Saturday, February 21, 2009

Recipie for disaster.. the work party.

Take one work do, add a pinch of drinking at your desk since 11am, stir it up and sprinkle with some light urinating in the ladies toilets. Allow to simmer and remove from the heat to cool. While it sets, prepare some buttocks on a photocopier. Once ready, pin the resulting pictures to the walls and continue to flirt with every girl in the office at 220 degrees Celsius. When (forcibly) removed from office, continue to drink in the basement toilets and then dust with the powder of a fresh ‘wrapping your entire body in toilet roll’. The next stage requires drinking and shouting on the lawn in front of the office until some scared tourists accidentally cross your path. Remove self from the oven of potential arrest and slide into a pre-heated Luas. Once on Luas, reduce heat and cover, but crack open some bottles of Duvel and act menacingly. Do not allow to boil or get agro with inspector. Remind your Hungarian, Slovakian and Lithuanian employees that they are guests in this country and pouring beer on other passengers is against our culture. Prepare some green beans in butter, on a low heat.

Remove posse from Luas, and walk immediately into a rickshaw. Gently prise open skin on forehead until the blood runs pink. Immediately separate from the sane members of your team and board the wrong bus. Lightly pepper fellow passengers with loud singing and crotch grabbing. Cover and disembark, further from destination than when starting and gently roll a taxi. Arrive shortly afterwards at best friend’s mother’s birthday party with two of your gang still alive and proceed to enter pub like a visiting scud missile. Flirt at medium heat with best friend’s cousin, grab his father in headlock. Once browned, proceed to dance like a priest in an over ambitious altar boys dormitory. Heat plates. Shake, bake, and embarrass your own father into calling you the next day to say how ashamed he is of you. Try not to remember a thing at this stage, as the memory of talking to your best friend’s wife’s parents (and your ex’s) might cause unnecessary burning. Leave pub like Roy Keane in Saipan, and attempt to have sexual relations with the bonnet of the taxi carrying your besties visiting uncle. Flip, and reduce to a low flame, head home. Once home, visit local take-away and order curry chips. Vigorously empty onto the pavement and eat at once. Avoid the gravelly bits to avert immediate dentist visit.

Prepare a salad, and wait for the calls the next morning...

*EDIT: Just heard that I arrived through the door and shouted 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY EVERYBODY'. More to follow probably..

Saturday, February 14, 2009

Oh Cupid...

The Scene was set. The aromatic candles were lit. The Lights were low. On the stereo, “A million love songs” by Take That. Strawberries, soaking in Champagne, winked in the candle-light like little red fruits of love. “Ghost” was in the video player with “Mamma Mia” for afters. A single red rose lay on a fluffed up pillow like a romantic offering from the Gods of love. New lingerie spread out on the bed, ready to be put on and then removed slowly and seductively, and in full view of the neighbours. A warm bath filled with floating petals lay waiting to massage the senses. In the kitchen, Oysters are simmering with passion, ready to be devoured. Matching bathrobes, recently embroidered with cheeky personal messages hung from the door hooks. A bottle of 1999 Amour de Deutz Blanc de Blancs sitting in ice, ready to be poured into fine crystal (or indeed, on the body). A diamond ring hid in the shadows, ready to dazzle and to surprise. Romance filled the air...

A lot of effort for a night in by myself, I think you’ll agree.

Merry Valentines from ND

Tuesday, February 3, 2009

I live in what you might call a 'kip'

It's what childhood dreams are made of. Days off school, pipes frozen and old ladies slipping and breaking their hips.

To most people, waking up to a blanket of snow is the stuff of dreams..

Not me.

I really should tell my landlady about the hole in the roof.