Carry On Walking!

I have been attacked by Real Life, so please, don't be alarmed if this blog post comes to you stinking of depression and hangover-vomit.

I was up til after two last night, drinking fucking wine with himself and a couple of verra close friends. One friend went home quite early; himself went to bed at midnight or so. Meself and t'other wan kept going. We drank ourselves into confessional closeness, we did. You probably know what I mean by that, and if so, shame on you, you souse.

God, is there anything worse than a wine hangover? Well, cancer, I suppose. Shut up. But you know what I mean. The dry mouth, the pounding head, the stomach that's swishing about dramatically like the ponytail of Miriam Ahern's New Man. Have you seen him? On the cover of VIP? Blogorrah called him Marty Whelan's evil twin? Miriam said she was "very contented and you can't get better than that", but she's wrong. If her snippy little snippet said she was, "after killing my daughters and you can't get better than that" I'd agree with her. Useless old hag.

Anyway, this morning The Swearing Gentleman took it upon himself to get MiniMe up and dressed and to school. Mighty. He might have grumbled about it, "Oh Jesus, I'm dying. DYING! Did you hear me? Hello? Don't wake up but I'm DYING", but what did I care? I was getting my hangover snooze. Then he went outside to start the car and the car... well, wouldn't. Start. At all.

I hate our car.

It's one of the old Golfs, one of those ones that "were Built To Last, don't worry about it, she's got another hundred thousand to go At Least!" It may look rather more spazzy than snazzy, but it gets us from A to B. Sometimes. It's a bit like the life cycle of... oh, some endangered animal, I'm too sick to bother thinking one up; it only works in certain conditions. Like when you don't really need it.

The thing is, in the arse end of Ireland, one always needs the car.

This is the era of climate change worry. We're being gently reminded to turn off unnecessary lights and not to leave the telly on standby for fear of sinister blue paint seeping from the wainscoting. We're asked to leave the car at home if possible, to use public transport, to walk. It's a beautiful day, and there's nothing wrong with your legs, etc.

I don't know if this works in the Pale. In the arse end it's a concept so knee deep in stupidity not even Eileen Dunne's poker face could deny it a laugh.

We rely on cars in Ireland. The end.

There are reasons the Irish think the song goes, "Myyyyyyy Corolla!" It's not so much public transport is sporadic; in Ireland, roads are sporadic. You make the best of what you get. Also, you have to live in Mayo if you work in Dublin - new planning regulations, don't you know. And how else are you to get to your local TD's inconveniently scheduled clinics? You can't walk the seventeen miles over the green and fair land! Farmers would think you were German and shoot you dead!

We can't afford a new car. We can't even afford a battery pack for the old one. We're too malnourished to push it up the hill; Aldi food is made entirely from synthesised rubber, and my frustration at seeing the grinning mugs of the Aherns everywhere will fuel me for only so long. The other day, even my mammy shouting "that Cecilia waneen is better than you in every way, sure, why wouldn't she be, isn't she rich?" couldn't even spur me into movement. And normally, movement is what occurs; any mention of little Cecilia has my bowels opening goodoh.

Someone send me a new car, please. Failing that, provisions from SuperValu. I'm stuck here, hungover, and if you don't do something quick I'll have to eat the dogs*.



*Not the Aherns this time.