Alice on E

I've come home from a shitty day at work. Those days have been few and there she is nestled on the couch. I've gotten the "Salut-I'm-not-moving-from-here" face which seems to be the only face of late that I have gotten from her. She's a twat. Not only that but she's listening what seems to be a version of Alice in Wonderland on acid and the kitchen's a right mess. There's pasta pots (which I think that she is keeping in her room for fear that I will use it. How many of us actually have a specified pot for pasta? A pasta pot? This girl has too much money to be spending on ebay...).

I'm trying to get to bed and it's 00.30. Why won't she turn the bastardin' thing down!? I text her.

"Pourrait-tu baisser le tv?"

I hear a giggle.

Apparently I just told her to go fuck the tv.

Ah, and now there's silence.

Ah.

I giggle.

Tonight at Noon

TONIGHT AT NOON

Tonight at noon
Supermarkets will advertise 3rd EXTRA on everything
Tonight at noon
Children from happy families will be sent to live in a home
Elephants will tell each other human jokes
America will declare peace on Russia
World Wars generals will sell poppies in the streets on
November 11th
The first daffodils of autumn will appear
When the leaves fall upwards to the trees

Tonight at noon
Pigeons will hunt cats through city backyards
Hitler will tell us to fight on the beaches and the landing fields
A tunnel full of water will be built under Liverpool
Pigs will be sighted flying in formation over Woolton
and Nelson will not only get his eye back but his arm as well
White Americans will demonstrate for equal rights
in front of the Black House
and the Monster has just created Dr Frankenstein

Girls in bikinis are moonbathing
Folksongs are being sung by real folk
Artgalleries are closed to people over 21
Poets get their poems in the Top 20
Politicians are elected to insane asylums
There`s jobs for everyone and nobody wants them
In back alleys everywhere teenage lovers are kissing
in broad daylight

In forgotten graveyards everywhere the dead will quietly
bury the living
and
you will tell me you love me
Tonight at noon



Adrian Henry (1932-2000), Liverpool

Huhhuhuhuhuhuhuhuh... score!

People must know of the the experience that I had this morning. Every nerve ending turned soft with shock and gave in to the beauty of my brand new favourite object: my shower head.

The last one broke (...) and V, the other housemate, got us a new one. He said that it would be a surprise for us but Jesus, never in all my living days have I experienced what I experience not five minutes ago.

It's huge - it must be the size of a dinner plate, with watershoots everywhere on it! It was like the little angels of heaven were pissing ever so politely down on top of me.

I can't wait for my next encounter with my shower head.

Shower head.

The Man of My Dreams

If she doesn't turn down that fucking television, I'm not gonna lie, I won't be pretty!

I'm getting up out of me fouton to take skin of her when I open up her door and she's there, head to toe in the stuff: her tears.

That wailing wasn't something from a DVD but it was her.

"Il m'a brisé le coeur et il m'a appelé....', she explained, "il était avec quelqu'un d'autre...".

"Fair enough", I said, "but can ya keep it down love..."

No, I didn't say that. I didn't know what to say. Even if she was speaking in Frog there's only one thing that I could give her that she would understand: a hug. I tried doing one of my Jim hugs, convinced she'd be putty in my hands, I'd say a few words, agree, disagree, give direction and maybe, just maybe, even tell a joke.

She wasn't having any of it! She started telling me everything: that he left her in July, that he moved away and despite the fact that it's only been a week since they last spoke to each other she knew that there was something wrong. They speak regularly, apparently. They have the bang bang regulary too in the room next door to me but you don't see me covered in snot and tears now do ya? Ha?

"Ca fait une semaine qu'il ne m'a pas appellé... on se disputait le derniere fois mais..." The tears were there again. She wailed over to her mirror (my room doesnt have a mirror, or a tap... is... is that a fucking vent??... I digress...) and what I thought was pretty strange is that she stared at herself crying. We've all done it at some point. There's a sense of achievement, a one-upper-ness on the other in seeeing the tears come down on our blotchy faces. You curse every last one of them, promise that they're going to be the last. You know what he's done, how he's done it and maybe even the why but you don't want to understand why... Poor her, I suppose. Poor her and her... is that a couch she has here in her bedroom that she's sitting on? Christ above...

The more that she talked about her ex boyfriend, how he broke her heart she said some things that I haven't heard since I had a tv with an English channel on it. She spoke of how he was the man of not only her dreams but he was her "l'homme de vie" and there was nothing that could heal or calm her now that he was gone. She wants someone that will be there for her because he wants to be. She wants what every single person out there wants - preaching to the choir, ma sister, you preaching to the choir!

Now I realise that both of us have a lot in common. We don't just share a passion for wine, she might know how to drink it professionally but I know how to drink it fast. We might share a passion for food, I may know how to eat it but she knows how to eat it fast - bitch owes me a mortgage payment in Rennies but anyways... But we have a passion: finding the man. She knew how to get him and I haven't a clue how how to even begin to get mine. Four years it took and her heart's in bits. Four years. Christ, it's been that long since I've had anything steady. Christ above...

She has had someone 'by her side' for near on eight years now and this was the one - she found him. He was hers, 50/50, straight down the line there was nothing that could... "il était avec quequ'un d'autre"...

Her hair is shocking bad tonight but that's because it's full of snot. She's complaining of the cold even though she's got a winter gale hopping in her opened Velux window. And now she's a broken heart that I don't know how to fix. There's a conversation to be had between the two of us yet about her boy, Julian. I'm hesitant to say that we could share the converstaion over a bottle of white but unless we can both provide proof of purchase of the wine, her heart and her boy are going to have to wait until another night.

As for me, my heart and my imaginary boyfriend... "ca va aller"...

Jim, traveled.

A Poem.

I've been gone for too long.
Mainland Europe, reported.
Ready to take-off,
Must find something that rhythms with 'reported'. Fuck.

My First Time.

I'm not gonna lie - this is my first time. I'm scared pooless. This isn't my first, but it's my first time. What's in a first time around the merry go around anyway? Is it that important? I'm going to get lubrication just in case.

I'm putting myself out there. I've extended the fickle hand of courtesy and have gotten a thus far well received response. Some fell asleep and some have even vomited all over me but I know how to relax someone into enjoying the experience. It's going to be memorable.

I normally have people do it to me but this is me on top, doing the whole lot of it. I don't really know what I have to do. I've had four years experience. I've watched, been there and critiqued loads. It can go well sometimes, but sometimes not.

I don't want a "he wasn't that great at it - it was pretty small to be honest' response. I talk myself up too often that it could be terrible for me. Well, whatever, I'm leaving in a few weeks so what if my first proper time goes terrible.

Lubrication is the key.

Christ, I hope people come to my party.

Crumple and...

I'm sitting in the Arts Millennium Computer Suite and translating away like the mad hoor that I am. Suddenly, a one eyed monster representing every shade of mundane and pity comes and sits right across from me.

'P'tak fy-oop glee'

Her Clingon-speak unbenkownst to me, her IPOD is screaming out of ears some rocknrolla song that I'd rather not be listening to.

I, being the kind, biopticular enabled pod that I am, attract her attention.

Mouthing, I enhance: Would you mind turning down your music, please?

She continues typing, then glances: the middle finger in all its glory. The 'fuck off'. The 'who are you to tell me to decrease volume'. The 'you can swing for silence, ya twat!'.

I'm so embarrassed. I can't believe that someone would treat me with such lack of respect. It's not as though I willed her first born spawn to me. What a...

Right, I'm bound by a deadline to finish this thing and I will.

And I did.

I wasn't going to leave without Mary knowing what she was. So I scribble.
'I HOPE THAT YOU KNOW THAT YOU ARE A CUNT'

I attract her attention but her alien senses had by now adapted to my human attractions.

'You're a cunt!'.

She still can't and won't let herself hear me, although most of the upper half of the room are stunned that I have stood up and called some unsuspecting a cunt.

I slap the page right in front of her screen - cause I'm going to let her know what I think. It froths and grunts and crumples the page into a ball. Fucks it at me she tried, whacked the girl to her right she did.

Poor bitch.

I left seething because I was treated like shite. I hope that there's some part of her inside that knows that she did wrong.

And I hope that I never have to call a woman a cunt again.

I mo bhrionglóid...

Ag damhsa le tuin, ag ól séard nár cheannaigh, ag rá séard ná ba cheart. Ag ithe úill a tugadh dom. Ansin, ag luí agus mé i mo bhrionglóid. Tugadh deis dom agus ghlac mé leis le haoibh. Isteach i siopa bróga, mo dreifiúr agus bhí bróga scaipithe ar fud an tsiopa. Dubh a bhí siad. Bhí leaid eile i gculaith dubh chomh maith ag spíadóireacht orm. Thosaigh sí ag ceannacht ach d'iompaigh an seit gan fhios dom. Bhí mé in áit eile agus bhí ceannasaíocht agam uirthi. Ag dul níos airde go gairid is dóigh, a dúirt an duine eile a bhí ar an forklift liom. Bhí ceamara ós mo chomhair. Súmáil mé isteach ar dhaoine a bhí gléasta suas mar dhuine ó scannán a bhí suite 17 aois measaim. Ar nós The Tudors a bhí sé. Bhí chuile duine acu i línte, ag damhsa, spinning around. Tharraing mé mo cheamara amach píosa ionas gur féidir le gach duine eile a bí hag breathnú ar na screens beaga sin taobh thiar dom níos mó den damhsaíocht a fhéicáil. Bhí mé chomh ard sin go raibh mé gar go barr an tseomra. Phasáil muid é agus bhí léibhéal eile ós mo chomhair, lán le daoine agus gníomhaíocht... Chaill mé an bhlac mar níor dúradh liom go mbéinn ag obair ar sheit eile ag an am céile... D'iarr mé ar thiomaní an forklift mé a ligint síos. Phreab an leaid eile as agus é sabháilte ar léibhéal a dó... Tarrangíodh síos chomh scioptha sin mé gur fhan mo chosa in áit mo cheann agus vice versa... Bhí mo láimhe greammaithe leis an ráille... Gach duine in ann mé a fhéiceáil... Dá bhféadfainn...

Ansin, dhuisigh mé le caitheamh suas. Fuckin alcohol.

None moreso than me, dear.

Aon uair a théim amach le déanaí bíonn daoine á rá liom abairt aisteach, cé nach dtuigim i gcónaí a gcúis. Cheapfá nach bhfeicfidís arís go deo mé ach seo arís é, tá sé ráite ag duine éigin eile:

"I'm so glad that you came out tonight".

Ní dheirtear sa gcaoi agus cheapfá gur rud deas atá ann ach a mhalairt ar fad atá i gceist. Ag cuimilt mo láimhe nó mo ghlúine, suíonn siad síos mé. Ligeann siad orthu scaití gur 'cairde go deo' muid. Ní dhearfaidh mé a mhalairt ach ní aontóidh mé leo ach an oiread. You see, tharla sé oíche aréir arís agus mé sa Blue Note. Chas beirt chara orm, duine acu nár lig mé súil air ar feadh cúpla mí anuas. Thosaigh sé ag ligint air féin (bheul, tá súil agam gurb é sin a bhí á dhéanamh aige anyways) gur ormsa a bhí an locht. B'é mise nár chuir aon téacs aige. Mise a bhí ba chúis do chliseadh an chairdis. Fuck-right-off. led' thoil... Nárbh é mé féin a chuir neart téacsanna aige mar sin ná bí ag rá nach bhfuil aon locht air féin. Dá mba rud é go raibh freagairt agam uaidh, at least le haghaigh téacs amháin d'éistóinn leis.

BFF a bhí sa cháilín eile. Tá sí pléite agam cheana féin ach thug mé faoi deara an difríocht atá taghta ar ár gcairdeas. Níl aon 'rud' sin eadrainn a thuilleadh. Is dóigh go bhfuil cuid mhaith den locht orm. Chuinnigh mé féin busy le hobair agus le haon rud eile ar bhain leis an gcoláiste. Agus bhí rudaí ag tarlú sa mbaile chomh maith. Ní raibh sí ann mar tá a tuistí ag fáil colscarradh faoí láthair so bhí sé busy lena saol féin... Ach d'fhág sí a lámh ar ghéag an leaid eile. Is dóigh gur thóg an leaid seo m'áitse féin.

Tá cairde eile anois agam. Tá baint eadrainn atá aisteach. Cuireann sé cairdeas eile a bhíodh agam le cailín i gcuimhne dom, an baint seo. D'fhéadfaimis gach lá den tseachtain a chaitheamh le chéile agus ní bheadh an teannas aisteach sin eadrainn. Is fuath liom nuait a bhíonn cúinís eadraim agus duine éigin eile. Is breá liom a bheith ag labhairt faoi rud ar bith agus labhraímid faoi. Agus nuair nach labhraím, táimid ag caoineadh ar abháir spéise éile inár féidir linn comhrá. Ní raibh sé seo 'eadrainn', ní raibh sé chomh láidir agus a bhí sé anyways.

D'athraigh an baint nuair a scaip sí raflaí gan bun nó barr faoi chailín eile. D'iompaigh an 'grúpa' ina coinne agus bhí mé fagtha leí. I m'aonar ag eisteach leí, lena scealtaí grinn, lena raflaí agus lena ráiteisí gortacha faoi dhaoine eile. Uaireanta, chuifinn lena cuid cainte agus amantaí eile mhothaigh as though nach raibh sé ceart. I'm not a saint ach tuigim an líne sin.

Sin an fáth nár chuir mé a aithne ar mo chairde eile go háirithe nuair a bhí an dinnéar sin agam léi. Cuimhin go nuair a dúirt sí rud uafásach faoi chailín a báadh cúpla mí ó shín. Bhí sí uafasach fuithi. Thuig mé nach raibh maitheas le fáil inti uairteanta.

So, nuair a bhí sí féin agus an leaid eile ag rá 'Great to see you' agus 'Oh, where are your other friends. Surprised to see that you're not with them!'

None moreso than me, dear.

Final Call for...

Anne,

Have reached my first destination of Krakow safe and sound. Would love a Knorr Noodle Soup but must make do with local 'cuisine' - I touch nothing that hasn't come in a wrapper! Journey here was eventful. Was having a too leisurely breakfast (E9.95!!) until well after 07:10 when realised that we, myself and FranBot ,should have been boarding our 07:30 flight since 07:05. I ran through the New Terminal with one thought: Aer Lingus are nothing but Bastards with Wings.

Have failed to acquire any new words from the Polons themselves. They seem a polite, hardworking people that are willing to help - nothing like the distant, socially incongruent people that befloat Eire. Here, they live on very little and have even less English - hence my difficulties in getting Knorr. Catholocism is as rampant as souvenier store chains. The men are all 'army' fit - I fear an evasion. Lock up Black WeatherMan, he may prove useful in the Resistance.

Today, our second day, saw me eat healthily. Yesterday, in fact, I ate many fruits and nuts. I even had a boiled strawberry which repeated on me until I said my night time prayers (i.e. Swig of 'alochole'). I'm bemused by their fruits. Very varied, very mouldy. I bought Banana Juice today. How one gets the juice out of a fucking banana is beyond this diety.

Today, we visited Auschwitz. I didn't get emotional as so many others have which isn't to say I was disinterested or unaffected by the surroundings; it's difficult to feel too much emotion at times where it's all around you, so intense, so photographic, and so real. We seemed to be constantly behind five 'typical' Americans. They talked louder, they stood taller and they made their presence known. They wore bright yellows, took photographs, and remained whisperish in the Gas Chambers where silence is expected. They discussed the varied and 'awesome' shoe styles of inamtes in the Museum of Possessions, of which one exposition included hundreds of childrens' shoes. There were three colours: Black, Brown, Nameless. Under 'ARBEIT MACHT FREI', these five stood together for a photograph. Proud, giggling, and painfully absent from their surroundings, they posed. 'Smile for the camera!' the taller and brutish of them called aloud. Amongst all their American 'Colgate' teeth and bright colours stood they in the exact same area where thousands were sent to meet their maker.

We decided to numb our troubles and start drinking on a hill in the centre of town. FranBot noticed that there was noticibly only the two of us about of the millions of Krakowians doing this. A quick 'mush!' from the Polan's Gardai and this bitch was found swigging back a bottle of knock-off Malibu.

I type this sitting beside some Mary from Vienna. He aks if I know 'Tom' from Ireland who he met in Isreal. I do not, it appears.

I make my way to Prague tomorrow morning for a seven hour train journey commencing upon the seventh hour. We all know how Jim likes it when he craves sleep.

I miss you as I do me noodles,

Jim

Twirled and then some!

Jim got laid last night.

The Adventures of Fart Girl

Once upon a time, there was a girl whose name was Mary.

She was in a packed English lecture in the O'Flaherty Theatre. People sat on the stairs, the heat was stiffliing and Mary, in her CP's finery, perched herself three rows from the front, slap bang in the middle.

As the lecturer is going on and on about whatever, Mary suddenly realises that she can't handle it anymore.

"When the Playboy of the Western World first opened in Dublin...'

(Christ, I can't do... it... any longer!!)

'... it was the cause of civil disturbances..."

**FFFFFFFFAAAAAAARRRRRRRTTTTTT**

Man, it was nasty. One of those proper scuttery, buttery ones she let loose. It was so embarrassing for her. The lecturer, clearly he heard, had to keep going with the lecture so as to avoid causing too much embarrassment for the young lady.

She was getting to red in the face that all you could feel was sorry for the girl.

But then, worse was to come.



The waft.

It. Was. Wrank. The back rows were now reeling from its effects and poor Mary, dying of embarrassment, couldn't handle it any further.

Yup, she fainted.

The whole row had to get up, four men, one at each appendage, weaving their way through the masses sitting on the stairs just so she could get some room.

People still talk of the waft.

And for that, we shall call her 'Fart Girl'.

To dinner, from hell.

Pauline's parents are in the middle of splitting up after 30 years of marriage and Pauline thought it a good idea to invite me, her Mom, Mary, and two of Pauline's (other?) closest friends around for dinner, Concepta and Helen.
Pauline, Pauline, Pauline... If only I knew at the time that I'd spent two hours in hell with a half cooked potato in front of me I'd've stayed at home and watched Desperate Housewives. I hate Desperate Housewives.

'The ice-cream's melting. Like something you're father would do, forget to pick up the ice-cream'
'I know, what a cunt'.

Well, wasn't that a nice. I'd didn't quite know or care if Pauline's Dad had ever forgotten ice-cream or in some way screwed her life over with ice-cream but I knew that I was going to have to nod. Soon.

'Ah, well, yes...'

Everything. Anything. Her mom managed to bring it back to the inadequacies of the husband, sorry, the adulterer, and I'd have to nod, again, and soon.

'Wine, anyone? asks Pauline. The mother didn't drink. Helen was a teetotaler and Concepta was on a diet.

Concepta, bless her buck teeth, tried her best to hold her own in the conversation adding:

'My sister has just found out that she's pregnant - and that's she seven months gone!' Thanks for that Concepta. Useless AND weird. Scoring on all fronts, are we?

'Well', Mary started, 'I remember when I was pregnant with Pauline. Ah, Jesus, I was nearly killed with the morning sickness. Isn't it great that she missed the morning sickness? It is, ya. I wasn't so bad with Martin when I had him but Pauline, Jesus, was I nearly dead.

I choke on overovened rice (believe!). I knew two crucial facts at that point: Pauline and Martin have been adopted since birth and I only had half a bottle left of white. Shit one, indeed. Shit one.

I swallowed. She went on, of course.

'Will I ever find anyone again?'.
'Of course you will. Sure, my Dad has found someone and is going out with her for two years now and well all accept her and...' Concepta said as I now started on the red. I hate red.
'What does your mother think?' said Mary.
'She's dead'. Silence.
'Since when?'.
'Three years'.
'How?'.
'Cancer'.
'Where?'
'Brest'.
Oh. Fucking. Hell.
'Chemo?'.
'No'.
'Ah'.
'Ah'.

God, if you're there... 'Wine, anyone? asks Pauline. I'd suck it through a straw right now.

'And sure, Helen, you're having the sex now anymore now sure. How's that working out for you?' Mary went on. Helen reddened. I was trying to remember the 'Our Father'.
'Fine now, just, ya know, trying to get myself back to myself again sure'.
'And you don't drink now either?'
'No'.
'Then, what do you do?
'Aromatherapy'.
'Ah'.
'Ah'.

...agus ná lig sinn i gcathú...
'And you, Jim? Boyfriend?'
'No?' I sip.
'Just broke up with someone then?'
'No. No. Just Jim'. I'm out, I've no more red left.
'Parents?'
'Yes'.
'Together?'
I presumed at this point that soda water gave her gas and sporadic monosyllabicism. Poor bitch.
'Yes. Thirty five, no, thirty seven years now but, sure, ya know yourself, good years and bad years now' scrathching the back of my ear for inspiration.
'Well, I was thirty years married. Just. You. Wait!'.

I hate my ear right now.

It went on. And on. And on. I understand that Mary needed to vent. I understand that Helen needs to find herself. I understand that Aishling's sister's dim. I realise that Pauline didn't provide enough wine for me or herself. I'm not that shade of gay who nods and hates people when other people hate them. I'm not that shade of guy who handles awkward 'oops, isn't she adopted?' situations well. I'm a gay man, not Bella.

Her Mom cleaned up. She excused herself and said that we redeemed her last thirty years.

Success. [hiccup]