Aoife: Jet Setter

Aoife is gone to San Francisco. I am gutted. That girl is always jetting off some where! Liffey Valley one week, San Francisco the next. I look on the positive side of things, though. Mainly, that Burt went on holidays to Edinburgh this morning (with his sometime lover, Andrew. See Andrew? I do mention you). Bliss.

With these two minor dictators absent I am free to play all my music, ALL the time. I played two Sinead O'Connor CDs for hours last night, a thing unheard of in my house before. Of course this was only because David was gone all evening. Yes, rebellion is a bit dissatisfying when you're on your own. So what?

And so, in my ongoing tradition of pretending anyone cares about my crap music taste, here are my favourite songs this week. Blah-blah-make-mix-tape-and-pretend-youre-me-only-less-pretty-blah-blah.

How to be Idle- Oasis
We are all on Drugs- Weezer
99 Problems- Jay Z
9 to 5- Lady Sovereign
If U Ever- Sinead O'Connor
Buck Rogers- Feeder
Lua- Bright Eyes
Club Foot- Kasabian
Sour Times- Portishead
Uh La La- Goldfrapp
1- Joy Zipper
Novacaine for the Soul- Eels

Aughney sisters are notoriously classy

L: Good morning, Burt
B: Oh, hey...
L: ...
B: Are you, er, mad at me?
L: Hmm? Why would that be?
B: Well, er-
L: What possible reason could I have to be angry at you, eh, Burt? Why on earth would I be pissed off with you? Disgusted, shocked and alarmed at the disrespect and shame you have heaped on my family, even? Enraged and fuming at your drunken antics maybe?
B: Er...
A: Maybe it's cos he snogged your sister last night.
L: Thank you, Aoife.

B: Listen, she was coming on to ME. And she was twisted.
L: Yeah, well, she'd have to be wouldn't she. To be in to you, I mean.
B: She was all over me, I tried, er...
L: WHAT?! Are you saying my sister is a slapper?!
B: Well, to be honest-
L: Burtenshaw, I will kick your arse if you step over that line!
B: Right okay, but I totally pushed her away after a minute!

L: ...! YOU rejected MY sister! You don't know what you're doing, shithead. Nobody rejects an Aughney.
B: No, no- she's a lovely looking girl-
L: Yeah, I know she is, fucker! She's my sister! She's savage!
B: Yeah, that's what I'm saying, but I pushed her away cos I know you'd be mad. I knew it wasn't cool.
L: It's not.
B: No.
L: No.

B: So... are we okay? Are you still mad?
L: What do YOU think?
B: What if I bought you a pint tonight?
L: ...
B: Two pints?
L: Go on then.

She's in fashion

What did I tell you about navy? It's the new black, I said. Aren't I right? It's fucking EVERYWHERE. I think I said something about the empire line coming back aswell. I'll pretend I did anyway. I am so clever. And telepathic. I'm starting on lotto numbers next.

Foresight- a remarkable gift

You know when someone says, supping coyly on their first drink of the evening,: 'If you see me with me phone later, take it off me. DO NOT let me text anyone'. I HATE that. It's like 'look at me, I have a love life'. Show off. As it turns out, telling your friends to stop you from not texting drunk is a pretty good idea. Would have been on Saturday night anyway.

SIGH.

Some help here?

I have an awful dilemma. My sister and her friend, Jenny, are coming up for a visit tomorrow and are expecting to go out on the town on Friday. Here's the problem: I haven't a clue where to take them. I need to bring them somewhere that's suitably flashy and pretentious to impress their innocent (hah!) young minds with the information that I am extremely hip 'n' happenin'*, without unduly stretching my rather meagre funds. Essentially, I want to cover myself with glory for a tenner. Ideas, anyone? Please note that Sally and Jenny are both of the short-skirted, poptastic variety** and would appreciate venues thus inclined.

*Please note that the use of the phrase 'hip 'n' happening' immediately excludes me this grouping. Forever.
**Actually, Jenny less so. I found The Kinks and Radiohead in her car on Sunday.

Tender passions

The boy in the sandwich shop FANCIES me. Today he managed to sneak bits of grated carrot and red cabbage into my sandwich; last week it was bits of red cheddar. If love was a salad it would be... well not much of one, actually. Oh yes, some might say that it's because he's a shabby sandwich maker and never cleans his chopping board between orders: not so. I say it's because he cherishes a flame of desire for yours truly in his manly breast. What would you losers know about romance anyway? Or salads for that matter.

Living for the Weekend

Today is going TERRIBLY. I am the only one in the office today and the site keeps crashing. I know what youre thinking: Lucy Aughney- internet genuis, surely? Nope. My computer skills extend to frowning at them when they are playing up and then leaving the room until they cop on and start working again. This method is (curiously) not working today. The boss is extremely frantic and ringing me every second. 'Chillax [my new favourite stupid word]' I want to say, 'It's Friday! I will be drunk in nine hours! It's all good!' I do not say this to him, naturally. Also, I have new shoes. They are terrific, all tall and strappy and even a whore would think them too tacky to wear. I, on the other hand, adore them.

Christ. The sites gone again. Fuck that, I'm going for lunch early. WHO'S AROUND TO STOP ME, EH???

High Standards

Scene: Lucy's Mother's kitchen. Dinner is served. Lucy and Mother are seated at kitchen table eating. Bored looking cocker spaniel sleeps in the corner.

Lucy:...yeah, so, Jenny Len's young fella gave me a lift home last night-
Mother: Jenny has a boyfriend?
Lucy: Yeah, I told you that, I thought- Ross, he's LOVELY.
Mother: Hmmpfh.
L: What?
M: Nothing.
L: What was that noise for?
M: Nothing.
L: Right, so-
M: It's just that I was thinking about how neither you and Sally have boyfriends.
L: Neither do you, to be fair.

M: That's different.
L: How, exactly?
M: It just is. Why DON'T ye have boyfriends, though?
L: Hummpfh.
M: What?
L: I dunno, do I.
M: Too fussy, I expect. Too high standards.
L: Ha!
M: No, I meant with Sally. You're hardly beating them off, are you. Dunno what's wrong with you, actually.

Now. She would NEVER say this to Sally. Mainly because Sally spends more time on her appearance than the Egyptians did on the pyramids and to insult her would be to question the entire concept of hard work and perseverence paying off one day. Point is, I have to get cracking on this boyfriend thing before she writes me off as a dyke and leaves all her money to Sally's future children.

I recant

That's it. I am calling off all barbeques. Jenny has just alerted me to the fact that if I host a barbeque I am expected to a) buy food; b)pay for it myself; c)stay sober enough to cook it without setting fire to my hair. NO DEAL. I was envisioning a big soulful get-together with loads of good-looking people bringing their own tasty food and me break-dancing. Sort of like a KFC ad essentially. Not loads of dodgy looking people (AKA my social circle) sitting around my garden drinking cans of cider and me being stuck in the kitchen cooking charred burgers on the grill because I can't work the barbeque. So don't turn up at my gaff expecting this. It's not happening. Instead, I will buy one tube of pringles and get drunk on warm beer and lie on my back lawn. Like every other weekend. Party down!

Biggie speaks

My sister and I are so cute. On Saturday when we were working together we came up with these adorable nicknames for each other. I'm Biggie and she's Smalls. Using them involves a lot of shrieking 'High five, Biggie!' and 'Right on, Smalls!'. It's ADORABLE. Speaking of the blonde one, I cleverly got out of getting her a birthday present a few weeks back by promising a night out on the town for her and her mate, Jenny. I assumed they'd be too thick to manage to figure out the bus timetable. Do not second-guess determined teenagers when the promise of free alcohol is on the table, is what I've learned this week. They are coming up to visit with me next Friday, which, believe it or not is a special day in my house. Well, in my head, at least.

On August fifth, 2005, I will officially be celebrating the one year anniversary of my blog. It is very significant and noteworthy. So significant and noteworthy that I have decided to throw open the doors of my spacious and attractive home to all comers. Well, not all comers obviously. Only those who have received an invite may enter the hallowed portal of my chateau. So, if you haven't got an invite by now, you're out of the loop. GET OVER IT, LOSER. Please come bearing drink and gifts. I (may) prepare eats. Haven't decided yet. If I do, they will most likely be comprised of whatever I have in the cupboard. If you do not enjoy rice cakes with ketchup, scallions or cupasoup, bring a dish of something yourself.

Beware catchy riffs

Apparently, my new favourite song [The Kooks- Eddies Gun] is about premature ejaculation. Why did no one tell me this? I must have sounded an awful idiot singing it all weekend.

In which I have lived like a foot

If I don't watch out, I will have worked myself into something of an eccentric. Yesterday, while Tramore was being unceremoniously swallowed by the sea and spat at by gallons and gallons of rain, I belted myself into a huge turqoise raincoat and rolled up my trousers round my shins.

'Where are you going?' Asked Sally uncertainly.
'Work,' I said cheerfully, 'It's raining don't you know.'
'Yeeeess, but get a taxi or something, don't walk down town like that.'
'It's fifteen minutes down the road! I only get taxis when I am drunk and I can safely say that I am probably not drunk now.'

'But...' she paused and looked at me desperately, 'It's lashing out and you... have your trousers rolled up around your knees.'

'So they won't get wet, silly' I answered, slipping an apple into my pocket.

'Yeh, but...' She stared at me for a minute. Realisation dawned 'cross her pretty features. 'You actually don't care what you look like at all, do you?'

The fact that my sister is only realising this now shows she hasn't been paying attention to me for much of her life.

My lily feet are soiled with mud

For the past two hours I have been ringing estate agents in Galway city and county to find out the name of their senior negotiator in residential sales so we can send them on brochures. I know you may have formed the opinion that I, Lucy Aughney, am brilliant at everything. Not so, friends. The time has come for me to admit it: I am painfully, cripplingly, embarrassingly shy.

I know what you are thinking: What a surprise to find a socially inept person on the internet! And writing a blog, no less! But it's true.

Here's how it was supposed to go: I was supposed to ring the number of each agent, ask for the name of their residential sales representitive, they would give it to me and I would ring off. Easy. The first number I dialled was a fax machine. Grand, try again. The second time I accidentally dialled through to our reception. And the third. At this point my fingers were sweating and sliding off the buttons. CHILL. On my fourth go I got through to a surly girl who claimed they didn't accept direct mailings. On my fifth a woman asked could I hang on for a minute then proceeded to discuss her digestive problems with someone at her desk. On my sixth I rang a fax machine again. Then I hung up and hyperventilated for five minutes solid, pausing only to vomit into the pot plant by my desk.

I am cool now, though. First of all, I reduced the number of calls I had to make by discounting all agents with offices in Tuam because it is a well-known and widely acknowledged fact that all Tuam-dwellers are insane, monkey-featured idiots (It's alright! No one from Tuam will read this because Tuam doesn't get the internet!). I have managed to limit my anxious behaviour to compulsive head slapping and vague self-insults muttered under my breath. Yes, you would LOVE to share office space with me. Don't lie.

The downside of saving the human race

Some things they don't tell you till it's too late. Like, as you are sliding off the padded chair, clutching your wrist under your chin, delighted with yourself for giving blood and indescribably proud of the two inch plaster adorning the inside of your elbow, the nurse calls out: 'Now, no alcohol for 24 hours. And no smoking for two hours.'

Ahem? I didn't sign up for this.

Christ, I'm dull

Hard-Fi- Gotta Reason
Bloc Party- Pioneers
Sinead O'Connor- Emperors New Clothes
Maximo Park- Going Missing
Hot Hot Heat- Something to go on
We are Scientists- Nobody Move Nobody Get Hurt
Nellie McKay- Really
White Stripes- My Doorbell

Straight out of nowhereness, like a fist

Hard-Fi have been nominated for this year's Mercury music prize!

We are all, naturally, delighted. The band have officially thanked me for being there from the start. Then lead singer Richard Archer asked me to marry him and write all the songs for his next album. How did I respond? I blushed girlishly as I am wont to do when I receive proposals from people I have never met before, then declined. I am NOT that easily persuaded. Whatever anyone else might have told you.

Seriously, though- what were the lads making out the nominations thinking? Hard-fi are NOT that great. Some of their stuff is downright tosh. Like album tracks 6 and 8 through 11. Twos not too hot neither. And Burt has decided they are his new favourite band. This, more than anything, spells their downfall. From a review of Hard-Fi's Cash Machine at cdtimes.co.uk:

"In the suburban jungle, boys live a life of drunken binges, summer holidays for sun bathing, good times with mates, and occasional public urination."

They ARE Burt. The CD was practically made for him. Prepare thyself to witness the death of music, brothers.

I Think I Smell A Rat

I have just heard a rumour that Jack White married the red-headed model [Karen Elson is her name apparently. I doubt the veracity of this though. I mean, Karen! Who's called Karen nowadays?] from his Blue Orchid video in Brazil last week. A REDHEAD. I mean,...? I may have to recant all my previous pledges of love and devotion if he persists in acting in such a reckless and downright stupid manner. What WAS he thinking? Does he want to perpetuate the race or summat?

Good News!

I am now down to five cigarettes a day. This is fantastic. Of course, this number rises considerably if I am drinking, or if I am around my mother as it annoys her hugely and I love to do that. My other addictions are way up though. Checking of my Gmail account has risen to 400 times daily, even though I only receive about seven emails a day, including crappy newsletters I signed up to at one point because I thought they'd be interesting*. Sometimes, I am so desperate I am forced to read these. Desperate times. Also, because of my jam-packed hectic weekend and frantic Harry Potter consumption into the wee hours, I am extremely tired all the time and frequently doze off mid-conversation**. In response to this, my coffee consumption is up to five cups a day. Yikes. For someone who never drank coffee before a year ago, this is worrying. I also began full-time employment just over a year ago. Lesson: Working breeds dependencies on addictive substances. Word.


*These newsletters include Keane's fan listing, Hemscott stock market predictions, The Economist daily politics, business and telecommunications briefings, and MCD events updates. DON'T ASK.
**Blatant lie. I don't have conversations with anyone any more, not since my topics for discussion became strictly limited to 'I am so upset about the mysterious death in Harry Potter. Discuss' and 'I am so tired- did I tell you I slept in a car Saturday night?'

Lucy organises your evenings for you

Tomorrow you are watching The Restaurant on RTE 1 at 8.30pm. My uncle's on it. Apparently, he was pissed off cos he got given the same score as Enda Kenny. Dunno why. Enda is a great man, in my opinion.

You don't seem to come around, push your finger and make a sound

I am sick to death of this whole Harry Potter crap. So what if it's sold eight million books; the point surely is that I still don't have a copy. It's in stinkin' Annie's house. So I haven't read it yet. And yet I know how the crappy thing ends [mysterious death revealed to Lucy insensitively by mother on phone yesterday. Mysterious murderer discovered when Lucy ignores Linus' careful spoiler warnings on latest blog post].

In fact, I probably don't need to read it. I have guessed who that mysterious RAB is at the end [Gleaned when Lucy flicked to the last page of the book in Centra buying croissants yesterday morning]. In a hilarious twist, it is actually dishevelled Scotch drunk, Rab C Nesbitt!

...?

God, I'm good. Bet I'm right.

I WANT TO READ THE FUCKING BOOK! WHY THE FUCK DO I NOT HAVE IT YET? I WANT IT NOW!