X-rated

You definitely would have thought that I would take the opportunity to use Xmas as my 'X' word.

I intended to but time got away from me and it doesn't seem appropriate to do it now. Besides I'll be using 'Yearly' as a the title for my next blog which should be with you in a couple of days.

I would just like to take this opportunity to say I hope you all had a great Xmas and wish you all a fantastic 2012. It makes me so happy that you chose to spend some of 2011 reading my ramblings and hopefully you will continue to do so in the next year.

In the mean time in order to keep up with the title of this post, here are some X rated pictures

So there you go. Some cock, pussy, willy, riding and scat (the last one is Dame Cleo Laine)for you all.

Happy New Year.

Wordgasm

A misunderstanding of the word ‘synecdoche’ got me very excited this week. I thought I was going to be able to use it as the beginning of my blog. I’ve only ever seen Charlie Kauffman and Stephen Fry use it in actual sentences up until now, which was pretty good company to be in. Unfortunately, when I looked it up, to paraphrase Inigo Montoya, it did not mean what it was that I thought that it meant.

I was trying to find the word or phrase that defines a sentence which proves its own point. The example I was going use was “I can’t make up my mind if I’m indecisive or not.” The closest I can get to a label for such a statement is a Liar’s Paradox. It’s not quite that but its close (‘this statement is false’ of course being the ultimate Liars Paradox.)

I get excited when I get to use words that aren’t necessarily the norm. I guess this makes me a bit of a lexicon loser but so be it. I find vocabulary exhilarating. Some of it may be to do with the unwarranted superiority complex I sometimes get. Being in ‘the know’ when others are reaching for the dictionary kind of turns me on.

An Irish comedian called Michael Mee used to quip about telling knock knock jokes to Bedouins. This didn’t always work because a lot of people didn’t know what a Bedouin is. I used to get a warm sense of smugness as I laughed know I was just that little bit cleverer than the rest of the room.

Obviously the title of this blog isn’t an actual legitimate word but there is a great sense of satisfaction in crafting new words which have a clear meaning. Vocabularic is another favourite made up term of mine which I use to describe my worditude.

It’s not the world’s greatest superpower in fairness. It’s never helped attract the girls or rescue someone from a burning building. But it puts a smile on my face and my geekiest ambition is to one day coin a phrase that enters the Oxford English Dictionary.

Thanks for reading my words.

Did you see what I did there?

Vulgarity

The recent YouTube video of a woman launching a racist diatribe on a London tram has shocked and appalled most who’ve watched it. Secretly filmed, the woman can be seen abusing and ranting at fellow passengers on the tram, many of different ethnicities, and blaming them for the downfall in Britain’s fortunes. It is a disgusting display of bigotry and ignorance which I won’t link to here because it doesn’t need any more exposure.

While the hate filled woman spouts her small minded, verbal diarrhoea, a small child sits on her lap. Whatever about her wanting to voice her hatred for other ‘non British’ races surely she should be concerned about the language she is using in front of what she says is her child. Cursing and swearing in front of her offspring is hardly good parenting (I’m aware, neither is being an ignorant racist. You need a licence for a dog but anyone can have kids.)

Unfortunately I’ve had a real life example of children exposed to inappropriate language on public transport. Only in this instance, it was the cute and innocent 5 year old boy who was walking up to passengers on the 150 bus Monday evening and telling us all to ‘Fuck off.’ If it had been a Roddy Doyle book it might be amusing but in this case the aggressive tiny tot was a little uncomfortable.

The toddler was marching up and down the upstairs aisle of the bus shouting at the other passengers while the person responsible for him sat down the back laughing and telling him he was ‘the best boy’ and ‘he could say whatever he wanted.’ She was about sixteen so I’m not sure if she was the child’s mother but it did seem that way despite her lack of concern for the kid’s behaviour. Actually that’s not entirely true; she did make sure he blessed himself when the bus passed a church.

I enjoy a good curse. I can ‘fuck’ ‘bollix’ ‘wank’ with the best of them, but I would never have dared to curse in front of my elders and most definitely not my parents. You can say a five year old knows no better, but whose fault is that?

The first time I swore in front of my mother was in 1984 when I said shit. That was only after seeing Harrison Ford say it in Temple of Doom. If it was ok for Indiana Jones surely it was ok for me. It wasn’t. Then there was the time I got grounded for a week for telling James Cooper to ‘Fuck off.’

We were playing with our toy cars on the street outside his house, which was three doors down from mine and we were wheeling the Corgi James Bond Lotus Espirt to each when James wheeled it too hard and it bounced up and hit me in the face. Shocked, in pain and forgetting where I was I screamed at him using language fitting of a docker. A couple of moments later my Dad, who was never shy of choice vulgarity himself, appeared at our front door and beckoned me.

“Did I just hear you telling James to Fuck Off” he asked.

Well what could I say? I hadn’t actually realised I cursed, it just came out. I was told to come in and that I wasn’t allowed out for a week. In fairness the grounding probably lasted for the rest of the day. If I’d been smarter I could have argued the hypocrisy of my dad scolding me for swearing. But I was 6.

Kids these days are a lot smarter. And vulgar.

Undertaker

My collection of tweaks and aches brought on by everyday events is gathering momentum. When I bend down my knees click, when I stand my ankles wobble. The collarbone I broke the night before my inter cert has started to throb when it’s cold and sting when it's hot. I ran for the bus earlier only to feel my back spasm in my first stride. When I was younger I could play full length football matches everyday without even stretching. These days when I play badminton the warm ups last longer than the game.

I was watching some WWE recently. The Rock, Stone Cold Steve Austin and The Big Show have grey in their goatee. So do I, now that I think of it.

It's hard to say anything new and fresh about ageing that hasn't been said countless times before by bad TV comedians. I guess we're just lucky that we are alive now. The life expectancy of affluent men living in London in the 16th century was 35, 25 if they were poor. I imagine a jippy knee is preferable to the smallpox or diphtheria.

There is the wide held belief that men tend to make a bigger deal of being sick than women do. It is, of course, the fairer sex who makes these claims but, as a man, it’s hard to refute these allegations. Especially when you submit the evidence of my behaviour the last time I was properly ill.

In mid February 2010 I looked death square in the face and cried like a little baby. I’m not a big believer in putting a brave face on things, so when I was suffering from a tummy bug, I suffered aloud.

Anyone who would listen got to hear of how much pain I was in and a blow by blow description of my constant back and forth visits to the toilet. I was convinced my insides wanted to get out one way or another. If I wasn’t in the bathroom I was lying on bed feeling very sorry for myself.

Such was my misery and my conviction that my appointment with the grim reaper was imminent that I began to plan my own funeral.  The type of service, the music, the food served. In my self pity I event managed the world’s greatest send off.

I would like a non secular ceremony, with an open forum so if someone wished to share a story about me, good or bad, they could so. I don’t want it to be a place for people to mourn but to come and remember me.

 I want the cheapest coffin available, wicker or plywood, as I would prefer to be cremated and there is no point wasting money on expensive firewood. Ideally I think I’d like my box to purple but I won’t complain if it’s not.

Food wise, I had thought that my ashes could be used to season a casserole but this sounds distasteful to anyone who I have suggested it to, so I’ll probably stick to sandwiches. I would like a variety of music played including Vanderlyle Cry-baby Geek by The National, Mr. Boombastic by Shaggy and Ruby by the Kaiser Chiefs. I don’t particularly like the Kaiser Chiefs song but it’s impossible not to sing along to and I think that would be pretty amusing at a funeral.

My religious beliefs, or lack thereof, mean I don’t really have lot expectancy from death. I hope it’s painless and quick. I’d be very surprised if there is an afterlife but if there is I’ll gladly hold my hand up and admit that I was wrong.

This might not be a subject that’s to your taste. Some people don’t like to think about death. And if anyone is experiencing a loss that is still raw, I don’t want to bring up sad memories or make light of the subject. Death is something that comes to us all and we deal with in our own way. I just want to make sure mine is done right.

The start of this piece was taken from a post I did on my other blog Bus-to-Move. It came from a random thought as do all the posts on the site but it led to me to want to write about this in a bit more detail.

Transport

Public transport is never the most pleasant of experiences. Fellow passengers can be smelly, germ ridden, inconsiderate or just downright annoying. Drivers can be impatient, rude and obnoxious. But it is a very necessary evil especially to those without a car.

So far this year, I have been forced to sit on buses for longer than I’d expected because of floods, snow, fallen trees, broken down bin lorries, livestock, Queens of England and Presidents of the United States of America. There is no more frustrating waste of time than to be sitting on a large people carrier surrounded by angry commuters who just want to get to where ever they are supposed to be going.

I’ve also just moved house and my new bus routes seem to go the longest way around to get to any point. Through various housing estates and up and down the back roads, it ensures a journey that should take twenty minutes actually takes twice as long. That is a lot of me time that I’m losing out on.

So I’ve come up with a plan that stops them stealing my time and it keeps my brain occupied. I’ve started a new blog. Yea, another one. It’s called Bus-To-Move (inspired by the Young MC 1989 hip hop classic.)

It is yet another collection of my yammering on about the random shite that enters my head but this one is slightly different to the anthology you are currently perusing. The newest blog has certain rules that have to be adhered to.

• The Blog will run for the month of November 2011 only.
• All bus journeys will be chronicled unless I have company on the bus.
• All entries must be time stamped with the same details as the bus ticket.
•    All entries have to be written while on the bus with the use of blogger on my HTC phone.
• They can only be as long as the journey takes (in the interest of logic the very last sentence can be completed after getting off.)
• All thoughts have to enter my head while on the bus. They cannot be thought about previously.
• Editing and proof reading can be done at a later date but the content of an entry cannot be changed
•     Suitable photos, videos or links can be added at a later date

In case you were worried I might start taking over your Facebook news feed or your Twitter timeline, whoring each entry, you can rest easy. I’m looking at this as a project, which you are welcome to look at if you like, but I’m not going to be pushing it.

Last November I was working on NaNoWriMo and it felt like I should do something this year to keep me busy. So it was either that or grow a Movember. And I think I’ve made my feelings clear on that topic.

So I’m only going to be doing Bus-To-Move until the end of November. I’d appreciate anyone who wants, taking a look at it then, but if you want to check out the progress as it evolves, you can find it here.

Synopsis

This time last year I started to write a book. Next week I'm submitting it for the first time to some people who might do something with it. I've to give them a couple of chapters and a synopsis. Below is that synopsis (give or take 16 words). If anyone has any comments or feedback I'd love it the next few days.



Dominic ‘Bucky’ Buckingham has a headache. He’s had it for a few months now. The doctors say he is ‘stressed.’ And who can blame him; he is stuck in a job he hates at a time when he is ‘lucky to have a job,’ saddled with a mortgage for an apartment he never really wanted and is a constant source of disappointment to women in his life. This is not where he imagined he would be at 33 years of age.

Constantly being told what to do by domineering women, his mother, girlfriend, boss, even his therapist, Bucky wonders if he’ll ever have control of his balls long enough to stand up for himself.

When Re-port International announces widespread redundancies his colleagues are justifiably panicking but Bucky can’t help but wonder if it’s a good thing. He hates his job, the boss, the customers, even the cleaning lady. But can he convince his girlfriend Hannah that it’s for the best.

Hannah is the woman who he is prepared to spend the rest of his life with but sometimes he is not sure what kind of life that will be. On a holiday with Hannah in Gran Canaria he starts to believe he is finally getting to grips with his relationship and it starts to make more sense to him.

It’s only following his trip to mainland Spain where he spends time with a group of open minded Spaniards and a free spirited American call Mirabelle that he starts to see the power of positive people and question if the path he’s expected to take is the right one for him.

A humorous character piece, Status Update focuses on Bucky’s journey from pod employee of Re-Port International to proprietor of a market stall selling bespoke crockery. Along the way we get insights into the relationships that have formed and, for the time being at least, frustrate him.

REMembering

Last month’s announcement that rock band REM were to split after over thirty years together left me with somewhat mixed emotions. Having found them to be a bland and pointless outfit for the last ten years, my initial reaction was that the news was slightly overdue.

However, to give the appropriate props to the Athens, Georgia outfit, they had sound tracked some of the more interesting moments in my life. Up until about 1996-1997 they had been one of my favourite bands, although I wasn’t one of their ‘cool’ fans who had their first five albums.

The first song of theirs that I heard was ‘Stand’ from the 1988 album Green. It was a catchy tune but I really got into them when they had their first mega hit ‘Losing My Religion’ from Out of Time. Their rise to an international super group coincided with me beginning to take an interest in music and specifically with watching MTV. Yes, back when the ‘M’ actually stood for music, they showed videos and REM where at the vanguard of music video as an art form.

‘Shiny Happy People’ ‘Man on the Moon' and ‘Night Swimming’ all had creative and memorable promos but it is surely the video for ‘Everybody Hurts’ that will be remembered as one of the all time greats. Touching scenes of people disillusioned with the Rat Race and the unhappiness in their lives abandon their vehicles on an L.A. freeway and walk towards something...anything. The sadness and pain on their face was the perfect accompaniment to the songs haunting lyrics and lead singer, Michael Stipe’s, tortured voice. Even my dad liked it.

The first gig I ever went to was Prince, in the Point Depot in 1995. On my way there I stopped off in HMV on Grafton Street. As I was leaving I almost crashed into two, (as my memory recalls) tall gentlemen making their way down Dublin’s shopping thoroughfare. It was Mike Mills and Peter Buck from REM. The second concert I went to was REM in Slane later that year. The next year I would go to college and meet some great people who are still some of my closest friends. They were all at the same show.

As it happens, one of those friends would be one of the factors that turned me away from REM. While I thought they were a great band, John K. was even more enthusiastic. He had all their albums, including rare bootlegs. Sharing a house was like living in an REM museum.

He had the posters, he read the books and boy, did he ever listen to their music. I would sometimes listen to music by other bands; it probably would have been Blur and Oasis at the time. If I made the mistake of leaving the room to make a cup of tea or go the toilet I would return to the sound of Stipe et al.

It was around the same that drummer Bill Berry left the band. He decided that he didn’t want to be a pop star any longer and would rather be a farmer. Well, if he couldn’t take REM anymore how could I be expected to? I listened to their stuff less and less and as newer material was released I found my ambivalence turning to resentment. As far as I was concerned REM stood for Persona Non Grata not Rapid Eye Movement.

But I’m willing to let bygones be bygones. If they stay split up and don’t do a comeback tour in the next twenty years, I will only remember the good times. With the exception of Pulp, who only got back together because I hadn’t gotten around to seeing them live first time around, bands should never reform. Do you hear me, Stone Roses?

I’ve never been so disappointed as when the rumours of a Stone Roses reunion turned out to be true for once. The Roses were what rock bands should be. They lived the fast and high life of rock stars for one album and then their candle burned out because of acrimony amongst its members. The music spoke to a specific generation at a specific time in history. Surely that’s what Rock and Roll is all about. Not middle aged men with wrinkles touring to pay tax bills and alimony.

The Rolling Stones have a lot to answer for.

Quandary

There is always a worry about committing your words and thought to world in this manner. As soon as I publish this on my blog, it is out there forever. Even if I delete on the site the code or whatever it’s called, will still be there and anyone with the appropriate technical skills could retrieve it. This is a bit of a scary thought.

Especially when, as a writer, you are adamant and definite about everything you say. Your opinion at a certain time is etched in cyber stone for all the ages. If you say something, you better damn well mean it because it’s never going away.

Generally this isn’t too much of a problem for me. At this stage in my life I’m comfortable with who I am and what my beliefs are. I’m also quite stubborn so it would take a lot of convincing to get me to change my mind on something. If Jedward bring peace to the Middle East and fill the hole in ozone layer, they will still be a pair of half-witted fucktards as far as I’m concerned.

That doesn’t mean my words don’t sometime come back to bite me on the bum. Having complained about it here, I was surprised to find myself making a very public display of affection on the bus recently. I’ve also spoken with great affection about Fernando Torres and then he left me (well, Liverpool Football Club,) shattering my tiny heart and my belief in true football love.

The worse example of possible literary hypocrisy has yet to happen yet. You might remember a piece I wrote recently about my disdain for silly world record attempts and for people doing things for charity because it’s a bit cool. It managed to offend a couple of people who were none too impressed with my take on things. That is fair enough, everyone is entitled to opinion and I stand by mine.

The problem is, I’ve recently been asked to help out with one of those stupid world record attempts. Part of me thought if I want to have any integrity I need to refuse straight out but the other part of me wanted to do it. I was at a moral fork in the road.

The record attempt is to get the most people writing a short story. I’m not sure exactly how it will work but from what I can gather they want to get about 900 people to write a sentence each. My role will be to help out with the starting of the story and to make sure each participant understands the structure of the tale and how they should proceed. Interesting, yes?

It also will be helping out Fighting Words and another organisation I have done some stuff for before, See Change, which is a mental health awareness programme. So the upside of doing it definitely outweighs the negatives. I may have people calling me a charlatan and a hypocrite but I’m sure I can live with it. I;ll post more details closer to the event and maybe you can join me in my two faced adventures.

As long as I don’t have to grow a stupid moustache.

Pandering

First of all,

Повідомлення для всіх читачів з Україною. Дякуємо Вам за відвідування'Вставити Дотепний Поп Посилання культури тут. Запрошуємо Вас і, хоча явпевнений, що ви, ймовірно, потрапив сюди через якийсь спам-посилання ясподіваюся, що ви будете тинятися поблизу і прочитати деякі з речей, які янаписав. Та якщо ви робите, чому б не залишити коментар, я хотів би почути від вас.

And back to normal service. Regular non Ukrainian readers should relax, I haven’t been hacked and infested with a virus, nor have I been the victim of some type of demonic possession. I’m not writing in tongues. What the above paragraph is doing, is welcoming my apparently many visitors from the former Soviet Republic.

In the last couple of months, Ukraine has shot to third in the ‘all time’ league of nations of visitors to my little blog. It appears they are particularly fond of ‘Flummoxed’ for some reason. I hope they enjoy and read some other bits but in all likelihood they probably ‘x’ out of it as soon as whatever spam link takes them here.

And who can blame them with a charlatan like me slacking off constantly. Here we are in the last week of September and so far I’ve only got one entry for the entire month.  And I only did three in August. What kind of bullshit blogging is this?

You are right of course. It is unacceptable and I will have to get my act together. You people read my work and you deserve to be treated better than this. I appreciate that you take the time to come here and cast your eye over the latest witterings of a “fat fingered moron.”  I mean I don’t even have games like Farmville and you still visit. It means a lot, it really does.

I’m going to try and get some kind of work ethic going again. I’ve just been a little distracted recently. The run up to and the come down after this year’s Electric Picnic was fairly time consuming. It was worth it. It was amazing, with Arcade Fire, shamanic meditation, DJ Shadow’s 3D sphere, hot tubs and Chilli Con Carne from a shed in the woods among the highlights. 

Pride of place however, goes to Pulp who stole the show. Amazing performance and worth the fifteen year wait. The hug I shared with my friends afterwards was beautiful also, knowing we’d shared a moment that we had waited for since our days in the Roxy.

That said the main thing that has seen me neglect my opus is something that makes me even happier than a gyrating Jarvis Cocker. She’s very pretty, sexy as sin, tickles my funny bone and is much cleverer than I am. She seems to like me as much as I like her and we have a great time together. She has threatened to kill me if I write about her on this thing. So I won’t be doing that.

Although I suppose I could always write in Ukrainian.

Offensive

I once got in trouble in school for lashing out at someone who had said something derogatory about my mother. He wanted to fight me for the usual reasons boys fight and I suppose he thought he would provoke me with the kind of baseless slanders that boys will when looking for a reaction.

Not knowing then that words are only as powerful as the significance you allow them, I kicked out, catching him hard on the shin. So hard that I actually broke the skin and instead of a scrap taking place he hobbled off in pain. Unfortunately my actions had been viewed by a teacher and so I was sent to the Principals Office.

Brother Keegan, the headmaster, demanded an explanation for my actions. He knew I wasn’t a particularly aggressive child and wanted to know what had caused it. Not only was I not aggressive, I was incredibly timid and as such couldn’t bring myself to repeat what my antagonist had said about my sainted Mother. Instead, I lied.

“He called me a name sir.” My head was bowed to hide my lying eyes.

In his words, this was hardly an excuse to almost cripple a boy, (he was prone to exaggeration.) What could he have possibly called me that warranted such an attack? I wracked my brain to come up with something. I was too shy to curse in front of the head of the school so I went for something that I was occasionally called by my classmates but it never really bothered me.


“Hula Hoops, sir,” I said, still looking down.

At first he thought I was talking about the children’s toy and was confused why anybody would insult someone by calling them that. I explained that it was actually a slagging in relation to my name Holohan and that it was the crisps rather than the plaything.

“I’ve never heard of crisps being offensive,” he said

I wonder what if he’d still say that if he saw the Hunky Dory’s Rugby World Cup advertising campaign.

That might seem like a bit of a long set up for the punch line to a bad joke but I’m serious. The latest Hunky Dory’s bus shelter posters is without question one of the most offensive advertising campaigns ever. And I’m not even talking about its portrayal of women as objects of titillation and sexual entertainment. I can get past the fact that it flys in the face of any feminist who has ever stood up for herself and woman kind.

What bothers me is that it is so blatant in the fact that it has gone out of its way to be controversial and abhorrent. The marketing genius behind it wants you to be appalled. They want you to ring Joe Duffy to express your outrage. Oscar Wilde once said there is no such thing as bad publicity and in a world where this generations Ike Turner, Chris Brown, can have number one albums and Grammy nominations after pleading guilty to beating his girlfriend, he may have had a point.

The more people who complain about Hunky Dory’s the better because that means more people will recognise the name when they see it on the shelf of their supermarket and as more of us develop goldfish memories we forget the controversy and just remember the product name. You really have to wonder how much longer it is before we see this....

Nuptial

Yesterday, the bastion of journalistic integrity, the Metro Herald reported that getting married and/or divorced can cause you to gain weight. Based on a study carried out in Ohio State University the article claimed that women weight just after the wedding while the male body is affected most by the stress of failed unions.

Having never been married I can’t really argue for or against this point but I do have a story about a wedding which actually caused me to lose weight.

Before I was doing whatever it is I am doing now, I used to work in the Mobile Communications industry and one of my employers was Vodafone Ireland. Vodafone’s base of operations was situated out in Stillorgan, a suburb of Dublin which unless it has changed in the five years since I left, has absolutely nothing of interest in it. Because of its situation in the middle of nowhere they used to bus staff in from more populated areas.

Head Office was a big glass building, not too dissimilar to an airport but with less chance of escape. They had abseiling window cleaners to make sure it sparkled inside and out. It was equipped with a gym and huge staff canteen, with subsidised meals and drinks, because there was nowhere else to get anything else to eat around.

What this usually meant was that you would lunch with your colleagues whether you wanted to or not, in a lot of cases, I did not. One such case was a girl whose actual name, for the life of me, I cannot remember. She will forever be known to me as Bridezilla.

This lady was engaged to be married and as such every conversation for an entire year revolved around the expense of hiring a band, the material for a self designed dress, wedding favours and whatever else she was doing before she frog marched ‘my James’ up the aisle. I often wondered if her James might have some sort of mental problem.

It got to the stage where I couldn’t take it anymore and the appearance of Bridezilla would quickly put me off my lunch. In a big open plan canteen where there is nowhere to hide, it’s hard to find a quiet spot to avoid the latest travesty of the two bridesmaids not getting on. So I went without food. It was good for my peace of mind and my waistline.

Getting married seems to be a lot of expense and hassle for what is essentially a bit of a party. Of the seven or eight weddings I have been a guest at, I’ve always tended to enjoy the ones done on a smaller, simpler scale. I wonder how much of that has to do with the people actually getting married being less stressed because they didn’t take on so much.

The institution of marriage is not something I’ve any real interest in. I don’t believe that a piece of paper is needed to show commitment to the person you love. You can do that with three very simple words. Even if you do tie the knot, there is no guarantee that it will last, especially with young couples. Ironically the divorce rate in the UK is at its lowest in decade because people are waiting until later in life before committing.

I don’t want to spoil the party, it’s a great day out for the family and apparently it’s the biggest day in a girl’s life. All I’m saying is maybe she needs to reassess her priorities.

Media

If you were watching the Six One News back in early June you may have gotten a bit of a surprise and recognised a familiar face. Yes, the beardy visage on your telly was mine and before anyone cracks wise I didn’t commit any crime, I featured on a piece for Fighting Words, the creative writing organisation I volunteer for.

They were up for an award and the news wanted to cover some of the nominees. It was all organised at very short notice, with Fighting Words only finding out the evening before that the cameras would be rolling the next day. They were good enough to give me call as soon as they knew to see would I be happy to appear on screen. Not wanting to make things difficult, I said of course I would, but I have to admit, I did have some reservations.

It wouldn’t be the first time I’d been on RTE programming. Back in the mid nineties I made my television debut on the comedy panel show Don’t Feed the Gondolas. At the time it was a very poor attempt to be Irelands answer to ‘Have I Got News You?’ but in retrospect, with the current plethora of piss poor panel shows, it seems like halcyon programming.

I attended a recording of the show as a member of the audience but when I was approached in the holding area by a man with a clipboard and a huge headset asking if I would like to appear on camera and ask the panellist a question I was very excited and instantly agreed. I signed the appropriate forms and was given a card with the question I was supposed to ask written on it.

Having made a couple of attempts to forge a career as a stand up comedian at this time, I presumed that the show’s producer had recognised something in me, a hilarious quality that would make excellent viewing. This was my opportunity to break out as a star.

I can’t recall now (which is highly appropriate considering the rest of the story) what exactly the question was but it had something to do data protection or freedom of information. I was supposed to put my question to one of my heroes, American comedian Rich Hall and, bizarrely, Nigel Pivaro who played evil Terry Duckworth in Coronation Street. I was instructed to read the question when the host, Sean Moncrieff asked for the first question from the audience.

But reading is for losers. I was superstar in the making, with three open mic spots in various comedy spots around Dublin and the lead role as Elvis in Waterford IT’s production of Bob’s Last Stand under my belt. I’d quickly learn my lines and deliver them with such panache that the head of RTE would have no choice but to immediately sign me up to a million punt contract for my own chat show. Unfortunately, none of this happened.

Perhaps it was the three or four glasses of the revolting but free white wine that was laid on for the audience in the waiting room, perhaps it was nerves addressing my favourite Montana native or maybe it was just the pressure of the cameras focusing on me. My mind went blank. I knew I supposed to say something but nothing was coming out.

The audience, including the friends who I had gone with thought this was hilarious. So did Moncrieff and the other regular panellist Brendan O Connor. Rich Hall sat there with insouciant bemusement that anyone familiar with his work would expect. Nasty Terry Duckworth, however, was lovely about it, told me not to worry he was always messing up his lines on Corrie. The only two people in the studio who didn’t seem to get some sort of amusement from the fluffing of my lines were me and the programme director. In no uncertain terms did he tell that I didn’t have to learn the question and I should just read it.

I could feel everyone looking at me. This was intensified by the fact that the two full size motorised television cameras with men riding on them were pointing right at me. Between this and the fact that it was sweltering under the studio lights, I was feeling faint. All the blood rushing to my cheeks made me feel like the most blushingest man in Ireland. I read the question out meekly and left the comedy to the professionals.

My televisual initiation ruined, I struggled to sleep that night and the next day I was on tenterhooks wondering if they would even show my question when the episode aired that night. I had foolishly told some people that I would be on the telly and it now seemed possible that I would be left on the cutting room floor.

I sat on the chair in my parent’s sitting room as the programme started, the opening credit reigniting the feeling of ignominy I felt when it occurred. I watched with dread, waiting to see what would happen. When it was coming close to the part where the host goes to audience I couldn’t look at the screen.

“And now a question from our audience.”

I couldn’t not look either. There I was, on screen, my face the colour of Wales’s rugby jersey, wearing a hideous Hawaiian shirt (like I said it was the nineties) which seemed to blur and flare against the lights I sat, head bowed, blatantly reading the question from a card in my lap. Relief washed over me like the greatest shower known to man, cleansing away my anxiety. It wasn’t so horrible after all. I’d gotten away with it. Or so I thought.

A couple of months later, on St. Stephens Day, I got a phone call from a friend who thought I’d been hilarious on TV. I had no idea what he was on about having forgotten all about my experience. He told me I’d been on Don’t Feed the Gondolas the night before. Had they repeated the episode I’d been on Christmas Day? How cheap were RTE?

They hadn’t repeated it; I was part of the Christmas special, where they were showing the best bits of the previous series. I was hoped they just showed me in context of a hilarious response that my question got (again I can’t remember what it was) but no. They had decided to show the out take of me getting my question wrong.

According to my friend I swore a bit and you could see my face gradually turn crimson. I looked like I wanted the ground to swallow me up. What he didn’t understand was why after I got it wrong the first time I didn’t just read the question. Why did I keep trying to act natural?

Hang on! I had only made one attempt at ad libbing.

With the help of editing, showing me from different angles, replaying the incident in different sections and cutting back to the host for a witty comment about how incompetent I was before showing the same clip again they made it look like I messed up lines five or six times. I was made to look like a complete buffoon. Over the next couple of weeks I would bump into people I knew who had seen me looking like a jackass on national television on Christmas Day. I was humiliated but because I signed a waiver I didn’t think I could do anything about it.

Having been burned once, I think my trepidations about appearing on the news were understandable. As it turned out though, they were unfounded. Thanks to being forewarned by Orla and Sara in Fighting Words, I made an effort to ensure I looked somewhat presentable, instead of my normal rolling out of bed and running out the door. The camera was a handheld one so it was easier to ignore and the camera man was quite friendly and put me at ease.

I thought I looked well on TV this time. That I was doing something I enjoy and am semi good at helped. I even looked taller than I normally do, (in fairness I was talking to a bunch of nine year olds who were sitting on the floor.) I was only on for thirty seconds or so but I didn’t feel awful about it.

It’s not as if I’m going to run out and start auditioning for reality TV programmes, but I’m really glad I did it and I would probably be ok to make appearance like it again, as long as I had the appropriate time for hair and makeup.

Of course if they do use some outtakes for a Christmas special all they will have is me talking about farting robots and telling a bunch of children that my boss hates them because they are from Navan. And that’s hardly the worst thing to be caught on camera saying. Just ask Richard Keyes.

Loquacious

I do like words, which for someone with my vocation is a good thing. There can’t be too many writers who have an aversion to a decent sized lexicon. Although I did hear there was a three syllable minimum in P.S. I Love You. (This is not true. I’ve never read any Celia Aherne and I am just a jealous bitter hack.)

Words are definitely one of my favourite things and the process of learning a new is exhilarating. The moment you hear a word and it you just have to know what it means. You look it up in the dictionary and its definition is just as cool as its sound so you commit it to memory until the first opportunity you get to drop it, either in a written piece or in conversation. It’s almost as good as some fairly average sex.

Unfortunately, a side effect of my love of language is a tendency to use it too much. I talk at inopportune times, sometimes getting so excited that it can seem quite rude if you are already talking. Especially if it’s something funny, I have to say it out loud immediately because it might not have the same impact if it’s not said at that precise moment.

It’s also been known for to head down a cul de sac of chat throwing out excessively flamboyant vernacular for the sake of it. I blame programmes like Beverly Hills 90210 and Dawson’s Creek for that. The verbose adult posing as an adolescent always got the girl in those programmes. Of course if I’d have known Katie Holmes was going to end up marrying Tom Cruise I probably would have stuck monosyllabic grunts.

Then there is the text messaging. I text way too much as my first real phone bill in eight years will attest to. Having worked for mobile phone companies since the early days of this century I was fortunate enough to get free or subsidise text and calls. Then when I left I got a pay as you go package which when you topped up twenty euro a month gave you unlimited free text. So to me it made a lot of sense to take full advantage of the offer.

A message from my provider on the one year anniversary of my pre paid usage informed me that I had sent, over the course of the year, the equivalent of twenty five free text messages a day. When I did switch back to bill pay I went over my allocation of 200 any network and 200 same network texts by twenty euro. That is a ridiculous amount of SMS for a grown up. So you’re probably asking yourself why or how?

One train of thought is that I work better in the written format. In fairness I’ve had enough practice. What some (ok, I) might classify as wit or charm come across better in text. When I speak my voice can go funny and there is no back space, so when I say something and it sounds cheesy and cornball it’s out there. No delete or recall.

But that’s not real; it’s like rehearsing for life. And there are no rehearsals as a really bad director once said. So from here on I promise to not text so much. I’ll pick up the phone and call when I want to communicate with you. You deserve it....and it makes more sense financially. It might also cut down on the amount of accidental flirting that I do. But that’s a collection of words for a different day.

Knickers

Thus far ‘K’ has definitely been my least favourite stop on this alphabetical blogging odyssey. Up until this point I was loaded with a variety of options from my vernacular but with the eleventh letter I struggled to for a fitting word to headline my musings.

A Facebook plea offered up some hope. Kangaroo, Karma and Kaleidoscope were all possibilities. Kinky certainly had potential and when Ka-ching arrived courtesy of Sean Kennedy I was certain I had hit pay dirt.

Unfortunately it wasn’t just a title I needed. Usually I come up with a name based around the subject matter of the piece but sometimes I take the letter, find a word that I like and hope to get some spark from that. I was hoping this would be one of those times.

It wasn’t. Inspiration was not coming the way I needed it so Ka ching, while great was proving unusable at this point in time. This put me back to square one with this week’s blog. It was only after a conversation with an incredibly childish colleague did I come with this week’s bit.

“Knickers,” she said like an eight year old.

It was perfect. I already had a story that I told relating to underwear and it would fit rather nicely into the style that you have all become accustomed to.

I need to point out that this story is mostly true. I may have exaggerated some of the facts and added some dramatic flourishes but as some disreputable journalist may have once said, never let the facts get in the way of a good story.

This tale takes place in my youth and like all good childhood stories it happened in one of those memory lane summers, where even in Ireland, glorious sunshine baked our young faces as we ran, skipped and jumped. The evenings lasted forever and there was a real sense of community.

To emphasise both of these facts, the local community council, or the Eight Roads committee as they were known, organised an evening football tournament for all of the kids who lived on the aforementioned eight roads.

Every child in the area signed up for the ‘road leagues.’ I say it as though we all volunteered but in my case it was more my mother wanted me out from under her feet so she put my name down. I would imagine there were one or two others like me.

I wasn’t very good at soccer and the organiser knew it. They knew who the kids that were rubbish were and they knew who the really good ball players were. Everyone else was in between. I wasn’t privy to the team selection process but it did seem that on each team of seven, there was one really good player, one woeful incompetent like myself and five others of varying ability. So it was pretty fair.

Split into divisions based on age, each team would play each other over three weeks and the top two teams would then play again on the final day. The games were played on a grass covered roundabout on Aughavannah Road and would usually be surrounded by parents and supporters of the kids involved in any of the five games played each night.

One such evening is when my story takes place. The sun was indeed shining and the roundabout was busier than normal. My team was playing and we were kitted out in red football jerseys, to which I added football shorts and socks, a very impressive ensemble indeed. Not that it really mattered because as I said, I wasn’t very good and my ‘manager’ had decided that I should stay as a substitute.

I was ok with that, I was maybe 10 at the time and while I’m sure puberty hadn’t started yet I do remember feeling somewhat self conscious about running around in shorts and looking stupid while the people on my time refused to pass to me. So I was doing my bit for the team from the sideline

That was until; one of my team mate’s mum called him in for his tea. I’m not sure if that was what actually happened but I was sent on to replace one of the other players. I looked over and saw my mum on the other side of the pitch. She seemed so proud. The manager told me to stick up front and if the ball came near me to kick it towards the opponent’s goal. That way I couldn’t do much harm.

For the first couple of minutes everything was going fine. I stayed clear of the action as it was mostly going on down near my teams goal. I ran around a bit up front, even though the ball was in the other half. People were shouting at me from the sideline to ‘chase back’ but I was following my coach’s instruction to the letter.

Eventually our goalkeeper caught the ball and kicked it as hard as he could up the field. There was no one near it except me and the opposition goalie. I ran for the ball and so did he. I was a bit closer but he was much faster than I was. I was almost at the ball when he came behind, knocking me over and kicking the football back down the field.

My possible moment of glory gone, I picked myself up and began to run around up front again. It seemed a little harder this time like I was running against something. It appeared that the elastic that held my shorts up had snapped in the tackle. My shorts felt looser and I was aware that they were slipping down. As was everyone in the crowd of about one hundred people.

One hundred people laughing at you because your shorts are falling down is the stuff nightmares are made of, especially to 10 year old. I tried to ignore it and play on holding them up with one hand but it wouldn’t work. If I held them at the front the back would slip down and vice versa. It definitely required two hands which made it even harder to run. The raucous laughter wasn’t helping either. I had never been so humiliated.

That is until at that very moment, my mother, feeling a million types of embarrassment for son with drooping draws, ran on to the pitch, while the game was still being played, grabbed my shorts and hoisted them up as high as they would go. She then turned the tops of them into my underwear so as they would stay up. She meant well but aside from the very painful wedgy she had just inflicted on me, she had managed to make my 10 year old mortification and the laughter of the braying audience a million times worse.

So there you have my knickers story. It’s something that has haunted me every day for the last twenty five years or so. I’ve tried to laugh it off. I tell it as an ice breaker when I’m sitting with strangers at a wedding or some such event. Some laugh, some creep away. It’s understandable.

I’m not sure how I’d react to a stranger revealing such intimate and traumatic details of their life. But I wanted to share it with you my loyal readers, mostly because, therapy is really expensive. Any psychiatrist who read this story will just see cash register signs. Ka ching.

Justification

Did I tell you guys I’d written a novel? I’m sure I have, its called Status Update, contemporary humorous fiction with semi autobiographical undertones. I’ve been coasting off the back of finishing the first draft of a novel ever since I completed it in November. People ask what I do, and I would tell them, based on the fact that I managed to put sixty thousand words in cohesive order, that I was writer. What I actually am is a bit of a fraud.

Written as part of NaNoWrMo the idea was that I would take December off to recharge my batteries and start a second draft in January of this year. That would be ready by March and I could then begin to look at publishers and agents to gauge their interest and then be finishing up a third draft round about now.

The only part of that paragraph that actually happened was I took December off and I have yet to do anything productive to get back to work on ‘Status Update.’ Focus has never been one of my strong points and distraction is something I run to with open arms and a welcoming glass of wine.

In fairness, I have written some stuff. I did some work on a possible TV series with a writing partner but that got quite distracting so I pulled out. I’ve also written a few bits of short stories and I mean bits, I’m not sure any of them are finished. And I’ve got this blog, which basically allows me to lie to my own face every time I trim my beard.

As long as I dedicate myself to write one of these rambling bouts of candy floss once a week I can justify to myself that I’m a writer.
“What are you working on at the moment?” someone who is kind enough to feign an interest might ask. To which I might respond:
“Oh, it’s a think piece on why moustache wax has replaced peoples need for organised religion.”

Or some bullshit like that.

The problem is I really like being a writer; it is by far preferable to being a fraud analyst or a part time Japanese Lifestyle salesman, so it is time to get the finger out. Chatting to a friend about the original draft process, she reminded me that I used this blog as something of a motivational tool. My weekly updates would let the reader know the novels progress and I could use that as a bit of push. I didn’t want to let you guys down. If I ever do get the book published you guys are the most likely to buy it.

So here is the challenge. On the 21st of September I am due to fly out to Madrid for another Pueblo Ingles programme. By the time that comes around, if I do not have a second, bigger, better draft of ‘Status Update,’ when I return I shall stop referring to myself as a writer. I’ll hang up my biro and get a job in a call centre. I’ll shave off my beard and listen to a Script album.

If you guys could help I would really appreciate it. If you see me out in a social situation, ask what the word count is at. Question how the character development of Hannah Bracewell is going. Tell me to go home and do some fucking work.

I’ll check in again next week and let you know how it’s getting on. The plan is to have 10000 words done by this time next week. I haven’t picked a great week to begin the challenge. I’m helping out with a comedy writing workshop in Fighting Words so it’s a pretty busy week.

Excuses, excuses.

Hateration

This is going to be one of those that might make you think I’m a bit of a grump. It will give credence to those of you who suspect that my new bright and cheery ‘Lets love everything’ outlook might be a bit of a fraud.

That’s fair enough. Like other great artists, Van Gogh, John Kennedy Toole and Jade Goody to name a few, I’m probably destined to be unappreciated in my own time. Sometimes believing in something is more important than being popular.

In fact this might prove to be quite offensive to some of you because I know you were directly involved in some of the things I’m going to talk about. It doesn’t mean I don’t love you any less. I’m just pointing some things out that you might want to discuss on your next therapy session.

There has been a proliferation recently of world record attempts around Ireland. Ordinary people gathering so that they can get into the tome of ultimate achievement. The most Where’s Wally’s, Smurfs, Santa’s or Pirates in one place have all been organised recently, as has the World’s largest Rock the Boat display, and I have to ask. What’s the fucking point?

It used to be that in order to get in the Guinness book of World Records you had to be the best at something or the first to an achievement. Skill, perseverance, endurance and, to quote Roy Castle, dedication is what you needed to be a record breaker.

Nowadays you just have to pay 15 euro for an outfit, slip on your striped jumper and hope that there are enough people desperate enough for validation, that your gathering counts as a record. There usually are.

But I think it’s more than a craving to be part of achieving a milestone. I suspect it has something to do with a need to be part of something, anything. Facebook and social networking have proven that it’s easy to garner the approval of your friends by joining or liking the same things as they do (I know this because it’s something that might be levelled at me.) So by joining one of these fancy dress frolics, there is a chance that strangers will recognise exactly how cool you are.

Before you tell me that it’s all just a bit of harmless fun and I need to chill, I suggest you hold off on your dismissal because it may be about to turn into indignation. While I have issues with pointless gatherings of people in matching outfits of stupidity, I downright abhor another organised event of thousands of people looking ridiculous. And this one is for actually done for charity.

Movember,there aren’t enough synonyms in the thesaurus (and there are fifty one) to fully verbalise my rancour towards Movember. Men all over the World grow moustaches for the duration of the eleventh month of the year in order to raise money and awareness of men’s health issues. A very noble premise, but it is done in such an obnoxious ‘look at me’ kind of way that I can’t help but reject the goodness and only focus my rage on the irredeemable twatty-ness of it.

There is something achingly hip and knowing about it all. Everyone knows they look stupid, but it’s ok because lots of people look just as stupid. Its irony, Dude. Post modern handlebar moustaches are paraded proudly and I’m supposed to sponsor these moustachioed Thomas Magnum wannabes.

If you want to look stupid in order to fundraise I will get behind you and help as much as I can, if your intentions are solely altruistic. Grow a porn industry standard nasal caterpillar in July. Doing it November just seems like you are trying to be part of something ‘bigger.’

I did say this might not be my most popular piece. So I’m faced with two options. I rant about it on the internet as is my usual style, or I come up some kind of counter to this ridiculous period. On the first of November 2011 I, John Holohan am going to start “Movember makes you look like a dick.”

Wearing a badge that has the initiatives slogan on it, I will approach everyone I see who is grooming the offensive face fuzz and inform them that Movember makes them look like a dick. I will solicit sponsorship and all funds raised will go towards a men’s health charity.

So come on, if you hate Movember and hipsters with moustaches let’s hear from you. Together we can make November a real month of the year again. Of course we may end up getting punched in the face for insulting people.

Maybe we could attempt record for the most people in a room with black eyes.

Innuendo

“So you’re looking for a hard one is it?”

This question is one I directed a few weeks ago to a customer at my part time job. She was looking for a case for her sunglasses. We carry a nylon soft case but she was looking for something sturdier. I really was just looking to help her with her query.

I could feel her eyes bearing into me. I tried not to laugh, fighting the dirty chuckle that was building inside me. Resistance was futile, my cheeks were heating up and the tension on the shop floor was dense. I looked down at the floor. If I could avoid contact I might be able to suppress it.

The idea that she was ‘looking for a hard one,’ rolled around my infantile brain for what seemed like an eternity but was surely only seconds. I couldn’t hold it any longer. I snickered. Some of it came out through my pursed lips while the rest escaped through my nostrils.

Incredibly childish I know. I’m a thirty five year old man with Bevis and Butthead tendencies. I should know better but if something is delivered in the right tone or wrong context I revert to my giggling teenage phase. I can’t help it.

In this case I think it is a case of nurture over nature. When I was a child one of my favourite things to do was to sit down and watch Benny Hill or a Carry On movie with my Dad. If something made him laugh, it had to be funny, right? If my dad approved of Barbara Windsor’s Fanny or Benny Hill slapping the baldy man then it was comedy gold as far as I was concerned.

Of course as I grew, I tried to rally against this. Maybe I was rebelling against my Dad’s taste but I like to think that as I was exposed to more mature politically correct comedy and began to see Carry On for the crass sexist childish humour that it was. Have I Got News for You, Who’s Line Is It Anyway became more my cup of tea.

Ironically this cup of tea was laden with lascivious, juvenile frippery, but it seemed to be of a different kind. It wasn’t so blatant. It was insightful and intelligent, poking fun at the ludicrousness of society. At least that’s what I told myself.

But try as I might I could not deny my roots in smut. Once I started working full time my choice of viewing was dictated by what could be left on in the background without requiring too much attention. So banal cookie cutter comedy was my ideal early evening television. Scrubs, Friends and Two and a Half men each had at least one character whose job was to make stupid offensive, sexually loaded remarks. And I could not help but laugh.

It could be argued that the characters are often portrayed as idiots or actually infantile and as such this is not the same as being straight up offensive. We are laughing ‘at’ them rather than ‘with’ them. I’m not so sure my funny bone was making that connection.

In the interest of disclosure I need to point out I’m a big fan of Scrubs. It made me laugh regularly and not just in an infantile way but ‘The Todd’ is the perfect example of the kind of character I’m talking about. When The Todd points at his crotch and talks about Hot Italian Sausage, I know it’s not actually funny but I laugh. The same with Joey from Friends or Jake in Two and a Half Men.

I know it’s not big or clever; but as I’ve said before neither am I. I can’t help it if the whole point of this blog post is so I could tell you about all the sticky substances involved in getting ready for work in the morning (shower gel, Brylcreem, moisturiser.) But I have been trying to control it.

Working in Fighting Words I learned pretty quickly that eight year olds don’t mean anything suggestive by talking about a monkey who likes to ‘play toss the coconut’ or the chicken who wanted to win ‘The Cock of the Year Award.’ At least I hope they don’t. Somehow I’ve always managed to control my childish side in those situations. That must show some level of maturity.

So what’s your favourite Double Entendre? Please post them in the comment box below and you might win a prize....yea a prize....not an actual physical prize, more like a moral victory. But go on...you know you want to.
Of course some of you will have noticed that the title of this piece is out of sequence with my alphabet theme. Very observant, there is a reason for that. The ‘H’ will be delivered next but I just thought it would be more fitting if ‘Innuendo’ was 69th post.

Heehee 69.

Generation

When an eight year old boy uses the word ‘cool’ in the context of creating a new superhero, it’s not the easiest thing in the world to establish what exactly he means. According to the Oxford English Dictionary cool has few possible definitions. It’s unlikely Little Timmy means restrained or relaxed pertaining to Jazz (especially modern Jazz.)

So I figured it had to be either of a fairly low temperature or fashionably attractive or impressive. But without having the etymological tome to hand it was kind of hard for me to get one of these explanations across clearly.

The explanation with regards to heat was easy enough to get across; the other left me at a bit of a loss for words. How do you explain ‘cool’ so that it is clear you mean 'of personality'. I wracked my memory banks trying to come up with something that epitomised the hip laidback variant of the word. I came up with the Fonz.

Yes, when trying to define ‘cool ‘I went to the fall back of 1970’s sitcom Happy Days, Arthur Fonzarelli. While I didn’t have the leather jacket and the slick backed hair I did go so far as to stick my thumbs up and go ‘AAayyy.’ Of course to a group of eight and nine year olds I may as well have been talking Portuguese.

They had obviously never heard of the Henry Winkler character that was last relevant in 1982. Even back then he was never really cool. He was only made to look cool because he hung around with people like Richie Cunningham.

I wish I could say this was the first time that one of my pop culture analogies had gone over the heads of the young people I work with in Fighting Words. They would so miss the humour in this blog.

One young boy wanted a synonym for antennae on an insect. He didn’t like 'feelers' as an alternative so I suggested ‘zogabons.’ He thought I was making it up. He had never heard of Zig and Zag. An older girl told me “I was so retro,” because I had a book about Dawson’s Creek in my hand. It was “so 90’s.”

I guess it happens to us all. When we realise we aren’t as ‘cool’ as we used to be. That rock/pop music isn’t supposed to be for us anymore. Despite our efforts to still buy Q and NME magazine, there is the realisation that we have all said at least once “it’s not as good as it was in my day.”

I don’t want to be one of those people who talk about ‘kids of today’ and how ‘in my day’ but I just don’t get kids of today. In my day Beverly Hills 90210 was about Brandon and Brenda Walsh and the Karate Kid was played by Ralph Macchio...Hillary Swank at a push.

That said I’m ok with getting older. Being young was never that great anyway and I reckon I’ll look good with grey hair. I just go with the mid 30’s punches and if I ever get in a situation where I’m a little lost I just ask one question. WWFD? What would Fonzie do?