I was in the bar the other night having a drink or two with a couple of the locals while Fuinnéog and the Knob Gobbler had a well deserved night off.
I’ve found a compassionate side to myself ever since I adopted them from the Fairynage. I’ve grown to love my little living sperm bibs and I have even found myself showing them off when the others start going on about their little ones.

Just like the other night:

The first bloke began the whole thing off, “I’m so proud of my boy. He started working in a factory while he attended night classes and studied for his degree on a distance learning course. He rose through the ranks with hard work and now he’s the CEO and makes a fortune. He’s so well off that he bought his best friend a top of the range Mercedes.”

“That’s impressive”, said the second bloke. “I’m really proud of my son. He started out as a cabin assistant on an airline and with hard work and patience he saved up enough money to go to pilot school. He eventually went on to start his own air transport company and has just bought a private plane for his best friend.”

The third bloke sipped his pint and took a deep breath. “I can’t tell you all how proud of my son I am. He started in construction as the tea boy on a building site, worked hard and served apprenticeships before going on to build his own construction company. He’s made millions and has just bought and furnished a penthouse apartment for his best friend for his birthday.”

I knew this was eventually going to come around to me, so I just waited until I was asked. The others were treating it as some sort of competition, but I would only join in when asked to.

“How’s your son getting on Maxi? Little Knob Gobbler, how’s he doing?” asked the first bloke.

“Knob Gobbler?”, I asked immediately unsure of why I did so. “He’s a male prostitute, takes it up the exit for a living. Never done an honest day’s work in his life.”

They all chimed in in turns:

“Oh, that’s too bad.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Never mind, have another drink.”

I interrupted them, “No it’s alright actually, he’s doing ok for himself. None of this standing on street corners and hiding behind trees in the Pheonix park for him, he’s a top class sausage wallet. Lives the life of Riley so he does and all without doing fuck all. Why he’s doing so well this year in fact that his best clients have given him a top of the range Mercedes, a private plane and a fully kitted out penthouse apartment.”

Ooh, that made you read on, didn’t it?

Everybody is going on about a new blogger and rightly so.

I would like to shout a bit of encouragement to Tommy and say that I do indeed trust him, although he shouldn’t trust me.

And before you go off and call child services and start drawing up a witness list, I don’t mean I’ll be doing anything to make people believe I have a hidden agenda or anything.

All I mean is that while Tommy is a great writer and already a much better blogger than me and a lot of others out there, he is 14.

That’s right – 14.

I won’t make a big deal about it, as it’s patronising and insulting in my opinion to him, but I’ve got perversions older than him so while I want to spread the word that we are witnessing blogging history as he will go on to leave us all behind in his greatness of wherever his blog and writing brings him, I think we should all pull together and make damn sure that he doesn’t find out about my blog.

I don’t want to be the reason for the first expletive on his blog.

I don’t want to inspire the first time he says “Your ma” to somebody. (Actually I do)

I don’t want to be be responsible for him developing a habit for filth and muck.

Now, I don’t hold myself with such an air of importance and think that I, one man, would or could be responsible for such a thing but I don’t want to risk it.

Help me help him, people.

Let’s keep him off this site, because lets face it even if he ignores it (as most people do) it will still burn in the back of his mind and one day erupt when his hormones get the better of him and before you know it he’ll be insulting everybody’s ma.

You could always tell him that I have a spare iPhone I’m using as a coaster, that might piss him off enough not to come over.

My feminine side was at me today.

“You need to treat yourself to a bath.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yea, when was the last time you just took some time for yourself?”

“Right before I began typing this, the crusty tissues are proof.”

“Not like that, you need to take some time just for you. Light some candles, put on some soft music and just let your thoughts take you to a better place.”

“I don’t like baths.”

“Everyone likes baths, and bath salts.”

“I don’t. Showers are quicker and use less water.”

“Yes, but can you put bath salts into a shower?”

“Bath salts? Yes, I suppose you can, they wouldn’t last as long, but you could.”

“Typical, make smart comments about it. Go and run a bath and get some bath salts.”

“Fine, if it will get you off my back.”

There was a moments silence as I undressed in preparation.

Then:

“Oh My Gaw, like what is that?”

“What’s what? And why are you talking like a south side teenager outside a job center?”

“That thing on your toe? It’s all like gross and stuff.”

“That? Oh, that’s a blister. Got it from that 4 mile walk we embarked on last night to kick start the exercise.”

“Well, pop it.”

“No, it’ll sort itself out, I don’t want it getting infected.”

“Wait right there, I’ll just check out Beaut.ie and see what they say to do.”

“Don’t. You. Dare.”

“Fine, but you should do something about it, and while you’re at it, get a pedicure.”

“A pedicure?”

“Yeah, don’t you have a foot fetish?”

“I suppose, but I’m not about to give myself a footjob now am I? Or suck on my own toes for jollies.”

“Burst the blister.”

“No.”

“Burst it.”

“No.”

“G’wan, burst it.”

“No.”

“Let me then.”

“No.”

“C’mere a minute.”

“No, get off.”

“Hold still.”

“Leave it, you’ll get blister juice everywhere.”

“Nearly.”

“I’m warning you.”

“Nearly.”

“It feels weird.”

“Got it. Ooh, that was a big one.”

“Gross.”

“Stop your whinging and get into the bath, it’ll be better by the morning.”

“Fine.”

“What would you do with out me, huh?”

“Agh, what the fuck? That really stung.”

“What happened?”

“I put my toe in the water and it stung like fuck, that’s what. You and your bright ideas. Keep them to yourself in future.”

“Gobshite, if you haven’t got the right ingredients for a bath, then don’t use anything. Here’s a plaster for your toe, now go and put the SAXA back in the kitchen. Goober.”

I have banished my feminine side to the strip club and she can’t come back until my toe stops throbbing or she brings home a set of twins with boundary issues and low self esteem.

Bloody bath salts.

That’s right, I’ve just made up a new word.

When is it alright to be a racist?

I’m not setting you up for a rant on my neo nazi views you think I may have developed in the hope that you’ll agree with me, but I want you to think about that for a minute.

Why is it racist only to insult a person individually, yet we slag off entire cultures, races and countries and it’s not seen the same way?

An example:

“I’ll never trust another black taxi driver again”

“Yeah, I’ve heard stories”

Or

“I’ll never trust another black person again.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

The first one I over heard only today while queuing for my morning coffee and if we’re all completely honest we have either been witness to a conversation like it, been involved in one like it or started one like it. I sincerely think that anyone who denies that is lying.

The second one I heard a couple of weeks ago in a newsagents choosing a magazine when two ladies walked in giving out about something. The part of the conversation I picked up on is what’s highlighted above. What got me was not the first girl in an obvious racist rant, but her friend who chimed in in agreement.

So is it alright to hate black taxi drivers, for example but not alright to hate black people? I of course know that the answer is not to tar anybody with a group brush, but can you see what I’m saying?

There is so much acceptable racism around, whether it’s calling Americans loud and obnoxious or the English pompous and arrogant to the Irish being constantly referred to as a nation of stupid drunks.

When is it a stereotype more than just a stereotype?

I follow a blog that you’re all probably most familiar with. If you’re not, get your ass over there and check it out.

HERE.

Susan gives tips on how to write, or at least how to grab someone’s attention if you think you should have that million selling book deal already. It’s a great site, really is. I could go on about it, but check it out for yourself.

Today she posted a list of titles that a publisher would like to see submitted among the piles of paper they get every year and, as she puts it, the list itself makes for some very interesting reading.

I’ve got a project or two in the pipeline and while I’d love to say I’m writing a novel or a book I just haven’t got the time, just yet. That doesn’t stop me thinking though. I could write a children’s book.

Hell for the past four years I’ve written sell out children’s stage shows staged in the Helix, and this Friday night there’s a children’s show on in the Olympia that I’ve written a bit for. I could write a book for the younger generation, I’m hip, I’m with it.

I haven’t figured out what I’d write about specifically, but I reckon that all I need are a few titles and the idea to rework classic tales:

Snow White and the seven sex offenders -
This would warn of the scary dangers of social network sites to kids. And sell container loads to perverts who judge books by their covers.

Pinocchio, The Memoirs -
“Nobody thinks of the sexual frustrations of Fairytale characters. I actually once had a job as a Fairytale Prince and I even climbed a tower to rescue Rapunzel, she was of course delighted to see me. Sitting on my face and demanding that I tell a lie. Yep, it’s all fun and games until someone gets a splinter….”

“Through the Looking Glass”, The Diary of a Magic Mirror -
“Everyday it’s the same. I’ve been on this wall for 157 years and not once has anyone ever told me that I was the prettiest mirror in the land”

Little Red, Riding in the ‘hood -
This tells the tale of a little girl living on the streets and tries to make a living ferrying drugs around the neighborhood in her wicker backpack. It doesn’t end well though, the big bad wolf is actually a drug squad sniffer dog undercover. “Oh, little red riding hood, what big eighths you have”, “All the better to get you off your tits, Grandma”

And finally, and I might just make a tidy sum on this one:

“Fun with the Fritzels” -
A huge list of enjoyable games for the whole family to enjoy, while locked away for decades in a basement. With classics like Eye-spy:

“Eye-spy with my little eye, something beginning with “S”.

“Sunlight?”

“Nope”

Hey, Harry Potter was turned down dozens of times before it was published. I reckon I’m onto a winner here.

Don’t you?