Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Alright- keep your fucking ovaries in, I’m back.
Life as a politic-journo is tough enough. No, not tough in the ‘breaking your hands as you break the soil, labours or our fathers and fathers fathers’ way, no, more tough in the ‘keeping your eyes open/sanity intact/will to live’ kind of way. It’s fine when I’ve got something to do- it can in fact be quite stimulating. Even when we’ve nothing to do it’s grand cos we just fuck around and have a laff. It’s the in between times- when you haven’t actually got work in front of you, but know that you should have- those are the times when you want to peel your own skin off starting at the feet. I was quite looking forward to my first press conference yesterday until I realised that everyone in the room except me had some sort of emotional investment in what was being spoken of, and as such was so irreconcilably bored that I had to restrain the urge to walk up to Micheal Martin, drop my flies and void the steaming contents my swollen bladder into his eyes just to give him something interesting to talk about.
And today I got snarked at by my boss for addressing him and my other boss as ‘fellas’ in an e-mail.
I am, however, concocting a plan to slowly- almost imperceptibly slowly- turn the magazine into a sleazy, scandal-mongering rag of a mag a lá Hush Hush or Heat. I doubt if the fellas in charge will be fans of the change, but fuckit, we might actually sell a few copies. And if we can still charge €50 a pop for it, we’re laughing.
In other news, had Andrea, Mum, Enda, Grainne, Joe, the Amymonster and the fair Mia over to check out the attractions of Dirty Dublin town, (though not all at the same time) and the city obliged by giving us some sun on each occasion. There really is nothing quite like dub in the sun is there? The people just go sort of nuts if there’s still 60% visibility after work, and attempt to reclaim the streets using only alcohol, vomit and overzealous conversation with strangers. It’s fun. Midweek drinking is monster fun, and eminently doable under summery conditions; it seems the god of hangovers gives you a get out of jail free card cos you’re Irish and you don’t get enough Vitamin D.
The social circle is taking something of a beating what with Peter disappearing off to Morrocco, Sarah taking most of the womenfolk off on some silly-assed trip around the world and Gary making noises about moving back up north. But still, there’s more than enough drinking/dancing partners around to make up a respectable social calendar. And after a prolonged bout of drinking, myself and mark have convinced Kirk that a party in the house is in no way a bad idea. For joy.
Got me comics back. There’s no way to explain in words the kind of joy this inspires without doing irreparable damage to my precious remaining reserves of cred, so I’ll just convey it through a noise instead:
