail.

Next thing anyway we headed around town for a little gander before I had to go to work.

And then the inevitable happened.

We were in a department store looking at the baby clothes and Hazel picked up a little pair of scratchy grey trousers and said

“Look, St. Paul’s school pants!”

“Ah yeah”, I goes, still in a world of my own.

“They come with a built in rash” she says, and it didn’t sink into my brain fast enough and I goes “with a built in what?” grabbing the label to read what was built in.

"A built in rash, ya ding-dong!” Hazel goes and the two of us were bent double with the laughing.

I leaned over onto a rail and Hazel stumbled backwards into an unsuspecting Mammy and the shock caused her to fart.

“Oh Jesus I farted!” she goes.

Well lads.

I couldn’t even stand up straight, either could Hazel. The three of us were in the knots, three big red heads on us. And I would have been alright, I mean, I just KNOW I would have been alright had Mammy not clung to me cos she was laughing so much she couldn’t stand up by herself.

And we all know that when we are laughing at something like completely in the knots, it is so much funnier when there is someone else laughing the same as you. Now at this point my bladder was finding it hard to cope so I tried to walk away from Mammy, but the conniving little geebag FOLLOWED ME and kept grabbing on to me. And then it happened. I immediately stopped laughing and turned around, stoney faced to the other two;

“We have to go home now”.

Jacques family code code for “ I have to go home and have a bottom-half shower cos I’m after pissin with the laughin”.

The three of us were walking up the road to my house anyway and the next thing I put my hand in my bag to get my keys and they weren’t there.

I was after leaving them in Mammy’s hotel room.

Oh for fuck sake. Didn’t have time then to get changed before work so went in one of Hazel’s knickers, distraught because it didn’t match my bra. Those of you who know me know that I NEVER venture outside the front door if my bra and knickers don’t match. I mean if for some reason I don’t have a matching set I will go without either the bra or the knickers. Sorry like, no can do on the uncoordinated front. And here was me going to work in a black bra and burgundy knickers. Me nerves.

Came back from work and we headed to the pub with Sofia and Silvia. Copious amounts of prosecco, pina colada and red beer were drunk. Then came the inevitable – the hole in the floor toilets. Of course now I’m a pro after the first night, but Mammy and Hazel had their doubts. Eventually Hazel had to face the music and a while after that Mammy was up.

Now I should mention that the toilets are unisex, so when I was in a cubicle I heard Mammy outside;

“Jennie are you in there? Are these the womens?”

“Yeah” I goes.

The next thing;

“Jesus Christ! Jennie there’s a MAN in here!”

“Mammy the toilets are unisex!”

“I don’t care! I don’t like it!”

And yer man standing behind her understanding every word she said like! I was in the knots, and so was Hazel in the cubicle beside me. Let me just inform you kind people that squatting over a hole in the ground after having a few drinks is NOT the most opportune moment to be in the knots. There was a moment of uncertainty, but thankfully I grabbed onto the toilet roll dispenser at the last minute and saved myself!

On the way home then we were drunkenly admiring the architecture and Mammy said;

“I love all these old stone balconies”

Then Hazel pipes up;

“Yeah I know, they’re so ‘Romeo, Romeo, let down your golden hair.’”

Are they Hazel, are they really like? I’d say they are, alright.

Oh Jesus lads. Nearly had another department store moment. Ah I just love the two of them, I’m so glad they came over.

Friday 27^th Nov

Right, I don’t know who to kill first, Hazel or Mammy. Hazel doesn’t know who to kill first, Mammy or me, and Mammy doesn’t have a fucking clue what is going on cos she is walking ten feet behind us at all times.

Have the hangover from hell and have to work this evening. Went around the market and the shops in the day and then went to the girl’s house for dinner where they had kept us some of their pumpkin pie left over from their Thanksgiving Dinner the night before. It was the first time I had ever tasted it. It was AMAZING!

It reminded me of Leahy’s chester cake slices, if anyone remembers them. Or “doorstops” as we used to call them, and if I’m not mistaken, I think one time Hazel actually did go in and ask for a ‘doorstop’ by accident.

Leahy’s, for those not in the know, was a cake shop in Waterford that had the best cakes in the whole town. They retired a few years back and now Waterford has to get by on the substandard produce of X (cannot name names but we all know what I am talking about). Well, technically, X’s is nice but their vanilla slices just can’t hold a candle to Leahy’s, which was pure set custard, instead of a bit of pisswater custard mixed in with a bit of cream.

Jesus Leahy’s was great. Remember they used to have those yellow swirl cakes with the cream inside the swirl? They came in brown as well. And their jam tarts – out of this world! And the donuts! The donuts! I have to sit down. I think we should all have a moment of silence for how great Leahy’s really was.

Saturday 28^th Nov

Ok so we had organized to go to Bologna today for a spot of shopping and eating some good Bolgnese food. Had organized to take the 9.12 train to Milano and get the connecting train to Bologna. We were all meeting at 8.45 at the station. However the girls were 15 mins late so we missed the train. No bodder butty we’ll just pay a bit extra and take the next train. Yer wan behind the counter was a nazi anyway but we got our tickets and she told us which train to get on.

Cut to 20 mins later and the train was stopped in a station that was NOT Milano Centrale, and we were there with a few Italians who were in the same boat as us. Turns out the nasty ass bitch at the ticket counter sold us all the wrong tickets and told us to get on the wrong train. I ought to punch her in the kidney. As a result we missed our train to Bologna and ended up going around Milan for the day. I was SO disappointed that I didn’t get to go back to Bologna but what harm shur, Milan is nice as well. I’ll go back to Bologna after Christmas. And at least Mammy and Hazel got to see Milan.

On the train anyway Mammy was telling us about some poor simple fella who was on the train from Waterford to Dublin with two kids.

Now here’s a bit of background on these types of situations: Mammy is a sucker for a sob story, and if she sees some “poor craythur” she immediately constructs in her head an elaborate back story of woe for them. I mean talk about adding (shriveled) arms and (lame) legs to the story. Now herself and Hazel were describing the fella for me and how he was struggling with the buggy and here Mammy goes;

“ And he had a bit of a lame leg as well”.

And I wouldn’t mind now lads but the fella was probably 6 foot 2 and made of steel and braun.

“Mammy stop it, he did not”, Hazel goes, to which Mammy replied;

“Did you not see him bent over the buggy – I think he had a bit of a scrunchback”

Lord, give me strength.

Sunday 29^th Nov

Today is the day! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! I’m going home! Yay! Can’t WAIT to noogie the head off my little nephew Jack! But first have to tackle the unpleasantness of “The Goodbye” with BBB. I was almost ready to go when I heard him opening his door. I opened my door and the look on his face was enough to break my heart. He brought me down to the station anyway and when I got on the bus he stood outside and waited until the bus pulled away. Now lads, if it’s one thing I can’t stand it’s goodbyes. I usually prefer to do the whole slap on the back and sprint away with me eyes stinging kind of thing but this time I had to look at his heartbroken face out the window for ten minutes. It was torture. And it was torture too because I actually didn’t want to leave him. A month without BBB is going to be tough. How does that old line go? “I’ve grown accustomed to his pecs” or something romantic like that.

After a neverending day of travelling we finally made it home and squeezed the head off little Jack, and if that wasn’t enough joy then my niece Liljana showed up in a gorgeous little cream furry hat and jacket combo to melt my heart even more. MSN’ed with BBB. Hard to believe that only this morning we were snuggling. Would you listen to me lads, I have it BAD! It’s ok though, cos he has it worse. I mean it’s hard enough when you’re 18 and a month without your girlfriend seems like the end of the world, but to be 18 and ITALIAN!

The poor fella.

I think he had a bit of a scrunchback as well…