oh for the love of…
I’m sure by now everyone has seen the pictures of Madonna’s veiny arms. How could you not have, its actually one of the HEADLINE stories on Sky News! Seriously, is it that big a story? We all knew the only activities that woman engaged in were Kaballah meetings and constant workouts, she doesn’t even have time in between to eat food. And its not like she started to look like this suddenly, its been years and years that she’s been trying to turn back time.
Anyway, point is, as usual – the Metro are STUPID. First of all, they dedicated a full page article to the issue (page 3 I might add), but considering Sky News had it as a headline I think we can let that slide. They then accompanied the article with the tagline “Her look is lean and mean… and maybe a little like a Body Worlds exhibit”. Ok Metro, I see your point, it’s cruel, but I get it. Then they got a picture of Madonna playing the guitar on her recent tour, and underneath it put a picture of one of the bodies from said exhibition, also playing a guitar. You know, in case we couldn’t picture it ourselves.
Now by this point I was getting impatient with them, but I could have shaken it off had the rest of the article gone well, or just finished. But no, there was more. “The 50-year-old, who puts in two hours at the gym every day, has pushed her fitness regime to the limit, resulting in a look that would not be out of place in a Body Worlds exhibition” Well it would Metro, because I’m pretty sure all those bodies are dead and have had their skin ripped off. But wait, it gets better – “It is not known if any stars have agreed to leave their expensively honed figures to Dr Gunther Von Hagens”. SERIOUSLY?? Have you lost your freakin mind Fred Attewill? HOW was that the natural progression for this “story”?? That’s not the logical next step for the article to take!
*Hmm veiny arms, ooh she looks like one of those bodies I saw in the RDS, ok lets google image this! OH MY GOD THEY HAVE A PICTURE OF ONE PLAYING A GUITAR!! I SAW MADONNA HOLDING A GUITAR WHEN I GOOGLED PICS OF MADONNA IN A LEOTARD, huh I bet she’s donated her body to that doctor guy who puts Chinese prisoners remains on display*
Fred Attewill, go sit in the stupid corner with Ross MacDonagh
They get dumber and dumber…
Today the metro reported that, and I quote, ” ‘TO INFINITY and beyond’ is the space-age boast inspired by moonwalker Buzz Aldrin”.
Without getting into the semantics of putting the first two words in all caps and the rest all cursive, and disregarding that they referred to him as a moonwalker as if he were some kind of Michael Jackson impersonator, I think we can all agree that the catchphrase “To Infinity and Beyond” is actually that of Buzz Lightyear. The fictional character from Toy Story. Not Buzz Aldrin, the real life human being who actually set foot on the moon.
i didnt think it was made of coffee
dont try and trick me fuckers.
i fully expect my juices to be 100% juice.
And there’s a whiff of hollyhocks waiting to WHOOSH up your nose
I recently bought a new deodorant.
Bear with me, I am going somewhere slightly less dull with this.
I decided to take the leap from “Cool Cotton” to “Pure Linen”. I figured I liked the smell of the first but had grown just a tiny bit tired of it after a whole can and would like a very small change. You know, just a hint of variety, like putting a pinch of salt in my pasta – it’s still the same dinner but there’s the ever so subtle whiff of variety in there. So, I figured, how different can linen possibly smell from cotton? Well dear reader, according to my deodorant manufacturer, it smells a LOT different. Shocked? I was. I was baffled to discover two such similar substances could smell so hugely different from one another. I would have been less surprised had my deodorant sprayed out actual linen than I was by the assault my poor smell senses received. So I checked, and in my hotpress at home it turned out ALL my clothes smelt the same. All of them! Regardless of the materials used.
And it got me thinking, if the people who’s one job it is to name these products will insist on mislabeling them so blatantly, then would they PLEASE at least have the decency to group their made-up smells/flavours/colours into categories? You know, just so the unsuspecting public won’t have to relearn how the whole world works according to the anosmiac, and can just focus on getting their heads around invented marketing classifications. I will accept it if they decide that all clothing materials have a particular kind of smell – so yeah, it’s fine if they decide that cotton, linen and polyester (not sure how big the demand is for that) smell like clean laundry. Actually no, thinking about it, this theory might not hold true for any case other than cloth. I remember I used to have a penchant for Texicano crisps back when I was a smoker and needed everything pumped full of six peoples RDA of salt just to taste it. Texicanos were available in two delightful flavours “Chili” and “Cool Ranch”. Now I don’t know about you, but I have never wanted to eat anything that tasted of a cool ranch. I don’t even know what that would taste like but I’m imagining dust and horse manure…
Ok, so what I’m saying is, at the very least be consistent with your naming of products if you can’t quite place the flavour and need to go abstract. But, if at all possible, please just label them as what they bloody well are. And while you’re at it, destroy all the “pure linen” flavoured products you ever come across/think about inventing. That stuff don’t smell good.
You fell ova, you fell ova!
I have spent a huge portion of time this week falling. On Sunday I took the quick route down my stairs and skipped the last seven steps, purely accidental of course but I have decided that I won’t be adopting it as my new route. I damn near broke my ankle and I now have a lovely bruise on the palm of my hand. I didn’t even know that was possible! Consequently, I can vouch for the fact that your palms get used a lot more than you think they do.
On Wednesday I left my house too late due to a combination of me enjoying my sleep like, a lot, and my phone hating me. It’s entered into cahoots with the clock and slowed down time, but unfortunately only in my house, the rest of the world hasn’t fallen into sync with them so I started with a three minute setback. I raced into the station as the doors of my train were closing, and after swearing and kicking at nothing in particular it would seem the driver was able to see me on some kind of video because he stopped and re-opened the doors for me. This left me with a difficult decision – I could get on the train with all these people who saw me throw a mickey fit before 8am, or I could stand back and pretend like I didn’t even want to get on anyway and let the train go. Option number two made me look like I like to hang arounf the train station with an imaginary friend who I am currently involved in a violent fight with, so I averted my eyes from, well everyone, and quietly boarded the train. The driver, although gentlemanly to those on the platform, turned out to be either a learner or a hijacker because after departing Connolly station he decided to try out a new maneuver that launched everyone in the carriage to the right. This mildly startled most people who were travelling in the state approved formation of hand on handrail, but I was trying to look normal and like I wasn’t bothered about being seen mid fit by real life people with eyes so I had taken up the nonchalant pose of leaning hands free on the door and reading my metro. I was catapulted across the train. And it hurt.
But perhaps the most distressing of my “falls” happened on Wednesday night. I dreamed that Ryan Tubridy kissed me. ON THE LIPS! I dream fell for Ryan Tubridy! I would rather the stairs were removed from my house (and I don’t like unsupported heights) and all the handrails be removed from every train I ever take than have that happen to me in real life. I’m sorry Tubs if you’re reading this, I think you’re funny and all but just no.
A few reasons why I hate the dart
There are many, but these are a few of the more recent ones. As if I needed any more to add to my list.
Eating/Chewing. A girl beside me on the train ate juicy fruit chewing gum with her mouth open. All the way home. I have several issues with this. Number one, who over the age of eleven even eats juicyfruits? They smell disgusting and they’re intended for children – it turns out my dad was correct, sitting beside someone eating them really does smell like you opened a wheelie bin and stuck your head in it. Number two, was she raised in a barn? Who chews with their mouth open? And for 35 minutes while sitting with a group of strangers. Apart from being bad manners it is so LOUD and it allows the smell to circulate even more vigorously. Number three, who could be so unaware of other people that they don’t recognise that the girl beside them who has her fingers in her ears, her head bent so that she can cover her nose with her elbow and is alternately tutting and retching is perhaps a little offput by their choice to masticate in public?. People, please don’t do it! (*The one thing I can say in juicyfruits’ defence, however, is that the flavour does seem to last a lot longer than any other kind of chewing gum I’ve ever encountered. 9 stops on the dart and I could still smell the bloody stuff)
Delays. Invariably there are “points failures” at stations that cause trains to be delayed for hours and hours and hours. What does points failure even mean anyway? I think it’s a word they’ve just invented and think we’ll go “oh no! A points failure. This is terrible. Poor Iarnrod Eireann, all their points keep breaking on them”. No I’m not falling for that, it’s a scam and I damn well know it. So their “points fail” and that means you have to wait on the platform like a chump for half an hour, an hour, ten years…you just never know. They say you can use your train ticket on the bus but you can be certain sure that as soon as you leave, the trains will magically start to run again and all the buses will be full and the driver wouldn’t stop to let you on even if they weren’t. So you wait. And as you wait, trainloads of people pile up behind you as everyone arrives for the next train, and the one after that and the one after that. Eventually, one stupid little four carriage train trundles on to the platform and you and the entire population of the world all bend your bodies into complicated yoga positions and brace yourselves for the fun ride home. Which leads me on to my next point…
The squishiness. It’s inevitable that with 500 people and only four handrails you will “fall” onto somebody as soon as the train approaches the tiny bend outside Connolly. Of course, it doesn’t look like you’ve fallen because technically, as there isnt physically any space to, you are still standing. But cast your eyes below shoulder level and you will find that most people are stuck in fairly compromising positions with total strangers. I had the joyous experience of this just last week (the trauma is still fresh in my mind) where the side of my leg was pushed into some guys almost crotch area. The earlier mentioned shortage of handrails means that the only way to get yourself away from Mr Randomer would literally be to push yourself more onto him, much like the method used to move away from a wall while wearing skates. And I don’t want to find out what it’s like to arouse a stranger on a packed train. It’s very warm on these trains and you’ll just have to take it from me that when you are pressed up against people it gets, for want of a better word, moist, anywhere that bodies are mushed together. So I had recently watched a very disgusting episode of peep show where Mark got excited in the stationary cupboard with a really weird girl from IT and went around all day with what he called “spermy pants” and I just could not get it out of my head that my (obviously fabulous) thigh had caused the same reaction in Mr. Anonymous-Dart-Pervert. Having to fight the urge to scream out loud for the whole journey home is not a relaxing start to the evening.
The Fear
Understatement of the year – I’m scared of pretty much everything. There’s a long list of things that genuinely terrify me and I’ve recently noticed that maybe they impact a bit on my life.
1) I’m very scared of being up high with no support. Not heights, I’m not afraid of being up high, its being up high with a chance of falling that gets me. And to be honest, I think that’s actually quite sensible. I just don’t want to die because I’m clumsy. I have a long history of falling over for no apparent reason when I’m just walking someplace. The worst that can happen when I’m on level ground is little cuts, scuffed trousers and a red face. If I did that up high, well, I’d be dead.
2) I’m also afraid of birds. Not regular birds – I don’t freak out when I see birds sitting in trees or ducks (they’re birds right?) in the pond. I’m talking about pigeons. Those f*ckers are evil, not to mention stupid as hell! Why aren’t they afraid of me?? I’m so much bigger than them and in theory I could crush them. They should be really scared of me and shy away out of respect for the big strong giant as I walk past. But instead I scream like a little nancy while the feckers fly directly at my face or perform one of their impromptu vertical take offs right between me and a stranger. Don’t laugh at me stranger, do you have any idea how close you just came to having a wing flap right in your eyes?
3) Germs are my ultimate nemesis. There is disease everywhere, people are really disgusting creatures if you look at them. They spit, they rub their faces/noses/ears/bums and then put their hands on public things, they sneeze and cough either right in your face or all over their hand which then goes unwiped on the same public things as the face/nose/ear/bum dirt. So excuse me if I don’t want to touch it and if I wash my hands at the first opportunity afterwards. But life gets a little complicated when you seize up at the sight of your friends putting their handbags on your kitchen table, or freak out when a colleague is showing you something on your computer and thereby has to use your mouse. It’s hard to discreetly clean your keyboard in an open plan office with no excuse other than your friend touched it and they might have a disease that you don’t want to catch.
So this weekend I decided to be proactive and try to tackle fear number one. Fear number two will have to wait for some kind of hypno therapy, and fear number three – well that’s who I am and I’m not gonna start licking other people’s cups or rubbing my face on my desk to do nothing more than prove I was right all along and germs really are something we should be frightened of. But, I thought, the heights thing I can tackle. I can cross it off my list and maybe stop having those nightmares about being trapped on the top floor of stephens green shopping centre with no way to get down and only the stupid, boring shops to occupy me. And so off I went to London and convinced myself I would climb to the top of St Pauls. (Via the stairs now, I wasn’t gonna go all spiderman on it). I geared myself up for weeks and weeks, I told everyone I was gonna do it so I wouldn’t be able to wuss out and then what happened? My foot swelled to the size of a small canoe and I couldn’t even fit it in my shoe let alone march up a billion steps to conquer my fears. The powers that be were talking to me! This was a sign, if ever there was one. You were right Polly, you were right. Heights are really scary things you shouldn’t mess with. People like you should stay on the ground floor and just imagine what the whispering gallery is like. You don’t belong up there.
So I’m going to listen to the powers that be. I’m gonna stay on level ground, I’m gonna keep walking around stephens green instead of through it, and I’ll continue to insist that my cutlery goes on a napkin instead of the table and that Bovril Boy washes his hands immediately after entering the house so no outside germs can permeate our home. So what if my life is a little restricted, at least I’m safe here in the bubble.
