If you can't think of anything to say, list songs

Radio America - The Libertines
Fall - Editors
Une Annee Sans Lumiere - Arcade Fire
Smoke It - Dandy Warhols
Gorecki - Lamb
Make me down a pallet- Gillian Welch
In Liverpool - Suzanne Vega
No Place to Hide - Declan O'Rourke

Home from Home

Because Tramore, the town that smells like an urinal and scowls with undisguised contempt at the rest of the country from the south-east corner of Ireland, is such a scum hole many of its inhabitants attempt to flee it, to pursue better lives for themselves and their families in places where life doesn't arrive and depart with the tourists in the summer and where conversation isn't restriced to local deaths, break-ups and teenaged pregnancies. The deaths are especially envied since they don't have to live in Tramore anymore. Some of Tramore's escapies make it to civilisation; some get stopped at Waterford and sent back with a stern look and a smack on the arse. Some of us, the lucky ones, make it all the way to the huge smoking mass of crap that is Dublin city where we attempt to pretend life is better and the city doesn't smell like a urinal. We're kidding ourselves. It does.

Occasionally the emigres meet by accident on the street: we smile shyly at each other and our eyes search the other's face for the implicit vow of silence we all keep on our origins. "Where you from?" friends will ask; "just outside Waterford, tiny place, you wouldn't know it" we reply shamefully. Truth is, EVERYONE knows Tramore. Everyones been here as well, whether it was as a mewling tyke, paddling and pissing in the sea, a hyped up older child, jaws sticky from candyfloss and popcorn, eyes round from the range of grubby wonders of the amusements and arcades on show, or as an eager young teenager, stumbling parentless from chip-shop to permissive pubs, half-cut on flagons of cider you drank on the shitty smelling bathers slip in the early evening. This is a heritage we are shy to claim as our own.

The bond is there though. I'd like to see it reenforced here in Dublin. Which is why I stumbled round Tramore's public houses for most of the weekend, rounding up volunteers for my current Grand Plan, the first annual Tramore reunion. It's slightly more than a little bit naff yet obscure enough to retain a smidgen of coolness. I think I just might be able to pull it off. Plans are all very loose at the moment and I think my co-organisers might be backing out, but I don't mind. Even if I have to sit in a pub on my own and get locked, it'll be alright. At least I'm there. And not in Tramore.

Bald people have it easy

I am just back from the hairdressers, a locale I have not visited in nigh on eight months. 'Gah!', exclaimed the stylist when she encountered my split ends. I shrugged apologetically. "I am terrifically busy" I mumbled, a blatant lie. Sighing, the young man washing my hair tucked a towel round my cowed shoulders and pressed something by my feet. Whoosh! up went my feet and back I went, my startled head knocking the lip of the sink on the way. Something rumbled ominously at my back and I half-lept up, thinking I had sat down on a small animal. 'Relax' said the hair-washing boy, 'it's a back massager'.

Well. This is NOT how hairdressing salons were run in my day. I spent the rest of my shampoo giggling and wriggling. To punish me the stylist lopped off four litres of my hair and charged me forty quid for the pleasure. I tipped ridiculously as usual and came out penniless and with a chilly neck. 'It's horrible' I moaned to the mater in her library.
'Nonsense' she said, 'in fact, it's a bit like mine.'

Good grief. I'm cutting my own hair from here on in.

In which I dally with the commoners

I had great plans for last weekend. Mainly due to the terrific stew I was in on Friday (itself derived from a hangover and other harbingers of misery) I took a notion that over the weekend I would:

1) Go swimming
2) Give up drink for a month
3) Reconsider my life options
4) Commune soulfully with myself

If you could just stop sniggering about the juvenile humour suggested by that last resolution, I'll tell you how it went, shall I? Horribly, in a word. 1) Went straight out the window when I realised I didn't own a swimsuit; 2) when my dad dropped over with a bottle of wine he couldn't finish because he was setting off on his hols with the little lady; 3) when I got drunk; and 4)...well, THAT wasn't going to happen, was it.

The weekend didn't turn out to be a total loss however. In the Vic (Tramore's just like Eastenders, so it is! 'Cept without the cockneys and all the murders) on Saturday I engaged in my first meet n' greet with my fans, hereafter known as 'the little people'. Stumbling up to the bar I was waylaid by young Cathy Burns who proceeded to extol the excellence of my blog to myself and to her bemused looking friends. 'Honestly, it's brilliant! Have you never read it? It's excellent! You're DEADLY, Lucy!' she gushed. Her companions just looked unnerved. They had no doubt witnessed me tripping over my shoe on the way over. Nice.

On my way back I was grabbed by an excitable (read: tipsy) Clodagh Power. 'OMG! I love your blog!' Thank you, thank you. 'Mention me in it, wudja? Say you were out in the Vic on Saturday and met the gorgeous Clodagh Power, k?'

Pah. Am I Larry-fucking-Geoghan now? I think not. I don't DO shout-outs. What I do do is fuck-ups. In future, if you want me to mention you here, fall over or something in my presence. By the by, it's Clodagh's birthday today. She's eleven, I think.

I swaggered back to the girls and slid into my seat. 'Where were you?' reproached Elizabeth, 'You were right behind me and then I turned around and you were gone.'

I smiled and looked away coyly, ensuring I had the attention of the whole table. 'I,' I announced magnificently, 'was dallying with my fans. You may have spotted the mucky handprints on my arm...'

Elizabeth sighed. Mags O'N raised her eyebrows at Jenny. Rachel sipped her drink pointedly. Mags O'B stared over my head. Then they all launched back into the conversation they had been having (about lipstick, or something. I really wasn't listening).


Thank fuck I have someone keeping my raging ego in control while Aoife is out of the country.

Poor Misguided Fool

It is horrible getting stuck in conversation with me, I expect. I am very conscious of being prone to sounding pretentious and obnoxious, so, when I remember, I try to sound nicer by nodding vehemently and agreeing with everything said. I don't do this very well and invariably end up sounding patronising and stupid. Occasionally I trail off and stare into space for many moments. If I am in an excitable mood I will drop in many obscure literary references which no one can follow because these are restricted, somewhat ridiculously, to whatever I have been reading lately and whatever pops into my empty little head at the time. Then I will chortle inanely to myself and whoever I am talking to will click their tongue and stare over my shoulder for someone else to talk to.

I AM SERIOUS. THIS IS HOW I RELATE TO OTHER PEOPLE: TERRIBLY.


Ooch. I love to wallow in self-loathing of a Tuesday.

The world accoring to Lucy

Good afternoon and welcome to another installment of 'Lucy fabricates the news'! Not REALLY making the news today is:

* Mark Westlife reveals his gayness. Said devoted crush, Ashling: "Sob!". Scoffed devoted sceptic Lucy: "Ha! Told you so."

* Declan O'Rourke deliveres storming gig to a packed National Concert Hall. Renowned wit Lucy Aughney was spotted dancing feverishly in the choir seats while singing the wrong lyrics to all the songs. Said Aughney: "I've had no tea and six vodkas. Bring it,
O'Rourke!"

* Paddy Casey spotted meandering through Dublin hotspot, The Village. Local beauty Lucy Aughney, in the vicinity with a gaggle of DIT librarians said: "He's bitsy! I want to pick him up and put him in me pocket!"

* Jenny Kiely is rumoured to have purchased a new fireplace. "It's sexual" claimed Kiely, a close acquaintence of gifted writer, Lucy Aughney.

* News of David Burtenshaw's bootilicious weekend away in Edinburgh just in: the housemate of the irresistible Ms Aughney is proported to have gotten stonkingly drunk for four successive evenings and failed to cop off with anyone. Not even Andrew. "That'll teach you, sister-kisser" muttered the vivacious Lucy.

* Tramore's finest reveal weekend plans: Mags and Jenny will be knocking the stuffing out of the Baldy Man as part of the warm-up to Mags' upcoming migration to Wales; Marie and Mairead will chew up the young men of Rosslare in drunken lust, an evening disguised as 'a few drinks in Rosslare with Claire"; Donna will bid adieu to the Guinness Storehouse and swallow large quantities of the stuff at her going-away party; Joanne will remain sober in preparation for upcoming dental surgery; Lucy will sit in and paint her toenails; Aoife will get drunk in San Francisco.


Peace out, brothers.

"I do not goe, my sweetest love, for weariness of thee!"

I am in love.

It is a deeper and more profound sensation than I have ever experienced before. Me and my beloved are together always, each ceaselessly accompanied by the other. I quiver in anticipation of our reunification as I wake in the morning and sigh with satisfaction as we part in the night. It is love, true, honest and devoted.

The heavenly creature upon whom my heart is bestowed is my sisters silver ipod mini. I call it 'Bob' because ipod became too formal, considering the things we have endured together. Bob the 'pod. What happy times we have had together! Like Monday, when I was yawning and blinking blearily at the bus stop pre-dawn (well, practically. 7.30am is illegally early in my book) and he chose that moment to shuffle somewhat gloriously onto Oh My Gosh by Basement Jaxx. You have not REALLY listened to that song until you have heard it on the brink of unconciousness. Or this morning, as I trundled along the road to work and caught site of the Guinness towers, glistening a creamy silver in the frosty morning light (anytime before midday is hugely early for me, okay? And 'frosty' is just me trying to impress you with my wordy, poetic side. Even Ireland isn't frosty in August)- and Bob issues forth Coldplay's Shiver. Which I duly did. I am nothing if not obedient to Chris Martin.

Unfortunately, we are soon to be torn asunder. Sally wants him back. I am distraught. Bob is silently accepting. So brave. Even in face of torment he stands firm. I, on the other hand, have besmirched the purity of our love with thoughts of another. Namely how long it will take me to get together the dough to buy myself a 'pod. I flinch at letting Bob know where my thoughts are leading, though. The little bastard would probably go all bitter on me and play nothing but Mariah Carey or some of the seemingly thousands of Alicia Keyes songs my sister has seen fit to house on her 'pod. Ugh. So have to be careful.

What's most frightening is that you can...never...really...turn... him...off...

In which Lucy expresses opinion on national radio

Oh. My. God.

Vic McGlynn just read out my email on BBC6 Radio. And she didn't scoff at it when she did so even though it was crap! I am fast becoming a super-smart music person. I expect I will be writing for Mojo or Smash Hits by the end of the week. It's somewhere after she played Goldfrapp, if you want to check on listen again. I meanwhile, am retiring to preen for a while. And, if you take nothing from this post, know this:

I HAVE AN OPINION.

Other side of the world to me

Aoife just rang me. Drunk. She's in an Irish bar in some casino called New York, New York in Vegas. She was being chatted up by some fella who works in Vodafone Ireland who had a tri-band phone and as part of his chat-up program, urged her to ring anyone she wanted in the whole world. She rang me! I feel so hugely special now I might cry. Here's how the conversation went:

Aoife: Hiiiii!
Lucy: ...Aoife?
A: Yeah!
L: Wow, how are you, how are you ringing me?
A: Ohhh, [back story]... and the funny thing is, he's an idiot and I'm just humouring him to use his phone!
L: Wow. That's...hilarious.
A: Yeah!
L: Where are you?
A: Vegas!
L: Wow!
A: [Back story] and a vodka and coke costs NINE DOLLARS HERE!
L: Oh, wow.
A: Yeah, I know!

L: Are ye havin' fun?
A: Yeah! It's mega! You should see our hotel, there's a massive pool and I was lying out there all day today! I ALMOST ordered a cocktail but didn't.
L: Wow!
A: Oh, and I have LOADS of postcards for you-
L: Yeah, Aoife, what time is it there?
A: -San Francisco, LA, Vegas and, em,-
L: Cos it's half nine here-
A: Oh! And San Diego!
L: And I'm kinda in work.
A: What? It's half one in the morning here.
L: Are you locked?
A: Yeah! Kinda!
L: Are you going to send me the postcards?
A: No! Don't be silly. I'll just bring them back and give them to you!
L: Right.
A: Wanna talk to Sharon?
L: Sure.
A: I'll just find her...

['Sharon! It's Lucy! Where are- Hey, did you see Sharon anywhere? Sharon! It's Lucy in Ireland!' 'What? Really?']

Sharon: Luuuuuucyyyyyy!
L: Hi Shazbag!
S: What?
L: I said, Hi!
S: What?
L: Listen, I can't really shout cos I'm in work-
S: What?
L: I SAID, HELLO!!!
S: What?
L: Oh, never mind.
S: What? Listen, I can't hear you so I'm going to give you back to Aoif', K?
L: Whatever.
S:... Okay, dunno if you're still there or not.

['Aoife! I can't hear her!' 'What? I could hear her perfectly, you must have broken it, Sharon.' Male voice injects here: 'Hey, can I have my phone back now?' 'No. You bugger off.']

A: Listen, Lucy, weeeee can't heeeeear youuuu, okaaaaaay? So, I'll ring you later, k?
L: Ok.
A: ... You did break it, Sharon, I can't hear anything.
L: Bye, so.
S: Just hang up, Aoife, she's probably gone.
L: ...
A: Right. [Hangs up.]
L: Bye?

What's blogging?

“You know how when someone barfs and they can’t believe that the green peppers they ate in a burrito last night just came up whole, completely undigested up through the esophagus and back out their mouth, and the first thing they want to do even before wiping their mouth is tell someone about it?"

From Dooce.com

Aoife: Jet Setter

Aoife is gone to San Francisco. I am gutted. That girl is always jetting off some where! Liffey Valley one week, San Francisco the next. I look on the positive side of things, though. Mainly, that Burt went on holidays to Edinburgh this morning (with his sometime lover, Andrew. See Andrew? I do mention you). Bliss.

With these two minor dictators absent I am free to play all my music, ALL the time. I played two Sinead O'Connor CDs for hours last night, a thing unheard of in my house before. Of course this was only because David was gone all evening. Yes, rebellion is a bit dissatisfying when you're on your own. So what?

And so, in my ongoing tradition of pretending anyone cares about my crap music taste, here are my favourite songs this week. Blah-blah-make-mix-tape-and-pretend-youre-me-only-less-pretty-blah-blah.

How to be Idle- Oasis
We are all on Drugs- Weezer
99 Problems- Jay Z
9 to 5- Lady Sovereign
If U Ever- Sinead O'Connor
Buck Rogers- Feeder
Lua- Bright Eyes
Club Foot- Kasabian
Sour Times- Portishead
Uh La La- Goldfrapp
1- Joy Zipper
Novacaine for the Soul- Eels

Aughney sisters are notoriously classy

L: Good morning, Burt
B: Oh, hey...
L: ...
B: Are you, er, mad at me?
L: Hmm? Why would that be?
B: Well, er-
L: What possible reason could I have to be angry at you, eh, Burt? Why on earth would I be pissed off with you? Disgusted, shocked and alarmed at the disrespect and shame you have heaped on my family, even? Enraged and fuming at your drunken antics maybe?
B: Er...
A: Maybe it's cos he snogged your sister last night.
L: Thank you, Aoife.

B: Listen, she was coming on to ME. And she was twisted.
L: Yeah, well, she'd have to be wouldn't she. To be in to you, I mean.
B: She was all over me, I tried, er...
L: WHAT?! Are you saying my sister is a slapper?!
B: Well, to be honest-
L: Burtenshaw, I will kick your arse if you step over that line!
B: Right okay, but I totally pushed her away after a minute!

L: ...! YOU rejected MY sister! You don't know what you're doing, shithead. Nobody rejects an Aughney.
B: No, no- she's a lovely looking girl-
L: Yeah, I know she is, fucker! She's my sister! She's savage!
B: Yeah, that's what I'm saying, but I pushed her away cos I know you'd be mad. I knew it wasn't cool.
L: It's not.
B: No.
L: No.

B: So... are we okay? Are you still mad?
L: What do YOU think?
B: What if I bought you a pint tonight?
L: ...
B: Two pints?
L: Go on then.

She's in fashion

What did I tell you about navy? It's the new black, I said. Aren't I right? It's fucking EVERYWHERE. I think I said something about the empire line coming back aswell. I'll pretend I did anyway. I am so clever. And telepathic. I'm starting on lotto numbers next.

Foresight- a remarkable gift

You know when someone says, supping coyly on their first drink of the evening,: 'If you see me with me phone later, take it off me. DO NOT let me text anyone'. I HATE that. It's like 'look at me, I have a love life'. Show off. As it turns out, telling your friends to stop you from not texting drunk is a pretty good idea. Would have been on Saturday night anyway.

SIGH.

Some help here?

I have an awful dilemma. My sister and her friend, Jenny, are coming up for a visit tomorrow and are expecting to go out on the town on Friday. Here's the problem: I haven't a clue where to take them. I need to bring them somewhere that's suitably flashy and pretentious to impress their innocent (hah!) young minds with the information that I am extremely hip 'n' happenin'*, without unduly stretching my rather meagre funds. Essentially, I want to cover myself with glory for a tenner. Ideas, anyone? Please note that Sally and Jenny are both of the short-skirted, poptastic variety** and would appreciate venues thus inclined.

*Please note that the use of the phrase 'hip 'n' happening' immediately excludes me this grouping. Forever.
**Actually, Jenny less so. I found The Kinks and Radiohead in her car on Sunday.

Tender passions

The boy in the sandwich shop FANCIES me. Today he managed to sneak bits of grated carrot and red cabbage into my sandwich; last week it was bits of red cheddar. If love was a salad it would be... well not much of one, actually. Oh yes, some might say that it's because he's a shabby sandwich maker and never cleans his chopping board between orders: not so. I say it's because he cherishes a flame of desire for yours truly in his manly breast. What would you losers know about romance anyway? Or salads for that matter.