Cleaning Out My Closet

Since Monday, when I decided I was coming home for the weekend, I longed for Friday, the couch and a robust glass of red. I’m back in the Midlands sans le Boyfriend for the first time in a while.

Tonight, on arriving at the house, I walked into my old bedroom. Some random objects were spread on my bed.

“Mum, what is this stuff on my bed?”

She shouted from the kitchen. “I was clearing out some things from your room.”

I get a little defensive when Mum rifles through my belongings. There isn’t much. She has a four bedroom house. I ask if it is too much to expect a few boxes of my personal effects to remain untouched. I refrained from protesting. Instead I examined the contents of some unopened boxes.

The cardboard containers, similar to archive boxes, were full of college notes – marketing, statistical analysis and business policy. They were old and dog-eared. Some notes dated back to eight years ago. Those days are long gone. I emptied the box to the floor.

“I can’t believe I still have these,” I exclaimed.

Mum joined me in my room. She watched with satisfaction.

I opened the wardrobe. In the bottom of my wardrobe were more notes, magazines, bank statements and official documents. Stacks of paper, plastic folders and A4 pads formed a mound in my bedroom. I discovered some gay magazines; Attitude, Gay Times and the now out of print Gay Ireland. The covers were raunchy. I didn’t recall leaving these at home.

I felt around inside the wardrobe and came across yet another magazine. This one was different.

“What the fuck is this?”

“What is what?” asked Mum in supervisory mode.

“This magazine, Irish Wives. It’s a porn magazine. Look at it. Disgusting! Who left that in my room?”

I’m a big fan of porn, but this magazine was just nasty. The images were authentic; these women could only be Irish housewives. A selection of mature ladies posed next to ironing boards. One wife spread her legs akimbo on a kitchen counter. The magazine was creased, giving it a much used look and feel.

“Ewwww!” I threw it to the floor.

“Are you sure it’s not yours?” Mum asked.

“It’s not really my preferred type.”

“It’s not mine either!”

“I should hope it’s not, Mum. That would make for a major lifestyle choice. Do you think it was Dad’s?”

“I don’t know,” she said, leaving the bedroom.

I thought on how the rag mag ended up in my wardrobe. Guests that stay in our house tend to sleep in my room. The magazine could belong to anyone. I speculate my brother once stashed it in my room, thinking Mum would never ransack the room of her then most favoured son.

My brother paid a visit yesterday. When we confronted him, he denied ever seeing the magazine. He was so entertained by the tale of discovering the magazine that I believe him. The mystery on who in our household possessed a penchant for real, household women will forever remain unsolved.

Snowy Stockholm

I was in Stockholm over the weekend. The weekend forecast was around minus ten degrees Celsius. Before going, I was told that cold in the Nordics is not the same as the cold in Ireland due to a lower level of humidity. However true, I was bloody cold. For once in my life I was glad to put function over fashion. I bought a warm coat, gloves and hat. I had more layers than a millefeuille.

Stockholm was covered in thick blanket of powdered snow. The air continually froze, adding a of sparkle to the streets. Most of the water in Stockholm’s port was frozen and covered with snow. While it was picturesque, walks were treacherous. The excessive snow makes it difficult to imagine the place during summer months, when nudist beaches are open along Lake Mallard.

I sampled some of the gay scene. On Friday, I went to a gay night called “Paradise”. There were two dance floors. The smaller one played dance and pop. The larger floor played what is called Schlager. Schlager is a type of music that can only be compared to Eurovision music. Imagine a dance floor with nothing but blaring Eurovision music. I only allowed myself to dance to Gina G “Ooh Aah”.

Natives of Stockholm are renowned for their sense of style. Overall, Swedes have a good look. Skinny jeans are mandatory. The men are generally very lean and tend not to be muscled. Quiffs of blonde hair are all the rage. Combine this unique style with above average height and perfect teeth; it is no surprise they are considered a good looking race. After a while, it does get a bit “same ole, same ole”.

Stockholm has a bounty of museums on offer.  I visited the Vasa Museum. The Swede’s salvaged a ship, The Vasa, that sank in Stockholm’s port three hundred years ago. It is preserved in a museum with amazing detail. The tale surrounding its sinking must be one of the greatest follies of maritime history. The second museum I was dragged into, Stockholm City Museum, was hardly worth a visit.

Stockholm is by no means cheap. Occasionally, you might notice prices on par with Dublin – a coffee and sandwich for around 800 kronor/€8 – but there are moments when you pinch yourself. A dinner last night at a trendy restaurant “Grillin’” set Boyfriend and I back €140. Unawares to ourselves we booked a table on buffet night.  It was expensive considering we served ourselves.

I rounded off my stay with a “Swedish experience”. A boat in the docks, The Patricia, hosts a gay night on a Sunday. The boat had two bars. The smaller bar played Schlager. I vacated this bar quick enough. The larger bar down stairs had a dance floor, which filled quickly. It was the perfect setting to enjoy my eleven euro Captain Morgan and Coke.

This morning, I flew home from Skavsta. Skavsta airport is an hour and a half from Stockholm. Naturally, you can guess I flew with Ryanair. My flights cost me €40 return. Return flights directly to Stockholm cost in the region of €200. An hour and a half on a bus was a small inconvenience for such a cheap fare. I would definitely return later in the year. Those nudist beaches will be worth a look.

Lady GaGa 20th February @ O2, Dublin

I am planning on stomping it up at the O2 come 20th February when Lady Gaga graces us with her magnificent presence. I love her because she embraces freakiness. She expresses individuality and continually pushes boundaries. Her music is pretty catchy too …

Getting Down – and Dirty – with the Active Retirees

During the Christmas period, a noble colleague, Susan, suggested that instead of doing a Kris Kindle (and buying one another cheap tack) we should each donate €10 to a worthy cause. The resultant collection came to €500. Susan suggested the money go to a local active retirement centre. Everyone agreed. Apparently, it is statistically proven elderly people in the locality of my work place live longer due to the community spirit that resides there. This longevity is partly attributable to the retirement centre.

During Christmas week, we visited the retirement centre to give them our donation. We were received with much warmth and banter. The age group ranged from sixty five to eighty five.  In one room some men played snooker. In the larger room at the back the seniors played bowls. Susan made a presentation of the card. With formalities aside, one gentleman proposed we have tea; we shuffled into the kitchen where fairy cakes were presented for us “dignitaries”.

A key figure of the retirement group, Carmel, asked us to drop in for their Christmas party held today. Three of us showed up to a gathering of nearly forty singing at the top of their lungs; old songs, many of which I never heard before. I was served a vodka and 7-Up. There was very little 7-Up in the concoction. Members of the group were called up to sing their party piece. We declined an invite to sing. After maybe ten or so performances (some of which were hilarious) the congregation got up to dance.

The Mavericks “I Just Want to Dance the Night Away” blared through the sound system. Susan, Elizabeth and I took to the floor, which was engulfed with bodies. We laughed aloud at the sight of the senior citizens pinching and slapping one another’s arse. One woman danced into the centre of the circle and straddled the pillar. I doubled over with laughter. We saw out our visit with “Sweet Caroline”, during which the scandalous seniors, much to my delight, upped the level of inappropriateness.

I returned to the office with a renewed sense of vigour accessorised with a smile.

Getting Frantic Against the Mid-Atlantic

There are many Irish teenagers with American accents. Jedward are an example. On X-Factor Simon Cowell asked the Grimey Twins why they had American accents when they grew up in Ireland. There are individuals who have Irish accents after they return from a J1. This is excusable. One can assume J1ers immersed themselves in the American Dream. Then there are others who have never been to America, but yet have American accents. This baffles (and saddens) me.

Irish culture and American culture are not dissimilar. Americans generally find Irish people easy to connect with over our European counterparts. One could hazard many guesses for the reason. Apart from a favourable tax regime, multinationals companies locate here for the compatibility between Irish and American cultures. The Irish, as a nation look, across the Atlantic – rather than across the Irish Sea – for cultural influence.

American shows are devoured by Irish people. So much so is our appreciation of American Entertainment that the language – “O-M-G!” – is eventually absorbed into Irish society until it is – “totally” – unavoidable. I am guilty of this sin. I – “like” – use Americanisms all the time. I at least have an Irish accent; I’m proud of it. Irish culture is something to be valued and guarded.

My views on this matter are so extreme that I consider people with ‘fake’ American accents to be insecure. I wince when I hear a mid-Atlantic accent. The other night at an arty event, there were an exceptional number of the quirky, indie types, many of which had a mid-Atlantic accent. As the night passed something became clear; these people with the fake accents were in fact American.

For the moment, I am calling a truce with my anti-fake-American accent campaign in fear that my views are based on incorrect interpretations of accents. However, should I meet Tony Fenton and quiz him on his life, pray for him that he has spent significant time in America.

Another Fashion Obsession

So if you know me, you’ll know I can be obsessive at times. It seems my obsession has latched onto jackets. Since the Diesel one below, the herringbone one with the hood that I wasn’t entirely sure of, is sold out, I now like this one. I’d hate to be disappointed. The detail and shape is very me. I wouldn’t be complete without it.

Foot in Mouth Disease

I was at Boyfriend’s family home on New Year’s Day. I sat on the couch nursing a woeful hangover. Boyfriend’s Dad Malachy busied himself, tidying one or two things away. While he moved about the room, I noticed how slim he looked.

“Malachy,” I said. “You’ve lost a lot of weight since I saw you last. Have you tips on how I could shed my Christmas Belly?” Malachy continued to tidy around him.

He plumped a cushion and placed it on the couch. He looked up at me. “Have a stroke,” he replied.

I stammered. “Er, no. I meant I think you’ve lost weight since I saw you a few weeks ago, not since your stroke.”

“I’ve lost no weight,” he replied.

I turned to Boyfriend, who sat next to me on the couch. I cringed. He laughed from which I knew to let it drop.

Truth from the Mouth of Babes

Boyfriend spent some time at his family home over Christmas. His brother Conor was home from Bermuda for a few weeks. Conor has longish hair. The Bermudian humidity has caused it to curl into ringlets.  His friends think it resembles a perm.

One day over Christmas Boyfriend’s family were gathered at the dinner table. Boyfriend’s niece Aoife was in attendance. Aoife is four years old. Being the first grandchild in the family, she is a little spoilt and outspoken. She craves attention and generally receives it.

Everyone at the table sat awaiting the food to be dished up.

“Conor,” Aoife exclaimed in her high-pitched voice.

Conor responded obediently. “Yes, Aoife?”

“I like your curls Conor. They are very pretty”.

By now Aoife had the full attention of the family. Aoife looked towards Boyfriend, whose hair is considerably longer than he usually keeps it. It’s a bit of a mess.

“You have hair like a clown,” she said.

The congregation laughed loudly.

“Truth from the mouth of babes,” retorted Boyfriend’s father.

Jan Sales

So on Christmas Eve I bought this jacket online …

And then I was in BT2 and found a jacket similar to this …

But then something terrible happened. I saw this …

So despite buying the other two, I can’t stop thinking about the above.

Dilemma!

Merry Christmas

December was hectic. I worked ten days straight until today. Boyfriend is sick. He’s unable to help with the preparation to Christmas. I  tried getting a tree today with no success. Neither Boyfriend nor I have gifts for one another. Luckily, we have the ingredients of our Christmas dinner.

Mum arrived a few hours ago and thankfully, did not slip on the icy foot path at our gate. We’re settled on the couch; we just watched ‘Happy Feet’. It’s great to finally relax after a long month.

Happy Christmas!