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.
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.
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