chapter 9 "Much to her consternation, Lucinda felt her nipples harden
(Are they at it yet?)
I am currently driving through the streets of Dublin and, despite being sometime between half past nine (a.m.) and half past four (p.m.), we are actually moving?!? What a grand feeling this is! I am driving with gay abandon, scattering the bleating sheep and geese away, watch them scram in a panic, ain’t that a scream? Traffic light windscreen cleaners shoot me daggers as I roar by and little sausages in their prams point at the Lilymobile in amazement. This is the life. Seated on my left is Mathieu. To be precise, about twelve inches away, which is well within hugging groping snogging petting kissing bonking distance but -hey- need to keep my concentration here. Need to concentrate on my driving, what with them tractors reversing out of nowhere like they own the place. Most of all, need to keep all tempting thoughts away. Only look ahead Lily! Head on and eyes ahead, remember? Head on and eyes ahead, this is a Road Safety issue and I'm doing my damnedest best to comply.
Sadly it would appear my efforts are not entirely met with success.
We meet -what?- three times already and he still hasn't made a move. ??? Sure, he may have put on a show at the Library and pretended to take me for a spin, but he still hasn't technically tried anything on (need to hold that steering wheel steady, and don’t let these hands wander Southwards by accident) surely, for a Frenchman, that can’t be right? I am morto. I note he never failed to kiss me goodbye on the cheeks the continental way -but never strayed inbetween (better pay attention to them traffic lights, heaven forbid I ignored one, that’d be just like me!). He’s always maddeningly remaining in the will-he won't-he zone, never actually pushed it, in short still hasn't put his animal magnetism to work –Oi! Overpowering embraces, heaving bosoms and vanquished maidens, where the feck are yous?? What happened to engorged members and discarded petticoats? Feverish brows, rising desire and bums of steel, about time you put in a appearance! But for the time being, we're still on level one, we're firmly stuck on first base. I'm just driving him around, a simple stranger in a foreign land being shown the sights by an innocent native, only too happy to help (with his flies, anytime he fancies some).
-"So how’s your journalism going?" Mathieu enquires "What an exciting life it must be to, er... journalise -ha! Butseriously, how're you doing? Are you always writing? Interviewing? Critiquing? Huh?"
-"Well I... it's not that simple you see, we're not talking full-time regular basis here, even though I'm doing my best to get as many assignments as possible... I don't hold a regular position like; journalism is not a nine-to-five job"
"-I see. Not full-time then... With me too: with this videogame supporting, I don't work nine-to-five. But I like it: it's so flexibeul! Sure, there are times you meust be at the office, you meust do the work and answer these stupid demands from stupid gameurs -some of them don't even know how to on switch their console!- but, but it's like you then, is not a full-time job. More flexibeul. ...I like to be flexibeul, are you?"
Cough cough, you don't want to know big boy, be careful what you wish for!
-"Ahem well I... I guess I can be... depending on what context though..."
I let this one float between the seats and carry on
"'Far as work itself’s concerned, sure, its prospect is appealing, you know, the cachet… (did I say this right?) but reality’s a different kettle of fish though; sometime a bit more job security would be nice..."
We're nearly there. I cross the Heuston Station bridge and then take left. What I had in mind is not very original but given the temporary lull on the weather front, I thought we should risk it, you never know how long it'll last. Bit of greenery, like. Bucolic mood, soppy as hell, the birds and the bees, swooping pelicans, forget-me-nots, fields of daisies, back to nature and all that shite -bishop Casey and his lovechild to pop up from the bushes and bless us with gladiolas.
-"Ah yes security... but security is for later, is the kind of steuff for when you're thirty and want to setteul down -Are you thirty Lily?"
(Beg your pardon??)
"No you're not so... No need to panic then. Is no large deal."
I am not sure I really want to start discussing my age and so I steer our conversation back to our little outing; our current situation gives me the perfect excuse.
-"Actually we're nearly there... what I wanted to show you. And here it is: Phoenix Park. Biggest park in Europe."
-"The biggest, really? What about Hyde Park?"
-"Bigger than Hyde Park. It's the biggest park in Europe, home to our President and the zoo -not that these two are actually related" (little joke here -falls flat on its face) "...it was also the highlight of the Pope's visit to Ireland twenty years ago."
Mathieu falls silent.
"You'll see you'll see, you will like it. It's very quiet, dead classy –Look it, there's a big obelisk there."
-"Oh yes an obelix ...as in "Asterix" ha ha!"
That's right, just like in "Asterix".
This is proving to be hard work; I kill my speed like a right little citizen and prepare to ditch the Lilymobile altogether. Time for a little walk eh...
"-This is a place, see, lots of people come here for a nice stroll, for a quick break, when maybe they want to get away from the town… chill out a bit… It's very romantic –er, very peaceful I mean, very peaceful. Dead chilled and all. Children can play... athletes can jog... you can even picnic"
-"and people take out their dogs."
-(?) “Yes they do ...in a manner of speaking."
-"Deugshit, I think it's disgueusting. It's one of the weurst things in France, deugshit it's everywhere!"
-"Well I er... I wouldn't know really... if you say so..."
I find a parking space easy, don't even need to engage in fancy manoeuvres -this is definitely turning into my lucky day oh yeah.
"Come now, let's go and stretch our legs... Get some fresh air..."
Mathieu seems less than impressed; he checks the sky with definite mistrust. The heavens, at this moment in time, are a pale shade of silver blue with the sun playing hide and seek -mainly seek- with the Guinness brewery clouds. Still, no sign of rain threatens the horizon. The atmosphere is generally still, settled; the temperature probably hovers between six and eight degrees, gust of wind depending. The general feeling is of early March going on mid-September going on lazy April going on nostalgic October late afternoon -in short, positively torrid for Dublin.
Pensioners sunk on benches reflect on long faded feelings, people in tracksuits munch their way behind panting dogs, and the odd car makes a cameo at a leisurely ten miles an hour. Hardly any noise filters from the surrounding city, you could almost imagine yourself in County Donegal.
Mr and Mrs tracksuit are now arguing about who's gonna clean up after the dog, a phalange of cyclists cruise by in tight lycra, and red squirrels dash up the trees.
-"You 'sure it's not going to rain? I hate the rain."
-"Oh no it won't; I checked the weather forecast, honest!"
(And I did, too. We certainly don't want to tempt fate and risk more embarrassment, do we.)
-"OK then," he relaxes "I trust you."
And, as if to confirm his new found faith, he takes this opportunity to grab my arm. To be perfectly honest, I was rather trying to engineer this move, that's how devious I am. But play it cool I must, and I play it all surprised: I go
-"Oh. How sweet, how... French!" and add a little laugh.
A recent study has just uncovered some fascinating facts about "the sexual politics of laughter" (sic) -brace yourself for some lethal revelations here. Now, most people would probably imagine there is nothing to laughing, no hidden agenda or massive message behind it, but they'd be wrong. Laughing is just like everything else, there are dimensions to it, dimensions and hidden significations that escape us at the best of times. It's a complex world out there, and it transpires that men and women don't laugh the same way. Spooky stuff and no mistake.
To start with, the study revealed that we laugh far more often than men and why's that so? Because men, primarily, laugh in response to a joke. Now did we need a study to learn this? Well actually... yes. What it says here is that fellows are simple creatures: they hear foonny -they be laughing. But as for us ladies... Well, the fair sex uses laughter in a very different perspective, that is to say not simply responsive. It's far less simplistic. As it turns out, our reasons for having the odd chuckle are not so obvious. The boffins recorded tons of chit-chat and this is what they discovered: we laugh in response to all sorts of exchanges or situations. All sorts. As in regardless of the actual wit of the other person's conversation -we laugh at anything really! Whether it be about the weather, Bertie's anoraks, our other halves’ beer bellies, "hello", "goodbye", Posh Spice's singing attempts, little children, men and washing machines, men and hoovers, someone else laughing, would-be grown-up fathers, bad hair days, the weather, falling down the stairs, the cat running after a ball, Deirdre chopping off her pinkie in the kitchen sink, Glenda Gilson, embarrassing situations, pompous old farts, nippers being sick, men trying to be cute, blokes' obsession with pig bladder kicking contests, funerals, repossessions, even Gerry Ryan. Pay attention next time and you'll see how true this is -even with Gerry Ryan. We laugh at anything and we do this for a special reason. It’s not as a mark of appreciation for humour no... We share a laugh as a mark of bonding. Bonding with other people, as in: I get you / you get me. As we laugh, we make a show of being on the same wavelength as the other person ("are you with me?") and of keeping up with the conversation ("I am with you"). It's called the phatic function, and don't ask me to pronounce this word after three drinks.
And so I add a little laugh to the proceedings. Smile-and-the-world-smiles-with you. From wondering about the heavens one minute, Mathieu breaks into a smile the next:
-"You're in a good mood... That's super. You're always in a good mood, no?"
-"Depends... some occasions are more pleasant than others..." Minnie-the-mouse I unashamedly with the prerequisite subtle-yet-unmissable sideway glance at him. The next move in the sequence is supposed to go like this: Get all demure and lower your eyes, don't visually engage him again -this drives males mad.
"What about yourself? 'You in a good mood, or still worried about the rain?"
-"Ah. Who cares about the rain!" states your man superbly, his right arm springing into theatrical action as if summoning the heavens as his witness. Only my hanging onto his left one prevents him from going for the full heroic defiance stance -Steady on, stay with me will ye!
"...when you have a lovely lady for the company."
Gulp, hey that was nice... wouldn't mind hearing more of the same...
But Mathieu doesn't follow up like some people here would wish he did, and instead chooses to stay silent for a full five seconds.
"So
this is Phoenix Park eh... do you come here often?" I can't believe he
used these words! Such touching innocence! "For a walk maybe? You do
jogging?"
-"Actually not as often as I'd wish no..." (translation: I haven't made a sweaty, sweary spectacle of myself for months) "'Can't always find the time, 'much as I'd love to..." (and have no intention of pounding the streets anytime soon) "For shame." (moving on deftly) "This place is so peaceful though, don't you think? Much more peaceful than Saint-Stephen's Green I'd say. Huh ...Surely you know Saint-Stephen's Green, right? Big park at the end of Grafton Street. Mad gate, cutesy little lake and swans -you can't miss it. Mental it is, and always chock-a-block with all these couples rolling on the grass"
Dammit. Where did that come from??
-"Ah yes, ze couples, peopeul, peopeul everywhere... they're annoying yes? when you're on your own."
Gulp (again). Silence. Silence would be the best option at this moment in time. What do I have to add here, ya big pillock? Isn't the situation sufficiently clear? Is he waiting for me to jump him or what?
But instead, Mathieu untangles himself from my desperate hold and rummages through his pockets. And not even the ones in his trousers.
"Scuse me, my cigarettes..."
The sly fecker shoots me a sideway glance: "Only kidding."
He grabs my arm again and, in one swift move, swings me around in a circular manoeuvre that makes a mockery of my balance (and smacks of a well-rehearsed move). Robbed of my natural modesty, I have no choice but to surrender to his virile embrace. The brute imperiously pulls me to him and fixes me with eyes of fire.
"So. Mademoiselle Lily." hunks he.
-"Actually not as often as I'd wish no..." (translation: I haven't made a sweaty, sweary spectacle of myself for months) "'Can't always find the time, 'much as I'd love to..." (and have no intention of pounding the streets anytime soon) "For shame." (moving on deftly) "This place is so peaceful though, don't you think? Much more peaceful than Saint-Stephen's Green I'd say. Huh ...Surely you know Saint-Stephen's Green, right? Big park at the end of Grafton Street. Mad gate, cutesy little lake and swans -you can't miss it. Mental it is, and always chock-a-block with all these couples rolling on the grass"
Dammit. Where did that come from??
-"Ah yes, ze couples, peopeul, peopeul everywhere... they're annoying yes? when you're on your own."
Gulp (again). Silence. Silence would be the best option at this moment in time. What do I have to add here, ya big pillock? Isn't the situation sufficiently clear? Is he waiting for me to jump him or what?
But instead, Mathieu untangles himself from my desperate hold and rummages through his pockets. And not even the ones in his trousers.
"Scuse me, my cigarettes..."
The sly fecker shoots me a sideway glance: "Only kidding."
He grabs my arm again and, in one swift move, swings me around in a circular manoeuvre that makes a mockery of my balance (and smacks of a well-rehearsed move). Robbed of my natural modesty, I have no choice but to surrender to his virile embrace. The brute imperiously pulls me to him and fixes me with eyes of fire.
"So. Mademoiselle Lily." hunks he.
And,
before I have time to remember the French for "I say. How dreadfully impertinent.
And what exactly do you think you're doing here, monsieur?" he vanquishes
my last shivers of resistance as he starts kissing me like the world is about
to end. (The thing is, I never was much good at foreign languages.)
"What time is space?"
Blissed out is how I feel.
In seventh heaven or make it eighth! I feel like I'm floating on a cloud, snug as a baby lamb in a sea of clover!
Held tight in his manly embrace, I got ssswept off me feet -straight to heaven! Gasp! Swoon! It's this simple: I can hardly breathe for fear of fainting! The dizzying heights I've been so manfully summoned to wreak havoc on my fragile mind and I find myself helplessly whimpering internally: the man makes me feel like a deranged hippie! His devilish halo making a fool of my vanishing modesty, his irresistible aura hacking away at my frail womanly defences, my powers of reason have abandoned me and I surrender! I surrender. It's like Heaven itself took pity and decided to direct me onto Mathieu's path! Vulnerable as a newborn newt, sensitive as a violet shrinking under the affront of a dew drop, I succumbed to his intoxicating nay, enthralling nay, irresistible charms and all but lost any remaining semblance of resistance my wretched person might have longed for: I fell to pieces. Oh, I am now but a fallen woman! My fragile heart blown to smithereens, my senses overloaded with ecstatic sparks, I have tasted the elixir of divinity and -for shame- now I want more! I feel reborn -and alive to the miracle of love!
My thoughts, like petals plucked by a cruel child in the wheezing wind, have scattered away an eternity of luxuriant voluptuousness ago, my free-will has been atomised by the whirlwind of his overpowering assault on my virginal resistance and I confess, oh I confess: The delicate onion that passes as my heart has seen all of its layers reduced to cinders by the power of his virile gaze -Alleluia!!
An
eternity later, I recover enough strength to tone it down a bit and come back
to earth, yeah. We are both getting breathless and I sure need to recover my
senses. ...I may need to gather my thoughts if I don't want to lose them
altogether.
What must we look like, necking like a couple of fifteen year olds behind the bicycle shed at recess! We are not teenagers , and we are very much standing right by the side of a passing road ("vvvvvvVROOMmm honk! honk!"), hmm... One one hand am not too sure, on the other never want to let go. Finally Mathieu does and breaks away, a sly smile on his cheeky face. The man readjusts his parka.
"Well well well..."
I must be right flustered.
-"I never thought you would... I was starting to wonder..."
Mathieu touches my cheek; he pushes away a curl and caresses my face.
-"Well don't wander anymore, Mathieu is here and now"
-"You certainly are... Please don't think bad of me, you must think I'm an easy girl, I don't normally do this sort of thing you know"
-"I'm sure you don't!" laughs the heartless brute "And I'm always right. You are... very emotioning: you are ever blushing! Blush blush blush when you're looking me and by the way, you didn't concentrate on the road when you drive! I was afraid we have an accident!"
Oh. Thanks a million.
What's he saying here? Surely I'm not that transparent ...am I? Well if I was blushing before, I must be positively crimson now!
"You drive left, you certainly must look right -but not at me, look at the other cars!"
He laughs some more and gathers me in his powerful arms. The big hunk towers over me and I disappear against his chest, engulfed within his coat (is it Cape North? Is it Penneys? Must remember to check), I hold onto him tightly.
"Miss Lily my driver!" he teases me "Lily the wheel-terror!"
I look up and he takes it as a signal to kiss me some more. We are still standing by the side of the road.
...
Fireworks, rainbows, questions answered at once, hopes fulfilled, bliss, prickling sensations, exchange of hormones, First Time miracle, immaculate unicorns, cherubs, more cars honking, heart on overdrive and communion of souls.
What must we look like, necking like a couple of fifteen year olds behind the bicycle shed at recess! We are not teenagers , and we are very much standing right by the side of a passing road ("vvvvvvVROOMmm honk! honk!"), hmm... One one hand am not too sure, on the other never want to let go. Finally Mathieu does and breaks away, a sly smile on his cheeky face. The man readjusts his parka.
"Well well well..."
I must be right flustered.
-"I never thought you would... I was starting to wonder..."
Mathieu touches my cheek; he pushes away a curl and caresses my face.
-"Well don't wander anymore, Mathieu is here and now"
-"You certainly are... Please don't think bad of me, you must think I'm an easy girl, I don't normally do this sort of thing you know"
-"I'm sure you don't!" laughs the heartless brute "And I'm always right. You are... very emotioning: you are ever blushing! Blush blush blush when you're looking me and by the way, you didn't concentrate on the road when you drive! I was afraid we have an accident!"
Oh. Thanks a million.
What's he saying here? Surely I'm not that transparent ...am I? Well if I was blushing before, I must be positively crimson now!
"You drive left, you certainly must look right -but not at me, look at the other cars!"
He laughs some more and gathers me in his powerful arms. The big hunk towers over me and I disappear against his chest, engulfed within his coat (is it Cape North? Is it Penneys? Must remember to check), I hold onto him tightly.
"Miss Lily my driver!" he teases me "Lily the wheel-terror!"
I look up and he takes it as a signal to kiss me some more. We are still standing by the side of the road.
...
Fireworks, rainbows, questions answered at once, hopes fulfilled, bliss, prickling sensations, exchange of hormones, First Time miracle, immaculate unicorns, cherubs, more cars honking, heart on overdrive and communion of souls.
Oh, and he tried to cop a feel too. Don't imagine I haven't noticed, bad doggie bad! Before you could say "That Sinead Jennings lass... she ain't half of an athlete, is she?" your man has already engaged in the age-old sweater recon' battle -Why, you bold Frenchman! It goes something like this: he tries somewhere, I stop him dead; he advances somewhere else, I concede him that spot; he tries the first one again, I think about it. ...We're still standing right by of a stretch of road though, and I am not too comfortable about it.
No sooner do I re-engage my brains that I start to wonder, I have to ask myself: What now? What is he up for next? What exactly are we supposed to move on to, pretends to wonder she, ignoring the elephant in the corner shaving his armpits. Whereto from here, rhetoricals her. Let's be realistic. Being the designated driver, I am supposed to be in charge of the proceedings from a logistical point of view. (I'm just being pragmatic, so...) And then, we what? Should I suggest we repair to somewhere more private ("Would you like to slip into something more comfortable?" oin oink!) or shouldn't this be his move to make in the eternal cat-and-mouse game? For yes indeed, we have embarked on our very own chess-game and it's still early doors in this match of two halves -New set of balls! Am I ready to roll the dice yet, or will he want to rise to the net? I don't want to appear too brazen here, not being that kind of girl etc. so I wonder, I equivocate. I agonise and I pontificate. ...Can I jump him on our first date (well, it's technically our third)? Is this advisable, pretends to have scruples she? Huh? What of our virtuous resolutions, the ones about behaving a bit more mature and rubbish like that... Methinks we have a dilemma on our hands. Let's play by ear, and see what he suggests.
Things, sadly, have a habit of never being simple.
"...So?" he just offers.
I opt to snog a little more, just to play for time. Cherubs weep in celestial harmony, elixir showers anoint us etc. -Snogging part three comes to an end. I still haven't decided which conduct to adopt, not being that kind of girl blah blah blah.
"What do you want to do now?" challenges he me, all self-confidence and cherry pulped lips and -lo!- the ball was in my court, and mother Temptation saw that it was good. Sister Modesty saw that it was not.
-"Well er... " (cough) "I think I ought to drive you back now... Let's just call it a day yeah? Let's not get carried away, I'll drive you back for now and... we'll have to get together soon, is that OK with you?"
Ding! And sister Modesty just smashed an ace. Dammit, how did it happen? I didn't intend to come up with that, it just came out! What da?!? It's like I suddenly went into automatic spinster mode and told him, to all intents and purposes, to back off and keep it rolled up for when he finds himself a lighter! ?!?><>!?*!!*( I can't back-track now... Ah, let's play it safe and err on the side of caution!
"Actually there was something else I wanted to show you, there's a pub right down the road: They have hundreds of different whiskies and beers, I thought you of all people might be curious..."
-"O... K..." he articulates, trying to to repress a grimace (and failing). My very own Romeo is doing his little face, aaahhh bless...
"Sounds er... interesting this pub, but are you sure? About er...going to the pub..." comes back in his eyes the unmistakable twinkle. Could he be keener on exploring something else altogether?
-"I am quite sure."
Good girl yourself! Whatshisface Timothy would be so proud of you; ...Georgina considerably less so.
Hand in hand, we walk back to the car, me feeling oddly pleased with myself, him feeling probably hornier than a raging bull. I'm like totally pulling the divil by the tail and swinging it round me head, yippee! for yyyyyes, I have bagged me a hunk and nnnnnnnno, I haven't made a fool of myself in the process -in fact I got him hooked! Wrapped around my fingers he is (and around my legs any time I'll decide); it's almost as if I've been taking lessons from Georgina herself: "How To Get Big Dumb Males To Hang On Your Lips (no, not these ones you dorrty mind lol)", I feel like ten years of practice may be about to finally pay off!
Deep and philosophical brainwave: Isn't the catch even more enjoyable now that the deal is all but signed and delivered and anything to come will only enhance my -like- triumph? He sure looks the sporty type, one can only imagine what he's got in store for me... They say the wait makes up for half the fun -Oh, this is gonna be lethal. I feel giddy at the prospect, a huge weight off my shoulders. Actually, why not celebrate? Why not dump the car altogether and partake of them whiskies, after all it's been some time already since my last sesh and my presence is not required at the studio before four at the earliest tomorrow, what could possibly go wrong?
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Heard
on the bus section: Junky couple, arguing.
Bloke
goes: "Ah but we can't afford it luv', am tellin' you... It's 80
yo-yos!"
Woman
replies: "Wait wait, oh yes we can -Next Turstay's Mickey moooney
day!"
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Thursday
half-past and I'm nearing the end of my little skit.
Introducing Lily, the intrepid investigator, all subjects covered, so long as
they raise a smile from those stuck on the M50. The atmosphere in the studio is
easy-going verging on sunny, everything's going smooth and we're sucking
diesel hell yeah. (Or maybe that's just my brand new rose-tinted spectacles
speaking, they've carried me all day.)
Here's the story, so.
After much reflexion (i.e. as I brushed my teeth in the car on my way to work) I eventually decided not to pull up any trees today and stay on the safe side (translation: couldn't face the whole shebang anyway). Today won't be the day I beat elocution records, and it won't be the day for hugging (hugging?) the mike, better not draw too much attention to myself...
given that I am still drunk from last night.
Whisky, whisky, whisky, nightcap. And then a stiff one as a grand finale hee hee! That was epic. Am not a little pleased with myself all round, looks like I've flipped my coin right at long last! It was probably the third whisky that did it, the, er... BallyLlaregub limited edition, or maybe it was the Craggy Island 40%, can't remember. As if I needed any fire water in me, eh. ... M. was the perfect gentleman, he was kind enough to escort me back to my abode out of consideration for my well-being and safety, even insisted on seeing me to bed except he didn't tuck me in (she said "tuck"!!! manic cackle).
Here's the story, so.
After much reflexion (i.e. as I brushed my teeth in the car on my way to work) I eventually decided not to pull up any trees today and stay on the safe side (translation: couldn't face the whole shebang anyway). Today won't be the day I beat elocution records, and it won't be the day for hugging (hugging?) the mike, better not draw too much attention to myself...
given that I am still drunk from last night.
Whisky, whisky, whisky, nightcap. And then a stiff one as a grand finale hee hee! That was epic. Am not a little pleased with myself all round, looks like I've flipped my coin right at long last! It was probably the third whisky that did it, the, er... BallyLlaregub limited edition, or maybe it was the Craggy Island 40%, can't remember. As if I needed any fire water in me, eh. ... M. was the perfect gentleman, he was kind enough to escort me back to my abode out of consideration for my well-being and safety, even insisted on seeing me to bed except he didn't tuck me in (she said "tuck"!!! manic cackle).
Anyhoo,
today came fast enough.
Another
day carrying with it airtime to fill. Clearly I had to improvise and take care
of business, hence this lethal (straightened she out her eyelashes and sprayed
she a generous cloud of Aurora for the consideration of her co-workers at the
traffic light) idea... What about putting to use this pre-recorded yoke? the
one I was so proud of? Made for today if there ever was one! Plan-B is
"go" then, I decided (buttoning up with one hand as I steered with
the other) and in all modesty agreed with myself this had to be an inspired
suggestion. Oh yes, this piece is totally the kind of think-piece beloved of
listeners on a constant moral crusade, it ought to keep them suitably outraged
until they reach the toll-bridge -They'll love hating it! This one was a
no-brainer and no mistake. Pinching myself to stay focused, I flicked open my mighty
machine, impressively resisted the temptation to get sidetracked onto YouTube,
only had the quickest of looks at my emails, and ravaged through my audio
library. There. The masterpiece. "Monday - Dame St. - Leanne Lauren".
I then
made the connection with the fanfare of klaxons behind me -A-ha... so that's
what they were giving out about!- and that was me off to the studio / a winner
/ show them. All I needed to add was a cute little intro and there it was
-ta-da!!- today's special... "The Strange Rise Of Street Pyjamas".
You
see, Her Lilyness has informants all over town who keep a weather eye out on my
behalf, and one of my spies -OK, my regular hairdresser- recently alerted me to
this daring new trend he'd heard about. You know hairdressers, they are the
true providers of quality news. Even more so than cabbies or bouncers. Maybe
you want to know who was seen having a fag (boom boom) at the back of The
George, maybe you want to compare the various prices in town for a Frog's Legs,
maybe you want to get sincere advice on how to avoid looking slutty (word in
your ear: whale tails are so 2003), well you know who to ask. The go-to man
himself. Now here's what my source reliably informed me: There is this like new
craze developing around Thomas / James Street. Apparently, gangs of girlies
have taken to hang around on street corners cockteasing the usual
good-for-nothings, getting patsies to buy them ciggies and furiously texting
each other wearing nothing but their PJs. Yikes.
I just had to go and investigate.
Safely accompanied by Big Gay Gerry, I drove up there and asked around. Soon enough I got to meet with the big fish: I was introduced to the fearsome Leanne and Lauren. Ah Leanne and Lauren... Born-Irish-under-a-lucky-star-and-native-Dubs-by-the-grace-of-God, these two must be hardly more than twenty-eight years of age between the both of them, and the veritable salt of the earth. He'd be a dead man walking who'd dare mess with them! The preliminary approach understandably took some time: "Whatcha doin' in our street? Who you tink you are? Pish Spice??" Once the mandatory round of pleasantries got exchanged and an acceptable number of fags agreed upon, the deadly duo agreed to hear me out. Strangely enough, it didn't go like this: "Well hellooo there young ladies, how lahvely to meet yous. And how are yourselves keeping on? Ah, that's grand. Maaarvelous. Listen, I am from the radio in Donnybrook -Greater Dublin, yah?- and I would be mouust curious to hear about your daily life expeeerience as semi-feral street urchins... Did yourselves know, for instance, that "hooligan" is an Irish word? How ironic, how maarvelously appropriate -Huh? What's this? Why are yous signalling "Victory"?" Not quite. Instead, L. & L. smoked themselves furious while I explained the idea for an interview, nodded their collective pony-tails in unison, and of course jumped at the opportunity to get their views across on da meejah.
I just had to go and investigate.
Safely accompanied by Big Gay Gerry, I drove up there and asked around. Soon enough I got to meet with the big fish: I was introduced to the fearsome Leanne and Lauren. Ah Leanne and Lauren... Born-Irish-under-a-lucky-star-and-native-Dubs-by-the-grace-of-God, these two must be hardly more than twenty-eight years of age between the both of them, and the veritable salt of the earth. He'd be a dead man walking who'd dare mess with them! The preliminary approach understandably took some time: "Whatcha doin' in our street? Who you tink you are? Pish Spice??" Once the mandatory round of pleasantries got exchanged and an acceptable number of fags agreed upon, the deadly duo agreed to hear me out. Strangely enough, it didn't go like this: "Well hellooo there young ladies, how lahvely to meet yous. And how are yourselves keeping on? Ah, that's grand. Maaarvelous. Listen, I am from the radio in Donnybrook -Greater Dublin, yah?- and I would be mouust curious to hear about your daily life expeeerience as semi-feral street urchins... Did yourselves know, for instance, that "hooligan" is an Irish word? How ironic, how maarvelously appropriate -Huh? What's this? Why are yous signalling "Victory"?" Not quite. Instead, L. & L. smoked themselves furious while I explained the idea for an interview, nodded their collective pony-tails in unison, and of course jumped at the opportunity to get their views across on da meejah.
This
didn't come as a surprise: the whole world and his granny want to. How I see
it, everybody out there has an anecdote to tell, a talent or another, everybody
has an experience worth recounting: Maybe they have something to boast about,
maybe they have a chip on their shoulder, well this is precisely what they want
to vent. Everyone has their own lifestory to start with -surely that's worth
telling? A lifestory, ain't that something... how we started and where we ended
up; what we hoped for and tried to achieve, how we went on about it, what we
imagined life would be like fifteen years down the line, how our dreams were
dashed and the boys in gym never gave us a second look; the love of our life
who took a train on a Wednesday morning, never to return; the definitive word
on the death penalty or abortion; who should be made to lick off their dog's
continuous droppings in our front garden -Everyone has aspirations and gets to
grief, everyone has an opinion or ten ...starting with what we would do to
Brian O'Driscoll / Grainne Seoige (delete as applicable) if we had the
opportunity; what we thought would happen once when we got hitched; what advice
we'd give to our younger self; what should be done with this generation of
floozies and skangers; what we truly think of this year's budget; how we
invariably know better than the current spineless Taoiseach and how the moon
itself is a conspiracy, nothing but a film projected into space by the US
government. What if we were in charge of the Irish football/rugby/hoola-hoops
team? What simple steps could be taken to tackle child obesity? (Popular
suggestion: Don't feckin' feed 'em!) How politicians are only after one thing,
and that won't be the good of the country. What we would like to see happen
before we die. Whether Westlife were better with Bryan in it. Like I say,
subjects are aplenty.
A) Subjects are aplenty and B) everybody has lots to say for themselves, this is what I passionately believe. Everybody was born with a mouth to shoot themselves in the foot with -think Sinead O'Connor- and everyone wants to make full use of it, especially in these quarters ("athbhliain faoi shéan is faoi mhaise dhuit").
Maybe
people witnessed mischief and want to report it ("There was a big bang
and a loud noise, then I saw a lot of flames -It was mayhem."), maybe
they've been through some shenanigan themselves and want to come clean
("Now I'm not proud of this but in my days..."), maybe they rubbed
shoulders with the good and the great and want to dine on it ("Me
brother's mechanic's mother lives next door to..."). Anything goes!
Anything bears telling. All this is of interest to a radio slash magazine
reporter such as myself. I'm constantly amazed -and not just by the existence
of Jane Goody- by the richness of experiences out there, if only you care to
scratch beneath the surface you'll be impressed 'what you can dig out! All manners
of jaw-dropping tales, all sorts of epic feats, they're right here, underneath our very noses!
Everywhere you look you'll find them: gas tickets at every bus station, nutters let loose on the street, armchair warriors in full flow in every pub. Misunderstood geniuses, crackpot inventors, piss artists, wind-up merchants, punk survivors, acid casualties, last of the Mohicans, conspiracy theorists, tourist magnets, "X Factor" wannabes, football anoraks, prophets of doom, silver tongue maniacs, sons of kings, professional bullshitters from Blarney, the Queen of England's long lost sister, hypochondriacs, American tourists in search of this elusive "crack", petty thieves, flaming queens, unreconstructed knuckle draggers, learned historians, troubled souls, megalomaniacs, raving lunatics, day-dreamers, sex addicts, religious headcases, scammers, body doubles for John Wayne when he shot "The Quiet Man", bullied children, refugees, the last survivor of the GPO siege, ditched mothers left to cope with ten kids, inveterate gamblers, occasional prostitutes, ex-child prodigees, closet cases, ambulance staff, would-be Colin Farrells.
Everywhere you look you'll find them: gas tickets at every bus station, nutters let loose on the street, armchair warriors in full flow in every pub. Misunderstood geniuses, crackpot inventors, piss artists, wind-up merchants, punk survivors, acid casualties, last of the Mohicans, conspiracy theorists, tourist magnets, "X Factor" wannabes, football anoraks, prophets of doom, silver tongue maniacs, sons of kings, professional bullshitters from Blarney, the Queen of England's long lost sister, hypochondriacs, American tourists in search of this elusive "crack", petty thieves, flaming queens, unreconstructed knuckle draggers, learned historians, troubled souls, megalomaniacs, raving lunatics, day-dreamers, sex addicts, religious headcases, scammers, body doubles for John Wayne when he shot "The Quiet Man", bullied children, refugees, the last survivor of the GPO siege, ditched mothers left to cope with ten kids, inveterate gamblers, occasional prostitutes, ex-child prodigees, closet cases, ambulance staff, would-be Colin Farrells.
Ah
sure, people need to let it out. They need to unburden themselves and any which
way will do. Maybe it will be in their diary (huh, a bit last century that),
maybe it will on a talk-show (more like it); maybe they'll collar their fellow
drinkers down the boozer for hours, maybe they'll phone their Mam every Sunday
to report on the week's proceedings. Whatever goes, people love to give their
two cents.
This is why I chose this job. I believe we should lend our mikes to more people than the usual slebs, athletes or politicians, the already over-exposed big cheese. Everyone has a story to be told, and this is where I can get involved. Give people an opportunity to switch the old mouth on and they'll repay you a hundred times. So to Leanne and Lauren. How could they not relish being given an ear? They want to get heard for once, they want respect and rightly so. Why should it always be the same ones allowed to air their views? Now I sure love my slebs alright, but I also accept there's more to life. Sad as it sounds, Ireland is not all about Ronan Keating, The Bono and Sir Terry Wogan. It's not just about Glenda Gilson. A radioactive smile, impeccable dress sense and hour-glass figure is all very nice (enough about me!) -but there's more in store on every street.
'Bottom line is, I suppose I am a big fan of people, that's what it comes down to, our inexhaustible stories fodder. It's often claimed people are Ireland's greatest riches; now while even myself may not always have much time to devote to shooting the breeze with your man on the street (what with my own glamorous lifestyle and all, natch), when I do put in the time and go for a wander, he usually cracks me up. He always comes up with the goods and job's a good 'un. Just press "Record". A sense of wonder, is what drives me; I'm proud of the fact I still get excited about all sorts of stuff.
The
ability to get excited, it's how kids learn, they thrive on it: their first
bike or their first dress, their first kiss, their first own music record or
trip to the cinema, the first time they lay their eye on Siouxsie Sioux or
Bruce Lee, the first time they hear The Orb "An Ever Growing Sensation
Etc." or Mary Margaret o'Hara "You Will Be Loved Again", their
first trip abroad, their first airflight, their first drink oh so many
life-defining instances apply. Remember the first time you made it to the end
of a night and witnessed in a woolly state the breaking of a new day...
Then
some people grow out of it and call it growing up. I
think personally that the day you lose your sense of wonder, you might as well
press the "off" button.
So off we went, myself and Gerry. Went on a mission and captured it on tape: the thoughts and wisdom of the fearsome Lauren and Leanne telling it like it is to a grateful nation, spreading the word on their proud attempt to reclaim the street as their personal turf and very own catwalk. After all, doesn't it belong to them just as much as them passing stinky cars.
Now I should probably add that Phat Paul the sound engineer spent the best part of two hours cleaning up their bit. Two hours, for a final ten minutes slot. He had to rearrange entire sentences into broadcastable segments, beeping them whenever not possible otherwise. ...It was a bit of a feat. But the result was top drawers, we felt; Paul and I loved it so much that I promised myself to keep it up my sleeve for a special occasion. Today is it then.
Give it away now!
So dis is deir focken territorry and dey have to focken make it deirs, are yous wid me? (-We are wid cha, luv'.) Who should dey dress up for anyway! Why should dey care, when noone out dere cares about dem? It's grand for some, but not everyone can afford lethal puffa Ill Figure jackets, Puma trainers and genuine Dubs jerseys! One law for us and one law for dem!
I'm listening to Leanne or is it Lauren and I'm thinking too true. Too true most people don't, they don't suspect your existence when you live only thirty minutes away from the blessed shop-windows. As a general rule tourists don't have a clue about working class locals, meeting them is not exactly high on their list of priorities (first one would be to visit the castle/pyramid/cathedral (delete as applicable), second would be to get postcards from the main museum, third would be to nick a towel from the hotel etc.), they wouldn't hear about their destination's inhabitants until/unless these ended up on a front page ("Sobbing Shelagh Serial Stab Attack! Read all about it on page 3, 4 and 5 / Local Man Found Passed Out In Archbishop's Bed, Denies He Was Drunk / Envy Of The World Golf Course Vandalised By Street Urchins Who Can't Even Spell", you get the drift) -who would suspect the exuberance of life outside sanctioned activities! The 99% residing outside the glittery zone, they don't register on no guide book radar; it's a case of one photoshopped tableau for the guide books, and one teeming, heaving, vibrant population for real. The Leannes and Laurens out there haven't been booked on the Celtic Tiger express, they're just trying to get a jant. See, the human spirit is an infuriating bugger and an inventive one at that... It's not in the habit of taking it on the chin and doing as told, it has a knack for rolling with the punches and giving as good as it gets yeah! Sometimes, neglected lives make themselves noticed and in ways not entirely expected... the PJ stance being a case in point.
This D2 dress code currently under discussion is living up to its promises as unsuspected nuances are revealed. The mighty Lauren and Leanne are now detailing the hidden dimensions of PJ streetwear cos' it ain't as simple as dat oh no ("-Lemme talk, it's me turn now!"). The young ladies are anything but undiscriminating, in fact they are very particular about their tastes, should that come as a surprise? Temptresses in their own right, they know how to play it and when to play it. Like dey wouldn't wear deir everyday Penneys to go out in -Dey'd get morrdered! Dey would get a right slagging from all da haters! Wouldn't be seen dead in public in dem actual PJs knowworrahmean! No no, dey like go for silky stuff if can be done, like mad silky blouses dat feel nice, lethal printed tops, proper branded stuff like Tommy ill Figure, YSL from da market, Le Cock Sportif or UGG boots, stuff dat feels nice.
Soon enough, my interview is coming to an end and I conclude with a few cheeky yet respectful yet amused yet safely moralising yet not too patronising comments. These girls are cute and make no bones about it, they already know what's what in life and nobody better be messing with them. Marina is on hand for a supportive little laugh and even Timothy appears mildly approving, there's a relief. Mustn't get carried away though, mustn't draw attention to myself now and ruin it with an intoxicated cri-du-coeur! I need to play it safe. Let your man take over the mike and -by all means- don't breathe too hard in his direction.
-Timothy: "Why thank you Lily, that was our Lifestyle Correspondent Lily Monaghan reporting on the forefront of clothing liberation, the time is now... sixteen forty-nine; you're listening to O'Arnlan on One-Oh-One."
Job's oxo! Another one boxed off! I could punch the air, pleased as I am to have got away with it, I'm like so totally, and they don't even suspect a thing! In your face RTE! Brendan Behan's got nothing on me! (You know the story: Your man once got invited to do a TV interview in Montreal, he turned up smashed. Explained Behan to his bemused and not a little embarrassed host: "Now I went to this bar, right? and it had one of these coasters, it said "Drink Canada Dry" ...Thought I'd give it a shot.") Well, good thing my own boss here hasn't placed me on the spot and put me to contribution live on air (gulp) ...I dread to imagine.
"Rrrright-so,
Timmy. And a very good er... -Whish day are we again? have not a clue! Is there
a "y" in it? Whey-hey! geddit?? A day with a "y" in it?
...... Ahnevermind, bunch of kiljoys- so er, 'evening to yous all out there,
this is Lily shp shp (hips!)
shpeaking -Owww me head, man... it's killing me somethin' brutal, anyone has
any Aspirin? Huh? So go get some! And double-quick! Have a bit of considerashun
for the talent eh, or is it too mush to ask..." (long sigh) "Oh well... to be perfeckly honest
widchas, I don't think I should even be here in my present state, any noise
it's like... owww." (another sigh) "Now where was I? Oh yeah:
And-a-very-good-day-to-yous etc. Howsa. How's she kicking. Watched the mash
last night? Gave one to the missus afterwards? Ah that's grand, good man
yourself." (yawn) "Although to be honest, since we're amongs'
friends, we're a big happy family aren't we, I don't ackhsually give a flying
feck, y'know? Right now, 'feel like death warmed up, oh man me bonce... it's
like world war three in ther! Is so unfair! I don't know why, honest! Only had
water today! Got up -like- at the crack of eleven, had a quick glass, went back
to bed. 'Didn't even have a quick hair of the dog on the way to the station!
Honest! Anyway here I am so, and... iss not on, man. Iss not cool, shouldn't be
allowed. It's like, every little thing, every time I open my mouth, every
little "shush!" coming from Timothy -what's up with him anyway? what
bug crawled up his arse?- like I was sayin', any fecking noise in fact it's
like..." (pause) "Huh, at least he's stopped doing his goose
impersonation and hissing at me, hurrah! Butserioushly. Butserioushly guys.
D'yous think iss fair they should ax me to report for work when I'm -er- coming
down with flu? Huh? (burp!) Well I don't think so! I don't think that's
fair! D'yous think it is? Huh? (burp! again) Uh-oh, don't feel too well,
'think I'll call it a day and go lie down yeah? 'Think I'll juss take a nap,
sorry Timbo, but iss "goodbye" from me, need me scratcher, rogered
and out."
Thanks
The Bono that they haven't. Eamondunphisis has been expertly avoided thanks to
the miracle of previous recordings and noone's any wiser. I gather my things
and take off with a spring in my step.
-"Oops, you seem a bit distracted Lily" whispers Marina as I pass by. She bends towards me but I skip by gaily. Oh but she's a clever fox is our Marina, like perceptive and all, she should be working on the news I think! Me, I just wink and carry on; I'm walking on sunshine, no time to talk! (Or more precisely, better not make time to.) Timothy in the opposite corner must have glimpsed our little exchange: busy as he is explaining something surely dead important, he still half-lifts an impeccable eyebrow and raises his hand in my direction. The impudence of it, I asks you! Is the bore suggesting we ladies are being too loud? I'm so not impressed!
It's only when I reach the door that I realise I'm still wearing something.
I still have my headphones on.
My head is violently jerked backwards (zzzzing!) and following a short flight, I encounter a filing cabinet that brings down a pile of newspapers over me.
Timothy doesn't bat an eyelid and concludes
"and the sound that you've just heard was from our contributor Lily Monaghan reporting on the elasticity of non extensible headphones jacks."
-"Oops, you seem a bit distracted Lily" whispers Marina as I pass by. She bends towards me but I skip by gaily. Oh but she's a clever fox is our Marina, like perceptive and all, she should be working on the news I think! Me, I just wink and carry on; I'm walking on sunshine, no time to talk! (Or more precisely, better not make time to.) Timothy in the opposite corner must have glimpsed our little exchange: busy as he is explaining something surely dead important, he still half-lifts an impeccable eyebrow and raises his hand in my direction. The impudence of it, I asks you! Is the bore suggesting we ladies are being too loud? I'm so not impressed!
It's only when I reach the door that I realise I'm still wearing something.
I still have my headphones on.
My head is violently jerked backwards (zzzzing!) and following a short flight, I encounter a filing cabinet that brings down a pile of newspapers over me.
Timothy doesn't bat an eyelid and concludes
"and the sound that you've just heard was from our contributor Lily Monaghan reporting on the elasticity of non extensible headphones jacks."
chapter 10 "How to find true love and happiness in the present day"
Soundtrack:
"There's Something Going On"-Lambchop and... action!
Memo: insert at this stage a big fuck-off, Failte-approved sweeping panorama that features all the usual sights. We need fountains here, we need bridges, nuns on bikes maybe? Carrot-tops for sure.
Also, word of advice. When you send a 2nd team monkey to can it, make sure it's on a non-rainy day! Seriously. Www.rte.ie/weather is your friend, there's no downer like a shower -I know, I know, four seasons in a day essetera, well feck that for a game of soldiers, we're on a budget here! It may also be a good idea to check with OPW beforehand so that it doesn't coincide with one of their typical head-rushes, you know the kind... Nobody's interested in shots of monuments under scaffoldings or streets being dug up, 'think I'm joking? Cast your mind back every time you went on your holiers somewhere, never fecking fails...
If that's the case, go back to the archive and pillage stock-shots, that's what they're for. I'll bet you RTE must have shedloads of tracking shots, just add the spire and a kid with his head in a KFC bucket.
Make
sure you get this right: we need to set the mood here. So fiddle the contrast
if you have to, crank up the colours, slip a fiver to a blonde to bend 'pick up
a coin, slo-mo like mad, close-up on squirrels -in short do whatever it takes,
but please make sure the place looks inviting OK? Get someone to knock a Gard's
cap off for a laugh. Important: we don't wanna see any junkies on Bachelors
Walk. No beggars on their knees either. Lose anyone walking around with a pig
under his arm and no balaclava allowed under any circumstance, this is a
cheerful scene. Like dead romantic and what-have-you. Uplifting stuff.
Off
you go then.
"Walking on sunshine..." It's now two weeks I'm seeing M. and I've never felt better! It is that good: I go get my groceries, right? ...and I hardly notice the chuggers anymore! Then I go to the cashpoint, yeah? and I hardly mind your man with the screwdriver either! Hardly registers. I just give him his twenty and get on with it, no sweat. Ah yes, what became an obstacle course in recent years has now gone back to being a simple stroll through The Greatest City In The World. "The Greatest City In The World" being a catch-phrase of one of our competitors who shall remain nameless or so I've been told, since I certainly don't listen to them; if 102 FM imagine they can count on me for free advertising, they've got another thing coming! I'm a one-station girl me ...and that will be the station currently employing me. (Any offer will be assessed on its own merits.) Anyhoo, this is how the whole scene feels to me, so. The vibe, the general mood, the products passed as food in restaurants, the M50, the busted sole I've been meaning to get repaired for yonks, even the weather -it's all good! It could be raining cats and dogs for all I care, I hardly notice it anymore. Instead I go "Huh, it can only get better in a moment or two" and when it does, usually two or three days later, I'm even more pumped up, I'm dead chuffed to see the sun! I'm easy like that, me.
Happiness is not so difficult to achieve, in fact there are recipes to it. It's like everything else really, it's a question of getting it right. Take a spot of sunshine so, throw in a Matt Dillon flick, add some cinema parking space (i.e. right in front of your house with no parallel shenanigan), mix with some “Snowy Aurora pour femme”, enjoy a complimentary feature on iVenus, stir with a regular stint on "Off The Rails", finish with a manicure voucher courtesy of your mate who is too busy to go herself (thanks G!) and you're made up.
Top with chocolate.
Now
chocolate is an age-old shortcut to happiness, it releases dolphins in the
brain or something. Running has the same effect -but then you'd have to run.
Dancing. Now dancing is more like it, it's something I can live with,
preferably to a lethal beat and a two-note tune, something like "I Believe
In You" yeah, or "Push The Button", or "Baby Hit Me One
More Time", "Enjoy The Silence", "Like A Prayer"...
there are so many to choose from, ain't pop music grand!
Or just smiling. Yes, the very act of smiling: Apparently this tricks the brain into thinking that everything's hunky dory and -ta-da!- you actually feel better. It's as simple as that! Mother Nature at her best, isn't it wonderful... Who would have thought, after centuries of technological progress and pharmaceutical innovations that gave us the likes of Valium, Tranxene, Prozac, Ecstasy, Frog's Legs, Botox, colonic irrigation, face-lift, Wash-n-Go, Creme de la Mer, tummy tuck, breast augmentation and what have you, who would have thought the simple act of smiling is just as effective! A smile, that's what mothers look for in their babies first. Ah a nipper's first smile... the whole house lights up and the family is instantly reconciled! (Momentarily forgetting about the unknown identity of the little bastard.)
How else does happiness manifest itself so? In lots of ways, admittedly.
A pair of shoes that actually keeps the water out is a good one for starters, highlights that don't wash out after three showers is another, no extra pounds on the hips after Christmas is a winner. It goes like this: Past no more than three decades, half of the population start checking their peers for signs of receding hairline while the other keep an eye on their sisters' backsides for the first hint of cellulite. She who can postpone the havoc of time the longest is declared the winner and takes all. Yes, life can be cruel like that... But not for me yet, oh not for me. I'm still in a position to gloat thanks very much, I'm still in super shape with plenty of time on my side, at least ten years is what I reckon, ten years is an eternity. The clock may be ticking but I do declare, Scarlett O'Hara style, that I will never go to fat and that's final. If my aul' man's example is anything to go by, my genes should still hold firm for a while yet (I have no way of knowing about the other side of the equation and don't want to). A perfectly acceptable set of hips they will remain.
Failing that, a sugar daddy with an open account at Brown Thomas will do.
Or just smiling. Yes, the very act of smiling: Apparently this tricks the brain into thinking that everything's hunky dory and -ta-da!- you actually feel better. It's as simple as that! Mother Nature at her best, isn't it wonderful... Who would have thought, after centuries of technological progress and pharmaceutical innovations that gave us the likes of Valium, Tranxene, Prozac, Ecstasy, Frog's Legs, Botox, colonic irrigation, face-lift, Wash-n-Go, Creme de la Mer, tummy tuck, breast augmentation and what have you, who would have thought the simple act of smiling is just as effective! A smile, that's what mothers look for in their babies first. Ah a nipper's first smile... the whole house lights up and the family is instantly reconciled! (Momentarily forgetting about the unknown identity of the little bastard.)
How else does happiness manifest itself so? In lots of ways, admittedly.
A pair of shoes that actually keeps the water out is a good one for starters, highlights that don't wash out after three showers is another, no extra pounds on the hips after Christmas is a winner. It goes like this: Past no more than three decades, half of the population start checking their peers for signs of receding hairline while the other keep an eye on their sisters' backsides for the first hint of cellulite. She who can postpone the havoc of time the longest is declared the winner and takes all. Yes, life can be cruel like that... But not for me yet, oh not for me. I'm still in a position to gloat thanks very much, I'm still in super shape with plenty of time on my side, at least ten years is what I reckon, ten years is an eternity. The clock may be ticking but I do declare, Scarlett O'Hara style, that I will never go to fat and that's final. If my aul' man's example is anything to go by, my genes should still hold firm for a while yet (I have no way of knowing about the other side of the equation and don't want to). A perfectly acceptable set of hips they will remain.
Failing that, a sugar daddy with an open account at Brown Thomas will do.
Ah yes, I feel giddy. I type my little bulletins with renewed gusto, I barely notice the O'Arnlan sneers, and Mathieu and I fuck like champions.
Past the Phoenix slash whisky bar first contact, it didn't take long for my new Romeo to demonstrate his ardour again. He "came round for tea" a couple of afternoons later and by the time we finished our scones, we had most definitely renewed our acquaintance oh yes. We got acquainted again the next evening, after suffering three perfunctory hours at a cinema watching robot skyscrapers batter the shite out of each other (Mathieu liked it, I didn't) and then again the next day on his lunch break. We no longer bother pretending to go for a meal or a movie, we just make up for lost time.
Quick headcount, 'must have seen him about... six or seven times these last three weeks, and he's been good as gold. A bit over-confident at times maybe, but he will be forgiven. The cheeky rascal probably takes female appreciation for granted, 'must think he's God's answer to women or something ;-)! Oh, and he's got a mouth on him too. Like only the other day, I was driving down that road and of course he notices it, he goes:
"Hey, that's Beaver Row!"
Me, all sugar and spice:
-"Uh-oh... and?"
-"Let's gooo there!"
-"Why's that?"
-"It's Beaver Row -there must be a zo-oh for animals!"
Sometimes I am not entirely convinced his English is genuinely limited. Yer not as green as you're cabbage looking...
"Interlude!"
Henry
Street. Two security guards at the entrance of a shopping mall were complaining
about their supervisor:
-First uniform: "...and your man took the bleeding head off me for being 10 mins late, the focken bollix!"
-Second uniform: "Yeah I know pal, he ate the shite outta Gerry for the same thing, ate the focken shite outta him he did" (pauses, looks for emphasis) "-literally!"
-First uniform: "...and your man took the bleeding head off me for being 10 mins late, the focken bollix!"
-Second uniform: "Yeah I know pal, he ate the shite outta Gerry for the same thing, ate the focken shite outta him he did" (pauses, looks for emphasis) "-literally!"
"Mesdames et Messieurs, le DJ Sash est de retour"
We arrive at the Alliaaaaance (or so it is pronounced, Mathieu assures me). Situated on Kildare Street corner, I've walked past it hundreds of times. Hundreds of times I have marvelled at the gargoyles on its columns: pure Gothic wackiness! Local resident Bram Stoker would have approved. Horned little fellas chasing after rabbits, garlands of stone, fig leaves and graffitied wieners, in short: the works.
As we approach, I spot a group of youths congregating under its venerable columns. They (the lads, not the columns) have engaged in this new Irish health-and-safety ritual which consists of freezing one's tits / balls off (delete as applicable) for the simple crime of having oneself a fag. One now has to smoke on the porch, that is to say where you can obstruct both the entrance and the sidewalk, re-sult!
Mathieu recognises them:
"Hey this is my mates... Laurent, Frédéric -they from the Alliaaance."
He goes over to them.
"...Ca va?" casual as can be
(pause)
-"....Ca va" they reply, brief to the point of conciseness
(pause)
-"Ouai ouai, ca va moi..."
(another pause)
(the two bearded ones scrutinise their ciggies gravely)
Mathieu turns towards me:
"Listen, why don't you go in for a cup of the coffee -it's the best in town!- and I have a cigarette with vem yeah? Won't be a minute, you don't mind"
'Course I don't. How natural to invite me and then leave me to my own devices, while you're having a fag with your mates. I mean, it's not like you came all the way to Ireland to hang around the French centre with your French buddies.
Eh?
Oh.
"Feeling
comme ci comme ca? Why don't you come and lean French with us -it's so chic!
Jump into a certain Je Ne Sais Quoi!"
A
cheery poster catches my attention.
"Discover the fascinating world of the French, in all of its vibrant complexity and enriching magnitude!
"Discover the fascinating world of the French, in all of its vibrant complexity and enriching magnitude!
Look
at them, the French natives..." (photo
of a French native) "they certainly are a queer kettle of fish, aren't
they? They can't pronounce their aitches but add them to every word, they eat
frogs and snails, they play with flair but give up at the earliest opportunity
and when they're not on strike, they're after taking a siesta!!" (cartoon
of a bed sprouting "ZZZZzzzs" in the air) "Now scratch beyond
the surface, look beyond the cover, and ask yourself: Are the French worth
getting to know? Are they really? The answer is "Yes"! A thousand
oui!
Take
this French you may have just encountered around the corner, all lips curled
and shoulders a-shrugging, everyone's natural reaction would be to flee and
delouse but non non non, that would be wrong. That would indicate poor
judgement on your part and probably be offensive, all things being equal. Non,
our advice is: don't be alarmed. Don't be phoning "Talk To Joe" just
yet. Maybe this is all a misundestanding, maybe this is just a case of cultural
-yes, cultural (!!)- differences...
Let's
apprehend the situation in a rational manner. So here you are, faced with a French
that is starting to make noises. Don't panic, assess the situation calmly.
Maybe he -or she- is trying to impart knowledge of some sort? Maybe he -or she-
is simply happy to see you? Does he wag his tail? (Ha ha, only kidding -it
might be a she.) Look him -or her- in the eye and
breathe slowly -now no brisk movement here, this might set them off- observe the
French and take note. Is he -or she- responding to your friendly behaviour and
reciprocating eye-contact, or are the Gallic shoulders still rotating? For all
you know, this may constitute normal conduct in France when awakening... Or
else this French may genuinely be inebriated; true that, true, well within the
realms of possibility.
Seriously though,
think about it. Could it be this French who is now presumably standing up and
squaring up to you, crab-legged, in typical Gallic stance, could it be he -or
she- is after all not so different from you? Could it?? Admittedly this may
come as a bombshell to some and an affront to good Fenian manners, but bear
with us and chew this over. ... There. Here is what we're suggesting, so: For
all you know, yous two may have more in common than you previously imagined,
yous two may in fact share quite a lot. For real!Or at least that's what we at
the Alliance like to think (...otherwise what a complete waste of our lives
this would have been but let's not go there, oh no let's not go there).
For
sure, he -or she- will differ in a few minor details here and there but you
can't expect everyone to be the same. The real question is, should these
details matter? Should they preclude inter-national friendship? Leaving aside
the baffling accent and infinitely more stylish clothes, wouldn't you accept
our daring proposition: We submit to you that this French you're exposed to may
not in fact be so different from your good self and is a person in his / her
own right. Come on, have a heart... Doesn't he -or she- deserve to be treated
with the same respect you would grant anybody in the country (and that would
include people from Limerick)?
So
please relax. Try not to look tense or apprehensive when approaching a French:
This is sending the worst possible signal and he -or she- can smell fear, even
beyond its surrounding cloud of perfume. Mock not the French. Engage with him or
her via careful eye-contact. You may then attempt a friendly gesture such as
waving your arm (not too vigorously though). Chances are the French will
recognise your intention and may respond accordingly -note of warning though:
this may entail kissing. Congratulations: you've overcome the first hurdle!
Now
for the noise emitted by this hypothetical French. Bear this in mind, and this
will spare you sweats of anguish, just because this lot sound to your refined
Gaelic ear like they're engaged in shouting or cursing you does not necessarily
mean they are. In fact, their incomprehensible ejaculations may not even denote
aggression. Oh no, this is just the French natural way of communicating! So
don't be reaching for the mace just yet.
Part deux: Welcome To France.
Welcome
to France where the
weather is famously grand, 365 days sunny, and where the girls are pretty.
"Heureux days!" one is tempted to say (LOL!!!). France, where the
houses come up with prices so low, so ridiculous ...they are literally
begging to get snapped off indigenous hands! So help yourself to one, or two,
or three -who's still counting! There may not be any French word for
"entrepreneur" but the future is bright, and the future is up for
grabs. So go for it, be brave, and be merry. Be investing in the true land of
opportunity the other side of the Irish sea, and secure yourself the dream
cottage in the middle of the countryside / on a mountain / right by the sea
that you've always, er, dreamed of. It's easy to find: it's right under the sun. Only needing a wee bit of
renovation here and there, a lick of paint and its private generator, your very
own retreat is awaiting your pleasure so don't be scared now, don't fret and go
right ahead -Tackle the French by the horns! Jump straight into the
world-famous Je Ne Sais Quoi and enjoy! Remember, there is no need to phone
your Mammy in the middle of "Father Ted" to tell her about your
encounter with a French, interacting with his or her kin doesn't have to be a
chore :-(( ...After all, we're not English! :-))
Ourselves at the Alliance Francaise are on hand to help you achieve your dream, we love to help! So come on in, enjoy the legendary French sense of hospitality, its easy manners and famed politeness, and sign up for our StartUpQwikLern (TM) series of up-freshening language courses! Anyone can apply, even women. After a mere couple of lessons with our legally registered tutors (all criminal records vetted and local sex offender registries duly notified), you too will soon be able to converse almost fluently with René the jovial mailman and Renée the fat butcher: "Sacrebléu! Merde alors mon ami!""
Mathieu's elegant shove-off actually comes in handy: it gives me an opportunity to go and indulge in that other modern tradition that is checking-one's-messages. How many since last time I checked? What's G. up to? Should I give her a call? Anyone else called? What's the time now? Shouldn't I get a new phone? One with a better camera? A slimmer one? One that receives emails? Now what's it called again?? Oh yeah, a Blueberry. Old farts still call it a phone but to all intents and purposes, it's pretty much become a computer we're carrying in our pockets, a right computer... Can't wait to find out who called but first -first let's find ourselves a place to sit.
Ourselves at the Alliance Francaise are on hand to help you achieve your dream, we love to help! So come on in, enjoy the legendary French sense of hospitality, its easy manners and famed politeness, and sign up for our StartUpQwikLern (TM) series of up-freshening language courses! Anyone can apply, even women. After a mere couple of lessons with our legally registered tutors (all criminal records vetted and local sex offender registries duly notified), you too will soon be able to converse almost fluently with René the jovial mailman and Renée the fat butcher: "Sacrebléu! Merde alors mon ami!""
Mathieu's elegant shove-off actually comes in handy: it gives me an opportunity to go and indulge in that other modern tradition that is checking-one's-messages. How many since last time I checked? What's G. up to? Should I give her a call? Anyone else called? What's the time now? Shouldn't I get a new phone? One with a better camera? A slimmer one? One that receives emails? Now what's it called again?? Oh yeah, a Blueberry. Old farts still call it a phone but to all intents and purposes, it's pretty much become a computer we're carrying in our pockets, a right computer... Can't wait to find out who called but first -first let's find ourselves a place to sit.
Confession
time: I've never actually been to this Alliance yoke.
Sure, walked past it hundreds of times but... I never stepped inside. Must have
been the forbidding porch, the Gothic gargoyles... didn't quite know what to
expect in truth, wasn't quite sure there'd be anything for me in there. It
comes down to this: this Alliance thingy, I never really knew what it was
about! (Secret blush here.) Its purpose never was clear to me. I mean, clearly,
this joint had to be specifically catering to Gallic tastes and so never
bothered (CROSSED THROUGH FORMAT ON LAST 2 WORDS) always wondered... What could
possibly be of interest or relevance to me here? ((And -er...- do you need a
French passport to get in?)) Like, first question that comes to mind: Looking after their own as they do, would the
Frogs serve Guinness at the bar? Huh? Probably not -anthologies of suicided
poets, more like! Stella Artois. Rosé. Le Piat d'Or
("j'adore"). Absinthe. Armagnac. Cognac. Naughty videos. Overpriced bottles of champagne.
Blue novels. Spirits. Beaujolais. Kronenbourg. And on and on and on.
...This
is bit of a let-down. To start with, I would have expected accordion muzak,
don't that lot always play the accordion in their movies? I'd have pictured
movie posters and impersonist paintings, maybe maps and posters of
sunflowers... Card players and deadpan messages that read "this is not a
pipe" under the painting of a pipe (lol!). ... But there's no sign of
these. No "Betty Blue" poster, not even your the one with the chubby
fellow made of tyres.
And
where are their lethal tiny bottles of perfume if I may ask? The kind you buy
just for the look of it and keep long afterwards on a shelf... can't see any.
Would have laid out a few on a shelf me, if only to catch the neon light and
give some sparkle... I'd have imagined something a bit more stylish for sure.
Like
take these famed French products: How many of their three hundred and sixty
five types of cheeses are on sale here? Two hundred? One hundred? Twenty? Or
just the stinky ones you bring back from holiday as a joke like Parmesan or
Guttenberg? The answer is... can't see any.
So
what about red wine? I always had a pretty clear vision of what a French
cellar'd look like... Shelves upon shelves upon shelves of cobweb-layered
green-glass bottles resting, gathering dust between pillars and ghosts, and
then your man with a moustache comes in and lovingly turns them over one by one
to shift the sediment. Emmanuelle Béart decides to take a shower in the cellar
for some reason and accordion music fills the air. Your man then pops a cork
("Pop!"), pours himself a glass, swirls it around, smells it, tastes
it, spits it out and downs the rest of the bottle. Smacking his lips, he goes
"Sacrebleu if this isn't a good
year!" Opens another bottle.
Yes,
you have to wonder what the deal is with this Alliance thingy... and more
generally with French culture as a would-be cultural export; in the great
scheme of things, what exactly does it stand for?
I would have imagined they'd propose DVDs of their own cinema, to start with. DVDs of their trademark psychologiiique thrillers where nothing much happens for two hours except that the ladies are bound to take their clothes off at some stage while their male partners spout deep philosophical nonsense about things, stuff, and assorted shite. A typical French scene goes something like this. 'Bloke lights up, broods for a minute. He goes: "Look ici, I am of the feurm opinion that the essence lies in the action" (perfect breasts pop out in the background) "but I am not sure that spontaneity adequately euffsets the depf of reflection" (your woman in the background is now down to her panties) "...wouldn't you agree, Irene?" 'Woman goes: "Oh keum 'ere and kiss me deeep, I leuv it when you talk deurty to me you big brute!"
Now
the question of what soundtrack to expect for these masterful studies of
pyschological dilemmas would be a puzzling one. Everyone knows the French can't
rock. They don't have a decent pop band between the fifty-odd millions of them.
Saint-Etienne? English. Depeche Mode? English. Blancmange? English. Classix
Nouveau? English
again. So music-wise, what their travelling shopwindow would have on offer had
to be a scary prospect. Shasha Distel? Maurice Chevalier? Plastic Bertrand?
"Joe le taxi"? Johnny Holiday, in all likelihood. If you had asked me
before I'd set foot in, I would have imagined stirring anthems belted out by
fatale femmes with a (filter-less, naturally) ciggie screwed to their lips. You
know the kind, anthems that are designed to inspire professional strikers to go
and take to the streets to burn sheep or tyres to their heart's content in a
typical attempt to stick it to The Man yeah. They'd have lyrics like -oh I
don't know- "Come on weaklings /
It's been two weeks and twenty love-makings / Since we've been marching(s?) /
So come on Baby light my fire / Then throw the butt on the floor of the Gare /
Never leave a tip in a restaurant / Have instead a wash in a torrent"
...something like that.
Nah,
what I more realistically expected to find here was
food. Their own version of grub which they call "cuisiiine". Now
that'd make sense: the country that gave Quiche Lorraine and Le Piat d'Or to
the world! France and food, it's a marriage positively made in heaveuun! In my
mind's eye, I could see it: three-course meals served on napkins with actual
glasses instead of pints, proper dishes that you could enjoy rather than just
fill up on, wouldn't it be just something else! And when I say three-course
meals... don't forget the cheese and wine to boot! The wine would be red
naturally, and the bread would have to be carved off a loaf -no pre-cut slices
here! Then to top it all for a glorious finish, they'd serve a heart-stopping,
hips-filling, dentist-financing, monster of a creamcake -oh sweet Mary mother
of Christ, forgive the indulgence...
And what about fashion.
I always wondered... surely this Alliance yoke ought to be about fashion too, if it's supposed to reflect their national industry and all...? Them French being famous for their high couture, expensive perfumes and lah-di-dah scarves, surely this ought to be the perfect opportunity for showing them off? A-ha, now I was in my territory! If there ever was room to exercise my imagination, this had to be it. Hmm, now let me think... yeah... yeah... I could see it... "(Introducing) Ze Alliance Casuelle collection, Summer-Autumn Special" courtesy of Lily Monaghan's feverish imagination, here goes: Waitresses would cha-cha-cha their drinks in little black Dior numbers, whip up a quick Creme Brulee in knock-me-down Yves-Saint-Laurent ensembles, and frown for their tips in your standard Jean-Paul Gaultier ten-inch conical bra. How couldn't it work! That'd bring custom.
And what about fashion.
I always wondered... surely this Alliance yoke ought to be about fashion too, if it's supposed to reflect their national industry and all...? Them French being famous for their high couture, expensive perfumes and lah-di-dah scarves, surely this ought to be the perfect opportunity for showing them off? A-ha, now I was in my territory! If there ever was room to exercise my imagination, this had to be it. Hmm, now let me think... yeah... yeah... I could see it... "(Introducing) Ze Alliance Casuelle collection, Summer-Autumn Special" courtesy of Lily Monaghan's feverish imagination, here goes: Waitresses would cha-cha-cha their drinks in little black Dior numbers, whip up a quick Creme Brulee in knock-me-down Yves-Saint-Laurent ensembles, and frown for their tips in your standard Jean-Paul Gaultier ten-inch conical bra. How couldn't it work! That'd bring custom.
Well,
today was the day to find out.
...
The One Where I Find Out -Entracte.
I
settle down and enjoy my cuppa. Nice. The café suitably smells of roasted
coffee and feels roomy. Tables and chairs all round. Leather sofa. Guardian
readers in attendance. It is decorated with modern paintings (by a French
artist I take it... presumably, they've had a few since Picasso, maybe should
check) and -surprise of all surprises- no music's playing. Say what? Yep, no
music. I realise with a shudder what it was that unnerved me so as I sat down:
actual silence. Literal calm. Oh shock horror, absolute rest. Who would have
thought!? Who would have thought, with their colourful nationals, that it'd
turn out to be a joint where you can
A) sit down and chill and
B) do so without being treated to the delights of Oasis, Robbie Williams, Boyzone, Marayah Carey or even Jennifer "her love costs nothing" Lopez! (Good old Jenny... the perfect date she makes, and no mistake.) This is almost disturbing, that. Silence.
A) sit down and chill and
B) do so without being treated to the delights of Oasis, Robbie Williams, Boyzone, Marayah Carey or even Jennifer "her love costs nothing" Lopez! (Good old Jenny... the perfect date she makes, and no mistake.) This is almost disturbing, that. Silence.
........
And
again.
.........
I feel
outside my element, speaking as a radio person for whom "dead air" is
the No1 enemy. I once was told that if we remained perfectly mute for -like-
thirty seconds, emergency systems would pick up on that and a back-up tape
would start automatically: our audience must be reassured that nuclear holocaust
hasn't taken place in D4, see. Anyway, it's all dead chilled in here; no
background musak and no forced distraction. How about that eh... I can almost
hear my tea beag crackle! Think about it though: Of all the places we find
ourselves during the course of a normal day, where / when exactly do we still
enjoy actual silence? ...Where was the last time it ever happened?
Be it
cars, trucks, buses, trams, motorbikes, mopeds, side-cars, pushbikes (re. their
bells), tandems ("Do keep up,
will you! I don't intend to do all the work here!"), sirens,
alarms, badly executed prison breakouts, women tennis players, dogs, cats,
canaries, "Miami Vice" fans' pet alligators (they tend to scare the
bejesus out of little old ladies -hence the screams), children playing,
children falling down and hurting their knee, babies who won't go to sleep,
supermarket doors sliding open with a cheery bell and shoplifters ringing on
their way out, TVs, radios, telegraph, internet announcements ("You've
got mail! / You haven't got mail, sad loser!"), planes and
helicopters, Brian Blessed, neighbours behind the paper-thin toilet wall,
neighbours in the middle of the night, drunks, "Talk-to-Joe", Bible
bashers, more "Talk-to-Joe", fishmongers, happy-hardcore booming out
of Culchie souped-up megabass-soundsystem boyracers, vehicle-reversing
vehicle-reversing, ever so welcome charity muggers ("Hey miss, got a
minute?"), tourists asking for direction ("No, I don't know
the way to San Jose"), Gardai playing at Starsky and Hutch in the
streets, tourists asking someone else for direction ("Sorry, me no
Irish"), drug dealers re-enacting the Valentine Day's massacre, cruise
ships fog-horning up and down the mighty Liffey (may need to check on that),
"The Itchy and Scratchy Show" reverberating outside open windows,
typewriters, castanets, novelty mobile rings, trains leaving stations never to
return, pigeons in a panic, doves, owls, seaguls, rats nibbling cheese, toilets
flushing, washing-machines, ventilation, succion, propulsion, plates crashing
to the floor in restaurants to the great amusement of everyone except the
waiter, church bells, school recess, honk if you love Jesus, "Mrs.
Gambon is wanted at the cheese and rashers section, I repeat Mrs. Gambon is
wanted at the cheese and rashers section -thank you", champagne corks,
whistles (of the woolf or Irish category), fathers hearing their son wants to
join Arsenal Football Club, lucky listeners reacting live on air to
"surprise" phone-calls by the DJ, GAA fans greeting their teams onto
the pitch, Dubs skying another effort, music loving neighbours practicing their
scales, young Siofra (aged 12 months) expressing her delight at seeing her Ma
dare take her attention away from her for more than 10 seconds, kettles
boiling, corn popping, Bruce Willis gunning down some building and exploding
someone on a screen near you, Ian Paisley expressing an opinion, Italians,
buskers on their twentieth "Whiskey in the Jar" of the day*, this
modern life thingy's a veritable smorgasbord of a capharnaum is it not!
*I could go on...
*I could go on...
I remember the time when on a trip to London, I once took the shuttle from Heathrow Airport... Sweet Jaysus and Mary, gizzus a break sometime! Hardly had I sat down my sorry bum that on came a security announcement: "Your attention please! I say, your attention please!" Your man, all dulcet tones and Queen's English, started informing us of the correct attitude to observe in his country (mainly don't be looking to create trouble yous scumbags and learn instead to stay vigilant and spot potential bombs under seats -I paraphrase here). Fair enough thought I, you can never be too careful with foreigners (and with the Irish too! boom boom) and set about catching a crafty forty winks. Three minutes later: "Ding ding! Your attention please! I say, your attention please!", same announcement comes on. And again three minutes later. And again another three minutes later. And I remember thinking, I thought: Hey, does anyone -apart from a goldfish maybe- really need to be told let alone reminded every three minutes that they can't smoke or light a bonfire inside a train carriage? Really?? It's at this point that your man offered us this lethal piece of advice: "Listen, yer bunch of skangers" (I paraphrase once more) "yous are advised to look after your luggage OK?" I was morto. No shit Sherlock. Feck me, these Brits (looked nervously over her shoulder travelling Lily) ...are they a bit touched or what? Might as well go the whole hog and advise us to remember breathing in case we forgot!
Of
course, what message was being passed here had nothing to do with concern for
our well-being hell no; what your man meant was: "Just to let yous
know, we are washing our corporate hands off any potential mishap, so deal with
it yeah? If your duty-fee Champers falls off the rack -not our problem!"
Same as supermarkets who inform you they won't be held responsible for anything
happening in the car-park. You pays your dues...
I let
it sink, I made my peace, and then I thought: Aha, surely we've heard the end
of it! Now is my chance to catch some shut-eye time.
And
then your man started again.
"Laaadies
n gentlemen" -groaaaaan- "Can I have your attention please?"
-no bleedin' chance of refusing is there!- "Do bear with us for a few
important words" -Oh yes? And then the safety announcements switched
to downright propaganda hyping up the place to high heaven. ...That would be
the place we had chosen to fly to. And -lo!- that was the moment I learnt that
the UK was in fact a tip-top country, who would have thought. I know, crazy!
Cor, blimey, strike me down with a feather duster guv'. England, we were told,
has so much to offer, it's like totally down with it as well as totally up for
it, it's right on the ball and mad for it, dead rich in its diversity and
proper sorted with its natural riches yeah (insert "like" icon here),
it is a place bursting with innovation not to mention traditions, a land where
casual meets enchanting, future succeeds past, and where vitality is an element
ever-present in every day (or something like that). Apparently, not only did
the Sixties never end in London, they are in fact still swinging something
torrid -I was right sold. Dead impressed I was, and who wouldn't be, re. the
promises of vibrant multiculturalism and forward planning? The UK, so the
important words continued, totally boasts a bewildering array of intoxicating
activities that are guaranteed to provide fun for the entire family, yadda
yadda yadda, went on for quite a while.
I
rather enjoyed the following thirty seconds; it was just us, our suitcases
(which apparently we ought to care for), and the rattle of the rails. Bliss.
That's
when a new stream of ads got unleashed into our ears.
"Eat
carbon fibers! Go splash out on a sixty-inch plasma screen! Rent yourself a
faraway part-time holiday home! Insure yourself against insurance! Get a
magazine with your Sunday CD!" What da?? I nearly howled. There I was,
cream-crackered, jet-lagged like feck, and all they could only think was
pummeling us into submission; surely this had gone way beyond a joke! Was this
a cunning tactic for boosting the coffee sales from the trolley? Which sadist
had come up with this torture? Oh how the Guantanamo Bay wardens would have
approved of these shenanigans, great minds alike eh....
Two
weeks later, and I was back in the land of the living. I jump on the bus from
the airport and what do I hear? "Aaah, and a very warm welcome to
Dublin everyone, now yous mind yourselves you hear, and be looking after your
luggage right? Yous be responsible. Now we're very sorry but, smoking ban and
all, smoking is no longer permitted onboard oh no, so don't be trying to get
cute with me, the vehicle is fitted with smoke alarms, you'll be found out.
Also can we ask yous, thanks a million, to be honest wit chas, please put your
seatbelts on, no hanging out of the window, no mooning allowed either, please
bear in mind that, now don't be dropping your, let's have a song for, make sure
yous, mobiles phone are only allowed in, no talking to the driver, feet belong
under the seats, first stop will be, toilets are at the back not out of the
window, bins exist for a reason, and on your left you can see, on your right
you can buy, don't forget to, now wash your hands, wipe your nose, sit up
straight -And don't forget to kiss the driver when yous all leave the bus, I'm
Irish."
The One Where I Find Out -Resumed.
It
turns out not to be the case -Lily does her little face. Why, there's no
cocktail dress in sight, no bare-back chemisier. No rah-rah skirt, livery, Croatian
flag apron, bolero, breeches, bavette or even a basic French maid's get-up. For
crying out loud, there's not even a single Givenchy scarf! Nope, I see no
lopsided beret on the horizon and no Breton striped sweater either. ... This is
boring. Everyone is pretty much dressed in the modern uniform that walks our
streets: everyone's in black. Black is so slimming, it is so functional -it's
so anonymous, more like! I'm totally crashing back down to Euuurth... This is
so not what I expected to find in here, it doesn't even register anywhere near
what you'd see on, say, Café-en-Seine! Where has the glamour gone? Is that all
there is to be? Are French people as disappointing as the rest of the world?
(Man in a mac picks up his paper and gets to work on the crosswords, oh the
glamour.)
OK OK, let's not get ahead of ourselves though chide myself I, let's not jump to conclusions. After all, I've only set foot in here, right? I've only had the quickest of looks. True, that, I've barely scratched at the surface so let's not get carried away too fast, let's not give in to first impressions. Not for me to fall victim to this kind of behaviour eh! Right so. Now then. ... On second thought, there is some kind of charm to this minimalist interior... some kind of atmosphere to the place... understated for sure, but nonetheless potent in its -er- tantalising unpredictability. For all I know, any second now and the Crazy Horse Saloon will burst in to stage an impromptu can-can or maybe that fellow with the 'tache will whip out a bunch of roses from under his Tweed, go down on one knee, launch himself sliding across the linoleum and propose to the girl by the coffee-machine!
OK OK, let's not get ahead of ourselves though chide myself I, let's not jump to conclusions. After all, I've only set foot in here, right? I've only had the quickest of looks. True, that, I've barely scratched at the surface so let's not get carried away too fast, let's not give in to first impressions. Not for me to fall victim to this kind of behaviour eh! Right so. Now then. ... On second thought, there is some kind of charm to this minimalist interior... some kind of atmosphere to the place... understated for sure, but nonetheless potent in its -er- tantalising unpredictability. For all I know, any second now and the Crazy Horse Saloon will burst in to stage an impromptu can-can or maybe that fellow with the 'tache will whip out a bunch of roses from under his Tweed, go down on one knee, launch himself sliding across the linoleum and propose to the girl by the coffee-machine!
...
Like I
said, any second now. I take another sip.
As so eloquently requested, I have let the Males to themselves. Boys will be boys, and they obviously have their Man thing to do, which'll be out-smoking / out-smarting each other as deadpan as possible. H'a! The lads are probably discussing the footy-last-night for all I know! Ah yes the inevitable footy (yawn) ...default setting for any conversation between blokes, especially foreign ones who don't get our GAA. Now the GAA, you're talking proper sport here, one where men don't roll around in agony whenever breathed upon! It takes a proper leg break in three places to stop a GAA player running through! Not that I'd ever pretend to be an expert on its appeal or subtleties, all I note is that waves of supporters seem to descend on Croke Park on a fairly regular basis, which would suggest there is something there, something that has its appeal (the sound of a leg break maybe?)... I guess it's just another one to write off and file under "How The Other Half Lives" label, their lot certainly has to get worked up about something, don't they? Seriouslythough, here's an intriguing thought... What exactly does the male mind concern itself with -and the French one at that? Seriously. What goes through its dark continent? Does it have feelings as such? Is it capable of empathy? Is it imbued with logic? And do men have any regard for anyone else but themselves?
Now then let's see... From footy to footy, let's draw ourselves a nice little bucket-list -this could provide for a tidy piece on a rainy day too, that's multitasking in action! So, blokes... What Do They Care For?
I take another sip of my Earl Grey and suggestions come flooding in.
Cars; formula one; landspeed records; motorbikes; mopeds; their first pushbike; car insurance; computers; laptops (aren't they the same?); gadgets; mobile phones; cameras on mobile phones; porn on mobile phones; porn on the Net; porn on TV (or lack of); TV series; TV newsreaders; funny adverts; revolting videos; horror movies; serial killers; martial arts; bouncers; gangsters; going to the gym and getting like totally ripped yeah; aftershave; deodorant; shaving (or not bothering with); goatee versus sideburns; boxers versus Y-fronts; shirt worn with jeans: tucked in or not?; sportscars; footy; who would win in a fight between a lion and an elephant / Muhammad Ali and Arnold Schwarzenegger / the Lamborghini Maestro Berluscono Treble V and the jet fighter A-555 with reverse antiaerial thrust / Madonna and Hillary Clinton / Mary Harney and Hillary Clinton / Tony Soprano and Hillary Clinton; conspiracy theories; making lists; footy; getting smashed but I mean like totally legless yeah; getting stoned; getting mashed; getting ripped-off; the price of pints, here and abroad; holidays abroad; foreign girls; stupid foreign laws and customs and how to cleverly circumvent them; drugs mishaps; domestic accidents; car-crashes; footy; porn; kebabs; burgers; pizza; late opening hours and sensible retail trade policy; scrapping in the street; being sick in the street; Bill Clinton the dirty dog / ultimate lovable rogue (depending on which level of education); all politicians being corrupt leeches; why everyone else is stupid; their boss being a bleedin' eejit (they'd probably use another term here); how they can't stand hypocrites and they -for one- always tell it like it is to people's faces rather than go behind their backs yeah; porn; footy -and on and on and on, presumably.
And
now for French fellows. I imagine all of the above, surely? Then add
existential philosophy; Breton sweaters and berets; red wine with offal; red
wine with fries; red wine with cheese; red wine full stop; garlic; touch of
pepper; frog's legs: medium or rare?; taking a bath: yes or no?; taking a nap
instead; staging a protest; the genius of Jerry Lewis; beer; getting lashed;
getting lashed like nobody before them's ever managed yeah; Gauloises versus
Gitanes; other people losing their hair; other people getting fat but not them;
French girls compared with foreign ones; France compared to other countries;
footy; that film star's open secret, wink wink; fast cars; Gérard Dipardiou;
Shasha Distel; Maurice Chevalier; Eric Cantona; Joan of Arc; général de Gaulle;
Hercule Poirot; footy; girls -ohmygod I hope he's not discussing me!
Sudden terror pierces through me like seafood past its sell-by date and a cold sweat of concern pearls down my brow: is he discussing me?? I have an idea. How about sneaking out for a quick check? Ah sure my French is on the rusty side but I ought to be able to recognise my name should it get mentioned? Clue: it sounds like "lee", and then another "lee".
I have another idea. I climb onto the sofa, peek outside the window, and who do I spot? The three amigos, each of them engaged in studious smoking. Nobody appears to do much talking. They just... stand there, fully erect, asserting their right to hog the stairway and the incoming elderly Japanese tourists will just have to step down from the kerb, won't they. They concentrate on their smoking: "puff, puff". Very existentialiste, that; I am starting to understand about the oft-mentionned lack of French productivity. These guys are for real and no mistake. They take their drags with an intense air of inspired rumination, then one of them mumbles a short something and they all stub out their fags. A clear case of "OK, time to go back to work" I would imagine ("OK, le temps aller a la travail"?). They disappear from view as they make their way inside. Quick! I unpeel myself off the window and dive back onto my seat
and just about knock my mug off the table. In the last second I catch it (scalding my fingers in the process) and it doesn't come crashing onto the lino.
Nobody has spotted me.
...........
I have now immersed myself into my mobile and -Hey there!- haven't spotted your man making his big entrance; what a nonchalant girlfriend I make eh... Almost like I couldn't care less. The first indication I get of his presence is the sound of his delightful greeting:
"Hey."
Surprised and charmed in equal measure, herself raised her naturally smiling eyes. The dashing hunk towered over here, firmly camped on his strong legs. A heady whiff of cinnamon and lavender drifted from his hairy chest.
-"Oh. Oh here you are... And how was the ciggie, I mean your friends? Everyone good?"
His turn to look surprised.
-"Is everyone good? Of course, my friends they're good -that's why they are my friends!"
To be fair, one can't argue with such logic. I almost flounder here.
-"What I meant to say is, er, how they 'keeping, 'everyone grand?"
-"Well I suppose. I guess. Whatever but, hey, you want a crrroissant with your tea? Huh? A nice French croissant -Made with butter, it's great!"
Er... do I? Is this a good idea? Butter I'm not too sure about... I hesitate and he chooses for me.
"I tell you what, I go get one and you taste it - If you don't like, I finish it! Simple!"
Your man takes off triumphantly towards the food counter. The food counter where -I can't fail to notice- a rather pretty Asian looking girl is presently serving.
Your man falls into a conversation with the rather pretty Asian looking girl.
Now, from my vantage point I can't make out their words, let alone grasp what they're saying, but I sure can recognise the overall rhythm: "Blah blah blah, blah blah blah, blah-blah". Its sing-song ups-and-downs leave me in no doubt: she's also French. Language's a queer aul' thing is it not? The way it rolls off the tongue, it's primarily a rhythm, it's a cadence. Think of Japanese, Chinese, Italian, Arabic, African or whatever. If you hear any spoken walking down the street, your brain will instantly recognise the provenance of its speaker, maybe even his nationality. Somehow you'll be able to guess, simply thanks to the music the language makes. Any language offers its particular delivery, see. This naturally applies to French, when spoken from a distance. Or in this case, currently spoken from a distance by your fella in deep conversation with a right little ride.
I toy with the temptation of simply ignoring the situation and giving a quick one to Georgina ("What's the craic? Are we winning yet? Nah, not much happening here, it's all good, same old same old...") and then I remember I've just sent her a text. Hmm. Can't overdo the phatic bit. I sip my tea. These two over there are certainly taking an inordinate amount of time to effect the monetary transaction associated with the purchase of a cup of coffee and a pastry. I may have to resort to fainting in order to attract Mathieu's attention.
The hunter-and-gatherer eventually returns.
"She was from Paris!" he explains triumphantly
-"Hmm... who was?"
-"That girl selling the food" he points, somewhat unnecessarily "She's from Paris."
-"Ah."
-"That's great, I'm not alone!"
-"Oh?"
-"What I mean is, Laurent... Frédéric... they're from Toulouse -Toulouse! It's called the "pink city" in France hee hee! Toulouse yeah? That's not Paris!"
Sudden terror pierces through me like seafood past its sell-by date and a cold sweat of concern pearls down my brow: is he discussing me?? I have an idea. How about sneaking out for a quick check? Ah sure my French is on the rusty side but I ought to be able to recognise my name should it get mentioned? Clue: it sounds like "lee", and then another "lee".
I have another idea. I climb onto the sofa, peek outside the window, and who do I spot? The three amigos, each of them engaged in studious smoking. Nobody appears to do much talking. They just... stand there, fully erect, asserting their right to hog the stairway and the incoming elderly Japanese tourists will just have to step down from the kerb, won't they. They concentrate on their smoking: "puff, puff". Very existentialiste, that; I am starting to understand about the oft-mentionned lack of French productivity. These guys are for real and no mistake. They take their drags with an intense air of inspired rumination, then one of them mumbles a short something and they all stub out their fags. A clear case of "OK, time to go back to work" I would imagine ("OK, le temps aller a la travail"?). They disappear from view as they make their way inside. Quick! I unpeel myself off the window and dive back onto my seat
and just about knock my mug off the table. In the last second I catch it (scalding my fingers in the process) and it doesn't come crashing onto the lino.
Nobody has spotted me.
...........
I have now immersed myself into my mobile and -Hey there!- haven't spotted your man making his big entrance; what a nonchalant girlfriend I make eh... Almost like I couldn't care less. The first indication I get of his presence is the sound of his delightful greeting:
"Hey."
Surprised and charmed in equal measure, herself raised her naturally smiling eyes. The dashing hunk towered over here, firmly camped on his strong legs. A heady whiff of cinnamon and lavender drifted from his hairy chest.
-"Oh. Oh here you are... And how was the ciggie, I mean your friends? Everyone good?"
His turn to look surprised.
-"Is everyone good? Of course, my friends they're good -that's why they are my friends!"
To be fair, one can't argue with such logic. I almost flounder here.
-"What I meant to say is, er, how they 'keeping, 'everyone grand?"
-"Well I suppose. I guess. Whatever but, hey, you want a crrroissant with your tea? Huh? A nice French croissant -Made with butter, it's great!"
Er... do I? Is this a good idea? Butter I'm not too sure about... I hesitate and he chooses for me.
"I tell you what, I go get one and you taste it - If you don't like, I finish it! Simple!"
Your man takes off triumphantly towards the food counter. The food counter where -I can't fail to notice- a rather pretty Asian looking girl is presently serving.
Your man falls into a conversation with the rather pretty Asian looking girl.
Now, from my vantage point I can't make out their words, let alone grasp what they're saying, but I sure can recognise the overall rhythm: "Blah blah blah, blah blah blah, blah-blah". Its sing-song ups-and-downs leave me in no doubt: she's also French. Language's a queer aul' thing is it not? The way it rolls off the tongue, it's primarily a rhythm, it's a cadence. Think of Japanese, Chinese, Italian, Arabic, African or whatever. If you hear any spoken walking down the street, your brain will instantly recognise the provenance of its speaker, maybe even his nationality. Somehow you'll be able to guess, simply thanks to the music the language makes. Any language offers its particular delivery, see. This naturally applies to French, when spoken from a distance. Or in this case, currently spoken from a distance by your fella in deep conversation with a right little ride.
I toy with the temptation of simply ignoring the situation and giving a quick one to Georgina ("What's the craic? Are we winning yet? Nah, not much happening here, it's all good, same old same old...") and then I remember I've just sent her a text. Hmm. Can't overdo the phatic bit. I sip my tea. These two over there are certainly taking an inordinate amount of time to effect the monetary transaction associated with the purchase of a cup of coffee and a pastry. I may have to resort to fainting in order to attract Mathieu's attention.
The hunter-and-gatherer eventually returns.
"She was from Paris!" he explains triumphantly
-"Hmm... who was?"
-"That girl selling the food" he points, somewhat unnecessarily "She's from Paris."
-"Ah."
-"That's great, I'm not alone!"
-"Oh?"
-"What I mean is, Laurent... Frédéric... they're from Toulouse -Toulouse! It's called the "pink city" in France hee hee! Toulouse yeah? That's not Paris!"
No
shit Sherlock.
-"Indeed it's not."
-"It's -er- interesting you see, because we don't have the same references me and Laurent and Frédéric: they're from Toulouse, I'm from Paris. They speak wiz an accent."
-"Do they?"
-"Oh yes, very funny! A Toulouse one."
You don't say, no flies on you pal!
Mathieu is suddenly hit with an attack of the sixth sense as he switches subjects. Switches to me, advisedly.
"But anyway whatever! How are you then? What's the steury? ...beud"?"
I have to laugh: isn't the whippersnapper getting to grips with the lingo! Oh but you're very cute sometime Mister!
-"'Story is... not-a-lot-to-be-honest. Was after wondering how I can keep you away from your pals for five minutes that's all ...and finally have you all to myself" cooed the flushed damsel as she daringly took hold of his hand and pressed it to her china white cheek**. Mathieu flinches (at least he doesn't actually push me off).
-"Ah er, it's not like that hmm... is not easy..."
And he clams up.
-"Indeed it's not."
-"It's -er- interesting you see, because we don't have the same references me and Laurent and Frédéric: they're from Toulouse, I'm from Paris. They speak wiz an accent."
-"Do they?"
-"Oh yes, very funny! A Toulouse one."
You don't say, no flies on you pal!
Mathieu is suddenly hit with an attack of the sixth sense as he switches subjects. Switches to me, advisedly.
"But anyway whatever! How are you then? What's the steury? ...beud"?"
I have to laugh: isn't the whippersnapper getting to grips with the lingo! Oh but you're very cute sometime Mister!
-"'Story is... not-a-lot-to-be-honest. Was after wondering how I can keep you away from your pals for five minutes that's all ...and finally have you all to myself" cooed the flushed damsel as she daringly took hold of his hand and pressed it to her china white cheek**. Mathieu flinches (at least he doesn't actually push me off).
-"Ah er, it's not like that hmm... is not easy..."
And he clams up.
---
**-Hold
it there, Uma dear. Are you sure about that? Please check, you’ve just told us
she was blushing… -Ed.
-Durr!
Maybe she's the pale type like Nicole Kidman or Big Chin from
"Twilight" eh! Maybe blushing for her means getting a half-notch up
from marble white, ever tought of that?
-Rrrrright
so. As you were love, carry on... -Ed.
---
Awkward
moment here, was I too bold? Looks like I was... Oh men! On your case when it
suits them, commitmentophobes and shrinking violets when it doesn't; economic
with PDAs. Right so, I shall not add comment to injury then! I pretend not to
notice his sudden withdrawal and make a point of biting into his crrroissant.
Ah yes, it's certainly rich is it not, I sure can taste the butter... yum yum.
See? I'm dicing with extra pounds for you, straight on the hips! (Not to
mention cholesterol.) ...Nothing doing.
Time elapses.
-"So what 'you been up to lately, in this daunting land of ours? Discovered any new artist recently? Been to the Clarence Hotel yet?"
His face brightens up
-"Yes I did, I stole toilet paper there!"
Choke, I nearly do.
"The idea is, I'll sell it on eBay you know? "U2's hotel's toilet paper"! Nobody has yet deun it, I checked. It's a brilliant idea! Genius!! And it didn't cost me nothing -this is brilliant! In fact, I was thinking, there must be other places for souvenirs yes? You go zere, you pick them -And then you sell them to the Japanese!"
-"Well that, er, certainly is a constructive way of looking at a nation's heritage..."
-"E-xa-ctly: you have to be constreuctive! You have to play the -how you say in English?- entwepweneur, that's what! Do it when you can! Neuthing wrong with that!"
-"I suppose not, no... As long as you don't go round parks chiselling noses off statues..."
My tea is getting cold.
But Mathieu's only getting started; he devours the rest of my croissant.
-"I need to think about it yes... Is a brilliant idea, but I need to develeup it more seriously. In fact, there is peutential here... Make it pay you know, while I'm in the place -I mean as long as I'm in Dublin. Maybe I should collect autographs, that kind of thing... Do you know any member of U2? any celebrity?"
Whoha Nelly! Cool your jets here! I more than hesitate: simply don't want to mention Da. Need serious think about it, as not too sure about potential side-effects... The prospect of introducing this -well, simply mercenary to call a spade a spade- dimension into our budding relationship does not exactly appeal to me. If anything, it'd mean sailing dangerously back to square one: Didn't I vow to make it on my own terms? Didn't I want to be appreciated for who, and not what, I am?? Questions, questions, questions. Definite hint of dilemma and I have to hold my tongue. In any case Mathieu wouldn't have heard of JohnnyRay, he is too young, he's not the type. "Wrist slash anthems"? I don't think so. "Gaelic glum glam"? Not this fellow.
-"Well er, I'm afraid I'm not on first name terms with The Edge or Bono no..." ('Course I met them! And I was taller than the preachy busybody too -Talking of whom, please someone elect him pope and let's get done with it already!) "but I'm confident that, with a bit of patience, you're bound to bump into someone equally famous around here. I hear Irvine Welsh resides in town... Seamus Heaney... TV presenter Lorraine Keane... Or else senator David Norris, Brian O'Driscoll, Noel Stapleton, Emer Callan.... there's so many! You have Sinead O'Connor of course -you know Sinead don't you?- or Ronnie Drew."
-"Ronnie who? Never heard of her. Ah whatever -they're not big stars! I need big names me, I want big stars! You know, U2. U2 or the Pogues. Van Meurisson. Or Tony Cascarino."
Time elapses.
-"So what 'you been up to lately, in this daunting land of ours? Discovered any new artist recently? Been to the Clarence Hotel yet?"
His face brightens up
-"Yes I did, I stole toilet paper there!"
Choke, I nearly do.
"The idea is, I'll sell it on eBay you know? "U2's hotel's toilet paper"! Nobody has yet deun it, I checked. It's a brilliant idea! Genius!! And it didn't cost me nothing -this is brilliant! In fact, I was thinking, there must be other places for souvenirs yes? You go zere, you pick them -And then you sell them to the Japanese!"
-"Well that, er, certainly is a constructive way of looking at a nation's heritage..."
-"E-xa-ctly: you have to be constreuctive! You have to play the -how you say in English?- entwepweneur, that's what! Do it when you can! Neuthing wrong with that!"
-"I suppose not, no... As long as you don't go round parks chiselling noses off statues..."
My tea is getting cold.
But Mathieu's only getting started; he devours the rest of my croissant.
-"I need to think about it yes... Is a brilliant idea, but I need to develeup it more seriously. In fact, there is peutential here... Make it pay you know, while I'm in the place -I mean as long as I'm in Dublin. Maybe I should collect autographs, that kind of thing... Do you know any member of U2? any celebrity?"
Whoha Nelly! Cool your jets here! I more than hesitate: simply don't want to mention Da. Need serious think about it, as not too sure about potential side-effects... The prospect of introducing this -well, simply mercenary to call a spade a spade- dimension into our budding relationship does not exactly appeal to me. If anything, it'd mean sailing dangerously back to square one: Didn't I vow to make it on my own terms? Didn't I want to be appreciated for who, and not what, I am?? Questions, questions, questions. Definite hint of dilemma and I have to hold my tongue. In any case Mathieu wouldn't have heard of JohnnyRay, he is too young, he's not the type. "Wrist slash anthems"? I don't think so. "Gaelic glum glam"? Not this fellow.
-"Well er, I'm afraid I'm not on first name terms with The Edge or Bono no..." ('Course I met them! And I was taller than the preachy busybody too -Talking of whom, please someone elect him pope and let's get done with it already!) "but I'm confident that, with a bit of patience, you're bound to bump into someone equally famous around here. I hear Irvine Welsh resides in town... Seamus Heaney... TV presenter Lorraine Keane... Or else senator David Norris, Brian O'Driscoll, Noel Stapleton, Emer Callan.... there's so many! You have Sinead O'Connor of course -you know Sinead don't you?- or Ronnie Drew."
-"Ronnie who? Never heard of her. Ah whatever -they're not big stars! I need big names me, I want big stars! You know, U2. U2 or the Pogues. Van Meurisson. Or Tony Cascarino."
-??
-"You
know, Cascarino -he played for Marseille" and here Mathieu makes a rather
unpleasant "ssshhhhhhh" sound that nearly puts me off my pastry
"but he was good: the basteurd scored goals for them! Someone famous
then."
-"Ah yes I see... Well in that case, maybe you could pay the Irish football federation a visit -they should be easy to find in the yellow pages, I guess- and ask for an introduction to that Tony Cascarino... who knows?"
-"That's an idea..." Our Romeo looks all pensive; he's clearly thinking up a plan.
A group of fifty-somethings choose this moment to turn up, all of them women. The noise level instantly notches up to eleven. Audibly Irish, they chat excitedly about "the lesson" and form an orderly queue for their cappa: mature students, presumably. But reading what exactly, I wonder... (apart from the language itself eh). Philosophy? Wine tasting? Cheese making? Filter-less smoking? Cooking with gas? Dress accessorising? Onion garland weaving? Moustache gelling? Blue movie structuralist critiquing? The mind boggles, the possibilities are endless. That lot come prepared with a variety of satchels, handbags, and prudent umbrellas. They're all proper dressed, but still no Dior in sight. Engrossed in their newspapers, the islands of loners ignore them sniffily like they don't belong to the same crowd. From what I can see though, the loners' papers are equally local ("Ten percent growth in the last five months -Opposition Denounces Taoiseach's "Incompetence"", "Heresy! Pope Lambasts "Harry Potter"'s Dark Arts", "Shetland Skirt Glenda's A Sight For Sore Eyes", "Mads Mystery: police say she was alone at home with only her adopted son for company when tragedy struck", Lily For Clothes Show Slot (says Lily)", "Repent! We're all going to DIE!", "GAA Final: Who Let the Drog Out?") in fact, nobody here appears to be French! There is still hope for swanky ensembles then... let's not give up just yet. (Can I be reliably informed that Catherine Deneuve is on her way? It's probably her turn to have a quick last one by the entrance before she makes her entrance...)
Meanwhile, Loverboy is still lost in his thoughts.
He finally perks up.
"OK, we go!"
And so we do.
-"Ah yes I see... Well in that case, maybe you could pay the Irish football federation a visit -they should be easy to find in the yellow pages, I guess- and ask for an introduction to that Tony Cascarino... who knows?"
-"That's an idea..." Our Romeo looks all pensive; he's clearly thinking up a plan.
A group of fifty-somethings choose this moment to turn up, all of them women. The noise level instantly notches up to eleven. Audibly Irish, they chat excitedly about "the lesson" and form an orderly queue for their cappa: mature students, presumably. But reading what exactly, I wonder... (apart from the language itself eh). Philosophy? Wine tasting? Cheese making? Filter-less smoking? Cooking with gas? Dress accessorising? Onion garland weaving? Moustache gelling? Blue movie structuralist critiquing? The mind boggles, the possibilities are endless. That lot come prepared with a variety of satchels, handbags, and prudent umbrellas. They're all proper dressed, but still no Dior in sight. Engrossed in their newspapers, the islands of loners ignore them sniffily like they don't belong to the same crowd. From what I can see though, the loners' papers are equally local ("Ten percent growth in the last five months -Opposition Denounces Taoiseach's "Incompetence"", "Heresy! Pope Lambasts "Harry Potter"'s Dark Arts", "Shetland Skirt Glenda's A Sight For Sore Eyes", "Mads Mystery: police say she was alone at home with only her adopted son for company when tragedy struck", Lily For Clothes Show Slot (says Lily)", "Repent! We're all going to DIE!", "GAA Final: Who Let the Drog Out?") in fact, nobody here appears to be French! There is still hope for swanky ensembles then... let's not give up just yet. (Can I be reliably informed that Catherine Deneuve is on her way? It's probably her turn to have a quick last one by the entrance before she makes her entrance...)
Meanwhile, Loverboy is still lost in his thoughts.
He finally perks up.
"OK, we go!"
And so we do.
chapter 11 Just how many times will Jack Bauer experience "the most dangerous 24 hours of his life"?
Just how many times will Jack Bauer experience "the most dangerous 24 hours of his life" I asks you!
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