Brain: “Stop yawning.”
Me: “Stop making me yawn.”
Brain: “Dunno what you’re talking about. I’m busy trying to name the Best Supporting Actor Oscar winners for the last fifteen years.”
Me: “That’s what’s making me yawn! I’ll be asleep in minutes as this rate. I’m off to bed.”
Brain. “I just want you to get a good night’s sleep. It’s good for both of us.”
Me:. “Good. I’ve a really long busy week ahead, I need all my rest. Well, goodnight so.”
Brain: “Okay, nighty night. Sleep well.”
Me: “Really? That’s it? No fight?”
Brain: “Nope. Like you said, you need your sleep. I’m good like that sometimes.”
Me: “Great! Well, talk to you in the morning so..”
Brain: “Will do.”
Brain: Just try not to think about that bathroom scene from The Grudge.
Me: I KNEW IT WAS TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE.
You’re welcome. Each and every one of you.
It’s 1994, you’re 16, and all you want in life is a brand new tattoo of Sylvester the Cat holding a red rose. It holds the answer to all life’s problems, and will sum up everything you are as a person to anyone who sees it. You will be a badass. A person to be reckoned with, someone who is far too cool to be concerned with the likes of bullies, grades and stupid homogenous girls in a rural secondary school who all look the same. Not you though. Oh, no. You’re an individual. You loudly proclaim that you prefer ‘Bleach’ by Nirvana, as opposed to their more obvious ‘commercial’ release ‘Nevermind’ like the rest of Transition Year.
So you gather up your courage, turn down your Soundgarden CD and casually stroll up to the sitting room to put your case forward for getting this life-altering skin picture to a woman who can’t understand why you would willingly put needles on your skin for fun, and thinks tattoos are for soldiers and prisoners. And so far, you are neither. She says no. You’re devastated. This is an affront to your civil rights. You are being oppressed. You can no longer express who you are as a person. How is Alan in Sixth Year going to know you’re cool and not like all the ‘normal’ girls if you don’t have a Sylvester the Cat tattoo?? Life is as good as over.
So you storm off down to your room in a rage, full of righteous indignation and an ever-expanding martyr complex. Then you decide to do what many afflicted artistic souls have done before in the face of adversity and suffocation on behalf of a corrupt authority. Something which will shake the system to its very core, and lead to your mother throwing herself on your mercy and begging for forgiveness and even paying for your tattoo which will change your life for the better.
You write a poem. In your diary. That’ll show ’em. An unpublished tour de force that that nobody will ever see.
Until now. God bless the internet.
I regret nothing.
Viva La Revolution!
Sunday Mass started to look a bit different in the village...
The peaceful rural idyll has been shattered. Children are being dragged back indoors by frantic mothers. Urban life has descended upon Kildimo. The reason?
A car alarm is going off.
This is MOST irregular. Next there’ll be gunshots, police sirens and crack whores peddling their wares outside the local GAA pitch. Ross Kemp will be filming a hard-hitting documentary from the corner of Slattery’s pub about the deadly rivalry between the U14 and U16 hurling teams. Rappers and gritty hip-hop artists will film music videos here just to prove how hard they are. HBO will commission an extra season of The Wire to be filmed almost entirely outside Kildimo Post Office and the local garage. Brothers and sons will be divided in bitter gang wars while constantly living in fear that their tractor might get ‘jacked for its hubcaps, while bloodied bodies litter the streets, victims cut down in the prime of life simply for wearing the wrong colour overalls in the wrong side of the village. Nothing but crime, catastrophe and carnage awaits us now.
Still, it’ll be nice to have a bit of life in the place…