My baby!

...

I dunno. Am I supposed to feel maternal towards this hunk of metal which cost me most of my life savings? Indulgent? Grateful? Loving? Most people might be delighted to have a car they own outside their home. Most people might be delighted to know they can now drive to the shops when they are in desperate need of fags, or Weetabix, or bubble gum. Most people, me... not so much.

It's not that I'm scared of driving exactly; more that I'm scared of crashing and killing someone. Nah, scratch that, my insurance broker might google me and read this. I'm scared of not caring if I crash and kill someone. I mean, my on-road driving experience amounts to about ten hours, total. On the other hand, my experience in playing computer-based driving-simulation type games amounts to about 200 hours. In the latter, skidding into a wall and writing off my vehicle amounted to little more than an muttered invective and a new game. The former...well, stalling in heavy traffic led to minor palpitations and near self-urination.

Am I taking this too seriously? It's just sitting there, begging to be driven in all it's metallic lavender glory (I named it's shade; my mother calls it 'dirty grey'). I only discovered the radio volume controls under my wipers lever the other day when Maggie came over and gave me a tour of my own car ('Oh great, you have dual air-bags!' 'The girls thank you for noticing, Mag, but can we focus on the car now?'). It's frightening. And it shouldn't be. I mean, idiots are driving cars. Roisin, Niamh, Danielle, my mother, the list is endless. I am obviously possessing of a superior intelligence to these people- as I am wont to point out, IhaveadegreeforChristsake.

Tch. Don't panic, I'll get right on the driving thing. I do have an ambition to drive the 32 counties. Or 31, I'm discounting Leitrim. 'Cos everyone else does, obvs. In other news, I am preparing to donate blood because I have ludicrously valuable blood despite the pathetic infrastructure it supports and as part of my prep am swallowing down iron tablets good-o. Iron supplements...they do something disgusting that is not declared on the back of the packet though. Take one, and see. Just one will do it. 24-pack is about three quid: do it and see. I haven't sunk so low in search of blog-worthy material to tell you what it is they do.

Although, maybe in a few weeks...?

Nothing to report

Nope, not a thing. Nothing doing. All quiet on the Lucy front. Nothing happening. Nary a bean. No news here my friend, everything's dull as dull...

Hang on, what's this in my hand...?

I have an amazing story to tell you, one that will change your life and how you view the world!

Ah...

Forgotten it. Nevermind, it'll come back. The good ones always do. Anyway, I've been reading a lot of books lately. Or buying them and stacking them beside my bed in case anyone comes in to photograph me. Point is, there is always somewhere to rest my glass of wine. Aha. Novels these days though, they let me down. I recently read this book a friend of mine had loaned me and it was terribly gripping and I read it until two in the morning. Two! Then, overcome with the joys of reading and the thrilling thrust of the storyline, I texted this friend and berated her for not telling me the main character AND NARRATOR had died. Then, funnily enough, it turned out she hadn't yet read the book. Hahahaha.

So I am writing my own novel now. I started to write it at the beginning of November and joined this club where everyone was writing a book in November but that got horrendously boring. And limiting. Let me just say, don't join the club I have just mentioned because they send you horrible, encouraging emails telling you not to give up on your book and then THEY ASK YOU FOR MONEY. I have no money. Well, I have, but it's in a place I can't get to it, ie. my bank.

I can't tell you about the book because I can't have you steal the ideas contained therein, and there are so few truly original plotpoints available nowadays that I can't squander such downright excellent ones as those I have now. Suffice to say, the main themes came to me in a dream one night after I'd had a few and the story involves a girl called Martina and a boy named Rob. Rob thinks everyone on the telly is talking to him and Martina is secretly in love with Rob but she doesn't know it yet. I plan to build up the sexual chemistry until it is unbearable and everyone reading just wants to scream 'just sleep with each other, for God's sake! And have adorable children!'. There's something about skiing and a chase sequence when the heroine is wearing really uncomfortable shoes. Then I will kill off a main character in a manner that leaves everyone going 'Wow. Who coulda seen that coming?' But who will I kill off? You'll just have to wait until it hits the shelves in your local booksellers. But be warned, I'm publishing under a pseud...psyeud... false name as I don't want my internet fame to piss all over my book's chances. So you'll just have to scan every book for mention of Martina and Rob* until you find it.

*I may change Rob's name to Angela. I haven't entirely worked out the politics yet.

I've just remembered the amazing story. It's not that good and the punchline needs work. I'll tell you some other time.

The Seeger Sessions

How to turn a bad day good, part the first

Don't worry your pretty little head over what it is; point is that it arrived today, three weeks before it was due and made me hop up and down a little in delight. I haven't been hopping much lately. I never get post except from loan companies offering me credit cards* so when an unexpected present you bought yourself turns up early, you have to hop a little.

*Oh yeah, and from Mona, who cuts out job ads and sends them to me with little inspirational messages written on them. 'Go for it, Luce!' Thanks Mona, she who keeps faith when all around her are losing theirs.

I like to go FAAAAAST. But it's scary

My driving is going well, thanks for asking. My only problems linger in gears, steering, lights, wipers, mirrors, braking, accelerating, stopping, starting, roundabouts and reversing. Oh, and other cars. Other cars are a bitch. Everytime I see another car coming near me I screech 'back, fuckhead, baaaack!'. My driving instructor loves me. Who doesn't, I hear you ask. Exactly. The other day we were approaching Riverstown and he said 'okay, we're going to take a right here' and I duly swung my indicators to the left. Yeaaa!

Oh, and pedestrians? FUCK OFF. If you dare to cross the road in front of me I will run you over. I have serious troubles slowing the car down without cutting out so if it's between your life and me having to restart my car in the middle of the road... well, I don't even know you. And I love me.

No goats sacrificed

The Pagan wedding SUCKED. Druids new year, my eye, Dee. There I was, all set for a naked handfasting in a clearing and Dee's goddamned mother steps in and insists it has to be in a church. I had to take communion and everything! Don't worry, I never swallow.

Also, newly discovered fact: Lucy gets an unexplained moistness in her eyes during the groom's speech: 'Deirdre is my life and the only gift I will never get tired of being grateful for.' Tune in tomorrow to discover that Lucy has large muscley thing in chest which pumps blood! Who knew?!

Pity I'm so *NICE*

Okay, so I'm posting drunk again, but it's past three am on a Friday so I think I'm in the clear. Are YOU sober? Thought not.

I'd like to share with you the story of a persistent male. His name is Peter. I don't deal in lies intentionally so his name actually is Peter. He likes to be called 'P' though. 'Cos he's a wanker. Whoops, there goes my objectivity.

"Peter is on a Stag night in Tramore. [You're aware of the concept, I presume? What you're grappling with is the fact that someone actually chose to have their Stag in Tramore. I know. Wow. Anyway, back to Peter.] Peter is thirty-something and from Laois, not a crime in itself though fast approaching one, standing in a bitch of a disco in a dump of a town, when three hot girls walk in. There are four girls in the entire place and one of them is behind the bar. It's a Friday night in rural Waterford. Options are limited.

Peter sidles up to the three girls. They giggle, as girls are inclined to do whenever the mood takes them, and engage with him in light-hearted banter. It is light-hearted. They banter. One, a foxy brunette in Levis, catches his eye. Boy, is she hot. He asks and finds out her name is Lucy. Wow. Hotname. She slips outside for a cigarette; Peter follows. He makes a crap joke; she laughs. I have my prey, thinks Peter, she is mine. She has smiled in my presence. I need no more encouragement. Peter employs regular seduction techniques such as Standing Around In Front Of Her So She Can't Leave and eventually swoops for the snog.

'No', says Lucy, 'I'm good, man, I'm with the girls, d'ya know?'

Aaaaaagh, says Peter, she is so playful! Let me follow her around the disco all night and try to hold her hand! He surveys his quarry: she is practically alone, ignoring those three young women and four young men hanging around her. I will certainly seduce her away from those (seven) losers and into my (rented) bed. And I will accomplish this by standing beside her all night and holding her hand. Oh yes, she plays with me. She shirks my grip as soon as I clasp her hand and ignores me when I try to show her my Scissor Sister dance moves (elbows clamped; finger guns). Her friend, the busty one laughs at me but I am not discouraged. Lucy is my love!

I buy her a drink. She says she doesn't want it 'cos she's working in the morning. I laugh! She's doing nothing except getting my breakfast tomorrow! She ignores the drink. So I buy her another. What more does a girl want except a liquid demonstration of one's interest? The teasing lass ignores my second drink. And I am stumped. What more does she want?

Then, when she slips off up the road I follow her. What girl does not enjoy a thrilling chase?? She is stood beneath a brolly with her bosom buddies, eating chips from a greased-up bag. They discuss taxis. Realising the romance in her intention, I extend a sure arm and grasp her around the waist. This night, fractured and imperfect as it was, all led to this.

Her body swivels and my heart constricts; her face turns to mine. Her perfect brow furrows in intent: 'Piss. The. Fuck. Off. Cuntbag.'

Foley, your days are numbered

Wedding 002 (2), originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

There are two rules in my job. Okay, three. One is that nobody talk to me for the first hour of my daily hangover. The second is that Lucy gets a coffee and a back rub whenever she requests them. The last one is that Lucy gets to watch a minimum of one hour of costume dramas and/or weighty BBC book adapations a week. THESE ARE THE RULES. LOVE THEM, LIVE THEM.

If you step outside the rules and ignore the rules then the rules are useless. Do you hear me? Yes, you, Niamh life-wrecker Foley. You with the weirdly shiny eyebrow. I'm talking to you, up there dancing and giving me the eye. The rules are in place for a reason, Foley. TO PROTECT YOU. Lucy needs her period dramas or she will go nutsy and somebody will get hurt. So, when you drop the Sky remote in a bucket of water and BREAK IT so that the channel can't be changed and Lucy has to watch horse-racing for five hours while Mr Rochester was off wooing Jane Eyre over on BBC1...well, it won't be pretty.

To everyone else who didn't drop digital remotes in buckets of water over the weekend, play on. Go about your day as usual. If your day takes you into my flickr account to view the rest of my photos, you go right ahead. You like photos of stunning-looking girls dancing drunkenly? Welcome! You've come to the right place.

Haha, I'm drunk and have broadband

Hey, guys.

So, yeah. I have an eye infection. Or, as you commoners address it, a sty. I have a low immune system. APPARENTLY it's something to do with the lack of fruit and vegetables in my diet and my predilection to late nights, but there you go: I have an eye infection. It inhibits none of my daily practices and does not affect my sight at all, but I thought I should update cos, well, I showed Dee and Donna earlier and all they could say was: 'What? What are you showing us? You're just winking. What exactly is your problem?'

I think we can all agree they're stricken from the Christmas card list for being INSENSITIVE ASSHOLES. Don't tell them I said that though.

And, YES I am drunk. Blah-blah with the 'in the morning you'll still be ugly' thing', k?

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.