Chigadaging – Ukulélé Club de Paris
“It’s just great that you’re back!”
“How was the flight? What did you eat? Have you eaten? What would you like to eat? I have chicken, turkey, ham, steak-”
“Oh right, something healthier? I have salad, salmon, sea bass-”
No, Mum… Mum.
“We could get something else if you lik-”
And with that my Mum drove straight through the barrier in the airport car park. Car. Barrier. Smash. Bang. Wallop. Whoops. Ploughed on. Don’t stop her noooow, she’s having such a good time, she’s having a baaaall! In her defence, it had been a while since I was home. Got a bit excited. Plough on Mum, plough on!!
Walking to the car in the airport car park it was so windy my loosely buttoned shirt blew off. On the first half of the fifteen minute drive home it was so sunny and hot I was glad I was shirtless. For the latter half of the drive it rained like a dam had burst in heaven. Poured. Hailstones. Buckets. Cans of peas. Torrential. Then there was a two minute spell of sun. More rain. And finally as I was bringing my suitcase in from the car to my house, it started snowing. I do not joke. That is Irish weather. Four seasons in twenty minutes. Sun. Wind. Rain. Thunder (na na na na-na na na). More sun. Rain again. Weather in Cork PMSing beyond belief. Calm down woman!
Chilled. Ate. Be merry. Slept. Woke up to startling sunshine. Betsy. Pouring out of the sky. Decided to head into Cork and do some book whuring. When in home, and all that. One thing I noticed: Where have all the women gone? Men to women ratio must be about 90-10, at a conservative measurement. Second thing I noticed: An umbrella would be handy. It’s literally sunny and raining at the same time. Quite a feat. Go on the April showers. And then, littered throughout the day, I had this kind of conversation with people:
“Jeez, L.A must be unreal. Living some life I’d say…”
Yeah, good laugh all right.
“Shur why would you stay around here at all. This place is doom and gloom, nothing here for ya!”
Hmm. If you think that why are you still living here?
Kind of odd. But anyway. Subtle book whuring on. Keep an eye on RanDumb and RanDumber levels in bookstores around Cork. In. Out. Trout’s mouth. On I go.
On to my brother Darren’s wedding. Bit of panic when he went missing in the morning. Well, he didn’t but I might’ve implied that he did and that led to others panicing. So that was fun. As was the ceremony. Everyone looking mighty. Happy as Larrys. Myself and the other groomsmen fully unsure what to do the whole time. Jimmy B to my left pondering and wondering inquisitively throughout: When am I meant to move that chair? Too-Tooch to his left wondering: Will there be many single girls at the afters?
Darren. Chiara. Duu. Wuu huu! On we go to the afters. Photographer makes us stop off at a beach. Girls in high heels. Summer dresses. Cobbled beach. Gail force wind kicks up as we get out of the cars. Rain starts to fall as we make our way to the designated photo spot. Everyone cursing bitterly through out gritted teeth. Just take the funking photo. Wind battering hailstones at our faces by now. Gritting. Grinding. Smiling. And… Cheeese! Oh, hang on. No flash… Cheeeessse!
Being Best Man and all, I was warned slightly about my speech. By a number of people. For some reason these people thought I would spend the entire time promoting my two books (RanDumb and RanDumber, available hear and ear). Make it all about me. And not say much or anything about the groom and glowing bride. Tut. Come on now. As if. Cop on. Get with it. And with that, my pre-planned speech was out the window. So it was decided I would just wing the whole thing. Make it up as I go along. And try to make it not about me – No matter how many people in the 200+ crowd really wanted it to be all me. OK so. Fine. Off I went…
“Well everyone I’d like to thank ye all for coming to my surprise welcome home party, too kind…”
Duu. After that I managed to not make too many more references to myself. Instead I did the traditional thing. Recited a poem about an owl. Made up some antidotes. Finished off by making some bird sounds, encouraging others too to make the now fabled cries: Ka-Kaaaw, KA-KAAAAWW!! And then we were done. Party. On!
You’re So Vain – Carly Simon
All in all, the speech went down splendidly. Family were happy. Grandparents loved it. No one was offended. Didn’t even mention either of my two books RanDumb or RanDumber once. People I never met before were even offering to pay me to be the best man at their weddings. It was a good speech by all accounts. What I didn’t account for, was the small collection of bitter apes. Particularly at my brother’s wedding. They will hunt you down everywhere the whures! Coming up to me at the bar afterwards. All smiles. All nods. All handshakes. All feeling a need to tell me:
“Just to let you know, didn’t find your speech funny at all. Don’t know what everyone else is on about. I didn’t like it.”
Nice one. Or…
“Just to let you know, you’re not as funny as you think. I just want you to know that, OK. Know that I know. Your Dad’s speech was far funnier. You’re not funny. Know that. OK?”
No. You clown. Thanks for feeling the need to let me know that though. Funny now looking back at it. At the time I was slightly bewildered. Are they taking the piss- Nope, they’re serious. So that was nice. People actually said weirder stuff than that, but I won’t write about it here. Nay nay. Save that for the book. Although in fairness, I know it was just the drink talking. Probably. I’m sure. Right? Normally these people are:
All of those letters. Right? Anyway, great old night. Mighty hoot the next day. Wedding. On. Congrats to Darren and Chiara. Threw some party. Dance on!
King of the Castle
So as it just happened, a friend of mine from L.A happened to be in Ireland at the same time as me. It was all happening. Friend/P.A/slave master. You know. As a result, my tour guide hat was donned on a few occasions. Castles were high up on the agenda. So I think I saw every castle in Ireland. I forgot how new everything is in America. 50 years is old here. Blarney Castle got a trip. Kiss the stone. (You know the one, the one the locals urinate on, that one!) Gave it an old top up myself. (The guy working there insured me he washed it down personally that morning. Wink.)
What was quite mighty was seeing Ireland through my friend/P.A/slave master’s eyes. Four seasons in one hour was “Amazing!”. Castles were “Oh my gosh!”. Strawberries were “the sweetest tasting thing alive”. It’s true, now that I can compare, strawberries in L.A are all show. Bursting with steroids. Look unreal. Bland inside. Kind of like the people, huh?! Nudge! HUH?! Strawberries in Ireland were kind of more deformed and less shiny but tasted waaaay better inside. Kind of like the people, huh?! Nudge! HUH?! (Turns out the strawberries were from Spain, but who I am to burst one’s bubble.) Another thing I took for granted were sheep. Well. Sheep. Cows. And. Rainbows. Sheep in particular though. Don’t really see them in America. Not in their full form at least.
So anyway, then I ended up in Dublin. My friend/P.A/slave master had two shows up there. And I had a comedy show too. Handy handy. Dublin dancing on. Meet you be the spire. Except. I was a tad apprehensive. Just a tad. Just because of… Pat. Who is probably reading this now. How’s it going Pat? See, from writing the blogaruu and booksaduu (and as we have now also seen based on my speech making ability) one starts to get people who enjoy your stuff. Whatever that stuff may be. Fans, you might say. Mighty dancers. RanDummies. Book whures. Blogaruu faithful. All those fine fecks. Who are delightful.
And then you have Pat. Who has been sending me messages on and off for about two years now. Most are complimentary. Some are slightly odd. And then a few are full on stalker town style. Not happy if more people discover the blog or books or whichever. But still really happy that it’s going well. But would be happier if I was only known by Pat. That kind of fun thing. Anyway, Pat seemed to know a lot about my trip home. When I was leaving. What flight I was probably on. Where I was going to be. Where my brother was getting married. Where I was staying. You know, those details I freely share with everyone. Ahem.
Anyway, Pat had me a bit freaked. I think Pat lives in London, or else India, it’s odd, messages come from both places. Maybe works in one and is from the other? Pat informed me that a trip to Ireland was in order. To meet. And greet. And stay. With me. As you do. Haha, I thought, this Pat is a funny feck. Haha. Ha. Ah. Nah.
As a result, I was a bit cautious to pimp out where I was performing and when. Just in case Pat did show up. Just in case Pat was a nut. Just in case Pat tried to kill me. Or at least attempt a Misery style tying to bed and breaking my legs scenario. Which had been mentioned in passing in one of Pat’s messages before. So. If you were wondering why I didn’t pimp out my stand-up show or why I was not replying to your tweets, messages or smoke signals, now you know why. Pat.
Oddly enough, I don’t actually know if Pat is a guy or a girl. At first I thought girl. Then guy. Girl again. To the point I’m guessing hermaphrodite. Never seen a photo but just couldn’t get a read. I’m telling you this because Pat had told me he/she would be making an appearance at some point in my trip. Meaning I was constantly looking over my shoulder the ENTIRE time. Is that her/him? I hear heavy breathing and grunts, is that Pat?! Oh no, that’s just me.
It's Pat Time
So I’m in Dublin at one of my friend’s shows. Sitting in the audience. Foolishly not at the very back of the room. Foolish, because my back is to parts of the crowd. Now every second I’m sitting there constantly thinking: Oh dear Jesus, is some dude/girl going to come up and stab me in the neck with a knife and start screaming ‘HOW YOU LIKE ME NOW?! IT’S PAT-TIME, BEEEATTTCHHH!!!’ My imagination likes to sprint off at times. Every time I hear a glass clinking or feel someone move behind me, I jump and yelp. As discretely as I can, but still. Jump. Yelp. Sweat. Sweet Lord. Can’t hack this. Eventually turn to the crowd and scream: Just show yourself Pat, SHOW YOURSELF! The crowd just thinks I’m really into the music, so I get away with it.
Thankfully, no sign of Pat. I can relax. Do the whole stroll around Dublin the next day. Highly depressing place when it is drizzling and humid. Sorry Dublin, still not a fan. Don’t worry, it’s me. (All you.) Next night I have my stand-up show. Slightly worried about Pat. But I think I’ve gotten away with it. Head along to the venue. Full house. Happy days. Do about fifteen minutes. Goes down a storm. Giddy up! Some difference being in a country where people understand what you say all the time. Not having to neutralise your accent and change how you say words. Quite a treat. Anyway, standup. Step down. Applause. A huu. Out the gap. Pat free- Someone grabs me by the shoulder. Big looking woman. Indian. OH. JESUS. Pat. Holding a pint glass. Holyfunkingno- ‘Deadly show, funny stuff.’
Phew. Just a randumb punter. No sign of Pat. My brain rambled off. This time at least. Thanks to the punter, laugh on! Good duck. Dublin. Doublin’. And doublin. And doublin’ over with laughter. Fun times.
Rambles have truly kicked in. What else happened? Went to a feast in a castle? Done. Quite dancing. Drunk on mead. Merry on life. Ate with our hands. Fiddle players and singers singing all around us. Proper castle too. Along with an old style Irish village. Any Americanos, go to Bunratty if you’re ever in Ireland. Some hoot. And then I departed back for L-Hey. Mighty time with the family. Parents are some dancers. Sister is some chancer. Brother now married. And I managed to get an involuntary upgrade on my flight home. Earned it after the flights there. Oh Betsy. Some trip. Some rambles. Ireland. On!
(One last thing: Is it weird how going through US passport control always makes you feel like you have a foot of cocaine hidden in your colon? Or just me? Shhh.)
Happiness (The Magician Remix) – Sam Sparro
Sunday Drive (Gigamesh Remix) – Ladyhawke
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Freaky situation ! :O So you still haven’t meet Pat…
& sorry to say but… spanish strawberries are bland compared to belgian strawberries… they’re sweet like candies 🙂
I must give them a twirl so. Belgian on!
Indeed you should !
Finally, a proper Bloagaruu! Thank you. Duu!
Giddy up! Very welcome, read on!