Jimmy Page’s Trousers

I’m more than a little frightened. For the last two days, there has been a mysterious, glowing yellow orb in the sky (a sky which was a weird blue colour, by the way). This unfamiliar golden orb shines and burns and, to be honest, terrifies.

The only course is to sacrifice something in order to appease the orb and bring back our usual cloud and heavy rain.

How many mini-muffins do you think equal one regular muffin?

How many mini-muffins do you think would be too much to eat in one sitting?

I know.  I haven’t been posting much lately.  There’s no real reason other than the fact that I didn’t really have anything to say.  What can I do?  I’m not going to start posting stuff that’s even more bland and dull than the usual shite just to have something to post.  This dedication to the, albeit rather low, levels of quality that I’ve set is, I think, commendable.

I am profoundly conscious of my lack of posting however.  I feel I should be doing something here.  I just don’t have anything.  Even a Saturday night, fueled by beers and chilli, without my wife and daughter hasn’t inspired anything of interest - only a post, ironically enough, about not having anything to post about.

Incidentally, in a couple of days, I probably will have something of interest to say (to me at least).  It’s all still on the hush-hush though.  I’ve already said too much.

Now that I think of it, even that’s not interesting to anybody else.  I guess that now, I’m a real blogger.  I blog, therefore I am.  Validate me.  Please.

And Bowie just came on the telly.  How much does he rock?  Let me count the ways.

Sitting on a public toilet seat that has been pre-warmed by someone else is an unpleasant experience. For me anyway. I’m unable to make-believe that nobody has ever used the toilet before me. The evidence is there, in all its alien warmth.

Worse even than this though, is seeing the person that warmed it exit just before you need to go in. Even if they’re not a filthy grot-bag with arse and thigh-centric skin diseases, I still know what they were doing in there.

I don’t like a warm pan and I certainly don’t like knowing who warmed it.

Chicken liver paté.  It is delicious.  Especially so after drinking much lager.  Too much maybe, but who are you lot to judge?  Huh?  Who among us hasn’t drunk a bundle of Stella, signed up for a script-writing pseudo-competition and eaten toast slathered with chicken liver paté?

Well?  Who?

I thought so.

Regular readers may remember my mentioning that, for a period, a Google (Ireland) search for Mary Harney (Minister for Health) found my own humble site listed in the top ten hits. This was made especially heartening for me, as it was the post in which I awarded her my Awful Bastard Award for the sterling work she was doing in shirking all responsibility for the dismal mess for which she was appointed Minister Responsible.

Buoyed by such a showing, but in reality needing little encouragement, I went on to award the Awful Bastard to a number of others. Despite bragging of my political power and Google-prowess to Mrs. Jimmy Page’s Trousers, who barely humoured me, I thought little more of my Google-slap in Harney’s face.

Then I noticed that a few visitors were finding my site, and in particular the Awful Bastard Award given to B&Q, through a Google search for B&Q. I clicked the referring link and there I was, shining and resplendent at the top of the list. Numero uno of the B&Q search (pages from Ireland) was me. Or, more accurately, me calling B&Q Awful Bastards and telling of how shite they were. A week or so later, I had slipped from pole-position but, for a time, Irish people looking for B&Q found my whinge at the top of the list.

But there’s more. The awesome power of the Awful Bastard Award, the Oscar of complaining gits, has, once again, shown itself. Top of the heap for a Google of UPS Couriers is… Yep, it’s my tale of woe, misfortune and bad service at the hands of UPS.

“Hurrah for complainers,” I say. Beware all ye companies, politicians, and proles. Cross me not, lest ye feel the fearsome power of the Awful Bastard.

Ok, my dreams are becoming a little worrying. Last night, I dreamed that some friends were having a bit of a party. It was a fine affair with booze aplenty and there seemed much merriment. There were a few famous musos there and I remember noting them, although I can’t remember who they were now.

One person that I do remember, however, was Paul McCartney. The reason I remember he was there is that, as the party progressed and as the booze continued to flow, he began to slow dance with me to Octopus’s Garden. Now, secure in my sexuality as I am, I didn’t protest at this and assumed it all to be a merry jape. I did protest however, when he started trying to French-kiss me a minute later. That was a little too much and I had to put a stop to things.

Paul McCartney. Trying to tongue me. To a Ringo song. It’s not right, is it?

Here’s a tip. Don’t leave an empty can of Red Bull in your car while you go to work. It makes your car smell like sour rubbish by the time you leave and then you have to drive home with the window open even though it’s freezing.

From political punditry to this.  What a breadth of information you get here.  What a window on the world.

I’m off to put Baby Trousers to bed so I can drink beer.  Sometimes I love being Irish.

I have a very peculiar mental block that prevents me from remembering the name of the actor that is Christopher Walken. Except that time obviously.

Flicking through the channels last night, I came upon the (fairly abysmal, yet strangely entertaining in a weird way) Sleepy Hollow. The Headless Horseman was abroad, looking all camp and not even slightly scary, and I remarked to Mrs. Jimmy Page’s Trousers, “there’s that bloke whose name I can never remember.”
“Who?” she asked.
“Him. The Headless Horseman bloke.”
“Who is he though?” she enquired.
“I don’t know. I told you, I can’t remember his name. I always forget it for some reason, even though I quite like him.”
“Well, he’s no head so I can’t help you out,” she said.
“Nah. It’ll come to me, it always does. Have you noticed how Christina Ricci’s forehead is getting bigger? Soon it’ll look like that bird’s from American Beauty.”
“Hmmm.”

We went about our televisual business for about twenty minutes or so before I surprised her by shouting “Christopher Walken!” She jumped. Silly old thing. You’d think she’d be used to it by now.

If you pop to here, you can hear Whatshisname recite The Raven while a picture of Poe gets a bit bigger. I don’t know why - just go look.

Popped away for the weekend.  Quiet time of it as I was a complete crock of a man.  I’d somehow managed to pull a muscle in my neck which meant that anything other than staring straight ahead and slightly downwards caused complete agony.  This is not really what you want on a weekend away with your wife.  To add to this neck discomfort, because I had to hold my head in this position all the time, those muscles in my neck and shoulders that were not pulled began to ache and complain at the lack of movement.

I’d also contracted a head cold that bunged up the old sinuses and had me, more than once, wake up from dreaming that I was suffocating.  Waking with a start when you’ve a pulled muscle in your neck is not to be advised.

A number of other ailments, too personal to go into, means that my weekend away might better have been spent in a wicker bath-chair, my legs covered with a blanket, being followed by an orchestra playing a Mahler adagietto.

Still, it’s a break, isn’t it?

P.S.  It wasn’t anything as exotic as Venice.  I was in Wexford.