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.