My baby!

...

I dunno. Am I supposed to feel maternal towards this hunk of metal which cost me most of my life savings? Indulgent? Grateful? Loving? Most people might be delighted to have a car they own outside their home. Most people might be delighted to know they can now drive to the shops when they are in desperate need of fags, or Weetabix, or bubble gum. Most people, me... not so much.

It's not that I'm scared of driving exactly; more that I'm scared of crashing and killing someone. Nah, scratch that, my insurance broker might google me and read this. I'm scared of not caring if I crash and kill someone. I mean, my on-road driving experience amounts to about ten hours, total. On the other hand, my experience in playing computer-based driving-simulation type games amounts to about 200 hours. In the latter, skidding into a wall and writing off my vehicle amounted to little more than an muttered invective and a new game. The former...well, stalling in heavy traffic led to minor palpitations and near self-urination.

Am I taking this too seriously? It's just sitting there, begging to be driven in all it's metallic lavender glory (I named it's shade; my mother calls it 'dirty grey'). I only discovered the radio volume controls under my wipers lever the other day when Maggie came over and gave me a tour of my own car ('Oh great, you have dual air-bags!' 'The girls thank you for noticing, Mag, but can we focus on the car now?'). It's frightening. And it shouldn't be. I mean, idiots are driving cars. Roisin, Niamh, Danielle, my mother, the list is endless. I am obviously possessing of a superior intelligence to these people- as I am wont to point out, IhaveadegreeforChristsake.

Tch. Don't panic, I'll get right on the driving thing. I do have an ambition to drive the 32 counties. Or 31, I'm discounting Leitrim. 'Cos everyone else does, obvs. In other news, I am preparing to donate blood because I have ludicrously valuable blood despite the pathetic infrastructure it supports and as part of my prep am swallowing down iron tablets good-o. Iron supplements...they do something disgusting that is not declared on the back of the packet though. Take one, and see. Just one will do it. 24-pack is about three quid: do it and see. I haven't sunk so low in search of blog-worthy material to tell you what it is they do.

Although, maybe in a few weeks...?

Nothing to report

Nope, not a thing. Nothing doing. All quiet on the Lucy front. Nothing happening. Nary a bean. No news here my friend, everything's dull as dull...

Hang on, what's this in my hand...?

I have an amazing story to tell you, one that will change your life and how you view the world!

Ah...

Forgotten it. Nevermind, it'll come back. The good ones always do. Anyway, I've been reading a lot of books lately. Or buying them and stacking them beside my bed in case anyone comes in to photograph me. Point is, there is always somewhere to rest my glass of wine. Aha. Novels these days though, they let me down. I recently read this book a friend of mine had loaned me and it was terribly gripping and I read it until two in the morning. Two! Then, overcome with the joys of reading and the thrilling thrust of the storyline, I texted this friend and berated her for not telling me the main character AND NARRATOR had died. Then, funnily enough, it turned out she hadn't yet read the book. Hahahaha.

So I am writing my own novel now. I started to write it at the beginning of November and joined this club where everyone was writing a book in November but that got horrendously boring. And limiting. Let me just say, don't join the club I have just mentioned because they send you horrible, encouraging emails telling you not to give up on your book and then THEY ASK YOU FOR MONEY. I have no money. Well, I have, but it's in a place I can't get to it, ie. my bank.

I can't tell you about the book because I can't have you steal the ideas contained therein, and there are so few truly original plotpoints available nowadays that I can't squander such downright excellent ones as those I have now. Suffice to say, the main themes came to me in a dream one night after I'd had a few and the story involves a girl called Martina and a boy named Rob. Rob thinks everyone on the telly is talking to him and Martina is secretly in love with Rob but she doesn't know it yet. I plan to build up the sexual chemistry until it is unbearable and everyone reading just wants to scream 'just sleep with each other, for God's sake! And have adorable children!'. There's something about skiing and a chase sequence when the heroine is wearing really uncomfortable shoes. Then I will kill off a main character in a manner that leaves everyone going 'Wow. Who coulda seen that coming?' But who will I kill off? You'll just have to wait until it hits the shelves in your local booksellers. But be warned, I'm publishing under a pseud...psyeud... false name as I don't want my internet fame to piss all over my book's chances. So you'll just have to scan every book for mention of Martina and Rob* until you find it.

*I may change Rob's name to Angela. I haven't entirely worked out the politics yet.

I've just remembered the amazing story. It's not that good and the punchline needs work. I'll tell you some other time.

The Seeger Sessions

How to turn a bad day good, part the first

Don't worry your pretty little head over what it is; point is that it arrived today, three weeks before it was due and made me hop up and down a little in delight. I haven't been hopping much lately. I never get post except from loan companies offering me credit cards* so when an unexpected present you bought yourself turns up early, you have to hop a little.

*Oh yeah, and from Mona, who cuts out job ads and sends them to me with little inspirational messages written on them. 'Go for it, Luce!' Thanks Mona, she who keeps faith when all around her are losing theirs.

I like to go FAAAAAST. But it's scary

My driving is going well, thanks for asking. My only problems linger in gears, steering, lights, wipers, mirrors, braking, accelerating, stopping, starting, roundabouts and reversing. Oh, and other cars. Other cars are a bitch. Everytime I see another car coming near me I screech 'back, fuckhead, baaaack!'. My driving instructor loves me. Who doesn't, I hear you ask. Exactly. The other day we were approaching Riverstown and he said 'okay, we're going to take a right here' and I duly swung my indicators to the left. Yeaaa!

Oh, and pedestrians? FUCK OFF. If you dare to cross the road in front of me I will run you over. I have serious troubles slowing the car down without cutting out so if it's between your life and me having to restart my car in the middle of the road... well, I don't even know you. And I love me.

No goats sacrificed

The Pagan wedding SUCKED. Druids new year, my eye, Dee. There I was, all set for a naked handfasting in a clearing and Dee's goddamned mother steps in and insists it has to be in a church. I had to take communion and everything! Don't worry, I never swallow.

Also, newly discovered fact: Lucy gets an unexplained moistness in her eyes during the groom's speech: 'Deirdre is my life and the only gift I will never get tired of being grateful for.' Tune in tomorrow to discover that Lucy has large muscley thing in chest which pumps blood! Who knew?!

Pity I'm so *NICE*

Okay, so I'm posting drunk again, but it's past three am on a Friday so I think I'm in the clear. Are YOU sober? Thought not.

I'd like to share with you the story of a persistent male. His name is Peter. I don't deal in lies intentionally so his name actually is Peter. He likes to be called 'P' though. 'Cos he's a wanker. Whoops, there goes my objectivity.

"Peter is on a Stag night in Tramore. [You're aware of the concept, I presume? What you're grappling with is the fact that someone actually chose to have their Stag in Tramore. I know. Wow. Anyway, back to Peter.] Peter is thirty-something and from Laois, not a crime in itself though fast approaching one, standing in a bitch of a disco in a dump of a town, when three hot girls walk in. There are four girls in the entire place and one of them is behind the bar. It's a Friday night in rural Waterford. Options are limited.

Peter sidles up to the three girls. They giggle, as girls are inclined to do whenever the mood takes them, and engage with him in light-hearted banter. It is light-hearted. They banter. One, a foxy brunette in Levis, catches his eye. Boy, is she hot. He asks and finds out her name is Lucy. Wow. Hotname. She slips outside for a cigarette; Peter follows. He makes a crap joke; she laughs. I have my prey, thinks Peter, she is mine. She has smiled in my presence. I need no more encouragement. Peter employs regular seduction techniques such as Standing Around In Front Of Her So She Can't Leave and eventually swoops for the snog.

'No', says Lucy, 'I'm good, man, I'm with the girls, d'ya know?'

Aaaaaagh, says Peter, she is so playful! Let me follow her around the disco all night and try to hold her hand! He surveys his quarry: she is practically alone, ignoring those three young women and four young men hanging around her. I will certainly seduce her away from those (seven) losers and into my (rented) bed. And I will accomplish this by standing beside her all night and holding her hand. Oh yes, she plays with me. She shirks my grip as soon as I clasp her hand and ignores me when I try to show her my Scissor Sister dance moves (elbows clamped; finger guns). Her friend, the busty one laughs at me but I am not discouraged. Lucy is my love!

I buy her a drink. She says she doesn't want it 'cos she's working in the morning. I laugh! She's doing nothing except getting my breakfast tomorrow! She ignores the drink. So I buy her another. What more does a girl want except a liquid demonstration of one's interest? The teasing lass ignores my second drink. And I am stumped. What more does she want?

Then, when she slips off up the road I follow her. What girl does not enjoy a thrilling chase?? She is stood beneath a brolly with her bosom buddies, eating chips from a greased-up bag. They discuss taxis. Realising the romance in her intention, I extend a sure arm and grasp her around the waist. This night, fractured and imperfect as it was, all led to this.

Her body swivels and my heart constricts; her face turns to mine. Her perfect brow furrows in intent: 'Piss. The. Fuck. Off. Cuntbag.'

Foley, your days are numbered

Wedding 002 (2), originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

There are two rules in my job. Okay, three. One is that nobody talk to me for the first hour of my daily hangover. The second is that Lucy gets a coffee and a back rub whenever she requests them. The last one is that Lucy gets to watch a minimum of one hour of costume dramas and/or weighty BBC book adapations a week. THESE ARE THE RULES. LOVE THEM, LIVE THEM.

If you step outside the rules and ignore the rules then the rules are useless. Do you hear me? Yes, you, Niamh life-wrecker Foley. You with the weirdly shiny eyebrow. I'm talking to you, up there dancing and giving me the eye. The rules are in place for a reason, Foley. TO PROTECT YOU. Lucy needs her period dramas or she will go nutsy and somebody will get hurt. So, when you drop the Sky remote in a bucket of water and BREAK IT so that the channel can't be changed and Lucy has to watch horse-racing for five hours while Mr Rochester was off wooing Jane Eyre over on BBC1...well, it won't be pretty.

To everyone else who didn't drop digital remotes in buckets of water over the weekend, play on. Go about your day as usual. If your day takes you into my flickr account to view the rest of my photos, you go right ahead. You like photos of stunning-looking girls dancing drunkenly? Welcome! You've come to the right place.

Haha, I'm drunk and have broadband

Hey, guys.

So, yeah. I have an eye infection. Or, as you commoners address it, a sty. I have a low immune system. APPARENTLY it's something to do with the lack of fruit and vegetables in my diet and my predilection to late nights, but there you go: I have an eye infection. It inhibits none of my daily practices and does not affect my sight at all, but I thought I should update cos, well, I showed Dee and Donna earlier and all they could say was: 'What? What are you showing us? You're just winking. What exactly is your problem?'

I think we can all agree they're stricken from the Christmas card list for being INSENSITIVE ASSHOLES. Don't tell them I said that though.

And, YES I am drunk. Blah-blah with the 'in the morning you'll still be ugly' thing', k?

Gross! People! Hide, quick!

Mairead, Marie, Gra, Jen, Rois, Brian, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

Well, because I know you've all been waiting, here there are: the photos from Saturday. Calm down! I know there's an upsetting lack of photos of Yours Truly but hell, cool it. It was Mairead's camera so they're nearly all through Mairead's eyes. And of Marie's chest. I'm sayin' nuthin'!

I took this one, so that's the closest you'll be getting to me anytime soon. Anyway, look at the people, see how they laugh! They are laughing at something hilarious I just said, I'm sure. I like to break the tension and shout something witty before photographing people: usually 'Nipples!' or something. God, I'm funny. Although maybe Roisin is laughing cos she's about to get felt up by Brian. Oh no, wait, he's doing that mock I'm-about-to-drop-the-hand move, isn't he? That's good. That always makes me laugh, anyway.

Who am I kidding? I'm heartbroken about not being featured in any of the pictures. I think it goes without saying that I was the hottest person there. Says who? Says me, shithead. Who owns this blog anyway?

Baby, I love you

Dear terrorists,

I'd be more particular in addressing you but, hell, I don't watch the news. What are you guys up to nowadays? Keepin' busy anyway, I hope. I'm just writing to ask a small favour. Tiny thing really, won't put you out hardly at all. Thing is, I was just wondering if you wouldn't mind cancelling any air attacks you might have planned for Friday. It's just that the my wee sister, Sal, is coming home from New York and the mother is getting awful antsy. You know how she gets, right? At the moment she's just faffing about waving her hands and worrying but, you know, it'd be great if we could put her mind at rest over this. So: no crashing of planes on Friday, k? That'd be great. I'll even let you come to the welcome home party! It's BYO&LB obviously (Bring Your Own & Lucy's Bottle). But you guys are smart, bet you could have figured that one out.

There she is, the one for who we do this, on location in Wildwood NJ, earlier this summer. What? Yes, we are very proud.

Love & Kisses,

Lucy

My dinner this evening

Gross, you may say, tongue poking sympathetically from your gaping mouth. It is not my fault. I am on a diet. Not because I am fat mind, because I think we can all agree that I am most definitely the purest example of sex itself, but because Mags and Marie said they were doing it and I hate to be left out of anything. Dismiss the fact that Mags weighs about two stone nothing and will need to be hospitalised by tomorrow evening: this diet is only three days long and makes you lose ten pounds immediately. Get that? Immediately. Ignore the fact that I had two slices of turket and some boiled carrots for my tea, point is: I will be so skinny by Saturday. Try and recognise me if you can; I will be the reed-like one getting drunk on half a bacardi breezer. Cos the thinnies can't hold their drink, don't you know.

Ew

Just...ew.

Joey's Birthday, Sunday night

You can't really see it, but you're looking at the interior of the glorious Baldy Man nightclub, Tramore. Wow, you say: are those lights? Yes, my friends, disco lights. We have all the greatest stuff in the Baldy: lights, music, tables, pints in ACTUAL glasses, er,walls. Also pictured, Dave's leg. Sex.

Mags et moi, in Joeys house. Mags took this on my phone, and also four pictures of an ashtray and Sarah's leg to warm herself up to the camera. You want to see those four? Tough. You don't get to call the shots here. I also think Mags photo-shopped that horrendous snout onto the front of my face. It does not look like that, like Santa's fucking nose, all the time. I think. Not that I know, a full-on picture of my face has blinded everyone else up to now. From the glare of my wonderous beauty, I like to think. But check your corneas, just in case.

Mags and Mark. Mark has left us and got himself a REAL job. I know, tragedy. I thought he was going to be a tragic idler like me forever but twas not to be. I must idle alone.

The view from Joeys house as we left it. I'd show you his ACTUAL house but it doesn't exist anymore. We razed it to the ground through three hours of competitive singing along to all his records: Rod Stewart, Westlife, Elton, Rod Stewart, Chris Doran. Yeah. I know, okay? Joey's ancient, like forty, and you can't mock the aged. Not until the battery on their hearing aid gives out anyway.

What? You want an explanation, an actual story, a link between these intruiging yet unresolved photos? I don't think so. It's late and I am really tired. I have two jobs you know. Or have I mentioned that already?

All sparks will burn out in the end

Dude, Fenor is on FIRE! Oh, no wait it's not. Oh no, it is again! No, it's definitely stopped now. Phew! We love Fenor!

So, we were driving home on Friday night after a hard night spent eyeing Scottish bar-managers (you know who I'm talking about. Roaaar.) and what do we see over the brow of the hill, but flames. I was all for ignoring them 'cos, Goddamnit! I had a can of Fanta to drink, but Ross was in lifesaving mode and sped swiftly through the darkened countryside in search of the fire. Jenny rang the guards while I pooh-poohed the whole thing and recounted my hilarious fire story when my entire family spent half an hour looking for a fire in Garrarus which turned out to be the lights from the driving range. In Newtown. So, yeah.

Anyway, we got as close to the fire as the road-blocks would allow (yeah, road-blocks. And swarms of Gardi and fire-engines. At three in the morning. And Lucy still drunkenly maintaining that it was probably just a golf-course or something) and Ross, overcome with the drama of the situation, did what any brave young man would do. Jumped out of the car to take pictures with his camera phone. Of course, I hate to be left out of anything so I jumped out to do the same. What you see here is what I took. Or else it could just be two black squares. You decide.

So that's it. Fenor was set on fire Friday, burning almost two acres of forest, was still smoking on Sunday, and started again on the other side of the hill on Sunday. Unsubstantiated chat in the library tells me that Cullencastle and Annestown were also set on fire on Sunday, helped no doubt by the frankly uncommon NINE DAYS OF NO RAIN. Wow. Anyway, there's an arsonist in the South-East. Frankly, I blame the terrorists. First Heathrow, then fizzy drinks on flights, now Fenor. I adore Fenor. I worship and love each and every one of the seventeen farmers that live there. Sometimes, physically.

MUST YOU TAKE ALL THE GOOD STUFF, YOU BASTARDS?

On Pattern Day...

Take heed, farmers. This girl has good milking hands. As recommended by a man in the know...

Justin Timberlake: Sexyback

Have you seen Justin's new video? I have. Cos I live for MTV, man. I can give you expert opinions on all of Beyonce's outfits in Deja Vu if you so wish. I have studied up: they are all gick. But her hair is nice. But enough about me. Let's talk about the video.

No, I don't know what it's about either. He looks really pretty in it though. What I have issue with is the taping up of the door. Hello!? I did that when I was eight and I had just finished The Usbourne Guide to Being a Spy and was vacillating between a life as a spy or one as a detective. Or a mermaid. As you can see, it's tough to tell which won out. I mean, I smoke a lot and associate in darkened rooms with loose women (detective), but also I like lurking (spy) and combing my hair (mermaid). Yes, it's true, I am living the dream.

Good news!

LUCY: So, Yankee-
SHONA: I'm from Toronto.
LUCY: Yeah?
SHONA:... That's in Canada.
LUCY: [Smiles benignly round at assembled friends to emphasize Shona's stupidity]
Riiiiight, you're "Canadian". Silly me. So anyway I have a question.
[Picks up pack of cigarettes from tabletop and waves these under Shona's nose]

SHONA: Uh, yeah?
LUCY: What do these say to you?
SHONA: You will die before me?
LUCY: Wrong, Yankee, wrong. What do the particular brand say to you?
SHONA: Marlboros? I haven't a clue.
LUCY: Think, American, think! They're Marlboro RED, my friend. Does that particular brand say anything to you AT ALL?
SHONA: ...

LUCY: Cos I've been on the internet and they seem to have a bad rep.
SHONA: A what? I'm lost.
LUCY: [Sighing loudly and rolling her eyes to a painful degree] Okaaaay. The internet tells me that... I'm not sure I can say. It's kind of, um, petty. And bitchy.
MARIE: What's the matter? You never have a problem being a bitch the rest of the time.
LUCY: [Smacks Marie down and grinds her skull with her heel] Well, the internet, he tells me that...
SHONA: Yes?
LUCY: That Marlboro have a certain...connotation.

MARIE: A what?
SHONA: A connotation of what?
LUCY: ...Lesbians.
SHONA: Ah.
MARIE: What?
LUCY: So, yeah. I'd really like to know, and seeing you're from the States and all-
SHONA: Canada.
LUCY: Whatever, seeing as you're from the States, I thought maybe you could fill me in. ON THE CONNOTATION I MEAN, NOT ANYTHING RUDE OR ANYTHING SHUTTUP AND STOP LAUGHING.
SHONA: Oh. Ohhh. No, I don't think so.

LUCY: Really? I thought it was a well-known fact that lesbians smoked Marlboro? That's what the internet tells me.
SHONA: Well, segregation really isn't encouraged nowadays, Lucy.
LUCY: Yeah but...If you saw this really hot girl (ie. me) smoking a Marlboro would you think 'hmmm, lesbo?', or, like, not. Think that, I mean.
SHONA: I would think 'hmmm, cancer in a stick'.
LUCY: Fuckin' Americans.

My genius is misunderstood

You know when you're a small bit tipsy and you're holding the Lucy Special, three vodkas and a tonic in a pint glass? And you think taking your shoes off is totally acceptable behaviour for when you're sitting on a table in your local disco? And you think it is THE MOST FUNNY THING EVER to take a picture of your mate taking a picture of you?? And not just normal-funny, but really-fucking-inspired-funny? And you keep thinking 'wow, I'm so post-modern. Or something. I wish I'd payed attention in college. This could be, well, art!' You know? You know?

You don't know, do you. Pah.

Put your sweet fingers a little closer to the keyboard, it's hard to read between your lines

Roisin and her twenty years

My good pal Rois turned twenty last Tuesday. Here she is displaying her usual camera shyness. Or, as she likes to call it, 'fuck off, I know about you and your shitty website, fuck away from the face, Aughney.' I didn't turn in at her party until nearly one but luckily it was only just getting started. Much hilarity and penguin bars was shared all the same, and Emma tried to shove the whole birthday cake in my face. My arch-rival, Mark, he of 'she is such a biiiiitch!' fame, told me of his plans to study musical theatre in L.A. And Claire lay down on the floor and started singing All That Jazz. And Laura sat on her tummy and tried to tickle her till she farted. You missed out, my friends.

Claire and Laurs develop the little known 'tits and teeth' segment of Whigfield's Saturday Night

I've tapped out, ok?

I don't know if you know this, but I don't have much time for the sporting events of the world. Not that I don't know anything about them, mind you, but because I couldn't care less. Well, I could care less, I suppose, but it would take up more time and effort than I care to expend. Anyway, matches afford great opportunities to go to pubs, so I can't really complain. Sports control the ignorant masses, doncha know, and keep them busy so they can't plan a social uprising. So while you lot are off watching men and their various shaped balls, I am off planning social unrest. That and painting my toenails.

Case in point: Today is a Sunday, and in my book that means layabout-and-read-the-papers-and-think-about-what-colour-to-paint-my-nails-day. In between planning the revolution, obviously. To my mother and aunt Mercy, who is visiting, Sunday means lets-all-go-for-a-drive-and-look-at-old-churches-day. A dispute ensued, and the upshot of it is that the mother can not use 'I brought you into this fucking world' as an excuse to make me go look at old churches with her or I will laugh in her face. Since they left they have been ringing and texting me every half hour to check on the score in Wimbledon. Like the dutiful daughter and niece that I am, I have been stumping semi-naked from my sunbathing out the back to stare dumbly at the telly. 'The Swiss lad is winning. Two games to one.'

'Two GAMES?! What?!', they shrieked back.
'Listen, I can't tell the difference, games, sets thingys. Go away.'
'Wait! Check the GAA results!'
'No! Hell to the no. I have drawn a line in the sand, right when it comes to checking teletext for GAA results and I'm damned if I'll cross it. Go away.'

And that is where we stand today, my friends. No, that's not a terribly interesting or amusing story but hell, it's a Sunday. Even God rested on a Sunday.

The Cocoon

The silhouette for autumn 06, so I'm told. For anyone who ever said 'fuck, you know what this dress needs? Pockets, dude. Big, fuck-off pockets. Yup.'

See here and here if you don't believe me.

A Writer

'Interesting, but futile,' said his diary,
Where day by day his movements were recorded
And nothing but his loves received inquiry;
He knew, of course, no actions were rewarded,
There were no prizes: though the eye could see
Wide beauty in a motion or a pause,
It need expect no lasting salary
Beyond the bowels' momentary applause.

He lived for years and never was surprised:
A member of his foolish, lying race
Explained away their vices: realised
It was a gift that he possessed alone:
To look the world directly in the face;
The face he did not see to be his own.

Philip Larkin, Collected Poems (1988: Faber&Faber, London)

Two shattered women and a bright-eyed child have just sat down at the window table in the cafe. Both women hope to talk, for their minds to meet; at the same time they are aware that the offs against this happening are about fifty to one. Still they have decided to back that dark horse Intimacy, somewhere out there muffledly galloping. [...] After all, it's important to put up a decent apologia for your life; well, it is to other people, mostly; to come up with a convincing defence, to argue your corner. It's nothing but healthy, the way the sanguine mind does leap around looking for the advantages of any new shift in situation. And if you can't, or won't, you will be shunned. You will appear to be a whiner or a malcontent.

Cafe Society, Helen Simpson, Hey Yeah Right Get a Life (2001: Vintage, London)

Something Happened

This weekend in the normally peaceful and just village of Tramore, a vile and despicable tirade against humanity was waged. The town was gearing up for the annual Trafest, an event so widely anticipated in the South East it introduces many a quiver into the young music-loving breast. This years lined up featured such show-stoppers as ambisexual belter Jack L, strange, mystic trad act Kila and loads of other people Lucy has never heard of. As vibrant young maiden Lucy took her place near the bar of Connollys, Main St, on Friday evening to witness the musical stylings of her good mate Dave Clark, she glanced around her in obvious distress. 'Dude' she hissed to her friend, 'I know I look smoking hot tonight and all, but why is everyone in the whole bar staring at me? Have I loo paper on my heel? Are my girls showing? What?'

Her pal, the lovely Marie, opened both her eyes wide and pursing her lips, glanced up at the wall. Where Lucy spied the Germany v Argentina match playing itself out on a plasma screen above her head. 'I knew that. Fuck you, man,' Lucy grumbled and made her way to the bar for another drink.

Upon arrival she was thrown into a quandary. She really wanted a vodka tonic (for a change) but here she was at a festival (kinda) watching football (kinda). Shouldn't she be wearing wellies and drinking warm larger from a beaker? It just felt wrong, hearing the clink of ice-cubes. Dirty, even. So she plumped for a nice pint of Heineken. 'It's Dutch, and that is closer to Germany than I am right now. Also you get more of it', she reasoned in her imminently sane and balanced manner. But nay! Nary a Heineken to be had! 'Pumps out', snarled the teenaged barman. 'I think'.

The night continued on without obvious concern for the Heineken situation. Lucy, however was concerned when she and her good bud Laura rushed in to see Kila in O'Sheas on Strand St and went up to order tequilas ('Tequila at Kila! So inspired!') and beers. 'No Heineken' they were told and the ladies had to settle for the lowly Budweiser. 'Something's rotten in the state of Tramore, Laurs' muttered Lucy. Laura noticed not her friend's downright amazing use of literary references and instead eyed up the crumblies on the stage. 'Fear draoicht!' she whispered, starstruck. 'Quite.' Lucy said quietly.

Back up the street to the Vic and Lucy falls in the door of the crowded bar with a thirsty 'Heineken, please'.
'Hell no!' said the chirpy barmaid. 'But you can have a longneck of it!'

By now our heroine was positively growling. 'A longneck' she ground out 'is the same damned price and is volumetrically less'.
'Volumetrically? Is that a word?'
'Silence, bar wench! I have an English degree. I know this shit. Look the other way as I drain your drip-trays for...em, analysis.'

The next afternoon saw our sleuth hot on the case in Murphs, pointedly not watching England V Portugal. She spied a member of Murph's inner sanctum, Tracy, separated from the herd. 'Trace, me auld mucker, come 'ere and tell me stuff. Mainly, has Tramore's Heineken delivery been stopped at the border by the cops?'

'Oh, Lucy,' she said with a sigh, 'you dummy. Look at your Trafest listings.'
Lucy dutifully took the folded-up flyer from her pocket and frowned at it. Pausing only to smile at where she had taken a pen and written in 'Lucy Aughney & friends' over the listing in the Main Stage box she glanced dumbly back at Tracy. 'What? I don't get it.'

'There.' Tracy stabbed the top corner. 'What does that say?'
'Em, Guinness?'
'Exactly.'
'Which means...what, exactly?'
'They sponsor it, Luce. Which means only Guinness and Guinness owned largers on draft in Tramore for the weekend.'
'That is a travesty!'
'Dem's the breaks, my friend.'

And there you have it, one woman's quest for truth in an unjust, warped world. Because of commerce and big business, the people of Tramore were chained like oxen to the wheel of...Guinness. I hope, friends, when you read this, you will join me in raising a glass of Heineken to that devoted servant of honesty, integrity and grit, Miss Lucy Aughney.

Muy bonita

Rois, Moi, Jen, Annie, Sarah upon the occasion of Jenny's nineteenth birthday, 29/06/06

There! Look at us all! Aren't we just gorgeous? Roisin is the one hiding. She is a fearsome criminal who can not be seen on camera because of her fugitive status. And before you ask, yes, all the drinks are mine. It was fantastico. When I say 'fantastico' I kid myself that I can speak Spanish. I can you know. I can say 'I have a sister, she is blonde, I work in a book shop, I play tennis.' I learned all the important stuff you see. I kid myself though. I never play tennis. Fucking rackets way too heavy. I'd play badminton if you asked but I'd start laughing as soon as you said 'shuttlecock' and we'd never recover.

Dude. I am wasted. So. Yeah. BLood thingys. totallu.

Pah

I don't know. I just don't know. I went to try and give blood today but the bastards wouldn't take it. All cos my iron was too low. I would have kicked up a fuss and showed my mettle (ha) but I was tired and wet from walking in the rain and I had been waiting two hours. So I nodded sadly and slunk anemicly away. They don't know what they're missing, man. My blood is brilliant. I got two phone calls, a text message and a letter from the Transfusion Bord reminding me to donate. I don't know, my blood must be magic or something. Heal the sick. When I whined about it to Marie she laughed and said 'ha, that's hilarious, my iron is never too low and I am a vegetarian.' I just cocked a shapely eyebrow at her. She is so not a vegetarian, not since I forced her to eat a chicken nugget one night when we were drunk. Since then she's been slowly coming back to the fold, eating chicken stir-frys and everything. Oh yes. I will have her in my clutches soon. My pale, weak clutches.

Trafest 2006

Did you know that I am the twenty-third returned search for Trafest? I thought not. Well, I am. I am a vital source for Tramore's premier music festival. Right now I'd like to sit back and gloat but to stay on top you have to keep working so instead I give you (drum roll, please) the 2006 Trafest listings! Thank you, thank you. You're-oh-so-welcome. I'm off to collect my promoters fees now.

Ride the 'Wild Mouse'? Bet your ass I would

Aaaaargh! Look at the new ride in Tramore! It's a rollercoaster crossed with the Waltzers! If this doesn't make you want to go change your pants with excitement, I don't know what you people want.

From here on in, I want to be known as 'the stacked chick'. Even if it has to be ironic

As purchased for me by Marie and Mairead in Edinburgh last week. The slogan and I are at odds. Slogans in general deter me but this one in particular. I mean, me, please people? Pleasure, maybe, but hardly please. Har-har.

Oh, stop. I know I'm whoring out my rack here to increase my site-traffic, but come on! If you had what I had... As my good friend says, who shall not be named but who lives in London and has the biggest breasts I've ever seen in real life (Hi Celia!): If you got it, flaunt it. And baby, I got it. Oh yeah.

PS: Does my hair look like I've just got out of bed? Good. I was up since six styling it that way.

You will rue the day you do not invite Lucy to your wedding

LUCY: Alan. I have some bad news for you.

ALAN: Yeah?

LUCY: Yeah. See, I was talking to Noel the other day and I kinda got the impression he was not planning on inviting me to your stag party.

ALAN: ...

LUCY: Don't say anything, I can read the disappointment right off your face.

ALAN: Um, yeah.

LUCY: You see, I don't know if I should be saying this or not but I feel I have to Alan, because I respect you and care about your well-being. I CARE, Al. Noel, right, I know he's your brother and all, but I feel, I FEEL, Alan, that he is not the best best man you could have. He doesn't seem to have any prostitutes or coke lined up for you AT ALL. I don't know what he's planning but when I mentioned buying handcuffs for you and finding a nice, public lampost he just looked at me like I was stupid. Like, hello?

ROBERTA: Shut up, Lucy.

LUCY: That's another thing. This Alex guy you have lined up for pageboy: Who the hell is he? I've met him and he seems thoroughly dodgy. He told me himself that his favourite song was that Breakfast Roll thing. And I just KNOW his mother is teaching him swear-words to yell during the ceremony. Absolute nutjob.

ROBERTA: That is my son you're slagging off, bitch. He is THREE.

LUCY: Whatevs, 'Bert. You know and I know he's a shady character. What I'm saying, Alan, is who's gonna look cuter carrying the rings up the church, me or this Alex guy? Have you seen this ass?
[Gestures to bottom.]

Fucking no-brainer.

ALAN: Listen, Luce, I appreciate that and all but we've already got his little tux bought. And the flowergirl is Mags' 1 & 1/2-year old niece, so we kinda need to stick with the height thing.

LUCY: Oh, height! You're so height-ist! Ya know, I can look practically midget-like when I slump my shoulders like this. See?
[Sits on floor.]

ALAN: Yeah... I think we'll stick with Alex, all the same. It'd break his little heart if he got the push.

LUCY: Fine! It's your crappy wedding when it all goes wrong in the end! Christ. Next you'll be telling me I'm not allowed to sing I Believe I Can Fly at the ceremony...!

ALAN: Em... Better talk to Mags about that. I think she wants some kind of, like, hymn for the ceremony. She's not a huge fan of R Kelly. Not since all the child-rape stuff.

LUCY: Oh, her! What does she know! You know, I started saying to her the other day how much fun we would all have at the hen night eating chocolate penises and rubbing oil on ugly male strippers and d'ya know, I kinda got the impression I won't be invited to that either! Fucking crazy.

When I get a free moment I like to pollute young minds with filth

I'll fess up about this right away: I'm not the most punctual bumbling drunk you'll ever meet. I'm the prettiest though. Coo-ee! When I was small I used to live in the street next to my national school and I still managed to arrive in ten minutes after the teacher every morning. I missed two school tours because I was late for the coach taking us to Fota Wildlife Park or wherever. And I was very nearly late to my college graduation because I slept it in and forgot I had to tramp across the whole city to get to it, arriving ten minutes before kick-off instead of the proscribed hour. Before you say it, no, it wasn't because I was drunk. I am just a free spirit and don't feel constrained by the clock like you little people do. Often, when I have ten minutes to get to a place that is twenty minutes away I will forget that I was about to leave and pick up a book or a newspaper and start reading or I will decide that now is totally the time to put my new hand cream on and I had better make sure to rub loads around my cutilcles cos they are, like, soooo dry lately. So, yeah. I'm free-spirited. Not lazy and forgetful at all.

Case in point, this afternoon as I was rushing to work late, having stopped off in the shop to buy donuts to bribe my co-workers into not telling the boss, hence making myself even later, I decided that I hadn't bought a magazine in ages and desperately needed to spend five minutes perusing the magazine rack in SuperValu. I ended up buying Hot Press by the way. Yeah, should have spent a little bit longer. As I was hotfooting it down Main Street I bumped into a girl I know and her small daughter whose name I couldn't remember. To cover my embarrassment at not knowing the child's name I chatted inanely to her for another five minutes. 'Ooh, aren't you gorgeous? What class are you in? Wow, is that a medal you have? Wow! From your sports day! That's brilliant! She's brilliant, Laura! Aren't you brilliant? Yes! And you're gorgeous too!' I don't think Laura noticed. In all fairness, I would probably forget my own daughters name so it's not really anything to be getting upset about.

At this point I was nearly fifteen minutes late, an offence punishable by slow execution by 'witty' remarks ('Lucy! You're here! What a surprise! Good afternoon! Did you fall down Patrick Street again? Or was it the queue in the post office this time? Hmmm?' Man, will saying 'Good afternoon!' to someone who arrives late to work ever get old? I don't think so. It's one of those classic, hil-fuckin-arious jokes that just keep getting better). So I stopped my patronizing child-chatter as Laura's enigmatic daughter looked about to burst into tears and said with a rueful grin: 'have to run. Late already, hahahahahahahaha!' To which Laura replied 'Good old Lucy. Nothing changes, eh?' I put on my running shoes and got ready to race. And instead dropped my donuts, wallet and magazine on the ground. Hahahahahaha, indeed.

I don't know how you celebrate a sudden fuck-up/toe-stub but when I drop all my shit all over the road I like to squeal and start roaring curses. Something along the lines of 'Fuckfuck-buggering-balls-fuck'. Laura looked a little shocked and vaguely amused but the small girl looked terribly impressed. All this and I needed a cigarette to calm me before work. Walk in. Only twenty minutes late. Wheee! Try to pretend I have been there all the time. Pinch Niamh to indicate my arrival is not to be commented on. Emma sees me, guffaws 'vodkahead, hahahahahaha' behind her hand. Donal sees me, cocks an eyebrow and says: 'Well, Miss Aughney. Good afternoon! Third time this week, isn't it? Thanks for joining us.'

Fuckfuck-buggering-balls-shit-fuck to the power of a thousand.

Tee hee

I don't know whether it's cos I am drunk but thuis is the funniset thing I've ever seen. Scen! Ha! Hilarious. THus is funny. Everything is funnt. My shoes are funny. Do you know, I couldn't find one of my shoes earlier and I trashed my entire room llooking for it and then I walked around the house in one shoe looking for the other one nd when I went back it was in my wardrobe all the time? Weeeeeird. Ow. My foot hurts/. I'm taking my shoes off now. OOps Dropped cig ash on keyboard. That was silly. Silly Lucy. Is it burning? Hope not. Will I blow on it to make it go- no, that's worse. Damn damn damn. Did you hear the one about the dyslexic who walked into the bra? ha ha that is my new favourite joke. That and the one about the threllegged dog hilarious

I just wish she could have actually jumped at the end

Bishops' Palace, Act 3

My mother and her mate, Martina, came to the show last night and cooed and gurned at me at every available instance. I have, however, learned the casual insouciance of the professional usher from the girls of the Theatre Royal and merely met their excited waves with a glance of cool scorn. Ignorant oiks, my practiced pout said.

Less practiced are my door-standing skills. I was required last night to stand at the right-hand door of the cathedral, a demanding task which meant I had to open the door and let the audience out in case of a fire, and not throw myself out it screaming before them. So useless was I in my new role that I was asked to move twice as my point of sentry was also the cast's entry door and close to much fake cannon flare. Also, when Cavaradossi stuck his head in at five to eight to ask 'is the house in?', I, ignorant both of stage speak and of the vocal manipulations of a Canadian hissing at me through a doorjam, thought he said 'Is Hannah in?', and offered to find Hannah, the stage manager. He rolled his big Canadian eyes in his big Canadian face and went off warbling exercises. 'You are wearing make-up and fake blood and you have the nerve to roll your eyes at me, Canadian' I muttered. Inaudibly, naturally. I am terribly cowed by make-up wearing Canadians. Tosca is Canadian too and terribly above it all, stalking about in a bad wig and a pained expression. Where's the Brazilian gone? Oh, dead, is he? Well, I didn't know that, I don't get to see act 2, do I?

Tosca & Cavaradossi dicuss Scarpia's pardon. Pah. Stupid Canadians.

I am well in with the guardsmen though. During the third act they are supposed to mill about the audience and interrogate random members, prod people in the ribs with their truncheons and growl menacingly. Last night two of the tallest and burliest came and stood right in front of me and conducted a conversation about how they fancied one of the whores, gradually stepping back until I was backed up against the wall and frantically giggling as silently as I could. Oh, what japes! Stagecraft, that's called.

The mother and a burnt-out vehicle. Hangin' in Tosca's hood.

All photos are courtesy of the mother. As you can she is both blind and incredibly thick.

Tosca!

I don't know how you spent this evening but I spent mine on the corner opposite the Maryland Hotel in Waterford herding an opera audience into a theatre. Impressed? No? There is no hope for you, my friend.

The audience in question were sent spinning my way after act 1 of Puccini's Tosca, which is being staged in a daring and innovative fashion in three seperate venues. Now. I know what daring and innovative immediately says to you, the discerning reader: fucked-up and poncy. But no! It was terrific, I assure you! Well, I was terrific anyway. But we knew that, didn't we?

Act 1 took place in the Waterford Pro-cathedral, featuring a load of boring but terribly excellent singers and your host, Lucy, stalking the aisles, fearlessly flogging programs. For act 2 the audience were unceremoniously jiggled down the road to the Theatre Royal by members of the cast in soldier's uniforms and rifles. Oh, the excitement! Shuttup, purists; this is a modern version, k? Hence, and through the theatre, over the stage and through the back door to follow Mario's execution squad and gaoler back to the courtyard of Bishops' Palace for act 3, attended by the tolling of the cathedral's bell, for Mario and Tosca's reunion and (eek! Spoiler!) both their deaths. And if you are me, on to the pub with the cast and crew to steal their sandwiches and pretend you know shit about opera.

In a related matter, when you are speaking to anyone who works in or anywhere near the theatre they will, without doubt, put their hand on your shoulder, look gravely at you and say 'You. Were. Amazing. Couldn't do it without you lot, you know?' This is their way, the people of the stage. I can't say I have a problem with them doing this. I got a blistering hug off Scarpia in this way and I don't really have a problem being embraced by dashing, ponytailed, Brazilian baritones so honestly, why complain?

You people. One day I'm testing you on your French impressionists, the next I'm shoving Puccini down your throats. It's not all Big Brother and the Sugababes with me you know. DO NOT say I don't bring you enough culture.

Boringer and boringer

Oh, blow it. I can't think of anything to post. I'll try this: my neighbour, who has no car but has a traffic cone she keeps in her hallway for when her friends come. She trundles out with said cone before they arrive and sticks it in the parking space nearest her house. WHICH IS ALSO NEAREST OUR HOUSE. This drives the mother nutsy though I don't mind it. Because, hell, even though I'm so excellent at the old driving now, I need a good quarter mile stretch to park. Luckily the neighbour is a demented old bat with no friends so this doesn't happen much. I love the elderly!

Anyway, consider this picture (of my new mirror in my room- notice, if you will, the electrical wire tying it to the wall. Yes, I am a DIY queen) as my parking cone. Keeping my spot open, if you will.

Bonus points if you can guess the picture on my bedroom wall. Yes, yes: barrel, bottom, scraping. I GET IT.

First Cherry. I could have punned but I am not crude and unoriginal like that. Anyway, you don't come here for the sex. You love me for my MIND

I have just eaten my first ever cherry. Oh sure, I've had cherries before, if you count those vile, crystallized ones in fruit cakes or those nasty ones that come in tins of fruit salad. Here in my house we call those 'the gicky bits' of a tin of fruit salad. Anyway, it was okay. Not amazing like. Kinda like a sour plum. Just thought you should know.

Have you been in Dublin lately? I have. Yesterday. Me and my NBF Colette went up to go out with the girls for the end of their exams. Boy, was it great. It was all drunkenness and debauchery. And mooning. How I miss my student days. There's a load of these mad, bronze statues of hares up the middle of O'Connell street. Don't ask me why. Does anybody know? I feel I should have been informed. I dislike change.

For all you news-hungry kids out there, here's what I learned in the past 24 hours:

• The Liffey is all glugged up with grubby-looking rubber ducks. Who's going to clean that up, that's what I'd like to know.
• Nine Baby Guinness and a vodka tonic will set you back €54 in Flannerys. Seeing as we're dealing with Baby Guinness here, you still won't be drunk enough to forget the fact that you're in Flannerys.
• People from Wexford say 'He is so RAAAAHHHR!' when they see a good-looking man or 'That is so RAAAAAHHR!' when they find something cool. Wexford people = Weird. Hardly a breaking story.
• Bar stamps are still nigh-on impossible to wash off. Oh sure, they're all fun and coloured-y at 1am but try sauntering into Spar the next day to buy your hangover cure (Mine's hula hoops and lucozade. And sometimes just more vodka) and all it is is a garish reminder of what a dirty lush you are.
• Apparently, correct protocol for suddenly discovering your underwire has become detached from your bra is NOT to reach inside your dress and yank it out in the middle of a crowded bar. Who knew? I live and learn.
• Dublin people are good-looking people. When did that happen? Everywhere you look you see tanned and stylish people, walking around in their kicky little capris and work shorts. That's right, work shorts. We down in the sticks laughed work shorts off as a ridiculous trend, albeit nervously, but the Dubliners have taken work shorts to their good-looking breasts. Seriously though, the attractive people. They killed me. I come from a place where dressing up is putting flip flops and a vest on over your sunburn as you stump up from the beach for an ice cream. Now I need to crawl under something and die. And buy loads of pairs of capri pants and formal shorts.

Wow. Those were good. Real life lessons. Glad I managed to get them all out. Now I can get on to telling you all about the conversation I was fortunate enough to be party to yesterday.

NOREEN: So, did you see the O.C. the other night?
LUCY: No I did not. I don't watch that tosh. I was probably reading some huge book with a clever title you've never even heard of [Read: "Was probably drunk in some alleyway."].
MARIE: OMG! I only found out the other day that the O.C. stands for Orange County!
NOREEN: No way! Get out! I thought it stood for, like ... something-California.
MARIE: OMG, no! Orange County! 'Cos in America that's California's, like, nickname. 'Cos everyone who lives there is really tanned.

I can't tell you what was said next as I passed out at the sheer hilarity of the moment. Oh, joy. When I awoke Marie was sticking a fork in a socket. True story.

New Jersey, baby!

Recieved from Sally yesterday evening:

Sending to everyone email so dont feel unloved and not unique im just too lazy and iv only 43minutes!! Ok Ny is sooooo hot and humid and didnt get to our stinkin hostel til like 10, ful of like bible bashers or like naked ppl or like ppl who do art work in the hall at 4 in the morning!!

Then orientation the next morning was a drag (So American of me) and the girl who gave the talk was the image of Jessica Simpson,so ya can IMAGINE wha we're up against! Then since we're such nice ppl we made friends with theses guys, Conor and Dave, Conor is like in CIT too and hes 22, and Dave is in TIT [presumably she means Institute of Technology Tralee. Freudian, I'm sure] and is also 22, really nice gyuys and we travelled with them to NJ, which took sooo long but twas grand,cuz we changed buses in Atlantic City, Atlantic City baby!

Then when we got here, it was so weird we met this Russian and he kinda got us a house, but the land ppl are such americans and keep pickin on us, met this weird yet funny woman who keeps laughin,she loves me cuz i laugh with her!! Next door to us were these two Davids from Waterford, how weird i know!! and this Scotish girl, Ashley so bla bla shes gona live with us cuz they kinda in fight with each other when thery're pissed!

Oh and these "kids" who like had prom the night before are all over the resort and we were talkin to the prom king, and everyone thinks i was after him cuz i said ok then bye cya on the beach 2m, just to get rid of them!!(although that would of made me prom queen)

Ok jobs,we all kinda have stuff lined up, 2lads and ashley, in theme park, me and mea in a restaurant and Sin and Kate in like a frog stand or sumit, but like we havent stared work at all so who no's! no house but we'll know about one 2n, fingers crossed, the house has this gorgeous balconey on it and its beside an irish pub!

Mom my battery wont charge and im thinkin of buyin a phone, sinead bought one there a min ago, cant work the pay phones tried ringin the library but it wont work!!! Niamhy,you ok?? Love ya all wish i could write more but im starvin for a bita greasy food, oh had pancakes for breakfast,wait for it with strawberries!!!!

"see you guys"

"UHHH KIds from the program"

Don't feel bad. I haven't a clue what it means either. Most of it is probably hilarious in-jokes that we don't get because we are not 'kids from the program'. Are you frightened by the amount of times she says 'like' in her email? I am. America, what hast thou done to my sister?

I'm drunk! Don't make me add a load of extra 'r's to that. You don't want that. Nobody wants that.

Dearest darlings;

I won't lie to you; I'm drunk. But I have been through the mills so you will have to excuse any spelling mustakes. No, that wasn't intentional, but I'm leaving it because it tell's you what I'm going through. SIGH. I had to drag my drunken mother home tonight. Today was her last day in her old job so she saw it (as she sees any day that ends in 'Y': that's for you, Laur) as an excuse to get absolutely locked. Excellent, you may say.

I support drunkenness in all its forms but not when it impinges on me. At 1.35AM my ma's friend rang me to ask me to ring a taxi for them cos they were all livin' it up in Teresa's gaff and had lost track of time and being the hot things that they were, knew no taxi numbers. Hell yeah. Who needs taxi numbers when you have a daughter who does, says I. Unfotunately I had been drinking steadily in Aoife's since ten and had no concept of taxis or anything beyond the PROFOUND DEBATE we were having about Ryan Adams, so I just rang Roisin and she, who was out apub with the best of them said: 'No. Fucking. Chance, Aughney. It's a Bank Holiday and the entire world and his wife is out. Stop ringing me, I hate you.'

So I had to stump up and collect the drunken mamma a-foot. Cos I can't drive, stupid. YET!!!!

'Sokay though! I left Aoif's in a drunken haze and boogied the ten minutes up the road to that Shakira song which I love. Shuttup, haterzzz. So I got there and had an awkward ten minutes getting Kate into her jacket and another five persuading her that the coal bucket was not her jacket but hey, it's nothing I havent't dealt with before. People are trying on coal buckets for size all around me, let me tell you.

I don't know how much you socialize with your primary school teachers but my ideal level of intimacy with them is pretty much nil. Except for my Mum's mate Annette, who taught me in primary school. Damn. Imagine picking up your extremely inebriated mother from a party and making small talk with your ex-teacher. Go on. Now imagine yourself drunk on Aoife's vodka. I dare you to not mention that test on the islands off Ireland she shorted you on and how she confiscated your pencil with the fuzzy taggles on in fifth class because it was 'a distraction'. I didn't.

Anyway! So we've got the social fuck-ups out of the way, lets move on to how Kate fell into EVERY TREE/BUSH on the way home. It was muy embarrassing. As someone who routinely falls into foliage I was majorly embarrassed for her. Seriously. I had to hide my head whenever a car went past us on the way home. Amd I usually reserve nothing but pride for drunkenness.

So, I get home, heave the steaming lump of 'can't-hold-her-drink' up to bed and settle down to a soothing smoke. Except there's this worthy drama on Ch4, which we leave on for the dog while we're out to educate him, so I have to watch it. By the by, it's a David Mamet play wot I studied in college. Don't make me remember the name, I haven't the patience. Or the attention. I'm drunk! Don't make me add a load of extra 'r's to that. You don't want that.

It was the one with the student and the teacher, that much I know, which is one of the three Mamet plays I have read in my entire life. I will read no more. I am done with him. He is just too bloody thinky. He is a total bastard and fucks with my poor, deluded head as much as possible. But, presumably, that's what he wants. Hey! Bastard. Anyway, this version had William T Macy and some curly-haired girl and it was great. I'd tell you more but I dropped my cigarette at one point and spent ten minutes deciding whether the smell of burning came from the sofa or the rug.

Relax! I put it out and we all survived to blog another day. Aughney, out*!

*Too shite? Thought so.

The good old days

Because flickr is mean and is trying to make me PAY to put my gorgeous photos on their site, you will not see the party photos yet. YET. Not that they're brilliant or anything. I've reviewed them and there is no picture of me with my barrel of wine or me breaking glasses with my feet so they help very little in reconstructing events. Stupid photos. Nor is there any picture of me bitch-slapping someone, which apparently I did do. So I am going to go out on a limb here and say: if there is no pictorial evidence it did not happen. Does anyone really get slapped if no one is around to photograph it? I say NO. Above is the t-shirt we had printed for the event. It depicts Sal & her pals on a glorious US flag. Before you get to saving this picture for your own personal enjoyment, let me say that it is not my chest in the photo but Ruth's. But enjoy it all the same. Your browser ain't ready for my rack yet.

For future reference, it is really bloody hard to point at your back when you have downed a barrel of wine. It is really bloody hard to FIND your back when you have downed a barrel of wine. Just so you know.

This photo proves that I am out of touch with the youth of today. When Emma presented me with my t-shirt, gaily emblazoned with my surname, and the pink, fluffy antennae-ed hairband, I said 'But...Won't we look like a shitty looking hen party?'

And she said 'Yeah, I know, BRILLIANT or what?!'

Back in my day looking like a hen party was a bad thing. Then again, in my day we didn't find a drunk boy who had just wandered outside a pub for a smoke and force him to photograph our backsides. Nor did we choose the middle of Tramore's Main Street for this photo-shoot, nor did we roar 'Hey shitface, screw you- I'm posing here!' at passing automobiles.

God is on my side after all

I know you're all DYING to hear about The Party but I lost the cable for the camera so I'm not going to spoil the fun by telling you about it without pictures to sufficiently illustrate the hottness. Suffice to say, it was hott. Also I have a piece of glass in my foot. It's embedded there so it looks like it's staying. How it got there I cannot say but perhaps the photos will answer. Tomorrow, friends. What I will tell you is that Donal forced me to swap shifts with him so he could play stupid hurling and I was late to the party. How horrendous! I had to drink in the shower to catch up.

Which is why I find it interesting, nay, intriguing to hear that Donal got stamped on by a person larger than him during the match and thinks he may have broken his arm. Not that he knows this for sure obviously, as that would require going to one of those stupid hospital things. Instead he went to the pub and screamed like a girl if anyone got too close to his arm. The point is, Donal sinned, making me miss valuable drinking hours to hit a stupid ball with a stupid stick and...well, bad things happened to him. Warning! Fuck with Lucy and God will FUCK YOU UP. If that's not evidence enough for all you non-believers out there then I don't know what you want.

Also, let it be known that if you go around yelling at people to keep away from the barrel of wine you bought yourself because you have a cold sore, you will get called 'The Herpes girl' forever more. Just another one of those life lessons that I had to go through to bring you wisdom.

You're so fucking welcome.

Inanity becomes me

Who wants a job? Not me. I am quite happy being regressive and nonfunctional. I can't think of any job I can do anyway. Though I would undoubtedly be brilliant at anything I did. According to my expert on these matters, Mr D. Gleeson, the three categories of jobs are primary, secondary and tertiary. Primary is farmers, secondary is factory workers and tertiary is ... travel agents. That is all I remember from leaving cert Geography. I got a B1! Beat that. I spent most geography classes passing notes to my good friend Lynne.

Hey loser, you fancy Mr Donnegan.
Hahahahahahahaha!!!!!
xxLucy

No, you're the loser, you fancy Mr Donnegan. I see you looking at him in English. You're such a loser. hahahahahahahaha
xoxoxoxoxo Lynne

AAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGH!
Can't believe you said that. I do NOT! You do! Loser.
xxLucy

Haha
Yes you do.
xxLynne

No I don't. And you fancy Mr Doody, hahahahahahahaha
xxLucy

Yes it is true, I am having his baby. Because I love him so. hahahahahahahahahaha
xxLynne

That is so gross. I'm telling your lover, Mr Donnegan, that you are cheating on him with your religion teacher. hahahahahahahaha
xxLucy

It is only because I am so heartbroken over you getting off with him. Some friend you are. Stealing all my boyfriends.
xxLynne

Well can you blame them? I am incredibly gorgeous you know. And witty and clever and good at drawing but that's besides the point. What are you doing at 4?
xxLucy

Nothing. I was supposed to have a date with Mr Donnegan but he stood me up. FOR YOU.
hahahahahaha.
xxLynne

Want to break into Marie's locker and write 'I love Mr Donnegan' all over it in permanent marker? Im supposed to have detention for not going to PE on Monday but fuck that.

hahahahahahaha
xxLucy

Hell yeah. See you at 4. hahahahahahaha
xxLynne

I don't know how I pulled the B1 out of that. Evidence of my immense intelligence, I expect. LIKE YOU NEEDED IT. We also spent seven torrid months working on a graphic novel of an erotic nature. This was Jenny's brainchild, let me stress. If I had to start a graphic novel when I was seventeen it would probably be 'Sylvia Plath meets Sinead O'Connor and Camille Paglia and they talk about stuff', who were all my heroines at the time. Luckily for literature's sake we went with 'The Sexxxy adventures of Johnny and Mary' instead. I still don't know why.

Jenny's story followed the sexual exploits of a couple of swingers called Johnny and Mary and most of the class contributed to it in a copybook that was passed secretly round the classroom as Mr Gleeson burbled his way through lectures on glaciation. Oh, don't roll your eyes: I'm sure you'd rather write schoolgirl-penned erotic melodrama than listen to stuff about glaciers. I did the pictures, and attempted to head off the frequent puerile diatribes and toilet humour. Yes, friends, I was prudish even then.

Ladies, you may rest easy in your beds

My good friend and barwench Elaine (who, incidentally, last night saw me approaching the bar and had a tequila ready for me when I got there. Legend, that girl) has sent me a message and all is solved:

hey lucy just checkin ur ok after that stool fell over ya the other nite!! ya drunken hooligan!

My Saturday night mishap was only a drunken stool fall! That's just dandy, I can manage stool falls. Stool falls are run of the mill in Lucytown. Lesbianism on the other hand...

I understand that in my last post I may have implied a flippant and disrespectful attitude towards lesbians. This is so not what I stand for. I'm all about the love. I love the gays! Just not physically. In related matters, an alternate title I considered for this post was "'Salright! Not a dyke!".

Oh, and Caroline, if you're reading this, disregard everything I've written. I'm always a lesbian for you, baby.

Foreboding

You know when you've forgotten something and you know it's really fucking important but you can't remember what it is or anything? Yeah, whatever. Shut up. I'm talking about me here. Well, I have this really bad feeling about last night. All day it's been lurking at the back of my mind, jumpin' up at me and making me cringe. Problem is, haven't a clue what it is. Just a vague shamefulness. Oh dear. I seem to remember a blonde girl called Melanie, me hugging her and Robert and Danger whooping with joy.

...

I might be a lesbian now.

Unlike Dumbledore, she will not return...maybe

My friends, do you know what this is?



I don't know if I should tell you. It might ruin your life. Unless you are me and you hate Marissa. Oooooops! Damnit. Lucy, you're such an idiot. Oh well. I'm sure many will mourn her passing. Like her agent or someone.

How the Irish Stereoptype was born

See these two cold fingers?

Just so you all can keep up on the various inhabitants of my home, this is a picture of the spider who now lives in my bathroom. My finger is included for scale. Yes, I know: I am an artist. The mother won't allow him to be removed as spiders are lucky, apparently. Kate's faith is based on a curious mixture of superstition and prayers. She is currently speaking to God on a regular basis asking for his intervention on behalf of about a dozen people. Exams, people. And interviews and things. Kate has a direct line to God. She lights candles every morning and says: 'Right, this one is for Marie's exams, this is for Sally's exams, this is for Donal's interview, this is for the Oscar's sore eye, this is for my boss to get bumped off while on his holidays...'

I'm kidding! She doesn't pray for that. Prayers don't solve everything.

This is getting dull. I might just push this blog off a cliff.

New Jersey. You can't tell but I'm saying that in my shitcool NJ accent I learned off Tony Soprano

Yeah, so my sister is heading over to Yankee land for the summer. New Jersey, if you want to track her down and stalk her. Just follow the police sirens. The other day she was telling me and my mother all about this boy she knows who went to San Diego last summer and worked himself into ten grand of debt over the three months he was there. Boy, that must have been a gold-plated three months. My mother immediately passed out on the kitchen floor when she heard this and when she awoke she immediately started drinking. I was all: 'Kate, we haven't even had lunch yet', but she just gave me a look. Her look said: 'Bitch, please. Don't even get me started.'

Because my sister has no money. And I mean, NONE. She got a loan to pay for this trip but she has, wisely enough, spent it all on clothes and booze. And maybe drugs and strippers, I'm not sure what she gets up to in college. BECAUSE SHE GOT THE LOAN IN FEBRUARY. I was against it at the time. I said: 'Don't be foolish Sal, you'll have it all spent by June. Listen to your financially-brilliant-yet-inexplicably-broke sister on this.' But she just gave me a look. HER look said 'Shut up fucker, I want that dough.'

So now Ma has to finance it all. It's going to be a fun summer. If I do something dumb and need a high-priced OJ-type lawyer to get me out of it, I can pretty much sing for it. Sally and her mates are having a going-away party in two weeks time and let me tell you, I have never been so excited about anything in my entire life. Except maybe vodka. And it's a fancy-dress party. Wowowowowow. American-themed. I've said that we should charge admission or at least whore Sally out for a while but you can bet that little gem will get ignored. Sally's going as Carrie Bradshaw in a tutu because she kinda has this Sarah JP nose-thing going on. Kate C is going as Dolly Parton. Sinead is going as Paris Hilton. I am wearing a blue dress with a stain on and going as The Most Famous Intern Ever. I know. I am so fucking current, aren't I? Also, notice how everyone seems to want to go as celebrity bimbos? THAT IS WHAT WE THINK OF WHEN WE THINK OF YOU, AMERICA. Comforting, I know.

The other day I was trying to up my good friend Dave's excitement levels about this party by telling him all this. Dave doesn't do excitement. He doesn't really do emotions, actually, unless you count lethargy and I DON'T. So I told him about Sally going as SJP and he says: 'She's the girl off Friends, right?' I was all ready to crush his laid-back arse for this HUGE misstep in girl-lore but then Roisin caught my eye and gave me a look.

As you may have noticed, I'm fairly susceptible to looks. Roisin's look in this scenario very clearly said: 'NO. Leave it. He's cuter when he's being dumb. And Sally can smack him harder than you can.' And you can't argue with that.

Thank you for that, Mr Connolly

A lazy person, whatever the talents with which he set out, will have condemned himself to second-hand thoughts and to second-rate friends.

I found this one on the internet. The other one I read in a book. A REAL BOOK. Ah, yes. Sometimes I read books. Sometimes I burn them to heat my home. It depends on my mood.

Why not write in the morning? Unfortunately in my case there is never very much of the morning and is curious that although I do not despise people who go to bed earlier than I, almost everyone is impatient with me for not getting up.

Cyril Connolly, Enemies of Promise, ch. 1

Apologies for recent hatefullness

Jeez.

I disappear for like, a week and who notices? No one. That'll teach me. When I was younger I bought all these old Bunty annuals from a Girl Guide Bring & Buy sale and there was one with a story in it about this orphan who had to bring up all her younger brothers and sisters but then she found out she was dying and she came up with this downright stupid notion of being nasty and cruel to them so that when she died they wouldn't miss her. Fucking stupid story. But that's what's been going on round here. Recently. Except without the orphans, self-sacrifice or encroaching death. Also, she used to creep out at night and feed starving street children or something. That part didn't transfer either.

I have been really busy being all-out horrible lately. It's something that requires my full attention so I haven't had time to do anything else. I'm hoping it's a phase and not that I've always been this awful and am only just noticing it now.

Sorry. This is complete self-pitying bilge. I should have just gone with my first instinct to cut myself.

Pearls of Wisdom

I've just been over at this site, which I found on Bloggorah, which incidentally is extremely diverting. When I got up this morning I didn't realise that I needed another reason to despise Caroline Morahan but apparently the universe decided I did. Besides the fact that she was once an extremely pretty girl who went and fuglified herself because, goddamnit, she's Ireland's premier fashionista and that involves looking as ugly and outlandish as humanly possible. And there is nothing I hate more than wasted beauty. Well, maybe Pat Kenny. But it's a close one.

Our Caroline is apparently quite the style guru nowadays. What the word 'style' has to do with Debs balls is completely beyond me. The only thing less stylish than your average Irish Debs is your average Irish Knacker wedding. But until you are bride at an Irish Knacker wedding, your Debs is the only occasion you have to be tirelessly obnoxious and enamored with yourself so you might as well milk it. Caroline did.

Have fun with your accessories. Some designers are very sleek and simple but I was far more dramatic. I wore a pink feather boa and earrings in my hair that were like hair jewels. Put time into accessorising as it can make or break an outfit.

Such glorious advice! Coco Chanel is punching up dirt screaming 'Why didn't I think of a pink feather boa and hair jewels? Fuckit for a wasted life!'

A must-have in any evening bag is powder or concealer. You can dab it discretely on your nose and forehead. And, especially after the meal, it' s great to close your mouth and go around your lips with a concealer pen to tidy up your make-up.

Oh grow up, Caroline. Sometimes it's great for you to just close your mouth. I don't give a shit if you want to draw a pen around it after.

SIGH. I'm sorry if this sounds amazingly inane and ridiculous. I only got all mad at Caroline because I read the last paragraph first and it made me so mad I punched an actual hole in an actual wall with my fist. Really. Except substitute 'actual' for 'imaginary'. But I might have! If only I wasn't so damned apathetic about wall-punching.

And, remember, it's a long night so don't drink a stupid amount. I'm no t-totaller or anything but there's no point getting completely wasted, not remembering anything and being a pain in the arse for the night.

There. See? I couldn't be madder even if she had followed this with: 'Yeah, Lucy, that one's just for you'. And now I'm sitting here with my head in my hands crying great big tears of confusion and upset. WHAT IS THE POINT OF A DEBS BALL IF ONE DOES NOT GET COMPLETELY WASTED, REMEMBERS EVERYTHING AND SPENDS THE EVENING NOT BEING A PAIN IN THE ARSE?

I am shaken to my very core and am questioning my most closely-cherished beliefs. It is like I am a sixteenth-century pope and Caroline is Galileo. I must crush and excommunicate her immediately. If that analogy even worked or made any sense.

In answer to your unasked and perhaps as yet unformulated questions, I spent my Debs night in a delightful cerise frock bought in a sale, wore no feather boas and got twisted by 8pm. I also spent the guts of four trillion pounds, old money, and spilt a pint down my dress, giving it the unimaginable glamour of a dirty tea-towel. I woke up in a bed in Mairead's house beside a terribly soggy Marie, who had fallen into the sea during the early-morning beach escapades we and sixty other evening-gloveliesovlies had been getting up to. That's how we roll here in Tramore: all parties end down the Ladies' Slip amid bonfires and accidental ocean-dips. You'll learn to love it.

Sing out to stop the hurting

I kinda had a hangover this morning. For like fifteen minutes. I was reading a book and this guy was attempting suicide with some sleeping pills and a bottle of vodka and I was like 'Uh-oh, vodka,' and I had to put the book away and lie down on the floor for a while. Then I got up and ate a tuna sandwich and watched the really creepy bit in The Way You Were where Katie practically rapes poor, drunk Hubble and he passes out on top of her. My hangovers are thankfully few and extremely short. And cured by tuna and melodrama.

People often say to me, 'Lucy, why are you constantly singing?'. I say it is to share the beautiful music and launch into a bar or two of that deadly Paris to Berlin song. Then I get a smack. Honestly though, I don't know if I can tell you why I am always singing. It's not really my secret to tell: it's Aoife's too. Will I? Oh, okay then. Sometimes I sing because I hate everyone around me and want to make them unhappy but in the main it's because I'm a drunk. Aoife taught me, long ago, that the best way to blot out unbidden drunken memories returning suddenly is to sing very loudly and very badly. There you are, going about your daily business and suddenly you remember saying or doing something extremely stupid the night before and because you have reached a point in your life where cringing and screaming just won't cut it you instead start roaring out inane lyrics at the top of your lungs.

People near you will look bewildered and possibly pained and will say 'what? Why would you do that, why?' and you will laugh madly and say 'Ah, just remembering something highly amusing from last night'. And then others will think you live in a wondrous, magical jukebox of a world with a kicking soundtrack and exhilarating tales.

When really you are just a belligerent drunk who is trying to get she held forth for half an hour on why Fall Out Boy is the best band ever to some random young man she met whilst out having a cigarette. In a nutshell, what I'm saying is that mad, furious bellowing is better than reflecting on painful matters. I like to avoid any extraneous thinking if I can at all help it.

My evening with the freckled folk

I don't know about you but personally, I am very tolerant of the less advantaged members of society. I'm talking about culchies, man. Oh sure, I will mock, deride and smack them about a bit but in reality I have a lot of time for the country folk. Which is why, when I was invited to come back to my good friend Dells house for a bit of a session, I was all up for it. Dell and I go back a long way: Essentially he hates my guts but we both pretend we don't know this. The exact wording of my invite was 'Hey, Lets go to Dell's and trash the joint'. How could I refuse?

Dell's home is a simple cottage on the outskirts of Tramore, built of pleasant homely materials like turf and old copies of Ireland's Eye. When we got there last night I clipped into his kitchen with some trepidation: would the boggers notice my urban sophistication and out me as the townie I was? I need not have worried. One look at my nervous yet lovely visage and they were pouring me out a whiskey from a large bottle of Teachers and pulling an upended bucket up to the open fireplace for me to seat my shapely bottom. Dell's dog snoozed contentedly at my feet. They must have run out of rough tobacco to stuff in their pipes though, for they fell upon my twenty Marlboro like dogs on a rabbit and I was instantly their best friend.

'Aaargh lassie, you're no' too bad', drawled Jim in his adorable country lilt. Jim is brother to the famous Noreen, by the way, which you will know if you are keeping up with the lineage of Tramore's finest. Bah. The boggers get all the good ones.

After we got the traditional party protocol out of the way (running round the house whooping, breaking glasses, jumping on all the couples shagging in the bedrooms and having a messy condiment fight with the contents of Dell's fridge), we proceeded to drink to the end of the bottle and the charming country folk sang me songs in their primitive way.

'Hey, fuckers, do ye know any songs that don't mention the IRA, wheat fields burnt by the English, potato blight, brave Irish rebels or the Black and Tans? Eh?' I piped up after a while. Me, I like to shake things up sometimes. The countrysiders regarded me blankly for a bit so I was forced to stand up on Dell's kitchen counter and belt out Born in the USA. As you do. All for naught, I'm afraid. The country folk just nodded and chewed their gums and launched in on a load of songs about poor Irish folk who had emigrated to Amerikay. As dawn's pale fingers fumbled clumsily about outside, seven of us passed around my last cigarette and the boys tried to persuade Marie F to take her clothes off.

Nobody asked me to take my top off. Damn culchies don't know a sure thing when they see it.

No comment

So there I was, mashing the spuds for the lunch and Sally wanders down stairs.

'Oh! OH!' says my mum. 'I see the dead has arisen!'
Sally scoffed in a hungover manner. 'How long are you up?' she tosses to me.
'I have a bone to pick with you, miss!' Says mum.
'Great' says Sal.

'Your exams are starting next week; what on earth were you doing out last night?!'
I chuckled merrily at this. 'Lucy made me go out.' whined my sister.
'And what were you doing on the phone till seven this morning?!' continued the one-woman inquisition.
'Talking to Carl.' she pouted.

'Now Sally, I will not have you making reckless calls to mobile phones at all hours. It is very bold and naughty' and my mother went on in this manner for some moments. Sally yawned. Then she looked at me. I was hopping round the kitchen in bare-foot glee, laughing softly to myself as I am wont to do when in a good humour.

'What is wrong with you, you big fool?' She said.
'I am delighted because for once you and not me are in the bad books and I am the good daughter!' I trilled gleefully. Sally glowered. I hopped on, whooping with mad, glorious joy.

Sally rolled her eyes and prepared to quash. 'Anyway, Mother, I don't know if you know this but Lucy was amazingly drunk last night and fell over in the road after the disco finished and the whole place wet themselves laughing and her knees were pumping bleeding and she just kept sitting there on the kerb outside Murphs laughing while I tried to clean up the blood.'

I stopped hopping. My mother eyed me warily. 'Go on, make her show you the cuts on her knees if you don't believe me' said my sister.

'Well? What have you got to say for yourself?' demanded the Mater.

In which I finish reading a novel

I have just finished The Europeans. This is huge. Did you hear me? HUGE. I have never gotten further than page 5 of any Henry James without wanting to jab a pen in my eye. But I read this one the whole way through! And I understood practically all of it! What can this signify?

I think, if it's even possible, that I may be getting smarter...

Only because I'm bored

For this thing you're supposed to shuffle your ipod and apply each question to the songs it throws at you. It's pretty much asking the ipod to tell your fortune. Annie bought me a magic eight ball before so I really feel no need to do this but seeing as I am so incredibly bored that I have cleaned the entire house and it's either this or cut the dog's hair, I've done it anyway. I don't actually own an ipod because I am vehemently against paying money for anything I cannot pour down my throat but fortunately I do have Sally's ipod. Fortunately for the dog anyway, because if I did not I would be bleaching his ears right now.

S'alright though, it's mainly my music on her ipod anyway since she hasn't bought any CDs since the Coyote Ugly soundtrack about ten years ago. Ugh.

How does the world see you?
Money, Pink Floyd

Will I have a happy life?
Cry on Demand, Ryan Adams

What do my friends really think of me?
Black Cowboys, Bruce Springsteen

Do people secretly lust after me?
Galang, MIA

How can I make myself happy?
Oh My Gosh, Basement Jaxx

What should I do with my life?
Nobody Does it Better, Carly Simon

Will I ever have children?
I believe in a thing called Love, The Darkness

What is some good advice for me?
Next to You, Bebel Gilberto

How will I be remembered?
Don't Rain on my Parade, Bobby Darin

What is my signature dancing song?
The One You Love, Rufus Wainwright

What do I think my current theme song is?
Waiter, Nelly McKay

What does everyone else think my current theme song is?
Meet me in the Bathroom, The Strokes
[Oh, shut up. It's random, k? I DIDNT PICK THEM]

What song will play at my funeral?
Feltham is Singing out, Hard Fi

What type of women/men do you like?
Mandy, Westlife
[I don't know how that gone on there. It's not mine, if that's what you're thinking]

What is my day going to be like?
Messin with the Kid, Rory Gallagher