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.