Sunday, April 30, 2006

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.

Wednesday, April 26, 2006

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...

Monday, April 24, 2006

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

Sunday, April 23, 2006

Lucy's hand sees internet premiere: Let the healing begin

Noreen signed my hand last night. In the middle of the pub. It says 'Noreen luvin Lucy xxx', by the way. This fine lassy is another UCD prodigy. Then I was on my way back from the loos and I had learned some dastardly piece of gossip on my way which I just had to tell her. Unfortunately the girl I grabbed and squealed at wasn't Noreen. A normal person might be embarrassed. Not me, I don't have morals. Or feelings. Or any discernable traits of humanity like realising when I'm behaving poorly.

I just said 'Oh darling, I thought you were Noreen!' Everyone knows Noreen. She just stared at me as if I was the most boring person on the whole planet. No one gets away with that. So I crossed my arms and gave her the hard stare. 'What's wrong with you? Noreen is one of the best-looking people I have ever seen in the flesh. And she autographed my hand. Me thinking you look like her, it's a fucking compliment, bitch.' She just gave me a bitchy open-mouthed look and I scooted off.

I have some thoughts you know. Sometimes I muse on the Big Stuff. And some times I worry about becoming the girl that everyone thinks is a drunken arse. Then I get over myself and get another drink. I'll worry about that when I hit twenty-four.

Saturday, April 22, 2006

All the emphasis in this post is because I am YELLING it at my secretary

Where WERE you last night? I was looking everywhere. Well, the bar. You weren't there. Mags got drunk and made me dance to Sweet Child of Mine with my arms over my head. She MADE me. Then I kept buying her drinks cos I'm LIKE THAT. I encourage drunkeness. I'm like the anti-diageo. Oh no, wait. When I got home I was sitting on the kitchen floor eating Weetabix Minis, my new FAVOURITE food, when I got a text message off my new best friend Ken. It said 'I meant to say hello to you'. I thought this very nice of him. I vaugely recalled seeing his head earlier. So I wrote a long and complicated message back which ended with 'Let your conscience guide you. Kenneth. KENNETH. Off you trott. Though we admire.'

If you can understand what I meant by any of that you are a better man than me. Luckily for me (and Ken) I accidentally entered the wrong number and sent it to somebody else. A STRANGER. This morning I woke up with a reply saying 'Who's Kenneth?' From the stranger. I didnt write back though. I have enough random friends.

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

For eyes which rowle towards all, weepe not, but sweat

I have yellow spots on my eyeballs. Oh sure, I'm the only one can see them but they are there. They're like faint nicotine-burns. Whenever I try to show someone my yellow eyes I hold them by the ears and make them gaze into my eyes for an uncomfortably long time. Most everyone says: 'Nope. Can't see them. You're nuts.' One person said 'Are you trying to kiss me?' Idiot.

Damn it! I have yellow-eye! I looked it up for Pete's sake. Apparently it's because of poor tear quality and over-exposure to UV light. Poor tear quality, hah! I haven't cried since Dumbledore died. And that was more of a slight moistness around the eye than actual tears. So I went to the chemist to buy eye-drops.

'Eye-wetness stuff, please!' I said.

'€12 please' said my local friendly pharmacist.

Bit steep for a teensy bottle of what is probably water but, hell, I bought it. I'm off to buy sunglasses now to cope with the dazzling UV glare from Tramore's shimmering sands. So if you see me strolling around looking more knobby than usual, wearing big, bug-eyed sunglasses, you will know that I do it so my eyes are clear and pristine. All the better to undress you with.

Monday, April 17, 2006

Papa's Birthday

DSCN2805, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

Charlie Haughey. Maggie Thatcher. Hugh Hefner. Garret Fitzgerald. The Queen. All turning eighty this year. It's a big deal. Eighty is the new black. My grandad though, he gets all the luck. He turned eighty today AND he gets me as a grandaughter.

Happy birthday Papa!

Sunday, April 16, 2006

Things that make me laugh, loudly and long

I have just finished reading the May issue of British Vogue. I do that sometimes. Read stuff. Not just May though, I read all the months. Not all at the same time obviously because then I would get all my trends mixed up and I would fail to be the stylish lass I am. At the moment pantaloons are in. And cowboy and metallics and...colours. Wearing colours is HUGE for summer. Mark my words: you shall wear a colour before summer is out. Also, layering sucessfully is the key to eternal happiness. That and having loads of cash to buy designer handbags. I have one rule about handbags: If it cannot hold a nagen of vodka it is no good. I'm a simple girl with simple but heartfelt principles.

My favourite bit of Vogue is the Miss V column, where two anonymous fashion editors exchange gushing emails about all the star-fucking parties they've been to and all the free loot designers send them. It's brilliant:

'You were so wrapped up in James Purefoy that you missed moi, wrapped in my Preen bandage dress, plotting with Sandra Choi, Jimmy Choo's creative director, and Alice Temperley's husband Lars for tennis doubles at the Hurlingham. (Must pick up that flirty Stella for Addidas dress to distract from my nasty little drop shots.) Roland[Mouret]'s on a roll: tonight it was Natalia Vodianova, Bee Shaffer and Felicity Huffman he had deep in conversation before the artichoke salad was cleared.'

You will notice that Vogue kindly highlights all the big names here for you so can fume in envy more efficiently. I don't quite follow their order of significance though. Me, I would have highlighted moi, creative director, tennis doubles, artichoke salad and money-hungry, social-climbing knobheads to properly get the message across. The last one is more implied than actually said.

Apparently it was Camilla Al Fayed's 21st last month. Get over it: I wasn't invited either.

'A hundred guests gathered in an Egyptian-themed tented room to nibble on chicken skewers and truffle risotto. A sarong would not have passed muster...'

You're less crushed about not being invited now, aren't you? I don't know about you but I don't hate one hundred people badly enough to make them come to my Egyptian-themed birthday party. Also my party themes are usually more basic. Like drunkeness.

'The D Squared twins buzzed about their new collection, describing it as "gowny" (the new edgy), while Paris Hilton could not stop her Blackberry buzzing.'

How shaming. Paris was ringing me on her Blackberry, telling me all about the vile looking white chocolate sphinx cake and all the ugly fashionistas fannying about. 'Lucy,' Paris said to me, 'you should see this party! It's totally wild! And you thought I was trashy!'

'Camilla made two entrances, first in a Dolce & Gabanna crystal-spangled black gown, then in an ostrich-feathered Julien Macdonald number. The sweet hostess even performed a rap with Daddy Mohamed before a giant iced Pyramid cake arrived.'


Does this spell 'good times' to you? To me it spells 'vomitous'. I don't even think that's a word but there you go. How gowny I am.

Thursday, April 13, 2006

Wheelly Good Fun

Carraiges are in! The rattle slightly though. Also there are no bars in them to hold people in their seats. I can just see all the shitheads standing up in them and rattling them and fucking stuff out between the bars. Bastards. Then again, if people were locked in how would one smooch one's loved one at the top? Tricky.

I expect they'll be putting the bumper cars together for the summer tomorrow. You may look forward to an equally thrilling series on their construction. Perhaps a workman will get a limb caught in some fierce, gripping part of the machinery and we can get a bit of gore into my excellent photostory.

Not that I'm pushing for this to happen of course. I'm lovely really. I just hide it well.

Wednesday, April 12, 2006

Wheel Update!

They put the wheel part in today sometime before I got there. I was gutted. I hoped to see them rolling it down the road.
As you can see, the weather in Tramore is just lovely right now. Why not plan a holiday? I can let you stay in my airing cupboard for a reasonable fee.
This one shows Roisin waving beside her car. Hi Roisin! She's the white squiggle beside the maroon blob. Yeah. I don't have a very good camera phone, ok? And it was really windy out today.

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

Ferris Wheel!


Tramore is getting it's own ferris wheel! I am thrilled. Alan D says he knows the fella putting it up and doesn't trust him. I don't care. I will ride that wheel even if it falls off into the sea.

Especially if it falls off into the sea.

Monday, April 10, 2006

I get more hits than Kylie

I have a stupid, gay blog counter thing by the way, before you ask. It's awful. Oh sure, it was fun at the start, all math-y and cool and I thought I was great, seeing everyone's IP addresses and all. But then I realised that IP addresses mean very, very little to me, in the grand scheme of things and that truckloads of you pop by the whole time without leaving me any comments. I mean: come on. Would it kill you to leave a little love? I lurk malevolently on many blogs myself, so I know how scary it is to encounter a wit so supremely superior to one's own. Honestly, if I met myself on the street today I would have to go and lie down in a darkened room for a bit, what with my overt gorgeousness and dazzling charm and all. But that's not going to happen any time soon. I don't walk the streets no more. What I'm saying is don't be afraid to approach me! I'm just like you guys! Only smarter and with better hair.

Drink has addled my brain and left me an idiot


Yesterday was Mark's twenty-fourth birthday and I never even knew. 'I never knew! You should have told me, I could've pelted him with stuff', I scolded Roisin. We both paused and looked at each other.

'I'm getting this strong feeling...I did tell you,' she said, haltingly.
'I know. I'm getting that too. Last night maybe?'
'Did I, was I talking to you last night then? Oh! I remember. Dave rang me and said Lucy is looking for you and says she's going to take Martina hostage if you don't come up here and-'
'Yes, it's all coming back now! And you said-'
'I said I was down the ladies slip with Jamie 'cos he needed a wee.'
'Yes! I remember. So when did you tell me about Mark's birthday then?'
We both shuffled about and looked blank. 'It was yesterday, here in work!' I stared into her equally shocked eyes.

'Does that mean we were both sober? And we don't remember? Weird...'

You know that thing when you only remember bits of a night out, like after a really shitty film and you only remember that sex bit and the bit when you got up to go to the loo and knocked over your popcorn on the way back? Yeah. Well, somewhere between my seventh and four hundreth vodka I lost all ability to store information.

'That is a lovely dress,' I told a girl in the loo, 'you should wear it more often.' I have never met this girl before.

'You have tiny, distrustful eyes', I told Sally's paramour.

'Ooh Ross, you look ravishing behind that bar, I'm undressing you with my eyes!', I told Jenny's Ross [I have a tendency to over-italicise when drunk].
'Please don't', he said gravely.
'Gimme three vodkas in a pint glass so, straight in, no messing about with ice or anything.'
'Three? You sure, Luce?'
'Don't talk back to me, child.'

'Look at my fake tan, ain't it lovely? You can't even tell I put it on drunk, can you?' I demanded of Mossy, throwing my shapely, kick-pleat-clad pins in his lap for inspection.

'Your legs look dirty', he replied.

Ah. Selective memories. How golden and vodka-soaked ye are.

Thursday, April 06, 2006

Mandy Moore is my new best friend

Sure she was whoring about with that sleazy Lohan-ex for a bit but I forgive her. Hey, even I used to laugh at That 70's Show before I got sense. And then there's A Walk to Remember. I don't know if you've seen this but it doesn't matter cos I'm going to tell you what happens. That rockstar doctor from ER is a bad kid who has bad, trashy-looking friends who hang out by the lockers at school and snigger at the loser kids. Then he does something bad and as community service has to do after-school stuff with the loser kids. Here he meets up with Mandy Moore, local queen nerd and my nbf, who has the worst fringe ever (and I'm including the one I cut myself while drunk last year) who immediately enrages him with her eternal perkiness and refusal to bow to his cutting remarks ("Nice sweater. Not!!! HAHAHA!").

"Don't fall in love with me" Mandy says smilingly to his snarling teen angst. Yeah right, says our rebel. Then she stars in the school play in a revealing frock with make-up on and before you can say doomed teen romance he is chasing her pinafore-clad arse round the school. But it's not all about the bad thing. Mandy gives him hope for the future and stuff and he throws over all his trashy friends and ho-bag girlfriend to look at the stars and go to mass with her. Then she drops the bombshell: "I'm dying." Darryl Hannah shows up as his mother looking like my dad in a wig and pats his shoulder reassuringly. "Mandy needs you. Have you seen her cute little mole?", she says. And then they get married. At eighteen. And she pops it. Bad boy goes to Medical college or whatever and becomes a doctor on ER, always thinking of how our angel Mandy changed his life. Fin.

There. I knew you'd like it. There's very little walking in it whatsoever. Now you don't have to see it. You're welcome.

Sunday, April 02, 2006

Sugar, We're goin' down swinging

Tramore is a small town. It has a population of about 7,500 and serves an outlying community of about four million Dublin scumbags and knackers. Dems de breaks, folks. About 5 miles outside Tramore is the village of Fenor, which boasts a population of about -8. It is famous for the Fenor Bog, a wetlands reclamation project that has seen the demise of many a wandering wino. For this we thank it, if for nothing else.

It is less famous for being the birthplace of my good friend, Miss Marie Connolly. You know Marie. Trust me. If you're male you've probably scored her. She's a legend. Either way, your land probably adjoins her fathers. BECAUSE (whisper it) she's a bogger. I didn't want to be the one to tell you but there you go. She lives (dramatic pause) avec fields. As in: the countryside. If you haven't, by some unfortunate occurance, gotten off with Marie then you are surely related to her. Thanks to the immense reproductive powers of the farming class, Marie is related to about 76% of the Tramore parish. Which means she can't procreate with most of the town. She tries though. Boy, does she try.

Even if you are not a relative of Marie's or have never gotten off with her, then you have surely come into contact with her somehow. Do you remember that time you were soooooo sick and you couldn't remember your own name? Yeah, the girl that was holding back your hair? That was Marie. She's like that. Perhaps you got talking to a random blonde girl waiting for a taxi, and she kept fucking singing and nothing would shut her up, or you fell over in a pub and someone picked you up and told you were grand and not to worry about it. Yeah, Marie.

Last night (Friday) I decided that I would buy Aly a half-dozen birthday drinks. Unfortunately I couldn't remember where I left my money so Marie had to pay. It was pure, unadulterated, whorish gold: 'Marie, money over here, now!' Marie gave me a pat down to check for my dough but fortunately (for her) it was not found. I found all my money two hours later in my bra. For all future muggers, that's where I keep it. No one's gonna look there are they?

Old joke.

We won't talk about it.

Point is Marie, legend that she is, covered me for all my silliness.

Marie has been surrogate mammy to me for quite some years now: lending me fags, robbing mine back; buying me packets of crisps when I don’t want them and claim to be too hungover to eat; telling me that people were asking after me when they clearly weren’t because she knows how this feeds my vile, narcissitic side [note: fairly large 'side']; laughing at all my extremely bad jokes; telling me I’m lovely when I’m clearly dishevelled and horrible; smiling good-naturedly when I take the piss out of her and generally putting up with all my shit.

Today is her twenty-third birthday and she deserves all the terribly out-of-character solemnity I can possibly heap on her ever-kind and disarmingly-genuine person. Partly because she’s pretty fucking deadly but mainly because she will read this, and everything rude and disrespectful I ever write about her, and she will throw her head back and laugh her ridiculous, loud, infectious laugh.

Marie: dude, you are the shit.

And, yes, I was drunk writing this. Fuckit. I love me some Marie.

PS: Yah, can't post pictures to save my life. Ah well. Jesus was a crossmaker*.

PPS: Con, if you want a better photo of yourself knocking around then stop wearing those stupid headbands. Nerd.

* Obligatory Roisin mention.