Intolerant? Moi? Part One

I have an issue. 

An issue with nuts.

Some of you have heard this tale, “heard” being the operative word. My intolerance creates some rather interesting and loud sound effects.

In this blog, I will be referring to poop, pooping, sharts, sharting and various other phrases meaning the same thing.

Please don’t think this is a crude, horrid tale. Look on it as a triumph of the human spirit.

This story starts quite some time ago. Back in the dim and distant past, Mrs PastyFace and I used to live about 45 miles from Dublin. This usually meant staying in a friend’s house after any party. This was never an issue.

One friend lived near where we now live. She invited us to stay with her shortly after Christmas. We had never been in the house before, so we were given the obligatory tour. The house we lived in at the time had no upstairs bathroom, so it was rather novel for us to see a house with one AND an ensuite bathroom off the main bedroom! There was only one roll of toilet paper in the house, though. It was in the master bathroom. 

The friend showed us the ensuite. She pointed out the large hole in her sink. It seems her son had knocked something off a shelf and it had passed straight through the sink, leaving a clean circular hole behind it. The sink was right beside the toilet and, at the end of the room, was the shower. 

Obviously, as I have spent this long describing the layout, you have probably figured that it is important. It will be.

So, we enjoy our night. We have a few beers. There are nibbles. Nice nibbles. Marks and Spencer nibbles. Two stand out: cheesy puffs and cashew nuts (some of you now know where this ends).

I tuck in to the nibbles. The cashews are lovely. Roasted, with just the perfect amount of salt. Yummy!

Stupid o’clock arrives and it’s time for bed. As there is only one double bed in the house, we are relegated to the air mattress on the living room floor. Of course, it was not inflated. Thus commenced about 30 minutes of inflating using the world’s most pathetic foot pump. An asthmatic dwarf with one lung could have inflated it quicker. Worn out, I retire to bed/floor.

Early the next morning, the dawn chorus rouses me from my slumber. It was louder than I had heard in a while, but I thought nothing of it at the time. To be clear, the dawn chorus was not the call of birds. It was the thunderous clattering of air shooting out of my arse. It sounded like 42 NASCAR engines all starting up at once, accelerating to full speed and slamming, full force, into Mt St Helen’s as it erupted. This easily measured on the Richter scale. Smaller squeaks, clicks, whirrs and farts emitted from my pantaloon parts, accompanied by what has been described as an odour that is exactly what evil smells like.

There was some moderate pain across my tummy. By moderate, I actually mean that it made John Hurt’s scene in Alien appear like a minor case of heartburn.

Unfortunately, I was not the only one awake. Mrs PastyFace observed me warily. She enquired after my wellbeing. I assured her that it must have been the inflating of the air mattress and that I must have stretched a stomach muscle.

What a pile of bollocks.

I was in some distress. I could not help but notice that the swirling, gurgling, churning feeling in my guts was becoming worse. Also, the stench I was emitting was getting attention from dogs. As I waited to use the shower in the ensuite, I noticed that the noises of my farts were now getting...wetter. Too wet, in fact. Farts should not be lumpy and they should definitely not roll down the back of your thigh.

This did not bode well.

My body then took over. “Right”, said my large intestine, “It’s like this. Either you start sitting over a small water filled target, or we’re going to have to deal with this now”. This internal monologue was replaced by what can only be described as an internal countdown. The countdown started a lot nearer zero than I would have liked. 

I excused myself gracefully from the breakfast table, like a bullet from a gun. I dashed upstairs, flinging clothes behind me. I dove into the ensuite, sat my pasty ass (which matches my pasty face) on the toilet bowl and clung on.

Oh Christ!

Are you familiar with the noise Donald Duck makes when angry? That’s my ass during what I call my “nut episodes”. However, there are now visuals to go with the sounds. If you’ve ever seen footage of US Marines in World War Two, pushing jeeps through thick, gelatinous mud, you’ll get the picture. Chuck in some mascerated cashews for full effect.

It went on. And on. And on. I clung on for dear life. The pain came in waves. The waves would break as a shitload of, well, shit would fly towards the sewers like greased, well, shit off a graphite shovel. 

The stench...Oh my, the stench. I could taste it. It was vile. It wasn’t “odour”. It was “Oh dear!”. In a desperate attempt to kill the stink, I flushed the toilet.

That’s when the fun stopped.

It was around this point that my upper gasto-intestinal tract decided to vie for attention. Burbs started (pooping still going on, by the way). Initially, they were ok. Then they, too, began to get wetter. Wetter and acidic. 

“Oh dear”, I thought. “I’m going to throw up. I’m really unwell. It must have been something I ate. I can’t believe I’m still pooping! Of all the unfortunate things to happen, and at Christmas, too! Luckily, there is a sink beside me.”. At least that is what I would like you to think that I thought.

It was more akin to “AAAAARRRRRRGGGGHHHHH!!!!!!! HEEEEEELLLLLPPPPPPP!!!! ANYBODY!!!! OHFUCK! OHFUCK! OHFUCK! OHFUCK! OHFUCK! OHFUCK! OHFUCK! OHFUCK! OHFUCK! OHFUCK! OHFUCK! OHFUCK! GOING TO PUKE! GOING TO PUKE!GOING TO PUKE!GOING TO PUKE! AT LEAST THERE’S A SINK BESI....”

Well, there was a sink. 

A sink with a hole.

Now, I faced a dilemna. Puke in the sink, and therefore onto the floor. Or stand up, turn around and face the demons below me.

I chose the latter.

I spun as quick as I could, hopping that the chocolate fountain that had now replaced my arse would stop for a moment. I looked into the bowl and saw something that can only be described as a scene of carnage soaked in nightmares. The sight of it made all my blood rush to my brother. The smell hit me and I threw up spectacularly. A technicolour rainbow arced beautifully into the bowl, barely touching the sides of the porcelain.

I was now spinning like a top. Arse onto toilet, do stuff, jump up, switch to face pointing at bowl, do different stuff.

This went on for a while. Then, a calm descended. There were still pops and farts and wet burbs, but all liquid deposits were gone. Clean up time had arrived. I reached for the toilet paper.

There was none.

I dwelled on this. Mulled it over. Thought long and hard.

It was easier to get into the shower. I did. I hosed myself down. 

I went downstairs.

“Are you ok?”, asked Mrs PastyFace.

“Yes”, I said.

The incident had passed.

For now.

There is more to come...

What's the colour of money?

This is a true story.

Honestly.

I have a friend. He is from Boston. He lives in LA. He is smart, funny, tech savvy and black.

Did you see the order of words? Unfortunately, in this story, the last one is the important one.

My friend is tall and broad. He's like Tiger Woods, but without the cash and pussy.

We were wandering around HMV, looking at cd's (and with that sentence, this story immediately dates itself). We were a few aisles apart when I noticed a security guard paying attention to my friend. He noticed the security stares, too.

I was amazed. Not only was this guy following my friend around a store, but he had also managed to prize his eyes away from his mobile phone for more than 2 seconds!

Anyway, my friend and I managed to get either side of the Elite Republican Security Guard. My friend picked up a cd and said, in a broad US accent, "Hey, I can buy this for half the price at home!".

The Elite Republican Guard stopped in his tracks. All his ninja reflexes had been on a heightened state. His hands hovered over his hidden ninja weapon holster, ready for use.

But something was wrong...The voice from the black person messed with his training.

His face dissolved into a misshapen collage of parts, not dissimilar to Wayne Rooney's when confronted with the words "flammable" and 'inflammable".

He had to say something. He had to excuse himself. He had to, and he did. These were his words:

"I'm sorry. You're American. I thought you were black."

I'll let that hang there....

....

....ok.

At this point, I turned into Joe Pesci in Lethal Weapon 2.

"But", I said "he is black. Well kind of cappuccino coloured. Mocha, if you will. Egg-shell tan, as Dulux would call it.". Ok, I didn't say all of that.

The security guard ambled off, no doubt to browse interracial porn at this point, and we went on our way.

It seems to me that the real racism in this country is not about the colour of your skin, but the colour of your money.

Comments

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Reality tv

Reality TV is not real

Thinking back to 2000, when Big Brother UK was launched, I would never have envisaged what was to come. Back then, the idea of 12 strangers being placed together in isolation, all the while being watched by cameras, seemed fascinating. It was an extension of MTV’s The Real World, but not cut together for the audience. It was pure, unadulterated voyeurism.

Viewers piled in. Advertisers followed. Money was made. Syndication was guaranteed.

And a curious thing occurred.

Celebrities were created.

Were they created for a talent they had demonstrated? No. These “celebrities” were created by appearing on the show. That’s it. Even the “losers” on the show could become celebrities.

Every season of Big Brother seemed to try and find bigger and bigger personalities to keep people watching. Viewers were teased with the potential of fights, race issues, flirting and nudity by the programme makers to keep them watching. New and horrible challenges were created to provoke a reaction from the people on the show. There was an international race incident during one show that grabbed headlines everywhere.

It was unbelievable!

And that’s the problem. It is not believable. It is not reality. I’ll get back to this in a minute.

Big Brother set the ball rolling. It was followed by Survivor, The Amazing Race, Celebrity Big Brother and variations of the theme. We also had The Osbournes, starring Ozzie and people we did not know at the time. We know them now.

Clever people who make loads of money saw potential. “Hey” they said to each other during blue sky meetings whilst taking the helicopter view of maximising facetime with clients, “there’s gold in them there hills!”. I’m paraphrasing.

They reverted to one of the earlier types of reality tv, the talent show (think Opportunity Knocks with Hughie Green). Pop Idol gave people the chance to vote for a favourite act and buy the song they sing. Voting by text earned the companies a fortune and some (Mr. Cowell) were quick to grasp the opportunity to earn big bucks very quickly. Pop Idol eventually morphed into The X Factor. Get loads of people that can sing and let’s film them auditioning!!!” said the executives. “Wait a second, the people that can’t sing are sometimes more popular. Let’s have more of them!”, they said.

It was unbelievable. Again.

Then we had the creation of the reality tv creature. The Paris Hiltons, the Nicole Richies, the Kardashians, the Real Housewives of wherever.

Does anyone believe this is real tv? Does anyone believe the dramatic pauses in the X Factor are not scripted? Does anyone understand how a person who is, at best, deranged or, at worst, mentally challenged can get to be in front of Cowell et al and sing so poorly?

It isn’t real.

Back at the turn of the 20th century, circuses or carnivals used to tour the US and the UK. Normally contained within the exhibits was the freak show. John Merrick was one such “exhibit” in the UK. He was more commonly known as The Elephant Man. Patrons paid to see the freaks. The bearded lady, the conjoined twins, the man with three legs, the pinheads, the little people! Step right up and see them all!!!

The reality shows mentioned above and “My Big Fat Gypsy…” and its ilk are the new freak shows. Come and see the transgender person deal with the homophobe. Come and see the racist deal with the black person. Come and see the Muslim and the Jew under the one roof.
In reality, these people would never mix in such circumstances. The fake “reality” is created to draw viewers in, to have them stare at the “freaks” and see how they interact. Whatever the social experiment this was at the start is now a freak show, intent on creating the next big thing before the next big thing is created.
People volunteer to be on these shows in the hopes of becoming a successful celebrity. And what are they famous for?

Being on reality tv.

There is only one reality tv creator for whom I have respect. Sir David Attenborough and his crew of film makers capture real life situations involving creatures we will probably only get to see on television. They are in a real world environment (because it is the real world). The camera watches and what happens, happens. There is no voting. There is no dying relative that the creatures are trying to assist. There is just the reality of nature, red in tooth and claw.

The scary thing?

David Attenborough’s shows ratings are tiny compared to some of the shows above. The higher the ratings of the “reality TV” shows, the less of a chance of a new series of the calibre of Blue Planet. Nature documentaries are expensive to produce and do not earn their money back. The “reality” shows cost very little (no script, no actors) and earn advertising and vote money.

Maybe we need to get real.

Not a controversial topic at all...

First real blog. 

On the advice of others (notably the late Bill Hicks), I’ve decided to take on a non-controversial topic. 

I am pro-choice.

Curiously, I am way more pro-life than most pro-lifers and Catholic priests.

I shouldn't really have an opinion, basically, because I don't have a vagina. 

But, as I am a contrary fuck, I have an opinion anyway.

My thing is that if a woman is pregnant, I don't care what she does with her fetus. Keep it until term or whatever, it's her choice. If a female friend or relation of mine is in such a situation that this is the only way out that they can see, I’m sure that she has been through enough inner turmoil already. 

Pro-lifers believe that she must keep it. Pro-lifers believe you must keep the baby even if it is a result of an assault. Baby is paramount, they say.

Most pro-lifers in Ireland are Catholics. 

The Catholic Church and the Pope believe that babies can only be made one way. God's way.

IVF is not God's way. If biology has dealt you a bad hand, "Tough", says the Church. IVF is bad.

As is surrogacy. And egg donations. And sperm donations (The Pope also believes that he speaks for a deity. That's schizophrenic behavior and should be medicated).

All these other ways of creating life, pro-lifers should be against, especially if they want to profess the religious card so handily played by a bloke in a dress and Gucci loafers in Rome. 

I'm pro these choices. So I'm pro-life-lite.

Papal-approved pro-lifers are anti-choice, even about how junior gets made in the first instance.

Hence, I am more pro-life than pro-lifers.

But, curiously, I hate children.

You've made it this far...

So that's the sorting done.

Wheat on one side, chaff on the other. The easily offended and those made of sterner stuff have been noted. The meek have slithered off to inherit the Earth.

The biggest issue I had about blogging was quite an obvious one, "What would I blog about?".

I don't own a business, I am not promoting a product of my own, I am not seeking disciple-like followers (though they are welcome).

It eventually boiled down to my other half saying "Put it on the web! I have to listen to your rubbish constantly! I shouldn't suffer alone!". She is, of course, correct...again. So blame her.

Here is a list of what to expect:

Rugby posts - mostly about Leinster, Ireland and how Martin Johnson/Chris Ashton is a twat;

Books/tv shows/film/music - what I read/watch/listen to, why I think you'll like it, why I don't care if you don't and why you are wrong;

Comedy - suggestions of comedians to seek out and how to avoid Des Bishop;

Geek stuff - not as geeky as some, but more geeky than is entirely healthy;

Anything else that interests me. I don't care that you don't care.

What I will not blog about is work and politics, so that's a good thing.

If you are of a religious bent, please be aware that I am not. I am not a vitriolic atheist, but if you are of a religion that purports love of all people except those that are different, please rest assured that you may be offended by what I may say at some some point. Don't take it personally, though.

So, if you're interested, stay tuned. If you are not, that's ok.

Wow! A whole post with no swearwords! Holy Shit!

I am Not Safe For Work

Right then.

Blogging it is.

I must warn you that I will use bad language.

Like "cunt", not "count" as my computer insists on attempting to correct the dreaded c-word.

Occasional use will be made of the word "fuck" and its various different forms (eg fucker, fucking, fucked up, motherfucker, etc.).

"Piss" is another word that will feature, though rarely. Curiously, "shit" or "shite" will occur more frequently, and not as a result of a laxative. "Cock" will also appear, though probably, and ironically, far removed from "piss".

"Arse" is another guaranteed word to be used. As is "fart".

"Knobgobbler", "twat", "cock-knocker", "motherfucking cock-knocker" and variations on themes will also appear, but usually only in the proper context. The proper context is solely mine to judge.

"Tits" will also appear, but not pictorially.

If you've made it this far without being offended, my next blog will indicate what I'll be blogging about.

If you were offended, don't read it again. You are your own best censor.