Dublineers

I brought a whirl of snow to town
For when our work was done
But it snowed up instead of down
And caused my nose to run

                      ***

The game’s been fun; Naomi won
Our regimented banter.
But now my patience’s overrun
For fuck’s sake! Yours says Santa

                       ***

You came up for a cup of tea

There wasn't really room for three

So we all played Monopoly 

Capitalism's less awkward.

                       ***

While you're probably less corrupt

A president than Berlusconi

It seems likely he throws slightly

Better gigs with pepperoni.

But only slightly.

                       ***

I hoped that she would fall for me
I knew I’d never make her:
Atop my list was ‘Humanist’
While hers said ‘Liberal Quaker’


— Dusk

             

Stings like a BA Oxons

The other day I was asked if I wanted to fight. My aggressor was a blonde Nordic man. He was at least 6ft 3. I accepted.

It occurred to me that at the age of 23, I’ve never really been in a fight. The only time I’ve ever had to swing for my life was in Year 5, when Charles grabbed my tie and wrapped it round my neck. I swung my arm blindly round and caught him in the eye. My fist blackened his eye and my watch caught his eyebrow and made it gush blood over his white shirt. We’ve been firm friends ever since.

Now that I am out of middle school and have gainful employment, which means that I can afford not to live in ghettos and can choose to take a taxi rather than dark backstreets home from clubs, it’s getting increasingly unlikely that I’ll ever really get into one. This is probably part of the reason I joined the boxing gym. I don’t have the standard martial arts pretext of being prepared with self-defence for if a fight was to occur. I just really wanted to punch someone.

In some ways the gym exactly fulfilled my aesthetic expectations: it’s in a fairly Spartan unit, crammed into the archway of a railway bridge. Everything rattles pleasingly when trains pass overhead. The equipment is shabby and patched with duct tape, the air is perfumed with intermingled sweat and testosterone and the gym-leader is a mysterious man who makes us call him Master Rezza. We all do. On the other hand, thought, the gym is located in Stamford Brook—a leafy, well-to-do suburb— so does lose some of its gritty veneer.

Having pranced around the gym-matt floor for a few weeks, yielding triumph after triumph over first my shadow and then a large back filled with foam pellets, I was flushed with success. My left jab was lightening quick, and my right hook was a sure-fire killer. I was even pretty sure that despite having missed the week that we did ‘footwork’, I was pretty damn nimble. As I stepped through the rope and into the ring, I had the arrogant pride of a boxer. Unfortunately, that’s all I had.

It was like a replayed scene from my youth, sitting in someone’s loft-bedroom, watching the older boys play Tekken on the old playstation, while I busy studied the manual. Dragon punch: up, up, square, circle, left. Tiger kick: square, down, square, right, right, square. Then when I was finally handed the controller, all concept of dragon punch went out the window as my experience opponent kicked 7 shades of shit out of me and while I frantically mashed the keypad and tried to remember which button was ‘block’. That is less a metaphor for my fight than an accurate, scaled down image.

As I reeled back from yet another carefully landed blow to the face I thought to myself “Thank god I’m not doing this in a Texan bar brawl or in prison or something.” The worst thing was: he wasn’t even trying.

Still, I am persevering. The credential of having been part of a boxing gym gives me a gritty edge to my otherwise hopelessly middle class credentials. Like how Will Self gets away with being shamelessly wordy because he did a bit of heroin at some point in the past. And who know? Maybe next time I’ll land a punch.

— Dusk 

we don't have to take our clothes off to have a good time

A word, a whirr and the air is cappuccino scented. You widen your eyes at me over your heavy-rimmed frames (The Female Eunuch under one arm) and say you can’t read me, then ask me to stay for “just one more” cup of tea.

It’s already half past two.

Outside, taxis blaring; inside we sit staring at one another or the wall, stroking this and that of one another, or not at all. We’re sharing thoughts we’ve always wanted to against the black&white flicker of a picture show.

You claim innocence but there’s a blaze of understanding when you look at me and I glance at a coffee stain on your jeans then quickly knock the cup against my teeth and blush as a bitter drop wets my tongue.

You say nothing, making everyone else in this late-night café seem so vanilla.

Your weight shifts and I realize my tea’s gone cold again.

From West to East: a Sunset in Reverse

I don't love you

there will never be a time that

being with you is as good as it always was

and just

talking, hanging out

it means nothing to me

we have too much space and history between us

if people say that

we just seem to work

I just go along with it

I don't care

and you should never think

I'm thinking the same as you are

the best part of it all is that

we get with other people

I don't really care that

we've come this far

and it's kinda unbelievable to think that

we love each other

you must always remember 

there will be a time when we don't think of each other

and you surely can't believe

this is for forever

We look at things another way. Nothing with us is ever quite as it seems; nobody ever sees it the right way. Turn this on its head to get its true meaning.

— Dusk

The Importance of Being Idol

They say you should never meet your idols. This is true in all but two cases.

A few days ago, I had the good fortune to meet a nutjob extraordinaire, the cult director Tommy Wiseau at a screening in the Prince Charles Theatre. While his filmography is brash, honest and highly embarrassing, he is known to be quite secretive, and I was worried that following years of haranguing and critique, the Tommy who screamed “You’re tearing me apart, Lisa!” might no longer exist.

Thankfully, I was entirely wrong. Tommy’s publicist (if he has one) clearly, and well advisedly, takes a very hands-off approach. Tommy was dressed in teenager black with long, greasy hair. He was creepy. He refused to give a straight answer to pretty much every question asked. A friend who attended a different showing was subjected to the cinematic crotch being thrust towards her face. In short, meeting Tommy was great. Meeting Tommy was fine for the simple reason that Tommy is one of those rare people in the world who is, for most purposes, two dimensional. He can never fall backwards off his pedestal because, frankly, he has no idea what backwards means.

For example, I am not worried by my inevitable introduction to (and seduction by?) the wonder that is Joanna Lumley. My awe of her stems almost entirely from her strip-me-naked-and-take-me-on-your-fox-fur-bed-sheets voice. In this one function she is unlikely to fail me (unless her chain-smoking gets the better of her and following a battle with throat cancer she has to have her voice box replaced by a Steven Hawking contraption. When that day comes I will wall myself up in my room with the complete boxed-sets of Ab Fab).

Aside from Mr. Wiseau, I have only met a few celebrities in my time, and I have picked wisely. Brian Blessed jumped onto the table at the Oxford Union and bellowed, whereas I carefully avoided the later appearance by the unsexy, witticism-free, unarmed prune that is the preserved and decrepit Roger Moore.

There’s another time that it’s appropriate—indeed desirable—to finally meet the wizard behind the curtain: in love. Humans are all hugely flawed individuals. Because of this, it would be nigh-on impossible for two of these dreadful creatures to pick a mate to meet the exacting standards that nature, and Cosmopolitan, demands what with all the glaring flaws and foibles we all exude. Thankfully, nature has conceived of a chemical way to lower the rose-tinted glasses our eyes when we meet someone who might—disregarding the fact that they watch cricket, or leave their dead skin on the floor, or adore Cher—actually work. So we form these lovely idealized forms of people, which we then fall in love with and exchange saliva with to test for genetic compatibility and lots of other ace stuff. Eventually, though it the time comes to peel off the alabaster shell and see what’s underneath. Most of the time, like a Kinder Surprise, the flimsy model doesn’t live up to the rich and delicious casing. Sometimes though, in a few rare occasions what’s underneath is actually better than the cliché you built around what you thought you wanted. And isn’t that nice?

As a young child I also met Mr Motivator who as a Man From TV, was A Big Deal. I’m not sure what affect it had on my later ability to form relationships. Probably not as much as the disappointment of Kinder Egg after fucking Kinder Egg.

— Dusk

When being with someone you hate is still better than being alone.

So on Monday I went to a house party. The theme was "what the fuck?" so I went armed with A Beginner's Guide to Reality and an egg. Oh, and an entire litre of vodka. Which I then proceded to drink because I am socially awkward and even though I'd met most of these people before I found it too difficult to just be my normal, charming, self. I still can't figure out how I managed to be intimidated by a man with bread sellotaped to his face but my non-sensical time-specific inhibitions never cease to amaze. My flatmate drove me out there like a babe but she wasn't drinking so she left early, like at midnight or something, leaving me to my own devices and to work out my homeward journey myself. Under normal circumstances this would have been dubious at best, but in my drunken state it was horrendously ill-judged. But we'll get to that. Up until a point I had been planning on sharing a taxi back with several people from halls but at some point between that and waking up in the morning there must have been a change of plan because I woke up, butt naked, in Rodeo's arms. UGHH.

So, back in September I had a mammoth-crush on him, just because he was literate and British and charming and such. Also I imagine having uprooted myself for the third time and landing myself in a city I knew next to nothing about and where I knew no one else probably played a bit of a role in it too. Anyway, way back then we went out and got fairly tipsy and on the way back decided it would be an excellent idea to hop the gate and sneak into St Stephen's Green. Now this was at like 2AM or something if I remember correctly and it was lovely and dark and a full moon was shining on this wonderfully placid lake and I was walking hand in hand with a really great guy and morning birds were chirping and it just seemed like a movie-moment, you know? So naturally, we ended up having sex on one of the benches. And like, it ended up being one of those stark moments of realisation. Those moments never do bode well, btw. I didn't particularly want to have sex, he didn't particularly turn me on, but I did it anyway, mostly because the moment seemed to demand it. It wasn't good. In fact, it was cold and windy and my knees bruised badly against the bench and it was over too quickly and a massive rat streaked past us whilst I was rearranging my shirt. I cried a bit when I walked home, not about him or the act or whatever, just that...well, this always happens. Dreams always end up being, well, shit. After that we just went back to being friends and we've not really spoken of it since. He's tried to make a few moves on me but they've always been half-hearted and I've always just ignored them. There's your backstory.

So at some point (here's where things start to get a bit fuzzy) I must have told him that I didn't know how to get home and he must have directed me to his bed because I went to sleep for a bit. Later (how much I'm not sure) he came in and woke me up and complained that I was wearing jeans ("who sleeps in jeans?") but I insisted that I keep them on because I knew what would happen if I took them off. None the less, he was persistent, and insistent that nothing would happen if I removed them. I resisted for a while but eventually gave in, if only to shut him up. Then I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. He was having none of that. He started kissing me and I was so drunk I just went with it, but then obviously he went to take it further and I'll not bore you with the gore but he was very persistent despite my obvious dissent but eventually I gave in and just let it happen because it was literally easier to do that than to not.

Now I'm potentially making this sound a little rapey, which it wasn't because I was obviously an active participant and he was probably just as drunk as I was but I can't help but feel that I should probably be angry that he took advantage of me. I'm not really though. Like, I would have rather that it hadn't happened, but it makes no real difference whether it did or not. I guess I should be valuing my body a bit more but what's the point in regretting something that has already happened? In future I shall be more assertive, and less drunk. I feel like I kind of knew that was going to happen as soon as I made the decision to spend the night but I let it happen anyway because I'm lazy. That has got to change. Sometimes I just don't get sex though. Like, even with Pratchett it's never the reason I see him, always an afterthought (although it's probably his forethought). I just don't seem to enjoy it that much, crave it, or miss it when it's not there. Don't get me wrong though, it has been good in the past, I know what it is to have been good and I guess I need to find someone who can do that for me and then have sex with them and only them but until then I'm probably just going to keep having meaningless, shitty, sex because that's easier than explaining to someone that I don't want to do it.

That's skewed, right? I know that I should just sever ties with Pratchett and whoever else but I literally can't summon the effort/will to do it when I know that I'll just be alone when I do.

the importance you attach.

My star upon that billowing azure

was one of celtic twilight, myth

I loved all twelve together, but

just one by which I lived.

Amongst the others

my golden star gleamed,

boasted culture, tradition, history:

my home, an emerald dream.

I would return to it one day, till then

I vowed to write it from abroad, like Joyce,

to be my Ireland’s consciousness
the sean-bhean bhocht's own voice.

To whom should I complain

that I imagined it a different place?

My Wilde-heart dreamt a dreamer’s dream,

more than a land could ideate.

I should have known its absence

and stayed away from truth

and known amongst the high of mind

it rarely has a use.

Neon swallows culture,

last night belches this on streets,

the wrapping’s flown into the wind

this city-sacked completes

But I’ll get out as soon as I can fly

and ignore these next four years,

forget my disillusionment 

and still be buried here.