Bald Man Rants

Taste of rain

In the beginning we paid for food by bartering, then we paid in punts, and now we pay in Euros. At the Taste of Dublin last June, however, I was introduced to a new currency…florins. Having to use this funny money made me feel like I was in a real life game of monopoly, with one important difference: the aim wasn’t to purchase hotels or houses (we all know the problems with that) but instead to fill my belly!

Unlike the aforementioned hotels and houses, food will never go out of fashion (it can go out of date, however. You have been warned!). Having Taste of Dublin 2010 now behind me, I would also hope that eating food under a roof of some sort will also remain in fashion for many years to come. This sentiment is due to the unfortunate unpredictability of Ireland’s weather, as I once again discovered last Sunday, my food fest having to be combined with impromptu swimming lessons every few minutes. And they say that men can’t multi-task!

Initial soaking behind me, my appetite was still very much intact. It was time for a purchase to ease the pain. Roasted scallops with a duck confit, mango coulis, and a foie gras lollipop from Conrad Gallagher’s Salon de Saveur restaurant caught my eye, mainly because I had no clue what foie gras tasted like, or was spelt (as you can now see, readers, this is no longer an issue for me, oh how far I’ve come). Mini-meal consumed, it was time for another downpour. Hooray! Spirits somewhat dampened, I consoled myself by grabbing as much SWAG as I could get my wet little mitts on.

The organisers had put down walkways to help keep things manageable from a movement point of view, which I’m sure worked perfectly well in the dry as the public walked around each other on the grass with reckless abandon! Once puddles had formed, however, things didn’t go quite so swimmingly, and purveyors of all things florin related found themselves confined to these narrow white tracks, unable to pass. Resembling a scalextric track with frequent food stops, I found myself wishing I’d spent more time learning my hand signals when learning to drive all those years ago.

Rain beating down, I was glad to see that umbrellas in the eye were still free of charge, so thankfully I had enough funny money left for the house favourite, steak and chips from the Saddle Room. Consumed with glee, it was time to head home, already looking forward to next year’s florin fest. Now where are my rules of the road…

WTF is up with LOL, ROFL, and BYOB

Have you ever come across people who feel compelled to end every sentence in textual form with either lol or rofl, especially when talking about things that aren’t even supposed to be funny? For those of you who have no clue what these terms mean, I commend you, and suggest that you stop reading right now.

Ok twentysomethings, now that I have your (notoriously short) attention, can you imagine if these same conversations were actually in person (for those of you who can remember what actual face to face contact is like) and the other person ended each of their sentences by laughing out loud? How fucking odd would that be? Don’t even get me started on the rolling on the floor laughing nonsense. The only time that happened to me was when I struck up a conversation with an epileptic. He ended up rolling on the floor and I ended up laughing, but I fear that that is not what the original meaning of rofl is.

Seriously though, if every sentence spluttered out by someone ended in them laughing, you would run away thinking they were pretty deranged. Facebook fuckers, take note. Unless we curb this bollix now it will only get worse. I can only imagine the conversations…

Gobshite 1: “heard your mam died lol”
Gobshite 2: “cheers. she died of cancer. only 50 years old rofl”

That is all…

* Oh yeah, I also hate BYOB, but that’s only because I have to bring my own fucking beer!

DUMBbells

Hello reader (it’s always a bad sign when the singular of the term covers my entire legion of fans). Do you have a “Jim” in your life? Is he a friend, lover, acquaintance, stalker? If the answer is yes, you should count yourself lucky (well, perhaps apart from the stalker part), because I don’t have a Jim in my life but have, instead, been burdened with the similar sounding but completely fucking different in every way word - GYM! What a fucking curse this is. Standing there, for hours on end, sweating your brains out…but enough about date night! Joking aside (if, at this point you are saying to yourself “There were jokes!”, I think it’s best you leave now, as this isn’t going to get any better), gyms can be great places to go if you enjoy people watching, and you know I do! While I have spent more time in my gyms ventilation system than John McClane in the search for a bird’s eye view of the women’s shower area, I do from time to time hit the gym floor to look at my fellow sweaty messes.

Once there, what really helps me pass the time on the treadmill (sometimes I even turn it on) are those that use the free weights. While all are quite capable of “taking it to the max”, no doubt through their consumption of the wondrous power sauce bar, they seem compelled to make as much weight-related noise as possible once complete. Confused? Well shut the fuck up and let me enlighten you.

After doing 500 sets of 500 reps without a bother they, for some reason, find it impossible to gently place the weights on the floor at the end like good little gym monkeys. Instead they are overcome by the burning desire (I have a cream for that) to drop them from as high a height as possible, the louder the thud the better. In their own little steroid ravaged brains I can only imagine what they are thinking:

“Yeah bitches! Did you wimps hear that unmerciful clatter I just made? Well I’ve been lifting that shit for the last 10 minutes. I am the big dawg!”

At this point they usually start frantically looking around for someone to high 5, trying their best to snap the other poor fuckers arm clean off in a further show of strength. Am I about to fall prey to this? Fuck no; I’m back in John McClane mode, furiously writing women’s names in black marker on the inside of my arm. Now how do you spell “Hans Shandy”!

Fin

Wrap up this Christmas

My first few months in the new job and Christmas reared its ugly head once again. €15 limit for Kris Kindle! I can do that, I reckoned, as I donated all but a single pint of my blood to muster the necessary funds. Having picked a recipient from a cupped hand which resembled a hat of sorts I was off, a bespeckled man on a mission. The day of reckoning came and I gave my present, happy in the knowledge that I had made the most of what now cost the equivalent of my duplex in the sticks.

Now, let me be clear, those that say that giving is receiving are full of shit, because giving is giving and receiving is, well, receiving, and my time had finally come to receive. Unwrapping my present with glee I felt like Charlie Bucket with a potential golden ticket in my hands. Starting from the top corner, I gently unwrapped my €15 of happiness. Oh, lettering, I thought, as I began to fret, really hoping that whatever it said would be spelt phonetically. ‘W’ - I’ll have a vowel please Carol - ‘I’… and a consonant - ‘L’. The gentle tearing continued until it dawned on me. I had in my hands what, in fact, my hands had acted as for much of my adolescence. Yes folks, my Willy Wonka dream had turned into a Willy Warmer reality!

Realisation made, I felt the room get hotter and hotter. How could they do this to me I wondered, as I tried to cover my “present”. It was too late, however. I was like a rabbit caught in the headlights. The instrument I found before my eyes was worryingly decorative, a veritable feast of knobbiness. This small piece of knitted naughtiness was mesmerising, with a bobbin at its head and 2 bells dangling from its undercarriage (the significance of this wasn’t lost on me either).

The bells, the bells! Far from being reminded of the Hunchback of Notre Dame, all I could think of was the conclusion of the most innocent of Christmas classics, “It’s a Wonderful Life”. As George Bailey holds his daughter in his arms, the bell on the Christmas rings out loud. “Every time the bell rings an angel gets their wings”, the daughter declared! Looking at my festive treat, the only significance I could attach to its bells ringing would be if someone was up to no good, Willy Warmer in situ. “That’s right”, I could hear George say in response. You’re a dirty bastard Georgie, but I like it. I like it!