Crush

I almost started this blog with one of those cutesy “While I was chatting to ‘her’ I thought about ‘x’” openings that really grind my gears. Firstly, no one cares that you have a loved one unless the blog is about them. And if it’s about them you shouldn’t refer to them as a pronoun. Her, she, him, themselves, it and yolky bobby are not terms of endearment.

If your girlfriend doesn’t want to be mentioned in your blog, but is an important part the content, then find some other way to bring it in. You’re a writer, use your imagination.

So myself and Jack Nicholson were playing basketball against Burt and Ryan Reynolds (no relation) when Burt started talking smack to Jack. Saying how his momma was an astronaut and what not. Jack Nicholson was having none of it and things got a bit heated when he mentioned how The Bandit had let the love of his life, Sally Field, slip out of his grasp.

While Ryan Reynolds was busy separating the two Hollywood veterans I couldn’t help dwelling on the image of Sally Field. When I was younger I used to have such a crush on her. I’m not sure I even knew what a crush was. I certainly didn’t know what the funny feeling I was having in my tummy every time I saw the star of Smokey and the Bandit and Mrs Doubtfire on screen. I just knew there was something special about her.

Of course she isn’t the only celebrity fancy I had when I was a young boy developing a curiosity for the fairer sex. Like every straight (and probably some gay) man my age Carrie Fisher as Princess Leia definitely stirred something in my pre pubescent self. Gold Bikinis and hair in funny buns will forever be fetish wear for men of a certain generation.

Of course these are both no brainers, Sally Field and Carrie Fisher were both beautiful women who radiate a cuteness while at the same time being can’t-quite-put-your-finger-on-it sexy. They tended to play sassy women who were more than capable of standing up to any moronic man. Had all my young attractions were so obvious I probably wouldn’t be writing this.

I need to point out that I was very young at the time. Not really sure what I was looking for in a girlfriend; I didn’t even know I was looking for a girlfriend. So I ask that you don’t judge ten year old me so harshly because he had a crush on the following women:

Carol Decker, the lead singer of T’pau who sang Heart and Soul and China in your Hand. She had curly red hair and could belt out a power ballad. Maybe it was the sepia tone lighting in all their videos but I always thought she was pretty. I followed her on twitter recently but that felt a bit weird.

Sonia. A bubbly Liverpool singer who was dubbed the new Cilla Black was another ginger chanteuse who appealed to my little boy sensibility. This penchant for redheads is not something that I have carried forward into my actual romantic life. I don’t know what it was about Sonia. Maybe it was the pinchable cheeks or twinkly eyes. Most likely it was the floppy hat and yellow bolero combination that she sported on her album cover Everybody Knows (which I owned on cassette tape, by the way.)

Dana. There I said it. I used to fancy Dana. All Kinds of Everything, Dana. I didn’t know she was a religious nut at the time. Before she wanted to be president and sign Ireland over to the Catholic Church I used to think she was very cute. She had big brown eyes and rosy cheeks. She had a seemed to have a kind heart; she helped Finn and Derval in Flight of the Doves. Playing Snow White in pantomime and winning the Eurovision proved how talented she was. How could anyone not be attracted to this woman?

In a time when Georgia Salpa is considered a sexy celebrity, it’s hard not to yearn for a simpler time. Or maybe I just have strange taste in women. Oh, I don’t think herself will like me saying that.

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.