Gross! People! Hide, quick!

Mairead, Marie, Gra, Jen, Rois, Brian, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

Well, because I know you've all been waiting, here there are: the photos from Saturday. Calm down! I know there's an upsetting lack of photos of Yours Truly but hell, cool it. It was Mairead's camera so they're nearly all through Mairead's eyes. And of Marie's chest. I'm sayin' nuthin'!

I took this one, so that's the closest you'll be getting to me anytime soon. Anyway, look at the people, see how they laugh! They are laughing at something hilarious I just said, I'm sure. I like to break the tension and shout something witty before photographing people: usually 'Nipples!' or something. God, I'm funny. Although maybe Roisin is laughing cos she's about to get felt up by Brian. Oh no, wait, he's doing that mock I'm-about-to-drop-the-hand move, isn't he? That's good. That always makes me laugh, anyway.

Who am I kidding? I'm heartbroken about not being featured in any of the pictures. I think it goes without saying that I was the hottest person there. Says who? Says me, shithead. Who owns this blog anyway?

Baby, I love you

Dear terrorists,

I'd be more particular in addressing you but, hell, I don't watch the news. What are you guys up to nowadays? Keepin' busy anyway, I hope. I'm just writing to ask a small favour. Tiny thing really, won't put you out hardly at all. Thing is, I was just wondering if you wouldn't mind cancelling any air attacks you might have planned for Friday. It's just that the my wee sister, Sal, is coming home from New York and the mother is getting awful antsy. You know how she gets, right? At the moment she's just faffing about waving her hands and worrying but, you know, it'd be great if we could put her mind at rest over this. So: no crashing of planes on Friday, k? That'd be great. I'll even let you come to the welcome home party! It's BYO&LB obviously (Bring Your Own & Lucy's Bottle). But you guys are smart, bet you could have figured that one out.

There she is, the one for who we do this, on location in Wildwood NJ, earlier this summer. What? Yes, we are very proud.

Love & Kisses,

Lucy

My dinner this evening

Gross, you may say, tongue poking sympathetically from your gaping mouth. It is not my fault. I am on a diet. Not because I am fat mind, because I think we can all agree that I am most definitely the purest example of sex itself, but because Mags and Marie said they were doing it and I hate to be left out of anything. Dismiss the fact that Mags weighs about two stone nothing and will need to be hospitalised by tomorrow evening: this diet is only three days long and makes you lose ten pounds immediately. Get that? Immediately. Ignore the fact that I had two slices of turket and some boiled carrots for my tea, point is: I will be so skinny by Saturday. Try and recognise me if you can; I will be the reed-like one getting drunk on half a bacardi breezer. Cos the thinnies can't hold their drink, don't you know.

Ew

Just...ew.

Joey's Birthday, Sunday night

You can't really see it, but you're looking at the interior of the glorious Baldy Man nightclub, Tramore. Wow, you say: are those lights? Yes, my friends, disco lights. We have all the greatest stuff in the Baldy: lights, music, tables, pints in ACTUAL glasses, er,walls. Also pictured, Dave's leg. Sex.

Mags et moi, in Joeys house. Mags took this on my phone, and also four pictures of an ashtray and Sarah's leg to warm herself up to the camera. You want to see those four? Tough. You don't get to call the shots here. I also think Mags photo-shopped that horrendous snout onto the front of my face. It does not look like that, like Santa's fucking nose, all the time. I think. Not that I know, a full-on picture of my face has blinded everyone else up to now. From the glare of my wonderous beauty, I like to think. But check your corneas, just in case.

Mags and Mark. Mark has left us and got himself a REAL job. I know, tragedy. I thought he was going to be a tragic idler like me forever but twas not to be. I must idle alone.

The view from Joeys house as we left it. I'd show you his ACTUAL house but it doesn't exist anymore. We razed it to the ground through three hours of competitive singing along to all his records: Rod Stewart, Westlife, Elton, Rod Stewart, Chris Doran. Yeah. I know, okay? Joey's ancient, like forty, and you can't mock the aged. Not until the battery on their hearing aid gives out anyway.

What? You want an explanation, an actual story, a link between these intruiging yet unresolved photos? I don't think so. It's late and I am really tired. I have two jobs you know. Or have I mentioned that already?

All sparks will burn out in the end

Dude, Fenor is on FIRE! Oh, no wait it's not. Oh no, it is again! No, it's definitely stopped now. Phew! We love Fenor!

So, we were driving home on Friday night after a hard night spent eyeing Scottish bar-managers (you know who I'm talking about. Roaaar.) and what do we see over the brow of the hill, but flames. I was all for ignoring them 'cos, Goddamnit! I had a can of Fanta to drink, but Ross was in lifesaving mode and sped swiftly through the darkened countryside in search of the fire. Jenny rang the guards while I pooh-poohed the whole thing and recounted my hilarious fire story when my entire family spent half an hour looking for a fire in Garrarus which turned out to be the lights from the driving range. In Newtown. So, yeah.

Anyway, we got as close to the fire as the road-blocks would allow (yeah, road-blocks. And swarms of Gardi and fire-engines. At three in the morning. And Lucy still drunkenly maintaining that it was probably just a golf-course or something) and Ross, overcome with the drama of the situation, did what any brave young man would do. Jumped out of the car to take pictures with his camera phone. Of course, I hate to be left out of anything so I jumped out to do the same. What you see here is what I took. Or else it could just be two black squares. You decide.

So that's it. Fenor was set on fire Friday, burning almost two acres of forest, was still smoking on Sunday, and started again on the other side of the hill on Sunday. Unsubstantiated chat in the library tells me that Cullencastle and Annestown were also set on fire on Sunday, helped no doubt by the frankly uncommon NINE DAYS OF NO RAIN. Wow. Anyway, there's an arsonist in the South-East. Frankly, I blame the terrorists. First Heathrow, then fizzy drinks on flights, now Fenor. I adore Fenor. I worship and love each and every one of the seventeen farmers that live there. Sometimes, physically.

MUST YOU TAKE ALL THE GOOD STUFF, YOU BASTARDS?

On Pattern Day...

Take heed, farmers. This girl has good milking hands. As recommended by a man in the know...

Justin Timberlake: Sexyback

Have you seen Justin's new video? I have. Cos I live for MTV, man. I can give you expert opinions on all of Beyonce's outfits in Deja Vu if you so wish. I have studied up: they are all gick. But her hair is nice. But enough about me. Let's talk about the video.

No, I don't know what it's about either. He looks really pretty in it though. What I have issue with is the taping up of the door. Hello!? I did that when I was eight and I had just finished The Usbourne Guide to Being a Spy and was vacillating between a life as a spy or one as a detective. Or a mermaid. As you can see, it's tough to tell which won out. I mean, I smoke a lot and associate in darkened rooms with loose women (detective), but also I like lurking (spy) and combing my hair (mermaid). Yes, it's true, I am living the dream.

Good news!

LUCY: So, Yankee-
SHONA: I'm from Toronto.
LUCY: Yeah?
SHONA:... That's in Canada.
LUCY: [Smiles benignly round at assembled friends to emphasize Shona's stupidity]
Riiiiight, you're "Canadian". Silly me. So anyway I have a question.
[Picks up pack of cigarettes from tabletop and waves these under Shona's nose]

SHONA: Uh, yeah?
LUCY: What do these say to you?
SHONA: You will die before me?
LUCY: Wrong, Yankee, wrong. What do the particular brand say to you?
SHONA: Marlboros? I haven't a clue.
LUCY: Think, American, think! They're Marlboro RED, my friend. Does that particular brand say anything to you AT ALL?
SHONA: ...

LUCY: Cos I've been on the internet and they seem to have a bad rep.
SHONA: A what? I'm lost.
LUCY: [Sighing loudly and rolling her eyes to a painful degree] Okaaaay. The internet tells me that... I'm not sure I can say. It's kind of, um, petty. And bitchy.
MARIE: What's the matter? You never have a problem being a bitch the rest of the time.
LUCY: [Smacks Marie down and grinds her skull with her heel] Well, the internet, he tells me that...
SHONA: Yes?
LUCY: That Marlboro have a certain...connotation.

MARIE: A what?
SHONA: A connotation of what?
LUCY: ...Lesbians.
SHONA: Ah.
MARIE: What?
LUCY: So, yeah. I'd really like to know, and seeing you're from the States and all-
SHONA: Canada.
LUCY: Whatever, seeing as you're from the States, I thought maybe you could fill me in. ON THE CONNOTATION I MEAN, NOT ANYTHING RUDE OR ANYTHING SHUTTUP AND STOP LAUGHING.
SHONA: Oh. Ohhh. No, I don't think so.

LUCY: Really? I thought it was a well-known fact that lesbians smoked Marlboro? That's what the internet tells me.
SHONA: Well, segregation really isn't encouraged nowadays, Lucy.
LUCY: Yeah but...If you saw this really hot girl (ie. me) smoking a Marlboro would you think 'hmmm, lesbo?', or, like, not. Think that, I mean.
SHONA: I would think 'hmmm, cancer in a stick'.
LUCY: Fuckin' Americans.

My genius is misunderstood

You know when you're a small bit tipsy and you're holding the Lucy Special, three vodkas and a tonic in a pint glass? And you think taking your shoes off is totally acceptable behaviour for when you're sitting on a table in your local disco? And you think it is THE MOST FUNNY THING EVER to take a picture of your mate taking a picture of you?? And not just normal-funny, but really-fucking-inspired-funny? And you keep thinking 'wow, I'm so post-modern. Or something. I wish I'd payed attention in college. This could be, well, art!' You know? You know?

You don't know, do you. Pah.

Put your sweet fingers a little closer to the keyboard, it's hard to read between your lines

Roisin and her twenty years

My good pal Rois turned twenty last Tuesday. Here she is displaying her usual camera shyness. Or, as she likes to call it, 'fuck off, I know about you and your shitty website, fuck away from the face, Aughney.' I didn't turn in at her party until nearly one but luckily it was only just getting started. Much hilarity and penguin bars was shared all the same, and Emma tried to shove the whole birthday cake in my face. My arch-rival, Mark, he of 'she is such a biiiiitch!' fame, told me of his plans to study musical theatre in L.A. And Claire lay down on the floor and started singing All That Jazz. And Laura sat on her tummy and tried to tickle her till she farted. You missed out, my friends.

Claire and Laurs develop the little known 'tits and teeth' segment of Whigfield's Saturday Night

I've tapped out, ok?

I don't know if you know this, but I don't have much time for the sporting events of the world. Not that I don't know anything about them, mind you, but because I couldn't care less. Well, I could care less, I suppose, but it would take up more time and effort than I care to expend. Anyway, matches afford great opportunities to go to pubs, so I can't really complain. Sports control the ignorant masses, doncha know, and keep them busy so they can't plan a social uprising. So while you lot are off watching men and their various shaped balls, I am off planning social unrest. That and painting my toenails.

Case in point: Today is a Sunday, and in my book that means layabout-and-read-the-papers-and-think-about-what-colour-to-paint-my-nails-day. In between planning the revolution, obviously. To my mother and aunt Mercy, who is visiting, Sunday means lets-all-go-for-a-drive-and-look-at-old-churches-day. A dispute ensued, and the upshot of it is that the mother can not use 'I brought you into this fucking world' as an excuse to make me go look at old churches with her or I will laugh in her face. Since they left they have been ringing and texting me every half hour to check on the score in Wimbledon. Like the dutiful daughter and niece that I am, I have been stumping semi-naked from my sunbathing out the back to stare dumbly at the telly. 'The Swiss lad is winning. Two games to one.'

'Two GAMES?! What?!', they shrieked back.
'Listen, I can't tell the difference, games, sets thingys. Go away.'
'Wait! Check the GAA results!'
'No! Hell to the no. I have drawn a line in the sand, right when it comes to checking teletext for GAA results and I'm damned if I'll cross it. Go away.'

And that is where we stand today, my friends. No, that's not a terribly interesting or amusing story but hell, it's a Sunday. Even God rested on a Sunday.

The Cocoon

The silhouette for autumn 06, so I'm told. For anyone who ever said 'fuck, you know what this dress needs? Pockets, dude. Big, fuck-off pockets. Yup.'

See here and here if you don't believe me.

A Writer

'Interesting, but futile,' said his diary,
Where day by day his movements were recorded
And nothing but his loves received inquiry;
He knew, of course, no actions were rewarded,
There were no prizes: though the eye could see
Wide beauty in a motion or a pause,
It need expect no lasting salary
Beyond the bowels' momentary applause.

He lived for years and never was surprised:
A member of his foolish, lying race
Explained away their vices: realised
It was a gift that he possessed alone:
To look the world directly in the face;
The face he did not see to be his own.

Philip Larkin, Collected Poems (1988: Faber&Faber, London)

Two shattered women and a bright-eyed child have just sat down at the window table in the cafe. Both women hope to talk, for their minds to meet; at the same time they are aware that the offs against this happening are about fifty to one. Still they have decided to back that dark horse Intimacy, somewhere out there muffledly galloping. [...] After all, it's important to put up a decent apologia for your life; well, it is to other people, mostly; to come up with a convincing defence, to argue your corner. It's nothing but healthy, the way the sanguine mind does leap around looking for the advantages of any new shift in situation. And if you can't, or won't, you will be shunned. You will appear to be a whiner or a malcontent.

Cafe Society, Helen Simpson, Hey Yeah Right Get a Life (2001: Vintage, London)

Something Happened

This weekend in the normally peaceful and just village of Tramore, a vile and despicable tirade against humanity was waged. The town was gearing up for the annual Trafest, an event so widely anticipated in the South East it introduces many a quiver into the young music-loving breast. This years lined up featured such show-stoppers as ambisexual belter Jack L, strange, mystic trad act Kila and loads of other people Lucy has never heard of. As vibrant young maiden Lucy took her place near the bar of Connollys, Main St, on Friday evening to witness the musical stylings of her good mate Dave Clark, she glanced around her in obvious distress. 'Dude' she hissed to her friend, 'I know I look smoking hot tonight and all, but why is everyone in the whole bar staring at me? Have I loo paper on my heel? Are my girls showing? What?'

Her pal, the lovely Marie, opened both her eyes wide and pursing her lips, glanced up at the wall. Where Lucy spied the Germany v Argentina match playing itself out on a plasma screen above her head. 'I knew that. Fuck you, man,' Lucy grumbled and made her way to the bar for another drink.

Upon arrival she was thrown into a quandary. She really wanted a vodka tonic (for a change) but here she was at a festival (kinda) watching football (kinda). Shouldn't she be wearing wellies and drinking warm larger from a beaker? It just felt wrong, hearing the clink of ice-cubes. Dirty, even. So she plumped for a nice pint of Heineken. 'It's Dutch, and that is closer to Germany than I am right now. Also you get more of it', she reasoned in her imminently sane and balanced manner. But nay! Nary a Heineken to be had! 'Pumps out', snarled the teenaged barman. 'I think'.

The night continued on without obvious concern for the Heineken situation. Lucy, however was concerned when she and her good bud Laura rushed in to see Kila in O'Sheas on Strand St and went up to order tequilas ('Tequila at Kila! So inspired!') and beers. 'No Heineken' they were told and the ladies had to settle for the lowly Budweiser. 'Something's rotten in the state of Tramore, Laurs' muttered Lucy. Laura noticed not her friend's downright amazing use of literary references and instead eyed up the crumblies on the stage. 'Fear draoicht!' she whispered, starstruck. 'Quite.' Lucy said quietly.

Back up the street to the Vic and Lucy falls in the door of the crowded bar with a thirsty 'Heineken, please'.
'Hell no!' said the chirpy barmaid. 'But you can have a longneck of it!'

By now our heroine was positively growling. 'A longneck' she ground out 'is the same damned price and is volumetrically less'.
'Volumetrically? Is that a word?'
'Silence, bar wench! I have an English degree. I know this shit. Look the other way as I drain your drip-trays for...em, analysis.'

The next afternoon saw our sleuth hot on the case in Murphs, pointedly not watching England V Portugal. She spied a member of Murph's inner sanctum, Tracy, separated from the herd. 'Trace, me auld mucker, come 'ere and tell me stuff. Mainly, has Tramore's Heineken delivery been stopped at the border by the cops?'

'Oh, Lucy,' she said with a sigh, 'you dummy. Look at your Trafest listings.'
Lucy dutifully took the folded-up flyer from her pocket and frowned at it. Pausing only to smile at where she had taken a pen and written in 'Lucy Aughney & friends' over the listing in the Main Stage box she glanced dumbly back at Tracy. 'What? I don't get it.'

'There.' Tracy stabbed the top corner. 'What does that say?'
'Em, Guinness?'
'Exactly.'
'Which means...what, exactly?'
'They sponsor it, Luce. Which means only Guinness and Guinness owned largers on draft in Tramore for the weekend.'
'That is a travesty!'
'Dem's the breaks, my friend.'

And there you have it, one woman's quest for truth in an unjust, warped world. Because of commerce and big business, the people of Tramore were chained like oxen to the wheel of...Guinness. I hope, friends, when you read this, you will join me in raising a glass of Heineken to that devoted servant of honesty, integrity and grit, Miss Lucy Aughney.

Muy bonita

Rois, Moi, Jen, Annie, Sarah upon the occasion of Jenny's nineteenth birthday, 29/06/06

There! Look at us all! Aren't we just gorgeous? Roisin is the one hiding. She is a fearsome criminal who can not be seen on camera because of her fugitive status. And before you ask, yes, all the drinks are mine. It was fantastico. When I say 'fantastico' I kid myself that I can speak Spanish. I can you know. I can say 'I have a sister, she is blonde, I work in a book shop, I play tennis.' I learned all the important stuff you see. I kid myself though. I never play tennis. Fucking rackets way too heavy. I'd play badminton if you asked but I'd start laughing as soon as you said 'shuttlecock' and we'd never recover.

Dude. I am wasted. So. Yeah. BLood thingys. totallu.

Pah

I don't know. I just don't know. I went to try and give blood today but the bastards wouldn't take it. All cos my iron was too low. I would have kicked up a fuss and showed my mettle (ha) but I was tired and wet from walking in the rain and I had been waiting two hours. So I nodded sadly and slunk anemicly away. They don't know what they're missing, man. My blood is brilliant. I got two phone calls, a text message and a letter from the Transfusion Bord reminding me to donate. I don't know, my blood must be magic or something. Heal the sick. When I whined about it to Marie she laughed and said 'ha, that's hilarious, my iron is never too low and I am a vegetarian.' I just cocked a shapely eyebrow at her. She is so not a vegetarian, not since I forced her to eat a chicken nugget one night when we were drunk. Since then she's been slowly coming back to the fold, eating chicken stir-frys and everything. Oh yes. I will have her in my clutches soon. My pale, weak clutches.

Trafest 2006

Did you know that I am the twenty-third returned search for Trafest? I thought not. Well, I am. I am a vital source for Tramore's premier music festival. Right now I'd like to sit back and gloat but to stay on top you have to keep working so instead I give you (drum roll, please) the 2006 Trafest listings! Thank you, thank you. You're-oh-so-welcome. I'm off to collect my promoters fees now.