Pa Ranoid they might call me, if my name was Pa, Paddy, Pat or Patrick. Thankfully, it is none of the above. But I am paranoid. And I’m in a hotel lobby. On my final morn in London. Waiting for a car to show up to take me to the airport. Wondering whether I should just eat all this paper? Or… Can’t see any other option really.
What do you call a ponder pipe that just lays around all day? Mopey Dick. Badum. My first day in London, I was moping like no other. Woke up early. Phoned the prison. Spoke to Kailand. Told me her news – “They keep giving us bananas and milk for meals, I’m hooked on the milk.” Slurp. Filled her in on my news – US Embassy said there’s nothing they can do, magistrates decision so just have to sort it out when you get home. Some dose. Slurp. Kailand is upset. But still. Her spirits are high. Night’s sleep always helps in fairness. Or else they were spiking the milk.
It was then realised that it must be hard to keep conversations flowing with people in prison. Both had filled the other in in detail what had happened since we saw each other last (about 24 hours ago). After that, our news seemed insignificant or non-existence. I’d phone back and Kailand would tell me she had a nice non-English speaking conversation with an Indian woman about milk. I’d inform Kailand that the hotel room was nice but all the TV stations seemed to be showing was the Big Bang Theory. Then Kailand had to go to get more milk. I’d phone back. Find out if the milk was really cold or room temperature. Called off again to go brush her teeth if she wanted to. Phone back again and then… I was told Kailand had been taken away. Being brought back to the airport. Put on a flight. Which flight? Wouldn’t tell me? What time? Hung up on me. Dose. Wouldn’t speak to Kailand about milk again until she was back in L.A, eating some Thanksgiving turkey and egg nog. So that was a balls. Continue Reading »
It’ll be all white on the night! Ha ha, should be good all right. We’ll be dancing all night long (all night), all night long (all night)! One of the downsides of booking me to DJ a big White Party is that those phrases will keep popping out of my mouth leading up to it. Pop on.
So it’s Labor Day. End of the summer. Bank holiday weekend. Sunday night. Big party. And I’m DJigging classic Irish folklore songs. Put on my finest whitest rags. Pack up my equipment. Stroll up the ridiculously steep street I live on. And I’m at the SkyBar. Ready to go. I kind of got ready really quickly just before I was meant to be there so didn’t cop on that I was in all white. Looking very tampon like. Not my normal attire. Enter through the velvet rope. Meet the manager. Asks me if I’m pumped. I pretend I am. Informs me it’s going to be a huge party. One of their big three. Halloween. Christmas. White Party. Oh right. So it’s going to be a big one? Oh right. Dance on!
Early start. Nine bells. Not expecting it to be busy. Poolside looking very dapper dressed in white. White flowers floating in the pool. Savage view of all of L.A sparkling over the side. All very decadent. Top bar is looking cool. Staff all in white too. Looking sharp. Or glamorous. Depending on their chromosomes.
Set up. Plug in. Good to go. Just keep it chilled for the first two hours I’d say. Parties are notorious for getting going late here. Start late. End early. The two o’clock cut-off time is still one of L.A’s worst flaws. Anyway… And a one and a two and away we go! Music. On.
Close my eyes. Time to sleep through this flight. Eyes shut for a minute. Mambo number five in the aisle bounces off my head. Wakes me up. See something white on my pants as I open my eyes. Oh God. What was I dreaming about? No, this is a small thing. Pick it up. A mint. More to the point, a wet mint. By the looks of it, just fell out of someone’s mouth and onto my lap. Nelly to my right sneezes again. Plane hits a pocket of turbulence. Mambo bounces off me again. See now that it is her ass hitting off me. Feels slightly moist as it bounces off the side of my face. Wet, like the mint. Maybe sweat? Who knows, who cares?
And so began my wonderful flight home to Ireland. For some reason I am unsure of now, I did not Continue Reading »
Tough week. Realised a few things. Such as: My ability to make women puke is still going strong. Take yesterday. Setting up to DJig. Girl comes over to me. Big. Drunk. Mexican. (Big as in overweight. Drunk as in demented. Mexican as in Meximerican.) Stands in front of me. Starts pointing. Swaying. Pointing. Slurring. ‘You’rrrre verrree goood luuk inn.’ Why thank you. Suddenly her head dips. And then she pukes all over her own feet. Delightful. Looks back up at me. Smiles. And before I could ask if she was OK, she puked again. Beautiful. Thankfully her friends carried her off (with one oddly rubbing her breasts the entire time. Giving me dirty looks when I looked at her do so. Is that a girl thing?)
Confession time: For far too long a period growing up I used to wear turtlenecks. As in, all the time. Pre denim jacket phase. Post oversized sports jacket. Turtlenecks were my item of choice. Anywhere. Everywhere. All the time. Must’ve thought I was French. Or Sean Connery. Not sure if they were actually in fashion according to the herd, but I assume I thought they were the greatest thing of all time. Every significant memory I have from the ages 15-18 involve me wearing a turtleneck. Maybe even push that up to 20. Clearly remember my first turtleneck. Saw it in a wardrobe at home one day. Wondered who owned it. Looks like my kind of top. Looks kind of cool. Let’s see what it looks like on… Oh Betsy! My distorted image of myself in the mirror telling me I was looking good! Very cool! Mum? Muuuuuuuuuummmmmmm! MMMMUUUUUUUMMMM!!!! MUMM!? Mum? Mum?!! MUMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM… Oh, hi Mum. Who owns this top? Pardon? You!? Who? No way! Can I have it? Pardon me? Shoulder pads? Oh yeah, wasn’t sure what they were. Pretty cool though, aren’t they!? Right? No? Guys don’t wear shoulder pads? Says who, Mum? What do they know!?! I look cool Mum, don’t I? Sure I do, Mum? Mum? MUU… Continue Reading »