December 2003 Archives

Wondering where the last year has gone to? Promising yourself that the next one will be better?

"Well... you didn't wake up this morning,
'cause you didn't go to bed.
You were watching the whites of your eyes turn red!

The calendar on your wall -- IS TICKING -- the days off.

You've been reading some old letters.
You smile and think how much you've changed.
All the money in the world couldn't buy back those days.

You pull back the curtains, and the sun burns into your eyes.
You watch a plane flying across a clear blue sky.
THIS IS THE DAY -- Your life will surely change.
THIS IS THE DAY -- When things fall into place.

You could've done anything, if you'd wanted.
And all your friends and family think that you're lucky.
But the side of you they'll never see
Is when you're left alone with the memories
That hold your life together like -- GLUE

You pull back the curtains, and the sun burns into your eyes.
You watch a plane flying across a clear blue sky.
THIS IS THE DAY -- Your life will surely change.
THIS IS THE DAY -- When things fall into place.

THIS IS THE DAY -- Your life will surely change."

Lyrics by Matt Johnson

When I was about 20 years old, I had devloped a rather idiotic mini-crush on a girl that drank in my local pub. I didn't know her name but I knew she was the cousin of a girl that i did know, so on an x-mas eve, I went up to her cousin to see if I could wrangle an introduction. Now, bear in mind that I have never spoken to this girl that I like. And as I speak to the girl that I do know I am having to yell out loud over the roar of the music and 800 people in the pub (this is Xmas eve remember...).

After some brief and drunken chit-chat, I asked what this other girl (the object of my affection) is like. Now, what I heard was:
'She's highly autistic'
I was a bit surprised but curious. I have an autistic nephew and I guess it was on my mind (it being chrimbo and all).
"That's amazing' sez I, 'she's so normal, like?"
"Ehm. Yes. Eh, what do ye mean?" sez she.
"Well, ya know" I said knowingly, "they always seem so difficult, ya know?"
"Um. Not really, no, what do you mean?" sez she.

Now by this stage, three or four other women are beginning to listen in, curious like. Birdbath ploughs on undettered, desperately trying to sound intelligent:

"Well, like (slight pause to gather thoughts) well, yeah, I have a nephew you see..."
Several hawk-like gazes meet me.
"... a nephew like that, and, well, you know, he's always running around the place with his bags off, shitting on the floor and all...'
Silence.
"You know, with his willy hanging out and screaming...". My voice faded away under the withering gazes that were bearing down on me.
I stumble on: "So eh what does she do?"
"She goes to NCAD" sez she.
"She does?" sez I in a ultra-patronising voice, "wow, isn't that amazing?".
"Yes, she studies art"
"Oh."
"Yes..."
"Ahhhh.....art. I see. Mmm. Very good. I'll ehm, be ehm, back in a minute..."

When you are being trained to teach English, the precieved wisdom is that you should never broach certain subjects in the classroom. Politics and religion are two obvious ones. Sex, is the other.

Anyway, yesterday, it being Xmas week and all, I decided to try and do something related to the festive season.So i photocopied a piece of text from Dickens' "A Christmas Carol". Specifically the section where the ghost of Xmas future shows Scrooge his grave and he awakes screaming to find that he is holding the 'bed-post'.

So, one of the students- a female student- asked me what a bed-post was. I promptly launched into a lengthy diatribe describing the finer points of the construction of a Victorian four-poster bed. I quickly glanced at my students to see whether or not they were following me. The bewildred glances indicated that they clearly were not.

I shifted in my chair and raised my hands:
"A bed post is the thing, you know, the thing, in the corner of your bed. You know, behind you. You know, the thing (nervous glances)... that you. You eh..."

tumbleweed rolls through

And then I had a brainwave...

"Oh you know! The thing behind you. That you hang onto, you know when (frantic gesticulations and miming of hanging onto a bed-post, whilst rocking back and forth) when you're you know... oh shit..."

It was at this point that the entire class exploded laughing. I love teaching. I really do.

Originally posted on the P45 forums in 2002

Okey doke. I decided I�d save this for a special occasion and seeing as it�s christmas and the eve of the new year, well, here goes then�

A couple of years ago, I badly hurt my back (displaced vertebrae) and after a couple of months on my arse and going in and out of chiropractors and shiatsu masseuses I decided it was time to get the finger out and do something. So, I resolved to join a gym and did so the first week of January.

After my general fitness was tested (I turned out to be small number heartbeats away from death) they set me loose on the machines. Things went well. In fact things went so well, that after a week of this, I began to believe that I was not a runt-like short-arse with the girth of a garden rake, but that I was rather, Bruce Willis.

So one Thursday evening after huffing, puffing, screaming, swearing and sweating my way through a session, I made my way to the boys locker room and proceeded to get ready for the showers. Shower gel: check. Towel: check. So far, so good. Flip-flops: oh yes, I had yet to purchase some flip-flops. I made a mental note to get some tomorrow. Grand so.

I turned to make my way to the shower area and was taking a quick look around to see how crowded it was, when something rather unfortunate happened. Now, it may take a while to properly describe the sheer horror of what took place�

To begin, my left foot hit a large wet patch on the floor and shot out from underneath me. Normally no problem, except that I am barefooted on wet tiles. My foot shot forward so fast, that it actually resulted in dragging my arse with it. Thus, my second foot left the ground and, I ended up staring at the ceiling whilst I seemed to hover in mid air for a split second, a la Wile E Coyote.

Now, scientists tell us that in a crisis situation, your body will react instinctively, that your limbs, usually your hands will act to protect you. This means that, theoretically, my arms should have shot out and attempted to cushion the fall. Sadly, my arms did no such thing, but rather seem to grasp on to the towel and bottle of shower gel even tighter. Brilliant. Still hovering in mid air, my mind is taken with a pretty pattern on the ceiling.

Then gravity decides that it�s had enough of a laugh and kicks in. With a vengeance. I hurtle downwards and make several choice connections. My arse connects with floor, my head connects with a hard rubber mat, my leg connects with a locker and my arm connects with a bench. There is a sickening retort and a great ungodly yell as the air is bashed out of my lungs from the impact. Nice.

So there I am, naked, lying on my back unable to move and gasping pathetically for breath like a stranded fish. I stare upwards at the ceiling and make great whining, keening sounds. Then slowly but surely, I realise that there is a figure making it�s way towards me.

The only other individual present to witness this hideous debacle is a 300 pound strategically shaved gorilla who has also been making his way towards the shower area. As he makes his way over I can hear his great flabby feet slapping off the floor. I open my eyes to look up and see the most enormous beer gut in the northern hemisphere hanging over me. Of course, the ape is naked and I also have a spectacular view of the crack of his arse and, yes, you guessed it: his lad is hanging down. Perhaps it was just the peculiar angle but I was suddenly reminded of the opening shot of Star Wars.

�Ye alright there son?�
�Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeuuuuuuu whiiiiiiiiiixzzzzzzzzyy�
�Wha?�
I make a desperate signal towards my back. �Fleeeeeurgghh��
�Ah grand so� sez he. He stoops over, bringing his lad within a terrifyingly close proximity and grabs me by the armpits. With a great whoosh I am lifted to my feet. Except of course that my feet aren�t working properly yet. Rather they squirm on the tiles and my entire body has gone limp and I dangle there like a rag doll.

It is at precisely this moment that the door of the locker room opens and in walk another four men with their bags on their shoulders. Their chatting is abruptly arrested when the see the sight before them: an enormous fat naked man, holding up a small skinny man who is pouring blood out of his arm and wheezing like a burst tyre. A long silence follows�

Anyhoo, several hours pass. There is a trip to Beaumont hospital where I watch the nurse physically fight the urge to burst out laughing in my face when I tell her the story of what happened. There are stitches. There are painkillers. Sufficeth to say, there is no more gym.

As related in a previous blog our neighbour has taken to sitting on his balcony and cracking one out whenever the mood takes him.

The weekend passed without any major incident. We did have a few sightings of the wanker but unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately) he wasn't up to anything other than lounging about the place and scratching his nether regions. And, for the most part, he had his clothes on. So, no photos of a middle aged Spaniard choking the chicken for you today.

But I shall persevere.

Hmmm. So, there I am watching TV. Shouting at Blair and the Shrub as they spew forth another pile of effluence about multilateralism in the New World Order and how Iraqi insurgents are shitting in their pants with fear, when my companion points out a rather strange sight.

There's no polite way of saying this, so I'll just come right out with it. There was a man standing on a balcony directly opposite our building, bollock naked, knob in hand, whacking one out.

Fucking scumbag. I can't see the guys face (he's too far away) and I'm quite sure that he can't see us, but just what the fuck does he think he's doing?

I'm borrowing a digital camera and I'm going to snap this bastard the next time he does it. I shall be posting the picture here. In addition I shall enlarge, laminate and post printed versions all over the lobby of his building.

More on this as it comes (wah wah) in...

As dedicated followers (all two of you) of my adventures in Las Espanas will know, I got myself a new flat almost two months ago. This is a spacious and altogether pleasant place. But of course, there's a hitch. This is me, after all.

The hitch comes in the form of the two other people sharing the flat with me: the pair whom I affectionately refer to as 'the frogs'. I know it's rather cruel to be stereotyping nationalities in this day and age, but then again I'm a cruel heartless bastard.

Things have been, for the most part, just fine. There's the occasional silence regarding the piles of dishes in the sink, but mostly tranquility reigns supreme. That was, until Monday this week...

On Monday, I answered the door to see Ana, an eighteen year old spanish girl (Belgian and French family) who was asking us could we 'help her fill out a survey' for her college course in Sociology. We know this young lady on account of her being the daughter of the landlord's best mate who lives around the corner.

We sit down and start answering questions. Lame fucking questions. Seriously lame fucking questions. After about five minutes of this incoherent meandering buffonery, I began to smell a rat and absconded to watch TV, citing medical reasons for my pulling out of the great survey. I think I said something about having a headache. In reality, I was suffering from a homicidal urge to smash an ashtray into her mawkish face.

Why? Because, it became abundantly clear that this whole things was a bullshit story to get into see my French flatmate, Fabien. My suspicions were first aroused when I noticed her breasts practically hanging out of her top, the almost overpowering stench of perfume and the pouty-mouthed erotic sighing every time that Fabien spoke.

My suspicions were confirmed when she 'forgot' her cigarettes and phoned Fabien later that night to ask him could he drop them around. He dutifully did and as a thankyou, she promptly went down on him. Classy.

So, what's me problem? What's the jazz with me giving out about a fella getting some? Has Doctor Birdbath become such a twisted, embittered old bastard that he can't even find it in his withered black little heart to be happy for his French pal who (lets face it) is riding a notably attractive, nubile 18 year old? Probably.

However, me problem arises from what has been happening in the last four days: I get home from work at about 9pm. Every time that I have done so this week, herself and himself have been hogging the two good seats (i.e. the ones that have upholstery) in front of the TV. This has been getting in the way of my important hobby of sitting and watching BBC World and shouting and screaming like an impotent dickhead every time the Shrub appears on TV.

Furthermore, the pair of them have been sucking face like they are trying to extract oxygen from each others lungs. Perhaps I am a prude but there is a time and a place. The time is negotiable, but the place is his fucking bedroom. I actually shouted 'Get a fucking room' at one stage when their slurping and slobbering was preventing me from hearing Tony Blairs' latest obfuscation over dead Iraqi civilians.

I give it a week before I go postal.