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.