Thursday, June 29, 2006
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Friday, June 23, 2006
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.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
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.
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.]
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.
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.
Monday, June 19, 2006
Saturday, June 17, 2006
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?
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.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
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.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
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.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
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
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.
Sunday, June 04, 2006
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?
Saturday, June 03, 2006
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.