Desperately Seeking Boozin'

I like drink. But I don't like work. So it is no surprise that my feelings towards clients drinks (decidedly a blend of the two) are quite mixed.

During my first year of working within the financial sector, I enjoyed drinking with clients; it seemed like a way of simply scoring loads of free drinks. Nice. But, as I soon discovered, there's no such thing as a free liquid lunch. After the first few pints, clients will start to ask seemingly innocuous questions, designed to mine tiny nuggets of information from your brain that you would not soberly divulge. This practice soon drained any possible pleasure from networking or any kind of drinks with clients.

An ex-manager of mine called Kerry (if you're a fan of Scrubs, picture an older and Irish version of the Dr Cox character, to my young and naive JD), taught me several valuable things about networking. I've broken them down into eight points:

One: Know your audience. Kerry used to make it a point of working in one of his favourite jokes early on in the drink sessions:

'Did you hear the one about the dyslexic agnostic insomniac? He lay awake every night, wondering if there is a Dog.'

The beauty of the joke was that not only was it funny, but it revealed a lot by its reception. Intellectual snobbery? Hey- if you can't handle the heat, get out of the corporate hospitality box.

Conversation aside, the audience will also generally dictate how you should behave. Example: Kerry, a colleague and I were all dispatched to a networking function in the City (note the capitalisation for maximum tosserness) one evening, a few years ago. The evening started well: the three of us had sushi and japanese beer before arriving at the venue and mingling with the other invitees. The function in question was a mixture of wine tasting and table quiz, whereby in each round you would be given a wine sample and, following initial guidance from the somellier, would be expected to estimate the wine's age, grape, region and price, amongst other criteria. Then disaster struck: all of the guests were split into teams, separating my colleague and I from Kerry, the only one of the three of us who knew his Chardonnays from his Sauvignon Blancs. So, the colleague and I were woefully unprepared when we ended up on a team with three well-dressed gents, who all reminded me vaguely of ostriches, and who certainly knew their wines. They said stupid things about the wine, such as 'my that's an adventurous taste.' How is it adventurous exactly? Does it go bungee jumping at the weekends?

After several rounds, during which my colleague and I neglected to spit out any of the wines we had sampled, the following exchange actually happened:

Teammate #1: (delicately sampling the wine) Mmmm. Yes. That's rather a spicy one, isn't it? A hint of strawberries. Nigel?
Teammate #2: (delicately sampling the wine) Mmmm. Yes, it's certainly earthy isn't it. Quite creamy as well, in a dry sort of way. What do you think Charles?
Teammate #3: (delicately sampling the wine) Mmmm. Creamy, yes. Not so sure about the strawberries. It's quite elusive....decidedly rural. Chaps, what do you two think?
My colleague: (knocking back the entire glass) WELL FARK ME (hic), I'LL BE A FARKIN MONKEY'S UNCLE IF (hic), IF THAT WINE COSTS ANYTHING OVER A HUNDRED FARKIN NICKER! (hic)

Needless to say, new business calls were not exactly flooding our way the following week.

Two: Go the distance. You should make it a point of being the last man standing, no matter how boring / obnoxious the company. One time for example, I was out with a College bursar:

Client: I must say though, I do rather enjoy a spot of gardening. Do you garden?
Me: (apart from shaving every six days, not really) Er...I dabble.
Client: We have beautiful gardens at the College, you really must see them some day.
Me: Indeed. I must.
Client: Do you know what we have growing on our campus? (dramatic pause) The oldest beech tree in the world.
Me: (feigning interest) Really. (then thinking about it) Hang on: really?? The whole world?
Client: Well...er...I suppose...well, in Europe anyway.
Me: Europe, wow.
Client: Well, ok- in England anyway.
Me: I see.
Client: It really is a great tree, you know. It...it....it behaves like a tree ruddy well ought to.

Ugh, what a horribly imperialistic attitude. I had to take a sup of beer to stop myself from sarcastically agreeing and adding that I hated it when trees behaved like say, toasters, or flamenco dancers.

On another occasion, I was left at the bar past closing time, saddled with some some fat guy from a rival bank. An adversary he may technically be, but it's still important to keep these guys relatively sweet. He was drunkenly rambling about how he loved the Irish, and how his great, great grandmother's aunt's cousin twice removed was once married to someone whose brother's friend's pet hedgehog knew an Irishman. Or something tentative like that. He then preceded to tell me this overly long story about how he went to a pub in a quaint Irish village once, and how he loved the sense of community and camraderie. And how there were some people playing traditional music by the log fire in the corner, and how some of the others were up dancing in typical Ceilidh fashion, fuelled by ale and the clapping of spectators.

It then transpired that this village, this beautiful postcard of Irish hospitality and culture, was actually somewhere just outside Aberdeen.

'But...that's Scotland,' I said puzzledly at the end of the story. 'I'm Irish,' I reminded him.

'Oh,' said the banker, swigging brandy. 'Well...I'd imagine it's pretty much the same.'

True story.

Three: Man up. Stamina is crucial: not only should you try and make it through to the end, you should also be able to arrive into work the next day bright and breezy. I remember struggling into work one morning and sitting, staring blankly at my monitor. 'Snap out of it,' said Kerry sharply. 'If it's sympathy you're looking for, you'll find it somewhere between shite and syphilis in the dictionary. Now get to work.'

On another occasion, I remember myself and a colleague being woefully hungover after a Christmas party, and sitting up in the lunch room, our heads resting on a table each. The sweet coolness of formica has never been so welcomed. Unfortunately, the tranquility was pierced by our manager, a young woman from Waterford, who burst into the lunchroom and shrieked at us: 'Sweet JESUS, I can see the two of you are going to be about as useful as a feckin' pair of chocolate teapots today.'

Four: When unsure, be obscure. I remember being out with a relatively senior manager last year, when he was asked by the client (a finance manager in the education sector) as to what his opinions on the current economic downturn were. In response, the senior manager frowned slightly, steepled his fingers and stared at the table in concentration.

'Hmmmm,' he gravely intoned. 'Personally, I believe it will be interesting to see how it all turns out.'

This, to which the client and his colleagues nodded sagely, in the manner of ancient philosophers consulting the Oracle. All I could think of was 'hey, this guy has actually said nothing! And he's getting paid vast amounts to do it!' I have therefore since learned a multitude of standard responses applicable to questions which you probably should know the answer to, but actually don't. A sample of these follow:

"That's a good question; I am actually intrigued as to what your opinions were." (Follow this up by agreeing with whatever the other person says.)
"Well, that's a contentious issue. I'm still trying to clarify my thoughts on it."
"Frankly, with the ever-changing financial / global / economic / regulatory (delete unnecessary adjective) environment, it's hard to know what to think."
"Well...oh I've just remembered, I need to make a very quick phonecall." (This is the verbal equivalent of pointing one direction, saying 'hey what's that?' then running off in the other.)
"Hmmm, what a bloody good question. Bill is probably better positioned to answer than I. Hey, Bill.." (Then drag the nearby Bill into the conversation and effect a swift exit.)
"To answer your question, I am of the opinion that...hey where did you get that tie? Is that pure silk?" (A caveat: this strategy usually works better with the fairer sex.)
"¡Lo siento! yo no hablo Inglés.Habla usted español?" (NB this generally does not work in a Spanish organisation)

In addition to tricky questions, you may also find yourself from time to time involved a game of quotation one-upmanship, whereby a client will remark to you something they've read recently and expect an equally intelligent riposte. My motto is, simply outdo them in terms of obscurity.

Client: Well I personally believe the Government need a firmer hand to guide them. It's like what Margaret Thatcher said in 1980, I don't mind how much my Ministers talk, so long as they do what I say.
Me: Well....I disagree. I think it's closer in spirit to the words of The Chips, as they famously said in 1957: Heere odda hilldunonne Hiduwippa Tearrr outta numbanumba numbadaba Luurre odna hithumama chigowazzah Hiirre udda hithooupee hithuippa Feure udda Heyynonne hithuipha Daarr onna hilloonumme hithuomma Feure ofthe Heyynomme hinuimma Du-ur udda hauathuama hithua Hiiire odda hithoomumme hithuim.
Client: Hmmm. Touché.

Five: Humour is key. Forget all the business acumen: make them laugh and they'll love you (well okay, maybe you need a smidge of business acumen).

For example, a relationship manager I once knew was at a networking function when an existing client of his (a feisty northern irish businesswoman) approached him. The two had become close friends over the years and were therefore quite informal with each other.

'Look at that,' she said, pointing at his copious belly with a face of mock disgust. 'If that was on a woman, she'd be pregnant!'

'It was,' he countered proudly. 'And she IS!'

Cue lots of drunken cackling, whilst everyone blissfully forgets that they were previously talking about investment property yields.

Six: Pimp yourself out. If a client likes you for a particular reason, don't be afraid to abuse it.

For example, being Irish at a Paddy's Day function in London is generally like Christmas. If you get my meaning. I remember one time when two second-generation Irish clients wanted to move their accounts to me, as a) I was "good craic" and b) "could drink a pint fairly farkin' quickly". Ah the attributes that people value in bankers these days. Goes a long way to explaining the credit crunch. Unfortunately, at this particular time my role did not involve dealing with clients directly, as I had to explain to these guys. About seven or eight times.

Seven: Disrespect your juniors. In Ireland, we have a saying: Mol an Óige agus Tiocfaidh Sí. This roughly translates as: Praise the Youth...And They Become Twats.

It is therefore only in their best interests that I verbally slam any eager newcomers to the corporate world as frequently and as strongly as I can. We've all seen them: they arrive in the office on day one, all ill-fitting suits and never-worn-before shoes, and then stomp about, hoping their can-do attitude is blindingly obvious, completely ignorant of the fact that the marriage between all the theory they learned in college, and the actual practice of business, is destined to end swiftly in a miserable divorce.

The only thing worse than the early office-behaviour of these annoyingly enthusiastic imps, is their behaviour at initial networking functions. They linger in the background like bad smells, flinging business cards at anyone unfortunate enough to glance their direction, and ask carefully rehearsed questions about the economy, which they hope will make them sound intelligent and dynamic (as opposed to actually wanting to know the answer). They also overpopulate their sentences with idioms such as 'singing from the same hymnsheet' and 'making sure we get our ducks in a row'. And they still haven't learned at that stage that no one under the age of thirty-five should use the phrase: 'we'll touch base next week'. I bumped into one such tyke about a year ago:

Him: (thrusting a hand out to shake) Hi, Oliver White: Trainee Solicitor. Fleecem & Leggit LLP.
Me: (irritated, trying to finish my pint) Oh, em..hi. Brendan O'Brendan. I work for....National Bank of China (I didn't really).
Him: (slightly taken aback at my Irish accent and less than Oriental features) Oh...em. The Chinese economy is doing well at the moment, I believe.
Me: No. (shaking head) No, it's not. What a ridiculous notion. You been smoking crack or something?
Him: But..but I read in The Economist that..
Me: Pfffff. The Economist. Don't believe everything The Economist tells ya.
Him: But..(slightly flustered)..but it's a reputable publication....
Me: Listen- don't tell anyone, but the Chinese economy is on its knees. We had a conference call with the National ..er Economic Forum of China this morning. The NEFC.
Him: Oh...I've never heard of the N..F...?
Me: NEFC. Everyone's heard of the NEFC. (shoot him an incredulous glance) Anyway. Turns out from certain geological studies recently carried out that they've found traces of oil in the Now Tzang..er..Pang Chang Province.
Him: Oil?? Really??
Me: Gospel truth. We're gonna see some very interesting things in the Chinese export market in the next twelve months, mark my words.
Him: Extraordinary.
Me: But hey, (gulping the last of my pint) keep it under your hat.
Him: Oh, of course. (looking delighted with himself that he's been apparently clasped to the big, bad corporate bosom, and wondering who he's going to tell about China first) Another drink?
Me: Triple JD and coke. Cheers.

Fair enough: I may be only twenty-nine myself, but I have the hairline and cynicism of any grizzled sixty-year old.

Eight: people are invariably more interested in themselves than they are in you. I was cornered recently by some insurance broker or some sort (I didn't pay much attention in fairness) with braces and unruly eyebrows. The man was clearly dead-set on talking for the next hour, regardless of who was sitting opposite him. Granted, for the first five seconds he skeptically eyed up my stubble, wrist-beads and thumb-ring, and seemed mildly curious as to what organisation, other than Greenpeace, would employ me. But then he went on and on about insurance regulations this and European infrastructure that. I spent most of the time replaying the movie Die Hard in my head. It was only at one stage that I felt a need to contribute to the conversation- it was when I suddenly realised that he was looking straight at me and had paused. I believe his last line was:

'And do you know what the exact insurance requirements are on any of your deals at the moment?'

So, I began to fumble in my brain for an answer. 'Er....insurance requirements you say? Hmmm....well....'

'I'll tell you,' he then said, interrupting my gibbering. 'You don't.'

Ah right, I thought. Rhetorical. I should've known.

He then prattled on for another thirty or so minutes, leaving me to sit back and relax and mentally watch John McClane jump off the roof of Nakatomi Plaza once more.

And so ends Kerry's eight pearls of wisdom. A wise man indeed. I hope you've enjoyed gaining this knowledge as much as I've enjoyed sharing it.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to buy shares in the Chinese oil market.

CB

Six Nations Once Again

[Warning: The following blog contains scenes which some non-Irish readers may find disturbing...]

Today, I'd like to cover a topic that strikes a chord with me around this time every year: namely, being an Oirishman in farkin Landaan.

Obviously, having lived in london for five and a half years, this is a subject which is never far from my mind; the particular significance of February/March-time will become apparent further on. But for now, a simple question: what does being Irish in London mean to me?

Firstly, it means having a greater sense of community with fellow Irish men and women, especially those with whom you would not necessarily connect on home turf. I am reminded of the time I worked in Boston (as an electrician- despite my colourblindness- but that's a blog for another day), and driving down to Cape Cod in a car containing: one guy from Cork, one guy from Galway, and one guy from Antrim. I have never known representatives of the four Irish provinces to get on so harmoniously at such close quarters. We were all brought together by our distance from the Homeland.

But it's not just a nationwide phenonmen: even the gaping North Dublin/South Dublin divide can be thus bridged (fellow Dubs will know what I'm talking about). Example: on my first Paddy's Day in London, many moons ago, I was running around Leicester Square trying to find the O'Neills pub. I asked a bouncer if he knew where it was, and he responded in a thick Dublin accent...

Bouncer: O'Neills? Yeah bud- just up the road there, to the left.
Me: Cheers.
Bouncer: No worries man, no worries. Where yeh from bud?
Me: Dublin.
Bouncer: Fooks sake, I know tha. What part?
Me: Er (apologetically) Killiney. But don't hold that against me..
Bouncer: Ah fook sake man, least yer a Dub. That's all tha matters. Least yer not a fookin culchie.
Me: Phew.

This brings me to the obvious exception to this extra-Ireland feeling of community: the people, which we in Dublin collectively term, 'the D4-heads'. How to describe? Pompous, up-their-own-arse, spoilt-rotten, conceited little shits. There, that should do it. Oh, and they all inexplicably wear the collars up on their rugby jerseys. In short, the D4-head label is not about their wealth, and it's not about their address- it's about pure arrogance and the misplaced misbelief that they are somehow better than anyone else.

I should point out that I myself am a Southside Dubliner, but hopefully don't fall into the D4-head category; I escaped from, what I affectionately call, Killiney Hill 90210 a long time ago. Thank God. So you can't really blame the Northsiders from being suspicious of anyone living closer to Wicklow than they do.

From a cultural standpoint, the social equivalent of the D4-heads in London would probably be the 'Sloane Rangers'. In fact, there's probably an equivalent in every capital city in Europe. But the worst thing about the London-based D4-heads is their refusal to acknowledge their fellow countryfolk with a warm smile and a hearty hello. It's not that difficult to do, is it? I was recently snubbed myself by a couple of D4-heads at a bar in Clapham not so long ago; I recognised their whiny, transatlantic twang a mile off, along with the disdainful glance that says "Oh no, not another Irish person, I like totally came to London to get away from them." Why the feck do you think I came to London yiz little shits?

The second crucial point about being Irish in London is the swelling of pride you feel toward figures for which otherwise your feelings would probably be neutral. Take the following for example:

Barack Obama: But he's not Irish! I hear you protest. Au contraire mes petits filous; around the time of his election in 2008, various newspaper articles emerged proclaiming Obama's Irish ancestry, going so far as to suggest his ties with an 18th Century Dublin shoemaker. And after all, with the American-President-of-Irish-Origins Club featuring past alumni such as JFK, Ronald Reagan and, of course, Slick Willie Clinton, can you really doubt it?

So- lets give it up for the 44th President of the US: Barack O'Bama, of the Leinster O'Bamas.

Bono: Has there ever been a figure more capable of polarising Irish public opinion? Well, yes- there's probably a few. But fuck it, I'm making a point here: Bono's definitely one of them. I was in a pub in Camden a few years back, in which there was this bucket placed by the bar with a scrawled label, "Tip here if you hate Bono". Naively, I believed at the time that this was some sort of covert anti-Irish message, but nope: turns out the majority of Ireland are sick of him too.

Okay- his sermonising and self-importance are grating I admit, but if some good comes from all his posturing in terms of raising awareness to global poverty, is it really that hard to tolerate? Plus, nothing raises the hairs on the back of my neck like hearing the live version of 'Pride (In the Name of Love)' from Rattle and Hum. So in fairness, whatever you think of him, you have to admit: the songs are still pretty good.

Jedward: Speaking of polarising public opinion.....it's a little known fact that, in 2007 a deranged geneticist escaped from a mental hospital in Dundrum and set up a laboratory in the dark wilds of County Wicklow with one sinister purpose in mind: to clone Michael Flatley. Unfortunately, the experiment went horribly wrong halfway through the accelerated gestation period, and resulted in the premature birth of a siamese twin, joined only at the quiff.

Hence, Jedward was born. Jedward were since surgically separated, claimed as government property and kept secret until 2009, when the Irish Government released them with the sole purpose of slow and methodical world domination. Where's the first place they sent them? That's right: England. Go figure.

The third main indicator of being Irish in London: the strengthened bond with your hometown. Despite having been largely absent from it for over five years, I love Dublin. In fact I love it so much that, a few years ago, at the end of a ten-hour pub-crawl along Upper Street in Islington, I flagged down a taxi and asked the driver to take me home. To Dublin.

The ensuing conversation went pretty much as follows:

Driver: Where to, mate?
Me: (hic) Kill..iney...(hic)
Driver: Kill-where, sorry?
Me: (louder) Fckn..Killiney...KiLLINey...(hic)
Driver: Kill-oy-ney? Where the fark is that mate?
Me: KILLINEY! Fcksake...Killiney...(hic)...'sfuckin...south of d'river..
Driver: Wot? Sarf of the rivah? Is it near Balham?
Me: Fckin..Balham? BALHAM? Where d'fook's Balham....'sfuckin KillINEY!! (hic) kil...killiney
Driver: I'm sorry, I don't know it mate.

Me: Fckin KILLINEY! yerfckin taxidrivr...you (hic), you should know...where yer fuckin (hic) fckin going!
Driver: Listen mate: piss off.
Me: (hic) Wellll yer a SHIT tax(hic) taxidrivr (hic)...yer SHIT! HEY WHERE Y'GOIN? COME BACK! YA PRICK!
Driver: (Drives off, me shouting after him)

I flagged two more taxis down, and essentially had repeats of the same conversation, before flagging down a third and miraculously remembering that I had lived in Ealing for the past year.

The fourth factor that living in London presents to an Irish person is that it highlights national traits that may have hitherto been unnoticed. For example, I went to a meeting of a ramblers club (don't ask) last year, and upon arrival at the agreed meeting spot, I shook hands with the four people already standing there and introduced myself. So far, so good. Little did I know, more were coming. Many more. In fact, about thirty more people arrived, bit by bit, and I found myself therefore obliged to introduce myself to, and shake hands with, each and every one of them. One of them remarked how it was very unusual to do this, and that an 'Englishman' would never have behaved in this way. Seriously. Then again, this was the same guy who- bearing in mind this was all before the recent economic meltdown- later said to me, "Oh I find it really inspiring now that Ireland have got up on their own two feet and don't need help from England any more." So he was probably a total cock. I bit my lip to stop from pointing out that England's 'help' to Ireland has historically been tantamount to a someone lifting their foot from the head of a drowning man to allow him surface.

I am therefore constantly reminded of my Irishness in London. So why is February/March so important in relation to this? Simple: the Six Nations Ireland/England rugby match (almost upon us as I type).

At this point, I should probably point out that I'm not the world's biggest sports fan. Apart from tennis, snooker and Swedish lingerie-model mudwrestling, there are few sports I actually watch; I'm more of a movie junkie. In fact, a female friend recently asked me about the rules of rugby (such was my excitement about the impending Six Nations Tournament), and I believe my answer was: "It's simple really- one side gets the ball and has to make it to the other side. In the achievement of this, extreme violence is permitted and indeed encouraged." Though I suspect there's really more to it than that.

Anyway, the Ireland/England match: what does it signify? Well, for me, it acts as an important barometer of Anglo-Irish relations. Okay, so rugby is generally considered- even at the worst of times- to be more 'gentlemanly' than football. As a teenager, I remember watching the 1995 football riots at Lansdowne Road on television and being pretty shocked: hooliganism has historically been pretty rife in English football, but this was the first time I had seen it so close to home, particularly as two of my good friends were actually at the match. The riots, engineered by Combat 18 (neo-nazi links), all kicked off after David Kelly's goal; and such was the cultural significance, the two sides have not met to play football at this ground since, even fifteen years on.

Controversy struck Lansdowne Road again in 2003, this time in the guise of rugby, and ever more subtly. Martin Johnson, then captain of the England side, staunchly refused to move his players to a certain part of the red carpet, thereby causing the Irish President, Mary McAleese, to walk over uncovered grass. The non-Irish amongst you may wonder, what's the big deal? Well, there are two important points to consider: firstly, the Irish President is the country's national figurehead, tantamount to say, the Queen in England; secondly, imagine if the Irish rugby team had behaved similarly towards the Queen? I doubt they would have even got that far. Conclusion: Martin Johnson is a disrespectful ballbag.

And then there was the Ireland/England Six Nations match in 2007. This game carried particular cultural significance, as it was the first ever rugby match ever to be played at this venue, Croke Park being historically designated specifically for Irish sports (e.g. Gaelic football, hurling). Add in the fact that 'Croker' was also the setting for Bloody Sunday in 1920 (when British armed forces burst into the Park mid-match, opened fire and killed fourteen civilians in retaliation for an Irish terrorist attack earlier that day) and you've got the toaster of international sportsmanship resting precariously on the edge of a steaming hot political bathtub.

I remember watching the 2007 match in a pub in Dumfries, Scotland (long story). And I also remember being filled with immeasurable national pride at the silence and respect Irish fans showed to the English team during the opening anthems. That's how grown-ups behave, Mr Johnson.

Any discussion of Anglo-Irish relations would not be complete without a mini-rant about one Oliver Cromwell. It's a national tradition in Ireland to despise Cromwell. Unfortunately, I suspect that most of the people aren't sure exactly why. Sample exchange:

Why do you hate Oliver Cromwell?
Cos he's a fuckin' prick.
But why?
Cos...cos...he said that thing about hell and Connaught. And he's a fuckin' prick.
Yes, but why is he a prick?
Cos he just is. And...and..you're a prick too.

Et cetera.

So I did some research, and lo and behold, Oliver Cromwell is indeed a prick. Or more technically was. He and his troops were heavily involved in the slaughter and exile of thousands of Irish during their mid-17th Century Irish Campaign. Ancient history, you may say. But the most worrying aspect of all, is that Cromwell was voted number 10 in The Top 100 Greatest Britons in a poll carried out by the BBC as recently as 2002. [Note: that is 'greatest' not 'most famous'; I mean, I accept that Hitler may be a 'famous' German...but I'm not sure if I'd exactly call him 'great']. So it's refreshing that Cromwell is today still held in such high regard despite his crimes to the Irish people. The only thing that quelled my anger upon reading this was the questionable accuracy of the poll: Bono, Bob Geldof and James Connolly were also somehow included in the top 100 'Britons'.

My own take on the current perception of the Irish in London is probably best summed up by the following tale. About three years ago, I was walking home from a session in a pub in Hendon. Finding myself without a map, I was utilising that historically tried-and-tested method of finding my way home, just as our forefathers did: namely, checking maps on any bus-stop I drunkenly stumbled across. Unsurprisingly, I took a wrong turn somewhere and ended up slightly lost.

So I'm walking down this street, when I hear someone call out to me: 'Oi, blad!'

I turn around slowly and see two hooded punters standing across the darkened road. I decide to ignore them and continue moving.

'Oi man, I'm talkin' to you blad,' says the voice, slightly louder this time. And I realise they're following me. Shite.

'Yo, he's talkin' to you innit,' comes a second voice, the other hoodie. I try to break into a run, but.....well, if you've ever had your household pet sedated at the vet and watched it stumble around the house after you've brought it home, you'll have an idea of both the grace and speed I was displaying that night in my efforts to escape.

'You not hear me blad?' says the first voice, right behind me now. I slowly turn around. The two hoodies are staring at me. They look so pissed off, it's hard to imagine anything I could say would piss them off any further. And yet I still find it hard muster any words.

'Look..(hic) lads,' I feebly slur, hands held up in placation. 'I (suppressing burp) I'm jusht (hic) tryin' to get home.'

One of the hoodies cocks his head and regards me suspiciously. He jabs a finger at me, miming a pistol: 'You Irish?'

You Irish? I reckon I could've made it to the final question on 'Who Wants to be a Millionaire' and don't think I would have felt a millionth of the pressure I was feeling at that particular moment. I ran the question through my head again: You Irish? I prayed that one of my braincells was still awake at that moment, but it turned out they had all clocked off for the night. My brain was empty, apart from a post-it note which simply read: 'Back in five minutes'.

'You hear me blad?' repeated the hoodie.

You Irish? what was the correct answer to that question these days? I tried to picture a timeline of Anglo-Irish perceptions in my head. It went something like this:

1960's: Bloody paddies.

Early 1970's: Hmmm, there's something fishy about these guys.

Late 1970's: Whooa, these fuckers sure know how to make bombs.

1980's: Danger Will Robinson- these guys are EVERYWHERE.

Early 1990's: Still suspicious....

Riverdance, 1994: Fuck the bombs: they can dance- who knew?

Late 1990's - 2000's: Aww, they're actually loveable buffons. That Father Ted show is pretty funny too.

So I took a chance. 'Yes,' I said eventually. 'I'm Irish.'

The two hoodies stared at me for about three seconds, and I swear to fuck it was the longest three seconds of my life. Then they both broke into smiles.

'Irish, yeah? Fo' real yeah?' said the first hoodie, warmly.

'Umm, yes,' I replied, nodding tentatively.

'I''m Somalian!' he proudly exclaimed. He expected some sort of response, but I simply couldn't work out what the connection was between him being Somalian and me being Irish. He enlightened me.

'We both like guns yeah?!' he said excitedly, and mimed a machine gun.

'O-oh,' I stuttered. 'Guns...yeah. Er.. love em.' I mimed a machine gun back. 'Can't get enough of 'em. Yup. Guns guns guns. I love guns.'

'Yeah man,' he said, still smiling. Then he performed some sort of complicated handshake with me. 'Where you heading blad?'

'Er...Whetstone,' I mumbled.

'Aw man, you're going the wrong direction,' he said, then pointed me in the opposite direction. 'Down that way, take a left, then follow the high road.' He slapped me on the back, did the handshake again and waved me off. I then tottered home and changed my boxer shorts.

So what does all that say about Anglo-Irish relations in the twenty-first century? That you truly never know what the fuck to expect. Hence, occasions like the Ireland/England match are so important- they let us know where we all stand. And I, for one, will certainly enjoy the day, and in particular the match, no matter what the result.

As long as we hammer the fuckers.

Apostles

Freaky: yesterday I mention Jesus, and today I've got twelve followers.

Now if I can only work out how to turn water into sambucca...

You are now entering...the Friendship Zone

So there I am: driving down a not-so-dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair... you know the drill. The car I'm driving is, in retrospect, quite appropriate: a beige Buick. One hundred percent neutral. Completely inoffensive, on all counts. The only way it could be more so is if it was electric. Sadly, as I am reminded by the arrow precariously hovering above the letter 'E' on the fuel gauge, it is not.

The horizon is bare, save for a small triangle, seemingly floating in mid-air. The triangle gradually grows larger as I approach, and I eventually realise that it's a road sign. A dusty, dented metal sign which, in faded black letters, reads "Friendship Zone- One Mile". Seeing no other option, I continue in this direction.

A little further on, the road slopes downward into a natural basin in the desert. Within this area, is a small township- several rows of houses, surrounding a cluster of shops. Fortunately, there's enough juice in the engine to get me down to the main street.

I stop at the first house I come to, to ask for directions to the town petrol station. Sitting on the porch is an old timer in a rocking chair. I start to speak to him, and he cackles like some old, crazed gold prospector. His beard and remaining hair are both faintly yellow, and his precious few teeth look out of place, like uninvited guests at a gum party. I eventually ascertain from him that the petrol station is two blocks down and one over. I ask him how long he's been in the Friendship Zone, and he cackles again, quite manically.

'Fifty seven years,' he says, eventually. 'But it's only until Dorothy comes to her senses.' I ask him who Dorothy is, and he informs me she was a girl he had a crush on back in high school. Christ.

I just about make it to the petrol station, coasting on fumes. En route, I take in quite a lot of the town. The houses are all wooden and quite rudimentary, and the people on the street look at me with an air of suppressed curiousity. It's as if they want to be friendly, but are scared of overdoing it. Regardless of the pervading feeling of trepidation, there is a true vibe of community in the air.

The garage itself is a modest affair: two pumps and a paint-peeled convenience store. The door opens with a faint jingle and the man behind the counter looks up. He greets me and accompanies me outside.

'I'll need to fill the tanks fully,' I explain as we walk over to the car.

'Fill the tanks?' he asks, almost incredulously. 'Sorry stranger, pumps are dry. Fuel truck shoulda been through here 'bout two weeks ago.'

'Two weeks? You mean you haven't told them that you're low on fuel?' I can't believe this.

'Well,' he replies with a shrug. 'I didn't want to be pushy. Folk in this here town, we aint too pushy in general. '

'Okay,' I sigh, pinching my brow in frustration. 'Is there any other way I can leave town?'

He takes off his cap and scratches the back of his sun-scorched neck, head bowed deep in thought.

'Hmmm...well, you could always catch a train from Drunken-shag junction,' he says. 'But the timetable's plenty unreliable. Plus the tracks are pretty bumpy, and the train's been known to break down from time to time.'

'Christ, I don't fancy my chances leaving that way then. Anything else?'

'We-eell, I s'pose....you could always hitch a ride over by the Clock Tower. Over yonder.'

'The Clock Tower?' I ask, following his gesture to a building in the near distance, looming over all the others in town. The structure is reminiscient of a church spire, but with a large white clock-face at the top.

'Yep, that there's the Biological Clock Tower; some guys manage to hitch a ride outta the Friendship Zone that way, by car. I warns ya though, it can get pretty crowd. And it's one heck of a loooooong journey.'

I slump back against the, now defunct, car. 'So those are my only options? Does anyone ever actually leave this town?'

'Not much,' the garage attendant replies. 'Truth is, we're all pretty comfortable here. True, the weather aint always great- sometimes it can rain pretty darn heavy- but heck, we're all pretty content in general.' He replaces the cap on his head. 'You really want my advice, you'll go and get yourself a room at The Unrequited Motel. Rates are reasonable from what I hear; in fact, most folk tend to stay quite a while.'

Just when I'm considering his words, I hear the rumble of a large vehicle from the road. Suddenly, a large bus hurtles by.

'Hey, what the hell is that?' I ask.

'Oh, that? That there's the bus outta town.'

'What? There's a bus? Outta town??'

'Yep. Pretty regular too. Goes on to the next town, name of Acceptanceville. You can get a ticket down at the depot. But they only sell singles. Non-refundable, one-way tickets only. And most folk in this town, they aint exactly prone to movin' on for good.'

'But...why didn't you tell me?'

'About the bus? Heck, I figured you'd be fixing on stayin' a while in the Friendship Zone.'

In a strange way, he had a point. There was something welcoming about the town. But something about it too suggested that, behind all the community feeling, lurked a hidden loneliness. I pushed these thoughts to one side.

'When's the next bus?'

'Aint too sure, but they generally come along regular enough. Long as you got your ticket.'

I ask him for directions to the depot, and race off down the road.

'What about your car?' he shouts after me.

'Leave it,' I call over my shoulder. 'It's not worth it!'

Ten minutes jog later, I arrive at the depot; I buy my ticket just as the next bus pulls in.

'You come back now y'hear,' calls the girl in the ticket booth cheerily as I pant over to the bus. Not bloody likely, I think, clambering aboard.

The bus starts with a shudder and a growl, as I find a seat near the back. I get comfy, put an arm across the back of my seat and look out through the back window. The bus lurches forward and, as momentum is gathered, I watch a cloud of dust slowly build in its wake.

And ever so slowly, like the fading of a bad memory, the Friendship Zone disappears from my vision forever.

Next stop: Acceptanceville.

Fecks And The City

Well here I am, re-entering the blogosphere with my fourth post. And I must say, so far I've been about as prolific as Terrence Malick. I speak purely in terms of actual output of course- behind the scenes I've been busy enough, already jettisoning two failed blog ideas, Heilige Schiesse: Viele Doppelgangers! and The Plough and the Star Bar. But hopefully my productivity will pick up a bit.

Before I go any further, special props are due to Alison, the best grammatical error-spotter that maltesers can buy. See- told ya I'd mention ya, dollface.

But anyway: the fourth blog. Nine blog followers so far. Or blollowers, as they prefer to be known. Fair enough: it takes a while to build up decent-sized coterie of disciples. Just ask Jesus.

Feedback so far has been great, and very much appreciated: a friend of a friend for instance, commented after reading the blog that they couldn't believe I worked in a bank. This unfortunately echoes the thoughts of many of my colleagues who work in said bank.

It hasn't all been positive of course- one person kindly went out of their way to tell me how much they didn't laugh at the blog. Another generously said that they enjoyed the blog, and especially 'liked the way I wasn't necessarily trying to be funny'. Well er...I actually was. But hey. I suppose there are compliments, there are back-handed compliments, and there are kick-you-right-in-the-groin compliments. Well, as Shakespeare put it: "If thou cannst say anything nice, keep thy fuckyng trap shutteth" (quoted from A Midsummer Night's Dream: The Playwright's cut)

The best part so far was the lads' reaction to the blog, and to my writerly aspirations in general: they have even christened me 'Carrie feckin' Bradshaw'. However, rather than envisioning an opening credit sequence which depicts a bus advertising a seductively-posing Sarah Jessica Parker and the slogan Carrie Bradshaw Knows Good Sex beneath, they suggested it'd be more a case of a Kleenex delivery van displaying the phrase Conor Brennan Knows Self Love and a picture of me giving a big thumbs up. Nice. Self-deprecation for the nation.

The lads now therefore have this idea that my general approach to blogging is sashaying around my apartment, clad in a provocative nightdress and swilling from a cocktail glass, posing whimsical questions to myself, such as 'What makes a good relationship? Is it the same as what makes a good Cosmopolitan?'

In truth, it's more a case of me- eating a bowl of my new favourite meal, couscous (so good they named it twice), dressed only in a mankini and cowboy hat- pondering how to get cheap laughs with a minimum of effort.

You're welcome for the visual.

But seriously: cheers again all for the feedback and support- I will hopefully have built up a load of passable material by the end of the year.

On a final note, I have branched out a bit and set up an uber-geeky film-specific post (Reelspiel); if bored enough, you may fancy checking it out.

Till next time, take care of yourselves...and each other.

CB

Giving the V-sign to V-day

Ah Valentine’s Day. We meet again, old foe. Another year on, and there you are. Eternally taunting me. The Professor Moriarty to my Sherlock Holmes. The Bin Laden to my Bush. The Itchy to my Scratchy.

(Okay: so it's slightly after Valentine's Day at this stage. What can I say- tardiness is to me what prostitutes are to Tiger Woods: a bad habit I just can't kick... Besides, don't think of it as eight days late, more as three hundred and fifty seven days early, glass-half-full style.)

Like most single people, my feelings on Valentine’s Day broadly range from the apathetic to the downright nauseous. What's so good about the 14th of February anyway? The exact origins of the day are lost in history, though odds are it had more to do with beheading christians than with exchanging flowers and chocolates. And, given the fact that people in love should theoretically be mutually expressing said love the entire year round, quite why this particular day is singled out for special attention is anyone's guess. Especially when the calendar is full of so many other days infinitely more deserving of celebration. National Talk-Like-A-Pirate Day (19th September) for one. Or how about Cow Appreciation Day (15th of July)? And did you know that February is National Grapefruit month? I, of course, am heritage-bound to admit that my favourite day of the year, and a little over a month away from V-Day, is the 17th of March- Paddy's Day. Instead of giving each other overpriced roses and ridiculous teddybears, people can instead give themselves intense liver damage and extreme hangovers, all in celebration of a Welshman who supposedly banished Ireland's only interesting form of wildlife.

But in fairness to Paddy's Day, it is bloody good craic.

But whatever its origins, what does Valentine's Day mean today? A celebration of love. Delving deeper, and to quote nineties audioterrorist Haddaway, what is love? (Baby don't hurt me, don't hurt me, no more)

Love is, in fact, many things. A battlefield. A four-letter word. The devil. Never having to say you're sorry.

Love is also many places. In the air. All around. In your eyes. Purportedly growing where my Rosemary goes.

The truth of the matter is, and obvious as it seems, love is completely different things to different people. Therefore, the main problem with Valentine's Day is how in a shower of bland mass marketing, it dilutes the intimacy and uniqueness of love between two people. Think about it: how cheapening is it to realise that somewhere, someone else is giving a card to their loved one with the same, pre-printed, clichéd words as the card you're giving to yours? Or sit in a restaurant on Valentine's Day filled with dozens of other people doing the exact same thing?

But it's not all doom and gloom; my own back catalogue of Valentine's Days, for example, hasn't been without some joy. One of the happiest was when I was about seventeen, and received a perfume-doused card from a secret admirer, the inside of which was covered with little poems and scrawlings of love hearts. It didn’t take me long to work out who the sender was, and although I did not reciprocate the feelings, the gesture was sweet and much appreciated. The happiness however, was short lived: the girl who originally sent the card realised years later that she was, in fact, a lesbian. Probably best not to psychoanalyse that one.

Which neatly brings me back to the potential misery of V-Day. Fellow single folk, despair not: there are numerous ways of occupying yourself this (or, er more likely, next) Valentine's Day. Over the years, I have developed several ways of keeping the V-Day blues at bay.

The first involves a watermelon with a hole in the middle, a bottle of handlotion, and ....wait- clearly I've said too much.

Alternatively, why not spend the evening with a stack of completely anti-Valentine movies. The 'flying' scene in Titanic? The pottery scene in Ghost? Please. How about that scene in Commando where Arnold Schwarzenegger kills a guy on an airplane before quipping to the stewardess in Austrian monotone, "Please eskoos my friend; he's dead..ti-uuhed." Comic timing par excellence: eat your heart out, WC Fields.

Or one could always turn to achohol; after all, you can't spell Valentine's without Ale. Try getting shitfaced in the nearest hostelry. Trust me, it's very easy to do. Just take a gulp of your pint every time you see a couple smooching in the corner of the pub. Before you know it, it'll be last orders at the bar, and you'll be so hammered you'll be chatting up the fire extinguisher. Good times.

But for true hibernation from this brief Winter of smug coupledom, nothing can really compare to Speed Dating: the most fun you and a dozen girls can have with your clothes on.

I was personally first welcomed to the fold a few years back....(Cue flashback music and wavey screen-wipe effect)

There I was, sitting in the pub, having pints with a few mates one February the thirteenth, when a girl circulated the pub distributing flyers advertising a speed dating event for the following day. One of the lads looks at the flyer and says with a smile, “are ye thinking what I’m thinking?”

Probably not: I was silently wondering why abbreviation was such a long word.

“Speed dating!” says my mate, punctuating the silence.

"No. Fucking. Way," the rest of us simultaneously reply.

And so, like a swift cut to the next scene of a very predictable sitcom, we found ourselves traipsing out to the speed dating event the following night.

And to be fair, a bit of craic it was too. It was, after all, a sixty-minute opportunity to meet a diverse cross section of the finest single ladies London had to offer. It's the standard, compere-rings-bell-after-three-minutes, guys-move-to-the-next-seat, girls-remain-seated type of affair. There were fifteen girls in all, a sample of which follow:

Date #2- Humourless, but fit, Finnish girl
Her: Tell me about yourself.
Me: Well, I'm Irish....er been in London a few years....
Her: Where's the last place you've travelled?
Me: Em....Helsinki, I went there back in...
Her: What's the most important thing to you in life?
Me: (a little taken aback) Pfff...well.....em....I guess....
Her: What are your life ambitions?
Me: Whooa, em...ambitions you say...er
Her: Where do you see yourself in five years?
Me: (hooking a finger around collar to loosen) Christ....er....
Her: Make me laugh, tell me a joke.
Me: (sweating slightly) Feck...er....okay three men and a horse walk into a bar...
Her: Would you be willing to relocate?
Me: Huh?

(Unfortunately at this point, the bell rings before I have chance to fashion a noose out of my tie and hang myself)

Date #4- Flirty Irish girl.
Her: So, what's the best compliment you've ever gotten from someone else?
Me: Wow, good question. Not sure really...umm probably that I've got reeeally long eyelashes for a bloke. (hurriedly filling the silence) Er, what about you?
Her: Well.....a few weeks ago, a guy told me I was..."insatiable". You know what that means, don't you?
Me: Oho, I do indeed (cheeky wink and a smile)
Her: Ah good, (her smile turning to a puzzled frown) so... what does it mean?
Me: Ha ha (taking a swig of beer) Oh, you're serious. Em...it means you can never get enough.
Her: Ah, (smiles again) well it's true then (she licks her lips), I can't.
Me: Glad to hear it.
Her: So, (she circles the rim of her martini glass with an index finger) tell me: do you give good backrubs?
Me: Well ha ha, I've had very few complaints (I've also given very few backrubs)
Her: (smiling and delictately plucking the olive from her martini) Mmmmm, let me see your hands.
Me: (reaching across) Er...okay; here.
Her: Soft hands. Are you right handed or left handed?
Me: Right handed. (unable to follow where she's going with this, adding a banal question) Are...you right handed or..left handed?
Her: Both. I'm what you call....(she pauses to seductively suck the olive into her mouth) amphibious.
Me: (returning her flirty look with a smile, before realising what's just been said) amphib...wait, don't you mean ambidextrous?
Her: Why, what did I say?
Me: (motioning to the compere to ring the bell)

Date #7- Pretty Indian girl.
Her: So...what do you do for a living?
Me: (sheepishly) I'm a banker.
Her: (visibly more interested) Really? An investment bank?
Me: Er...not really. Actually, no.
Her: (interest flagging) So what kind of banking then?
Me: Corporate lending
Her: (interest back up) Interesting, what sectors?
Me: Small, education deals...
Her: (interest down) oh....
Me: ...but also some larger synidcated deals.
Her: (interest back up) ..interesting. Do you have a company car?
Me: Well... I just find it's pointless to have a car in London (I also can't actually drive)
Her: Oh haha, I know what you mean. Soooo, where do you live?
Me: West London (a.k.a. the arse end of Ealing)
Her: Do you have your own place?
Me: Kind of...(meaning no)
Her: Oh. (disappointed)
Me: (deciding to come clean) My real dream though is to be a writer.
Her: NEXT.

Date #10- Slightly tipsy Essex girl.
Her: I'm a little drunk (bursts out in a fit of giggles)
Me: Hey it's Friday, let your hair down!
Her: My gawd! Are you Scottish?
Me: Er..no, I'm Irish.
Her: Oh my gawd- do that fing!
Me: What thing?
Her: (more giggles) Oh I love how you say 'ting'. Go on, do that fing! That fing, you know!
Me: WHAT fecking thing?
Her: That number fing. Go on, go on: say it, say firty free and a fird!
Me: Thirty...three and a third?
Her: (yet more giggles) Oho, that is SO brilliant! 'Turty tree and a turd!' That is SO funnay! (slapping table)
Me: Thirty three and a third (anything for a cheap laugh)
Her: (the cocktail she's just sipped is now coming out her nose) Pffff, that is BRILLIANT! (the giggles now mutate into full blown cackling)
Me: (in the most Oirish accent I can muster) Potatoes. (cheap shot I know)
Her: (face now puce from laughter) oh my gawd, oh my gawd, stop! That is SO funnay! Now do the other fing!
Me: Er...what other thing?
Her: The other fing, you know! Do FATHER TED, do FATHER TED!
Me: (The bell then rings before I have a chance to explain that, linguistically speaking, asking a Dubliner to 'do Father Ted' is tantamount to asking Ant and Dec to impersonate the Mitchell Brothers)

Date #15- Bubbly Ozzie girl.
Her: Hoy, I'm Janine
Me: Howya Janine, I'm Conor.
Her: Ooooh Conor, eh? I've heard a lot aboutcha.
Me: Really? (slightly blushing) How so?
Her: My mate Samantha's here tonoyt, and I think she loykes ya (winks)
Me: (struggling to remember out of the last fourteen girls which one Samantha was) Oho..interesting.
Her: Chroyst she'll probably kill me for dobbing on her, hahaha!
Me: Sooo, what did she say?
Her: She said she thought you were funny, and had really noyce eyes.
Me: (blushing has now subsided, overt smugness taking over) oh, stop. Stop. Seriously though....what else did Samantha say?
Her: Jeez, I cannot belieoyve I'm telling you all this! But she also said you had really noyce lips.
Me: Oh stop. But seriously, what else?
Her: She also said....aw shit, here she is!
(Samantha passes by on her way to the toilet)
Her: Oh hoy Sam, just chatting with Conor (giving Samantha a wink)
Samantha: (looking puzzled) Oh...okay?
Her: Y'know- Conor. The Oyrish guy, right?
Samantha: (rolling her eyes) No-oo, it was the other Oyrish guy (gestures over to my friend Murphy across the room)
Her: Oh royt, haha that's a bladdy riot hey! (the two girls crack up)
Me: (blushing out of sheer embarassment this time and realising there are actually NO words for that situation..)

And those were just the highlights.

So to summarise, whatever your situation, whoever you are, there is a solution to the horror of V-Day.

If you are in a couple, refuse to be blackmailed into playing the V-Day game, I urge you. Show your love in little ways, every day. A txt here, a kiss there. It's the little things that count.

And if you are single, well.....watermelons are going two for a quid at Asda.

Brendan out.

Home Alone: A story of survival

There are many things that I believe most of us would dread to have trapped in our house: A swarm of locusts. A rabid puma. A diarrhoea-stricken elephant. Russell Brand.

But out of all these things, surely an angry Northern Irishman would also feature high up on the list.

It all started in January when my landlord (from Derry, living in Dubai) had said that his brother would be coming over to stay at the flat at some stage. No worries, says I; su casa es...well, su casa. I then forgot about it all until noon last Saturday when I received a voicemail from the landlord’s brother Kev, saying he was heading over to London to move all his stuff into the flat. I waited till the end of the voicemail to hear his arrival date, when it turned out it was that very day- 4pm.

Well, the weekend was already in motion, but I was happy to stick around that afternoon to let him in; I had nothing else on really, except watching the Irish make Bolognese outta the Italians in the rugby. Molto bene.

So 4pm came, Kev arrived, and we moved all his stuff in. He’s dead sound, we have a cup of tea and chat about life and shizzle. Then 7pm rolls around and I realise that I’m running late for a mate’s leaving drinks in Islington, and herein lies our conundrum: two of us- but only one door key.

No worries, he says; he’s knackered from the driving and he’ll probably just crash early. If he needs food, he reckons he’ll just order a pizza in. So that seems to solve the problem. So I throw on my drinking clothes and vamoose. Unfortunately....I may have, without thinking, er...locked the front door behind me as I left. Either that, or the door is self locking. Personally, I’m gonna go with the latter explanation.

So I head into town, and am working on my second pint of Guinness when I get a call from Kev.

“Em...Conor?”
‘Kev- what’s the craic?’
“Aye...em, the front door’s locked.”
‘Oh, okay...well can’t you just open it?’
“Aye but..it’s locked from the inside.”
‘Ooooooh,’ I say, beginning to realise the problem: the poor bastard’s locked in the flat.
“Aye,” says Kev. “The wee pizza boy’s outside the front door now and I can’t let him in.”
‘Oh shite,’ says I, helpfully. ‘Em....I don’t know what to say man....sorry?’
“Ah well...” says Kev resignedly. “No bother...I’ll work something out. Just feckin’ hungry is all.”

I then heard him telling the pizza boy, in no certain terms, that he had got the wrong house, and to therefore feck off.

In retrospect, the only thing Kev probably could have done in that situation was to get the pizza boy to slide the pizza in through the letterbox, slice by slice, and then reassemble it on the other side himself. I was about to text this suggestion to him seconds later, but thought the better of it.

Kev later told me that, after the pizza disappointment, he went to the back door to see if the backgarden could offer him any freedom from this accidental house arrest. However, there are two things you should know about the flat. Firstly, it is situated a few doors down the road from a police station, and therefore nocturnal prowling around the neighbours’ backgardens is highly inadvisable. Secondly, the flat is a maisonette- i.e. a house whereby the upstairs and downstairs have been divided into separate dwellings. As a result, the downstairs back-room window of the family living underneath us, faces directly onto our backgarden. What this basically means is that the only thing Kev achieved by tapping on the back-room window in his quest for liberation, was to scare the bejesus out of the six year old boy who lives downstairs. The kid was so alarmed on seeing Kev’s partially-illuminated-by-moonlight, shaven head staring in at him, and tapping the window, that he ran off crying for his mother.

Sure who wouldn’t?

Meanwhile I continued on my night out, had a few more pints, until the point when somebody asked: “are you staying for another?” Then I remembered there was some bloke half-starving in my flat, and in true Home-Alone style, slapped a hand to my face in realisation and exclaimed ‘KEVIN!’ I then downed my last pint and rushed for the last tube.

It turned out that Kev, as previously advised, had crashed early and was asleep by the time I got home. The next morning I sheepishly emerged from my room, hungover and apologetic. Kev had packed his overnight bag and was getting ready to head back to Derry, via scenic London on the way.

‘Er...sorry about last night Kev,’ I said.

“No worries man,” he replied, waving away the apology with a smile. “Shit happens.”

And like that, all was forgiven. Fair play.

“I have to say though,” he added, scratching his head, and wearing a grave expression. “I don’t think I would’ve made it through the night if it wasn’t for those Snack-A-Jacks o’ yours.”

He then grabbed his bag, shook my hand and headed for the front door, before pausing.

“Oh aye,” he said, turning around. “And your beef noodles got it too.”

Trust me: you’ve never heard anything quite as sinister as a Northern Irishman confessing to having basically assassinated the paltry contents of your food cupboard.

PS Kev- you're right, I do owe you royalties on this one..

If brevity is the soul of wit..

We here I am, back for my second posting. And may I just give special props at this stage to Eric 'WAAZZUP' Pettigrew- The Blogfather- for getting me started, and Miss Osterberg- my er..Fairy Blogmother?- for suggesting that I write the darn thing in the first place. Props too to all the other important people: John Boy, Tiny Tim, all my homeys in Bruges, and to you most of all Scarecrow.

I truly appreciate people's feedback on the first blog. The main criticism has been that it was perhaps a little too long- which is, let’s face it, a refreshing criticism for any bloke to hear. But I suppose it’s better to think of the first posting as the feature-length, pilot episode; subsequent additions will be shorter, fret not.

On that note, I’ll keep this brief.







Parsnips.









There, that should do it. Till next time,

CB

Talkin' 'bout a res-o-lution

Well here it is, the very first outing of my very own, very online blog. The maiden voyage, so to speak.

I guess it's like any maiden voyage really: The Wright Brother's aviation attempts at Kittyhawk back in 1903. Yuri Gargarin's flight into space in 1961. Or even that dude from Tennessee who was the first person to fire a bottle rocket from his own arsehole in 2003.

My point is, there's bound to be some teething problems- the maiden voyage doesn't always go smoothly. For instance, that bloke from Tennesse is still scouring the launch site for his left testicle (serous miscalculation on the rocket back-burn I believe). So please- bear with me.

I was uncertain what to write about for this first post. But, after running through a shortlist of possible topics, from Why Cats Shouldn't Holiday in China, and How Thierry Henry Made Me Boycott Gillette Products, to more contentious issues such as Walkmans or Walkmen- The Plurality Conundrum and The Dairy Milk Bubbly: Just a Covert Wispa Bar?, I finally settled on writing about that futile tradition which nevertheless tends to make a reappearance on most folk's calendars around this time every year.

Namely, the dreaded New Year's Resolution.

We all make them, we all break them, and then the following year we make them all over again. Certain resolutions, in particular, are repeat offenders. Take the following, for example:

Must Eat Healthier Foods
I've long since suspected that there's more to a two course meal than a jumbo pack of instant noodles and a box of jaffa cakes. However I also remain wary of the fact that we all live in an incredibly body-conscious age, where calories are religiously counted, fatty foods are demonised, and every nutritionist and dietician worth his or her salt is busy clamouring for the latest TV deal. Hence we are bombarded with programmes such as I'm Great But You're Fat, The Problem with Moobs Today, and Enjoy That Cheeseburger Tubby- It May Be Your Last.

I'm not saying we shouldn't watch what we eat, but it's easy to take it to extremes, especially when the latest liposuction-makeover programme is followed by a health special on anorexia. Irony anyone?

Take Up Regular Exercise
It's simple: if God wanted us to exercise, he never would given us arses to sit on. A friend of mine once told me that a six-mile run at the end of the day was a 'treat' for him. In response, I merely asked him if his magazine subscription to Masochists Monthly was expiring anytime soon.

See, I'm the type of person who just doesn't really enjoy exercise- I simply do it (on occasion). Like everyone else, I will of course say 'oh I feel much better afterwards.' Well obviously I do, because it's fecking well over. If anything, the feeling of well-being achieved post-exercise only serves to counter the feeling of nausea and dread of impending pain experienced before the actual exercise takes place. It's a simple trade-off.

Don't get me wrong- I'd never let myself slip into the too-fat-for-conventional-clothes-and-now-need-to-wear-a-tarpaulin stage- but I just believe in a bit of balance. This is probably best illustrated by my response to a friend of mine, considerably more conscious about such exercise matters than I, who recently moaned about the ridiculous influx to the gym that occurs every January. I shrugged and pointed out that it simply mirrors the ridiculous influx to the pubs that occurs every December- we all have our cross to bear.

Travel More
The above resolution is something of a misnomer; let me clarify: seeing new places, experiencing new cultures- I love all that. But the actually travelling part of it? Sitting on a plane, staring at clouds for three hours? Lugging baggage on and off public transport to get to and from the airport? Pain in the arse.

In the average working lifetime, assuming a five-day working week, five weeks annual leave and forty years of servitude, a person will generally spend about eighteen thousand, eight hundred hours commuting to and from work. That's the equivalent of just over TWO WHOLE YEARS. I therefore ask you, why would you want to travel more? Roll on the invention of teleportation devices, I say.

Or maybe I've just taken the concept of travelling a tad too literally.

Buy a House
The word mortgage is a French word, and comes from the words 'mort' and 'gage', which when combined, literally mean "DEATH-PLEDGE". I don't know about you, but I'm in no rush to enter into such a contract.

Okay, okay- I may seem quite cynical thus far, but that's not to say I don't possess considerable hidden reserves of idealism. For instance, I happen to have made quite a few resolutions of my own this year:

Stop smoking
Given that the only things I've smoked regularly in my life were plastic cap-guns as a child (don't ask), I usually include this on my list to ensure that I easily fulfil at least one of my resolutions.

Learn a Foreign Language
This one is also a bit of an easy fix. I'm already relatively comfortable with French, mildly familiar with Italian, and on vaguely nodding terms with Mandarin Chinese. However, having last studied the language about five years ago, I have decided to renew my efforts on the French side of things. To this end, I have already met with one or two French-speakers for conversation practice this year, and it's going well so far. Quite reassuring really, as I had previously viewed the French as a people who did nothing more than make obscure, monochrome movies about sex, habitually smoke Gauloises, and walk around generally looking unimpressed with everything. Bof.

Be More Charitable
I have resolved to engage in more volunteer and charity work this year. I know people working in such roles are often criticised for gratifying their own egos and making themselves feel better, but I just find it forces you to put your own problems in perspective. After all, who can truly care about designer labels and salary bonuses when faced with a guy entering a homeless shelter to ask if he can borrow a suit just to attend the First Holy Communion of his daughter who he hasn't been allowed see in six months?

Such efforts are however not always well received by those at which they are aimed, and who can complain- no matter how harsh their personal situation, everyone retains some degree of pride. I am reminded of a story a friend of mine once told me. His policy is, upon seeing homeless people on the street, he will buy them food or a cup of tea or something, rather than giving them money. So one day, he's walking down Nassau Street in Dublin and sees this aul' fella lying in a doorway- the guy's probably in his sixties. Upon seeing this, my friend nips around the corner to Burger King, buys a hamburger and coke and brings it back to the old guy on the street. He crouches down and holds out the food.

'Here ya go,' says my friend. Upon registering his presence and the food before him, the old man shifts from a lying position and props himself up onto one elbow. He's shivering from the cold, his skin is jaundiced from alcoholism and his face gaunt from malnourishment. The aul' fella raises his free hand and points a quivering finger at the food. He begins to speak, but is overcome by a violent coughing fit.

'Whoa,' says my friend tenderly. 'Easy does it.'

'Is..' says the aul' fella, recommencing his sentence, but his next words are obliterated by the same hacking cough.

'It's okay,' says my friend, and places a comforting hand on the old man's shoulder. The old man's eyes are rheumy and blooshot, and his anorak is worn and smells faintly of urine.

'Is there..' starts the old man again, but his body is once more wracked by spluttering and coughing.

'Easy there,' says my friend gently. At this stage he is only seconds away from actually cradling the old man's weary head. The aul' fella wheezes, and almost bows his head in defeat, but then valiantly makes one final attempt to get his words out. After almost every syllable, he pauses a second to catch his breath.

'Is there...any (cough)....is there any (cough, cough)...is there any sauce...on that burger?'

My friend frowns. 'Umm...yes, I think so.'

'Nah,' grunts the old man, waving it away.

'No sauce.'

Classic. All I can say is, beggars and choosers, eh?

Learn a Musical Instrument
In 2010, I'm going to concentrate more on trying to learn the guitar and expand my repertoire beyond three buzzy-sounding chords and a handful of Oasis songs. The main beauty of a guitar is it's portability, versus the majority of other instruments. This is probably best exemplified by a great Far Side cartoon (always difficult to describe in words), which consists of two old-timer cowboys sitting around a campfire one night. One of them has an oversize grand piano convolutedly tucked into the back of his trousers (the piano takes up about half the cartoon panel), and the other old-timer says "Hey Zeke, why don't you pull out that ol' sucker and play us a tune?"

Another reason the guitar is great is that it is the type of instrument someone can thrust in your hand at a house party and ou can therefore react as follows: initially feign modesty about playing, eventually take the guitar with apparent reluctance, and then- seemingly with a minimum of effort- reel off the eclectic mix of ten crowd-pleasing songs you've spent the last twelve months relentlessly practicing. Nice.

In fact, it's easy to forget the crucial role a guitar plays in your standard house party. The standard sequence of events usually runs as follows:

· sometime around midnight, everyone begins to get so drunk on beer that drinking Jagermeister from the bottle actually seems like a good idea;
· everyone becomes more hammered, starts to get a bit restless, and finds that the guitar-playing and accompanying sing-song gives the party some sort of focus once more;
· whoever is playing the guitar then moves onto Irish songs which will invariably include The Fields of Athenry;
· some of the more boisterous attendees of the party will replace the common refrain of "baby let the free birds fly" with "I R A";
· the above action will then polarize all the people in the room;
· the most drunken person on the ah-the-IRA-weren't-too-bad-after-all side will get into a lengthy argument with the most drunken person on the how-dare-you-ever-praise-the-IRA side;
· the length of this argument will necessitate two comfy armchairs and the cracking open of a bottle of whiskey;
· sometime around 8am the next day, both of the arguing parties will decide the argument isn't worth wasting good whiskey over, will shake hands and become firm friends;
· one or both of the arguing parties will then collapse onto the floor in a heap and plunge into a semi-comatose, snore-filled state until about noon;
· at noon, both of the arguing parties will wake up and ask each other what happened after the bottle of Jagermeister was opened.

Ah, the humble guitar. Frankly, it's difficult to imagine a house party without one.

Pass Drivers Test...or at least try to
The last driving instructor I had was an eight foot tall ex-policeman. He was fond of dispensing such bizarre pearls of wisdom as "for jayzis's sake Conor, don't be looking in that wing mirror, it's not worth a prostitute's kiss" and "Jesus wept! You haven't a chance in hell of passing this bleedin' test".

In a bizarre moment (reminiscient of that scene in Star Wars when Obi-Wan Kenobi encourages Luke Skywalker to 'use the Force' by making him try to dodge lasers whilst impairing his vision), the instructor made me take off my prescription glasses during one of the lessons: "For Christ's sake Conor, you look like Harry bleedin' Potter with them specs on- get rid of 'em." So I put them to one side, and despite driving around half-blind, managed not to kill anyone. Strong with me that day the Force was.

Unfortunately, and astonishingly given the quality of my instructor, I failed my test. Lack of observation on the left, they said. What a mouse-fart of a way to go. It would've been much more rock-n-roll if I had gone the wrong way down a one-way street, or maimed a pensioner or something. But hey, what's done is done, and despite inevitably never using it whilst still residing in London, 2010 will hopefully see me making further steps down the road to getting my drivers licence.

Above all else, it has become increasingly embarrassing that the only way I can give a lift home to any girls I meet in a nightclub is via piggyback.

Embrace My Creative Side
As we speak.

Stop Worrying About Hairline
Que sera sera. It has long been apparent to me that the genetic Grim Reaper has singled out my hair follicles for termination. My hairline hence continues to recede faster than the global economy. There's nothing I can really do, expect to let it happen gracefully. I will therefore not be utilising the time honoured comb-over method of my own dear Pa, nor the tried and tested grow-a-pony-tail method of the majority of Hollywood film producers.

The worst method of all though, is best illustrated by an ex boss of mine. I call it the extreme denial method. Although the majority of his hair had receded, there was still a small, stubborn patch of growth present at the very front of his scalp, completely disconnected from the rest of his hairline. It reminded me of those two Japanese soldiers on the Island of Lubang who were never told that World War Two had ended and continued fighting up to twenty nine years after the fact. I felt like grabbing that tuft of hair and shouting 'It's over, okay- you've lost! Male Pattern Baldness has won the battle!'

Most annoying though about the whole baldness thing, is that the hair which hitherto would have grown on my head, has now been somehow misdirected to other parts of my body, such as the ear, the nose, et cetera. I can't help but visualise two puzzled hair follicles sprouting on my shoulder blade, having the following conversation:

Hair #1: Hey, waitaminute- is this the forehead?
Hair #2: Whoa, I dunno. I expected it to be more crowded than this..maybe it's the ass?
Hair #1: Well that's just great. I specifically requested a placement somewhere on the cranium.
Hair #2: No, wait- I think...I think this is the back. Isn't that the shoulder just above us?
Hair #1: Godammit, I told you we should've taken a left at the neck.
Hair #2: Okay, well next time you read the bloody map!

And so on. I suppose there's nothing left for me to do, other than heed the words of a random stoner I recently met at a houseparty. The guy was cursed with the same affliction as myself, and through his Marijhuana haze, he said to me, 'Hey, you know what I say man: don't think of it as losing hair, simply think of it as.....

..gaining face.'

Wise words indeed.

And so ends my run-down of resolutions for 2010. Even if I don't fulfil the majority of them, it's good to have them in place- give myself some aspirational structure for the next 12 months, and all that. For as the old saying goes, Man plans, God laughs. Which I suppose means, that plans are made to be altered.

So stick a fork in me, I'm done. I've finally popped my blog cherry... and am off now to smoke a post-coital cigarette.

Soon,

CB

P.S. And in case you can't quite place it, the title of this post comes from... what's that? You don't care? Oh, okay then.