I'm going to Austria (via Disneyland ofc) tomorrow, and the idea was that I was gonna have a load of posts all made up for while I was away, but yeah. No. You'll just have to deal with the loss of me! I'm back the ... 23rd? But until then it's Mickey Mouse and HARRY POTTER AUF DEUTSCH!

(Welsh accent) The Lottreh

So we bought four strips for the Euromillions Jackpot t'other day. I can't remember if it was €18m or €108m, but in fairness I doubt that'd make much of a difference, it's a fairly BEASTLY amount of moolah either way.


This led to the usual discussion on "What would you do if..?"


Clodagh would follow Justin Bieber around the world, and go to all of his concerts in her own personal plane.


Mam/Mum/Mammy/Mummy/Mother/Parental Unit #1 went for the personal trainer, villa in France, jacuzzi pool, Mini Cooper idyllic life type job.


Dad wants a new car, but nothing too fancy. And maybe to go on holiday twice a year.


Me?

 CHECK OUT THIS BABY

I was once one of those people who didn't like tea.

*Cue shock horror and the likes* 

I suppose everyone was at some stage, but I was at a time in my life when it was deemed socially unacceptable. Looking back on my past, I think this may have been because my first exposure to tea was at the tender age of 12.

Picture the scene: You've been hiking all day, in the tail end of a hurricane, somewhere in Connemara. You're soaked to the bone, as is all your gear. You reach a base, and someone whispers the word tea. It catches like wild fire, and a chant starts up; cold, wet skeletons of people gagging for the stuff, dancing in some kind of a voodoo circle. You can see the attraction, it sounds like an ethereal wonderjuice.

The goblet (plastic beaker) is passed from mouth to mouth. It reaches you, and, gazing into the cup, you see a bitty dark liquid. 

It tasted rank. Might've had summat to do with the lack of milk, sugar and heat.

Jus' sayin'.

I have since recovered from this ordeal, though it was indeed many years before I could be persuaded to try it again.

Oxegen...Schmoxegen?

   This is going to be quite deep and meaningful and depressing and not up to my usual extended hyperbolic anecdote standard, but sure feck yis all anyway.

   Now anyone who even vaguely knows me will know that a) I'm not there and b) that fact is killing me. Many people regard this as me being a drama queen and making a huge fuss about nothing, offering nuggets of exasperated advice along the lines of "There's always next year", or "Sure loads of people aren't going", or "The line-up's not great this year anyway". 

   Firstly, that one about the line-up riles me to the core. If only because my music taste is different. Besides, after a little outburst of  "BUT THE STROKES PEOPLE, THE STROKES" I can usually build a bridge and get over that one. 

   I think it's the "There's always next year". People aren't aware that my "next year" is going to be very different. I won't be as close to as many people in Kilkenny as I am at the moment. This year a lot of my friends are going for the first time, and their excitement is hard to bear. I know that I'll enjoy it if I do go next year, but when I'm sure that this is my year to go, titbits of friendly advice aren't going to console me.

   I'm not going to deny that I'm bitter, this blog is just trying to explain why. 

   There's gonna be mud, and there's gonna be rain, and bananas are going to explode in people's bags, and some of the acts will be shite live, and stuff will be stolen and burnt and ripped and destroyed, and, worst of all, craic will be had. 

   My imagination is my worst enemy. Lately it's been building me up for endless pit falls. In my head I've chosen my wellies, my acts, my food, my clothes and it's more than once daily I have to break it to myself that I'm not going.

   Basically, everytime someone mentions it, or there's an ad on the radio, or The Strokes come up in shuffle on my iPod, it's just a cruel reminder that I'll never be as close to everyone as I am now. So forgive me if I've been a spoiled shite of a yoke lately.

   I know this all sounds ridiculous, and I really hope it is. This feeling'd better scram once Monday rolls around, if only for the good of my mental health and the return of funny blog posts.

A Heartfelt Letter

...To RTE.


To Whom It May Concern,


In September of this year I am due to attend an international school in Hong Kong for the duration of what would be my Leaving Cert. Students are encouraged to bring items which represent their native country. For example, a Welsh student brought a Gavin & Stacey box set. Last Monday night, as I watched the Savage Eye, it occurred to me that such a programme would be an ideal portrayal of Éire.


However, I then happened across two major problems with my plan. The first being that whereas my original plan had been to catch up on weekly episodes on RTE player, I remembered that RTE player is not available in countries other than Ireland agus chuir sé isteach go mór orm.


My second problem occurred when I decided to instead look for a box set of the Savage Eye, and to my utter disappointment found that such a thing did not exist. I think this is a great shame as the series has not received the publicity it deserves and is certainly one of my and many of my friends' favourite Irish comedies.


I, as an endorser of this, and of other RTE programmes, am looking forward to seeing if you can help me with my predicament.


Yours faithfully,
Hannah Read

Had me bike stolen by knacks inné

It was always going to be a dismal day. I woke up to sun streaming through the curtains, the kind of Irish sun that's there at 7am and fecks off when you go outside. Somehow in my sleep I'd managed to get my duvet out of my duvet cover and the sheet off my bed and was lying halfway off, blankets and various clothes in a nest around my face, CDs falling off the shelf above me.


I, being a teenager (or a particularly "creative soul"), took no notice and trudged to the bathroom, yesterday's eye make-up somewhere between my cheeks and arms.


After a few loud kitchen rummagings to no complaints, I realised I was home alone. Time for the loud music (This was my choice, surprisingly) , and rabbit feeding (typoed that as "rabbit feeling") , and faceplanting on the trampoline.


Then to pack my bag for town. Overdue library books, as is my forté - I like to think I return them late so I can pay the fine to give them some extra moolah, but really I'm just unorganized - empty wallet for the hell of it, loose euro coins, used up disposable camera just in case there's one photo left, iPod with no charge and/or headphones etc etc y'all know how it is.


And the bike. She was a beautiful specimen so she was. Halfords' best. Lovely turquoise shade on her like. Usual scrapes, but they were covered with unused plasters intended for my leg that time I fell off on the 'nal - rejected cause along with certain kinds of paint, I'm allergic to fabric plasters. 21 gears, although 2-6 and 2-7 get a bit dodgy sometime and she doesn't enjoy the transition from 2 to 1. She's been my pride and joy, and means of transport and independence for a long time.


Plus I can cycle with no hands.


So I did fly into town that morning for about 11, right up to the library, negotiating that Rose Inn Street/High Street/Patrick Street/The Parade junction like a bawse. All ready to offload my books (George Orwell and semi-documentaries on child soldiers in Asia for the most part) and a few of my euros, only to find the library is shut on Mondays. But sure.


Looked around for a nice spot to leave me bike and decided that the side of a house just next to the library was my best bet. Walked down to behind the old swimming pool for a read of my book because as always I'd been naive enough to think that Irish people wake up and venture into town before 2.


Pottered in and tried to help with the last minute Oxegen shopping without being a total Moody Maura*, dunno how I did though, you'll have to ask t'others.


At about 5, I went with Joseph to check that she was still there but no. I didn't even do the frantic looking about the place, sure, I gazed about a bit, and walked around, but I knew I wouldn't find her. I'm not sure which is worse, the idea of her rotting in the river, or the idea of a short fat illiterate ginger kid abusing her. I walked through the not-so aptly named "Peace Park", getting harassed by some kids looking for money and willing to throw a few punches for it. Long story short (well, not really, looking at the 9 paragraphs of trash up above, apologies), my police report went something like this:


Anna Reade
5 Thorngrove
Danesfort
Blue bike
Left of lib.
11am - 5pm
€100-200
no lock


no lock
no lock 
no lock
no lock


No. Lock.


Serves me right, wha?


*Phrase courtesy of Meghan

Due to relatively unforeseen circumstances, Hannah is in Dunmore East this weekend with the ginger, and has thus not had time to prepare any posts for the next few days. Normal daily posting shall resume prolly Monday/Tuesday.

Sincere Soz, The Cheeks

x

Doo doo doo do doo doo do doo doo doo do doo doooooo


You know you're a tad obsessed when you find yourself muttering that there choon.

Ah Wimbledon. Those two weeks where tennis is your first, your last, your everything. The arm of the couch has suffered mercilessly from you clinging to it during those match points. You can spell Novac Djokovic. It's now your only dream to be a ball girl/boy. You only drink Robinsons and eat strawberries. You can do a spot on impression of Venus Williams' yell. Watching the roof close over centre court is enough to set your heart racing. Hawkeye is a better invention than the internet.

It's now your darkest secret that you actually gave up tennis when you were 11. You brush the cobwebs off your racket and suggest to mummy that you have a bit of a friendly. You're a little embarrassed that Sharapova won when she was 17 and you're just slobbed out gazing at her on the tellybox.

Still, I've a year to train, anyone for tennis?