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.