See these two cold fingers?

Just so you all can keep up on the various inhabitants of my home, this is a picture of the spider who now lives in my bathroom. My finger is included for scale. Yes, I know: I am an artist. The mother won't allow him to be removed as spiders are lucky, apparently. Kate's faith is based on a curious mixture of superstition and prayers. She is currently speaking to God on a regular basis asking for his intervention on behalf of about a dozen people. Exams, people. And interviews and things. Kate has a direct line to God. She lights candles every morning and says: 'Right, this one is for Marie's exams, this is for Sally's exams, this is for Donal's interview, this is for the Oscar's sore eye, this is for my boss to get bumped off while on his holidays...'

I'm kidding! She doesn't pray for that. Prayers don't solve everything.

This is getting dull. I might just push this blog off a cliff.

New Jersey. You can't tell but I'm saying that in my shitcool NJ accent I learned off Tony Soprano

Yeah, so my sister is heading over to Yankee land for the summer. New Jersey, if you want to track her down and stalk her. Just follow the police sirens. The other day she was telling me and my mother all about this boy she knows who went to San Diego last summer and worked himself into ten grand of debt over the three months he was there. Boy, that must have been a gold-plated three months. My mother immediately passed out on the kitchen floor when she heard this and when she awoke she immediately started drinking. I was all: 'Kate, we haven't even had lunch yet', but she just gave me a look. Her look said: 'Bitch, please. Don't even get me started.'

Because my sister has no money. And I mean, NONE. She got a loan to pay for this trip but she has, wisely enough, spent it all on clothes and booze. And maybe drugs and strippers, I'm not sure what she gets up to in college. BECAUSE SHE GOT THE LOAN IN FEBRUARY. I was against it at the time. I said: 'Don't be foolish Sal, you'll have it all spent by June. Listen to your financially-brilliant-yet-inexplicably-broke sister on this.' But she just gave me a look. HER look said 'Shut up fucker, I want that dough.'

So now Ma has to finance it all. It's going to be a fun summer. If I do something dumb and need a high-priced OJ-type lawyer to get me out of it, I can pretty much sing for it. Sally and her mates are having a going-away party in two weeks time and let me tell you, I have never been so excited about anything in my entire life. Except maybe vodka. And it's a fancy-dress party. Wowowowowow. American-themed. I've said that we should charge admission or at least whore Sally out for a while but you can bet that little gem will get ignored. Sally's going as Carrie Bradshaw in a tutu because she kinda has this Sarah JP nose-thing going on. Kate C is going as Dolly Parton. Sinead is going as Paris Hilton. I am wearing a blue dress with a stain on and going as The Most Famous Intern Ever. I know. I am so fucking current, aren't I? Also, notice how everyone seems to want to go as celebrity bimbos? THAT IS WHAT WE THINK OF WHEN WE THINK OF YOU, AMERICA. Comforting, I know.

The other day I was trying to up my good friend Dave's excitement levels about this party by telling him all this. Dave doesn't do excitement. He doesn't really do emotions, actually, unless you count lethargy and I DON'T. So I told him about Sally going as SJP and he says: 'She's the girl off Friends, right?' I was all ready to crush his laid-back arse for this HUGE misstep in girl-lore but then Roisin caught my eye and gave me a look.

As you may have noticed, I'm fairly susceptible to looks. Roisin's look in this scenario very clearly said: 'NO. Leave it. He's cuter when he's being dumb. And Sally can smack him harder than you can.' And you can't argue with that.

Thank you for that, Mr Connolly

A lazy person, whatever the talents with which he set out, will have condemned himself to second-hand thoughts and to second-rate friends.

I found this one on the internet. The other one I read in a book. A REAL BOOK. Ah, yes. Sometimes I read books. Sometimes I burn them to heat my home. It depends on my mood.

Why not write in the morning? Unfortunately in my case there is never very much of the morning and is curious that although I do not despise people who go to bed earlier than I, almost everyone is impatient with me for not getting up.

Cyril Connolly, Enemies of Promise, ch. 1

Apologies for recent hatefullness

Jeez.

I disappear for like, a week and who notices? No one. That'll teach me. When I was younger I bought all these old Bunty annuals from a Girl Guide Bring & Buy sale and there was one with a story in it about this orphan who had to bring up all her younger brothers and sisters but then she found out she was dying and she came up with this downright stupid notion of being nasty and cruel to them so that when she died they wouldn't miss her. Fucking stupid story. But that's what's been going on round here. Recently. Except without the orphans, self-sacrifice or encroaching death. Also, she used to creep out at night and feed starving street children or something. That part didn't transfer either.

I have been really busy being all-out horrible lately. It's something that requires my full attention so I haven't had time to do anything else. I'm hoping it's a phase and not that I've always been this awful and am only just noticing it now.

Sorry. This is complete self-pitying bilge. I should have just gone with my first instinct to cut myself.

Pearls of Wisdom

I've just been over at this site, which I found on Bloggorah, which incidentally is extremely diverting. When I got up this morning I didn't realise that I needed another reason to despise Caroline Morahan but apparently the universe decided I did. Besides the fact that she was once an extremely pretty girl who went and fuglified herself because, goddamnit, she's Ireland's premier fashionista and that involves looking as ugly and outlandish as humanly possible. And there is nothing I hate more than wasted beauty. Well, maybe Pat Kenny. But it's a close one.

Our Caroline is apparently quite the style guru nowadays. What the word 'style' has to do with Debs balls is completely beyond me. The only thing less stylish than your average Irish Debs is your average Irish Knacker wedding. But until you are bride at an Irish Knacker wedding, your Debs is the only occasion you have to be tirelessly obnoxious and enamored with yourself so you might as well milk it. Caroline did.

Have fun with your accessories. Some designers are very sleek and simple but I was far more dramatic. I wore a pink feather boa and earrings in my hair that were like hair jewels. Put time into accessorising as it can make or break an outfit.

Such glorious advice! Coco Chanel is punching up dirt screaming 'Why didn't I think of a pink feather boa and hair jewels? Fuckit for a wasted life!'

A must-have in any evening bag is powder or concealer. You can dab it discretely on your nose and forehead. And, especially after the meal, it' s great to close your mouth and go around your lips with a concealer pen to tidy up your make-up.

Oh grow up, Caroline. Sometimes it's great for you to just close your mouth. I don't give a shit if you want to draw a pen around it after.

SIGH. I'm sorry if this sounds amazingly inane and ridiculous. I only got all mad at Caroline because I read the last paragraph first and it made me so mad I punched an actual hole in an actual wall with my fist. Really. Except substitute 'actual' for 'imaginary'. But I might have! If only I wasn't so damned apathetic about wall-punching.

And, remember, it's a long night so don't drink a stupid amount. I'm no t-totaller or anything but there's no point getting completely wasted, not remembering anything and being a pain in the arse for the night.

There. See? I couldn't be madder even if she had followed this with: 'Yeah, Lucy, that one's just for you'. And now I'm sitting here with my head in my hands crying great big tears of confusion and upset. WHAT IS THE POINT OF A DEBS BALL IF ONE DOES NOT GET COMPLETELY WASTED, REMEMBERS EVERYTHING AND SPENDS THE EVENING NOT BEING A PAIN IN THE ARSE?

I am shaken to my very core and am questioning my most closely-cherished beliefs. It is like I am a sixteenth-century pope and Caroline is Galileo. I must crush and excommunicate her immediately. If that analogy even worked or made any sense.

In answer to your unasked and perhaps as yet unformulated questions, I spent my Debs night in a delightful cerise frock bought in a sale, wore no feather boas and got twisted by 8pm. I also spent the guts of four trillion pounds, old money, and spilt a pint down my dress, giving it the unimaginable glamour of a dirty tea-towel. I woke up in a bed in Mairead's house beside a terribly soggy Marie, who had fallen into the sea during the early-morning beach escapades we and sixty other evening-gloveliesovlies had been getting up to. That's how we roll here in Tramore: all parties end down the Ladies' Slip amid bonfires and accidental ocean-dips. You'll learn to love it.

Sing out to stop the hurting

I kinda had a hangover this morning. For like fifteen minutes. I was reading a book and this guy was attempting suicide with some sleeping pills and a bottle of vodka and I was like 'Uh-oh, vodka,' and I had to put the book away and lie down on the floor for a while. Then I got up and ate a tuna sandwich and watched the really creepy bit in The Way You Were where Katie practically rapes poor, drunk Hubble and he passes out on top of her. My hangovers are thankfully few and extremely short. And cured by tuna and melodrama.

People often say to me, 'Lucy, why are you constantly singing?'. I say it is to share the beautiful music and launch into a bar or two of that deadly Paris to Berlin song. Then I get a smack. Honestly though, I don't know if I can tell you why I am always singing. It's not really my secret to tell: it's Aoife's too. Will I? Oh, okay then. Sometimes I sing because I hate everyone around me and want to make them unhappy but in the main it's because I'm a drunk. Aoife taught me, long ago, that the best way to blot out unbidden drunken memories returning suddenly is to sing very loudly and very badly. There you are, going about your daily business and suddenly you remember saying or doing something extremely stupid the night before and because you have reached a point in your life where cringing and screaming just won't cut it you instead start roaring out inane lyrics at the top of your lungs.

People near you will look bewildered and possibly pained and will say 'what? Why would you do that, why?' and you will laugh madly and say 'Ah, just remembering something highly amusing from last night'. And then others will think you live in a wondrous, magical jukebox of a world with a kicking soundtrack and exhilarating tales.

When really you are just a belligerent drunk who is trying to get she held forth for half an hour on why Fall Out Boy is the best band ever to some random young man she met whilst out having a cigarette. In a nutshell, what I'm saying is that mad, furious bellowing is better than reflecting on painful matters. I like to avoid any extraneous thinking if I can at all help it.

My evening with the freckled folk

I don't know about you but personally, I am very tolerant of the less advantaged members of society. I'm talking about culchies, man. Oh sure, I will mock, deride and smack them about a bit but in reality I have a lot of time for the country folk. Which is why, when I was invited to come back to my good friend Dells house for a bit of a session, I was all up for it. Dell and I go back a long way: Essentially he hates my guts but we both pretend we don't know this. The exact wording of my invite was 'Hey, Lets go to Dell's and trash the joint'. How could I refuse?

Dell's home is a simple cottage on the outskirts of Tramore, built of pleasant homely materials like turf and old copies of Ireland's Eye. When we got there last night I clipped into his kitchen with some trepidation: would the boggers notice my urban sophistication and out me as the townie I was? I need not have worried. One look at my nervous yet lovely visage and they were pouring me out a whiskey from a large bottle of Teachers and pulling an upended bucket up to the open fireplace for me to seat my shapely bottom. Dell's dog snoozed contentedly at my feet. They must have run out of rough tobacco to stuff in their pipes though, for they fell upon my twenty Marlboro like dogs on a rabbit and I was instantly their best friend.

'Aaargh lassie, you're no' too bad', drawled Jim in his adorable country lilt. Jim is brother to the famous Noreen, by the way, which you will know if you are keeping up with the lineage of Tramore's finest. Bah. The boggers get all the good ones.

After we got the traditional party protocol out of the way (running round the house whooping, breaking glasses, jumping on all the couples shagging in the bedrooms and having a messy condiment fight with the contents of Dell's fridge), we proceeded to drink to the end of the bottle and the charming country folk sang me songs in their primitive way.

'Hey, fuckers, do ye know any songs that don't mention the IRA, wheat fields burnt by the English, potato blight, brave Irish rebels or the Black and Tans? Eh?' I piped up after a while. Me, I like to shake things up sometimes. The countrysiders regarded me blankly for a bit so I was forced to stand up on Dell's kitchen counter and belt out Born in the USA. As you do. All for naught, I'm afraid. The country folk just nodded and chewed their gums and launched in on a load of songs about poor Irish folk who had emigrated to Amerikay. As dawn's pale fingers fumbled clumsily about outside, seven of us passed around my last cigarette and the boys tried to persuade Marie F to take her clothes off.

Nobody asked me to take my top off. Damn culchies don't know a sure thing when they see it.

No comment

So there I was, mashing the spuds for the lunch and Sally wanders down stairs.

'Oh! OH!' says my mum. 'I see the dead has arisen!'
Sally scoffed in a hungover manner. 'How long are you up?' she tosses to me.
'I have a bone to pick with you, miss!' Says mum.
'Great' says Sal.

'Your exams are starting next week; what on earth were you doing out last night?!'
I chuckled merrily at this. 'Lucy made me go out.' whined my sister.
'And what were you doing on the phone till seven this morning?!' continued the one-woman inquisition.
'Talking to Carl.' she pouted.

'Now Sally, I will not have you making reckless calls to mobile phones at all hours. It is very bold and naughty' and my mother went on in this manner for some moments. Sally yawned. Then she looked at me. I was hopping round the kitchen in bare-foot glee, laughing softly to myself as I am wont to do when in a good humour.

'What is wrong with you, you big fool?' She said.
'I am delighted because for once you and not me are in the bad books and I am the good daughter!' I trilled gleefully. Sally glowered. I hopped on, whooping with mad, glorious joy.

Sally rolled her eyes and prepared to quash. 'Anyway, Mother, I don't know if you know this but Lucy was amazingly drunk last night and fell over in the road after the disco finished and the whole place wet themselves laughing and her knees were pumping bleeding and she just kept sitting there on the kerb outside Murphs laughing while I tried to clean up the blood.'

I stopped hopping. My mother eyed me warily. 'Go on, make her show you the cuts on her knees if you don't believe me' said my sister.

'Well? What have you got to say for yourself?' demanded the Mater.

In which I finish reading a novel

I have just finished The Europeans. This is huge. Did you hear me? HUGE. I have never gotten further than page 5 of any Henry James without wanting to jab a pen in my eye. But I read this one the whole way through! And I understood practically all of it! What can this signify?

I think, if it's even possible, that I may be getting smarter...

Only because I'm bored

For this thing you're supposed to shuffle your ipod and apply each question to the songs it throws at you. It's pretty much asking the ipod to tell your fortune. Annie bought me a magic eight ball before so I really feel no need to do this but seeing as I am so incredibly bored that I have cleaned the entire house and it's either this or cut the dog's hair, I've done it anyway. I don't actually own an ipod because I am vehemently against paying money for anything I cannot pour down my throat but fortunately I do have Sally's ipod. Fortunately for the dog anyway, because if I did not I would be bleaching his ears right now.

S'alright though, it's mainly my music on her ipod anyway since she hasn't bought any CDs since the Coyote Ugly soundtrack about ten years ago. Ugh.

How does the world see you?
Money, Pink Floyd

Will I have a happy life?
Cry on Demand, Ryan Adams

What do my friends really think of me?
Black Cowboys, Bruce Springsteen

Do people secretly lust after me?
Galang, MIA

How can I make myself happy?
Oh My Gosh, Basement Jaxx

What should I do with my life?
Nobody Does it Better, Carly Simon

Will I ever have children?
I believe in a thing called Love, The Darkness

What is some good advice for me?
Next to You, Bebel Gilberto

How will I be remembered?
Don't Rain on my Parade, Bobby Darin

What is my signature dancing song?
The One You Love, Rufus Wainwright

What do I think my current theme song is?
Waiter, Nelly McKay

What does everyone else think my current theme song is?
Meet me in the Bathroom, The Strokes
[Oh, shut up. It's random, k? I DIDNT PICK THEM]

What song will play at my funeral?
Feltham is Singing out, Hard Fi

What type of women/men do you like?
Mandy, Westlife
[I don't know how that gone on there. It's not mine, if that's what you're thinking]

What is my day going to be like?
Messin with the Kid, Rory Gallagher

Lucy's hand sees internet premiere: Let the healing begin

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.

I just said 'Oh darling, I thought you were Noreen!' Everyone knows Noreen. She just stared at me as if I was the most boring person on the whole planet. No one gets away with that. So I crossed my arms and gave her the hard stare. 'What's wrong with you? Noreen is one of the best-looking people I have ever seen in the flesh. And she autographed my hand. Me thinking you look like her, it's a fucking compliment, bitch.' She just gave me a bitchy open-mouthed look and I scooted off.

I have some thoughts you know. Sometimes I muse on the Big Stuff. And some times I worry about becoming the girl that everyone thinks is a drunken arse. Then I get over myself and get another drink. I'll worry about that when I hit twenty-four.

All the emphasis in this post is because I am YELLING it at my secretary

Where WERE you last night? I was looking everywhere. Well, the bar. You weren't there. Mags got drunk and made me dance to Sweet Child of Mine with my arms over my head. She MADE me. Then I kept buying her drinks cos I'm LIKE THAT. I encourage drunkeness. I'm like the anti-diageo. Oh no, wait. When I got home I was sitting on the kitchen floor eating Weetabix Minis, my new FAVOURITE food, when I got a text message off my new best friend Ken. It said 'I meant to say hello to you'. I thought this very nice of him. I vaugely recalled seeing his head earlier. So I wrote a long and complicated message back which ended with 'Let your conscience guide you. Kenneth. KENNETH. Off you trott. Though we admire.'

If you can understand what I meant by any of that you are a better man than me. Luckily for me (and Ken) I accidentally entered the wrong number and sent it to somebody else. A STRANGER. This morning I woke up with a reply saying 'Who's Kenneth?' From the stranger. I didnt write back though. I have enough random friends.

For eyes which rowle towards all, weepe not, but sweat

I have yellow spots on my eyeballs. Oh sure, I'm the only one can see them but they are there. They're like faint nicotine-burns. Whenever I try to show someone my yellow eyes I hold them by the ears and make them gaze into my eyes for an uncomfortably long time. Most everyone says: 'Nope. Can't see them. You're nuts.' One person said 'Are you trying to kiss me?' Idiot.

Damn it! I have yellow-eye! I looked it up for Pete's sake. Apparently it's because of poor tear quality and over-exposure to UV light. Poor tear quality, hah! I haven't cried since Dumbledore died. And that was more of a slight moistness around the eye than actual tears. So I went to the chemist to buy eye-drops.

'Eye-wetness stuff, please!' I said.

'€12 please' said my local friendly pharmacist.

Bit steep for a teensy bottle of what is probably water but, hell, I bought it. I'm off to buy sunglasses now to cope with the dazzling UV glare from Tramore's shimmering sands. So if you see me strolling around looking more knobby than usual, wearing big, bug-eyed sunglasses, you will know that I do it so my eyes are clear and pristine. All the better to undress you with.

Papa's Birthday

DSCN2805, originally uploaded by Harriet Vane.

Charlie Haughey. Maggie Thatcher. Hugh Hefner. Garret Fitzgerald. The Queen. All turning eighty this year. It's a big deal. Eighty is the new black. My grandad though, he gets all the luck. He turned eighty today AND he gets me as a grandaughter.

Happy birthday Papa!

Things that make me laugh, loudly and long

I have just finished reading the May issue of British Vogue. I do that sometimes. Read stuff. Not just May though, I read all the months. Not all at the same time obviously because then I would get all my trends mixed up and I would fail to be the stylish lass I am. At the moment pantaloons are in. And cowboy and metallics and...colours. Wearing colours is HUGE for summer. Mark my words: you shall wear a colour before summer is out. Also, layering sucessfully is the key to eternal happiness. That and having loads of cash to buy designer handbags. I have one rule about handbags: If it cannot hold a nagen of vodka it is no good. I'm a simple girl with simple but heartfelt principles.

My favourite bit of Vogue is the Miss V column, where two anonymous fashion editors exchange gushing emails about all the star-fucking parties they've been to and all the free loot designers send them. It's brilliant:

'You were so wrapped up in James Purefoy that you missed moi, wrapped in my Preen bandage dress, plotting with Sandra Choi, Jimmy Choo's creative director, and Alice Temperley's husband Lars for tennis doubles at the Hurlingham. (Must pick up that flirty Stella for Addidas dress to distract from my nasty little drop shots.) Roland[Mouret]'s on a roll: tonight it was Natalia Vodianova, Bee Shaffer and Felicity Huffman he had deep in conversation before the artichoke salad was cleared.'

You will notice that Vogue kindly highlights all the big names here for you so can fume in envy more efficiently. I don't quite follow their order of significance though. Me, I would have highlighted moi, creative director, tennis doubles, artichoke salad and money-hungry, social-climbing knobheads to properly get the message across. The last one is more implied than actually said.

Apparently it was Camilla Al Fayed's 21st last month. Get over it: I wasn't invited either.

'A hundred guests gathered in an Egyptian-themed tented room to nibble on chicken skewers and truffle risotto. A sarong would not have passed muster...'

You're less crushed about not being invited now, aren't you? I don't know about you but I don't hate one hundred people badly enough to make them come to my Egyptian-themed birthday party. Also my party themes are usually more basic. Like drunkeness.

'The D Squared twins buzzed about their new collection, describing it as "gowny" (the new edgy), while Paris Hilton could not stop her Blackberry buzzing.'

How shaming. Paris was ringing me on her Blackberry, telling me all about the vile looking white chocolate sphinx cake and all the ugly fashionistas fannying about. 'Lucy,' Paris said to me, 'you should see this party! It's totally wild! And you thought I was trashy!'

'Camilla made two entrances, first in a Dolce & Gabanna crystal-spangled black gown, then in an ostrich-feathered Julien Macdonald number. The sweet hostess even performed a rap with Daddy Mohamed before a giant iced Pyramid cake arrived.'

Ho-humm.

Does this spell 'good times' to you? To me it spells 'vomitous'. I don't even think that's a word but there you go. How gowny I am.

Wheelly Good Fun