The perfect hot whiskey

Around this time of year I always get the sniffles. Something to do with the sudden drop in temperature combined with the fact that I finally get to relax after working my butt off since summer. Anyhoo, today, on the horrendous drive home from Edinburgh (we were parked on the motorway for over an hour whilst the police, firemen, paramedics, etc. tried to clear the road of a multiple vehicle accident, which was spread across all of the lanes, bringing rush hour traffic to an absolute standstill. We drove past the wreckage of the cars & motorbike - it was truly frightening), I realised that I was sniffling, had a sore throat, etc.

So, after thanking every god in heaven that it wasn't us in that accident, and after praying to every god I could think of that the people involved would be ok, I decided that I could do with a hot whiskey. A hot double-whiskey, in fact. It'll take a couple of them to erase the picture of those upside-down, cut open and burnt out metal husks from my mind.

Anyway, just as my Mum is the queen of the Irish coffees, my Dad is the king of the hot whiskeys, and he kindly taught me how to make them a few years ago. It's such a simple recipe, but you'd be amazed at how many people get it wrong. And, since I'm all liquored up and full of the spirit of Christmas, I thought I'd share it with you so you can try it out over the holidays, maybe in lieu of that disgusting eggnog, and certainly to help ward off any impending sniffles.

Firstly, you'll need to assemble the ingredients:

1 bottle whiskey
1 lemon
1 jar cloves
1 bag of brown (demerara) sugar

And the appliances needed:

1 kettle to boil water
1 glass from which to quaff the good stuff

As can be seen from this pic, I had to resort to Jack Daniels as they only had 12 year old Jameson in the supermarket this evening, and I wouldn't even dare to destroy that by turning it into a hot whiskey.

Anyhoo, step one, cut the lemon into chunky slices:

Step two, insert cloves into the lemon segments in a pretty fashion, as such:

Step three, pour a double measure of whiskey into the glass. I would usually use a coffee glass, but I don't have any here, so this horrible glass had to suffice:

Step four, boil the kettle of water, and add as desired to the whiskey. Then stir in a teaspoonful of brown sugar:

Step five, stir!

Step six, pop in the lemon, give it another stir, allow to "brew" for about a minute and enjoy!

Step seven, repeat until you fall over or go numb.

I'm feeling better already

Broken toe, shattered illusions

I used to think I was invincible.

No, really, wait a minute. I honestly did. Right up until I broke my toe on Sunday afternoon, by stubbing it against the bed, of all things.

Why did I think I'm invincible? Well, mostly because I've been knocked down three times, been pushed down stairs, fallen downstairs, been impaled on an iron gate, and had various other injuries and I've never once been hospitalised or even broken a bone.

Until Sunday, that is. When I broke my toe by stubbing it against the damn bed. How embarassing.

I've had a serious run of good luck, when it comes to injuries. Growing up with three brothers and a dodgy (at best) sense of balance, I'm really a walking recipe for disaster.

I can remember most of my injuries. They started quite young...

(The Pre-teenage years)

- Fell off my roller-skates onto a gravel footpath and scraped the shit out of the right side of my face. The kids at school called me Freddie Kruger for a week. Bastards.

- Chipped the front of my tooth whilst walking home from karate practice. I've still got the chip there now. Luckily, it didn't expose the nerve. Put me off karate for years.

- Got punched square in the nose by one of my brothers. Ran all over the supermarket looking for my mum, dripping blood everywhere, whilst some poor shelf-stacker ran after me with a box of tissues, trying to clean me up.

- Got clipped by a car when crossing the road. Walked away with just bruises and two very scared parents.

- Got knocked off my bike on my way to piano lessons. Cut my hands and bruised my elbows and knees, but otherwise ok.

(The Teenage years)

- Got pushed down the stairs by one of my brothers (it was like a scene from The Omen. He stood at the top of the stairs, watching me drag my heavy schoolbag up, waiting for me to reach the top. On the second last step from the top, he simply looked at me, then thrust his hand out, hitting me in the chest, and I fell, backwards, down the entire stairs, almost through the glass window at the bottom. Freak!).

- Got knocked off my bike at around 50mph, whilst tearing down a very long, very steep hill near my house. My next door neighbour was on his bike at the bottom of the hill, and pulled out right in front of me. We skidded across a four-road intersection, me on the bottom with him and two bikes on top of me. I pretty much (temporarily) destroyed the left-hand side of my face and body - the skin was kinda ripped off in place. Major bruising. Black eye, which swelled shut. I have no memory of the actual accident, or the two hours afterwards. I had to take a week off school, and couldn't leave the house because I looked like I'd had the shit beat out of me. My neighbour cut his elbow. Poor guy.

- Got hit in the eye with a sweeping brush. This was at school, not long after the bike accident above. One of the girls in my class was messing around, swinging a sweeping brush in the air. She caught my, right below my left eye. Yes, the same eye that had been swollen shut in the above accident. It immediately blackened, shut again, and she also burst a blood vessel which meant that for the following month, I had a red streak going from my iris to the corner of my eye. Very creepy.

(The College Years)

- I got impaled on an iron spike as I climbed over a gate in the university grounds. Well, when I say I got impaled, I didn't actually. What happened was that Mozz and I were climbing over the gate, on the way back from the pub. I had my favourite jumper (orange with a horizontal yellow stripe across the middle - loved it!) tied around my waist, and as I climbed over the gate, and made to drop down the other side, I couldn't help but notice that my feet were still dangling about four feet from the ground. I wriggled around, but still nothing. I was hanging there. I managed to untie my jumper and fell down, and then realised that the spike had perfectly impaled my jumper, creating a hole about half a foot in diameter right through the middle, on both sides. My jumper was destroyed. I got nothing more than a twisted ankle.

- During rag week (not sure if you have this in the States or Canada, but Google it if not), myself and my boyf were on our way to the Rag Ball, which was a big fancy dress dealie. We were dressed as some sort of devil-type-thingies. Think long flowing black capes, white face paint, fake blood, etc. Along the way, I tripped and fell and bashed my head again a low wall up the road from where we lived. My lip split open and started gushing blood. I, being quite drunk, kind of went into shock and started crying. What's worse is that I wanted to go home, but everyone else said "No way! That looks so cool! It fits in with the costume!" Bastards. Anyway, I went home, looked in the mirror and nearly fainted. My face and neck were streaked with blood, and my dress was soaked in the stuff. I looked like I had just gorged myself on a sacrifical virgin or something. I've still got a scar on my lip now.

(My more recent idiocy)

- Quite possibly the scariest of the injuries that I remember was when I was on hols on the Canary Islands with Mozz. I was walking down the ceramic-tiled stairs when my dusty flip-flop lost it's grip and I fell... all the way down the ceramic stairs. (I'd like to point out that I was stone-cold sober at the time). What's frightening was that I landed in a heap at the bottom and I couldn't move. I'd hand the wind knocked out of me, but even when my breath came back, I couldn't move. For a couple of minutes, I contemplated life as a quadriplegic, paralyzed from the neck down. Eventually, I got movement back, but I had seriously hurt my lower back, judging from the fact that my ass almost immediately went black with bruising. I was sore for a while after, but eventually recovered fully. Still pulled too ;) Heheheh.

So, that's a lot of little knocks and bruises, but I never once broke a bone. So, like I said, I thought I was invincible. Or that maybe I had some sort of a guardian angel. Not that I believe in angels. But something was looking out for me, right?

Until he decided to go on his fag break around 3pm on Sunday afternoon, and I stubbed my toe and broke it.

© Christine Meadows

It's downhill from here. I'm going home to wrap myself in bubble-wrap, just in case.

Dead dogs and Friday the 13th

Yes, by now we've all established that it's Friday the 13th. Unlucky for some. Including the poor dead dog lying across the motorway on my way to work this morning. As I drove past, I swear it was looking me right in the eye. Creepy.

Anyhoo, most people associate Friday the 13th with horror films and whatnot, so I thought I'd write a random blog about all the horrible things that I like.

1. Horror films - I've already written about this one. If it's got kids or religion (or religious kids, or anti-christs) in it, it's guaranteed to scare the bejaysus out of me.

Even when it's completely predictable - when you see the nubile young chick wearing nowt but a wet nightie climbing up the stairs to the attic, in the dark, with only a candle that flickers dangerously, threating to snuff it, with the music building in the background, creating tension and atmosphere, even when we know the serial killer with the hooks for hands is in the attic, and there's thunder and lightening outside... even then, when he strikes, even when I've known all along that it's going to happen, I'll still jump about three feet in the air.

My overactive imagination runs riot during these kinds of flicks.

Also, psychological thrillers give me a good scare ;)

2. Stephen King - The master of horror. When I was a kiddie, I read most of his stuff. Avidly. My parents were worried that I'd turn into some kind of nutjob (they're so proud of me now!). I didn't read all of his works, however, and so I'm currently discovering some little gems that had, up until now, escaped my attention.

At the moment I'm reading The Talisman, which is incredible, and I'm finding it difficult to put it down. Even now, I wish I was reading it. Well, even now I wish I was at home pulling my toenails off with tweezers and dipping my feet in salt water. Anything other than work.

My favourite King books would have to be It, The Dark Half, The Stand, Thinner, Pet Semetary and The Dark Tower series (except for the last book).

3. German Shepherds - Also known as Alsations. I think these are beautiful dogs. I know they'd probably savage you as soon as look at you, but I love them and I want one. No, two! I'd call one Germy and one Sheppy. Of course, I'd have to train it properly and teach it that children do not, in fact, taste like chicken. But I'd be willing to do that. And I think having to walk the damn thing twenty miles a day would keep me fit.

Unfortunately, the dead dog I saw this morning on the motorway was a German Shepherd, so I was quite upset as his glassy dead eyes penetrated my soul and told me I was next if I didn't put my fog lights on. Poor Germy.

4. Heavy metal music - The louder the better, in my opinion. I love going to gigs where the music is so loud it feels like someone's thumping your lungs with a jackhammer. Loud, dirty, sexy, sweaty, grinding music. All hail the power chord.

But, I don't like any of that weirdo death metal stuff. I'm not a freak, damnit.

5. Bikers - Possibly connected to the above point (duh), I have a certain fondness for bikers. Not so much that I actually want to spend any intimate time with them, but I kind of admire their hard drinkin', hard ridin', don't-feel-a-need-to-wash-daily, aren't-i-the-coolest-fucking-thing-you've-ever-seen, look-at-the-length-of-my-beard-for-jeebus'-sake! kind of attitude.

Remember that film with Cher when she had the kid with the messed up face, and she hung out with a biker gang all the time? Can't remember the name of the film... Anyhoo, that's the kind of gang I'd like to hang out with. Wild, but caring. Alcoholics, but sensitive. Ha!

Sometimes I wish I owned a bike. I dream about giving the two fingers to "the establishment" and "the man" and "my job", and tearing up the highway, wind blowing in my hair, bottle of Jack Daniels in my pocket. But then I remember how much I enjoy being clean, and so I know it wouldn't work.

6. Biker bars - Consequently, I like biker bars, because they're an innovative combination of the above two horrible loves of mine. Loud music and dirty bikers. Usually comes with an impressive array of 'cycles out the front, upon which I can gaze and admire. Batteries not included.

I went to a great biker bar in San Francisco once. I remember sitting in the beer garden out the back, surrounded by bikers and ladies with huge fake boobs, pitchers of beer and plates of nachos, looking up at the stars and thinking "I'm in heaven!"

Ah, happy days.

7. Dead baby jokes - I still find these hilarious. Some of my favourites:

Q: What's funnier than a dead baby?
A: A dead baby in a clown costume!

Q: How do you know when a baby is a dead baby?
A: The dog plays with it more.

Q: What's worse than finding 7 dead babies in 1 trash can?
A: Finding 1 dead baby in 7 trash cans.

Hahahahahahahahahahahahah!

I know, I know. I'm going to hell.

Irrational fears and personal discomfort

Hello. My name is Claire, and I am an arachnophobe. I have lived with this condition all my life but it has never interefered with or hampered my day-to-day actions.

Until now.

You see, there's a huge spider in the bathroom and I really need to pee.

As Father Dougal once said: "Ted! Ted! I'm in tremendous pain, Ted!" (If you're not Irish or British then you won't have gotten that one - too bad!)

For as long as I can remember I've been afraid of spiders. And not just spiders, but all sorts of creepy crawlies and stuff. And whilst not necessarily afraid of winged bugs, I'm not a huge fan either and will do my utmost to avoid them.

My skin is crawling at the thought of the huge spider currently residing in the bathroom at work. A mere 20 feet away, I might add. This spider is so big that he could probably scuttle across here to my office in two seconds flat.

That's one of the problems I have with spiders - the fact that they scuttle everywhere. One minute they're there, sitting in the bathtub, waving up at you, and the next minute they're gone. Where did they go? Who knows?

When I see spiders, I don't tend to scream (unless they're enormous or about to jump on my face). Rather, I tend to freeze to the spot. Which is pretty fucking stupid because instead of running away to my happy place with rainbows and flowers and puppies, I'm rooted to the spot staring at the big hairy spider, unable to breathe, whilst my mind screams like a lunatic.
For people who don't have this fear of spiders, it's really difficult to comprehend how horrible it is. I know it's irrational, I know it's abnormal and I know it's probably more scared of me than I am of it. But, all the same, I'm going to have to wait until I go home to pee, 'cause I ain't going into that bathroom.

From Wikipedia (with my comments in brackets) -

Arachnophobia is a specific phobia, an abnormal fear of spiders. With an estimated half of all women, and a quarter of all men in the United States, it is among the most common of phobias. The reactions of arachnophobics often seem irrational to others (and sometimes to the sufferers themselves). People with arachnophobia tend to feel uneasy in any area they believe could harbor spiders or that has visible signs of their presence, such as webs. If they see a spider they may not enter the general vicinity until they have overcome the panic attack that is often associated with their phobia. They may feel humiliated if such episodes happen in the presence of peers or family members.

(Very true. I hate going into places that have cobwebs hanging about, and it is embarrassing asking people would they mind removing the huge spider so I can go into the room, hence my current state of misery. What's worse is that I can't even be in the room when the spider is being removed, and the remover has to show me his/her empty hands afterwards so I can be sure they got rid of it. I know, I know, I have trust issues.)

The fear of spiders can be treated by any of the general techniques suggested for specific phobias.

(See, I have a problem with this. I don't want to be cured of my fear because whenever you see people who'd been hypnotized into thinking they're no longer afraid of spiders, you always see them picking up tarantulas or something afterwards, and I DON'T WANT TO DO THAT!!!!!)

Arachnophobia is, in many cases, the result of a traumatizing encounter with spiders in one's early childhood, though the experience may not be remembered.

(I'm not aware of any trauma - as far as I know I've just always hated the little buggers.)

An evolutionary reason for the phobias, such as arachnophobia, claustrophobia, fear of snakes or mice, etc. remains unresolved. One view, especially held in evolutionary psychology, is that sufferers might gain some survival edge, by avoiding the dangers. Spiders, for instance, being relatively small, don't fit the usual criteria for a threat in the animal kingdom where size is a key factor, but most species are venomous, and some are lethal. Arachnophobes will spare no effort to make sure that their whereabouts are spider-free, hence reducing sharply the risk of being bitten.

(See? We're SMARTER than you spider-loving freaks! You'll all die Steve Irwin-type deaths, with posionous red-backs hanging from your little fingers, whilst us arachnophobes laugh from our hiding places in the next room!)

The alternative view is that the dangers, such as from spiders, are overrated and not sufficient to influence evolution. Instead, inheriting phobias would have restrictive and debilitating effects upon survival, rather than being an aid. For example, there are no deadly spiders native to central and northern Europe that could exert an evolutionary pressure, yet that is where the strongest fear for spiders began, suggesting cultural learning. In contrast, many non-European cultures generally do not fear spiders, and for some communities such as in Papua New Guinea and South America, spiders are included in traditional foods.

(Yeah, well.... shut up. Spiders = bad, ok?)

In the meantime, I remain sitting here in my office, scared rigid, checking the door every five minutes to make sure the little bastard hasn't followed me in here (can spiders smell fear?), and desperately, desperately needing to pee.

I wouldn't change a thing

Last night I was watching Stephen Fry's two-part documentary entitled "The Secret Life of the Manic Depressive", which explores the reality of living with bipolar disorder. It was a fascinating programme in which Stephen, a long-time sufferer of the disorder, met celebrities and members of the public and invited them to speak very frankly about their disorder and about the impact it has had on their lives.

One part of the programme struck me as being particularly poignant. During each interview, Stephen asked the person "Do you regret having this disorder? Do you wish you had been born without it?" And, with the exception of one lady who suffered very badly from it, the people all said "No. I don't regret it." Not even the guy who had a total nervous breakdown and started having hallucinations in which the Devil was trying to get him; not even he regretted having this disorder.

This got me thinking: aren't human beings amazing? Isn't it astounding what humans can put up with and what they can get through? I know that's a bit cheesy (I have visions of Bill Hicks saying: "I'm tired of this back-slapping "Isn't humanity neat?" bullshit. We're a virus with shoes, okay? That's all we are.") but it's true!

Anyway, even though I'm still relatively young (compared to some of you old farts) in my lifetime I've seen people struggle through some extraordinary stuff including deaths, huge upheavals in their personal lives, etc. And yet, when you ask most people, or at least the people I know, if they regret any of it, or, would they do things differently if they could go back in time, I think the overall answer would be "no".

Not to equate my trivial personal problems with bipolar disorder or depression (although my problems weren't trivial to me and so still count!), but I've had some shitty times in the past, and yet I don't regret a single one of them. I suppose the biggest upheaval I've had was my marriage and subsequent divorce. Without going into too much detail, the man turned out to be a bit of an asshole, and, after (unwittingly) letting him systematically destroy my self-confidence and turn me against my friends, my family, even my country, I then found out that he was cheating on me for a couple of months while I was back in Ireland waiting to get my visa to move to his damn country. So, I dumped him.

Over the next year I slid into what I realise now was a pretty dark depression. I was deeply ashamed that I had married this idiot and that I had allowed him to walk all over me. I was ashamed of the hurt that I had caused my family and friends. I was even, perversely, ashamed that I hadn't been able to make the marriage work. I had made my bed but I was unable to lie in it. I felt like a complete failure.

I moved back home and got a job and, unfortunately, started drinking heavily in an attempt to regain some of the confidence that he had knocked out of me. It took a long time for me to get my divorce because for some fucked up reason, he didn't want to give me one. I had to resort to threatening to take half his inheritance (his dad was quite wealthy and, had I followed through on my threat I wouldn't have to work for the rest of my life - but I'm no gold-digger, so a threat was all it was) in order to get him to go to his bloody lawyer.

However, despite all the pain and hurt that it caused, I don't regret it. I don't regret meeting him, marrying him or divorcing him. The experience of that made me who I am today, and I think I'm alright! I might be a little bitter and cynical around the edges, but overall I think I've come up trumps.

I do regret the pain that I've caused my family and my close friends. Especially since they did their best to warn about this guy, but I chose to ignore them. I regret the fact that I had to tell my dad what happened and had to watch as his heart visibly broke in front of me. I regret my mum being so upset with me that she couldn't speak to me for a couple of weeks afterwards.
But, if I had to do it all again, I would. If I hadn't gone through that, I wouldn't be the person that I am now. I'd probably still be a doormat, letting people walk all over me. There's no way I would have had the confidence to go back to university and do a PhD.

So I can understand to some degree when these people with bipolar disorder say that they don't regret having it. After all, it's a fundamental part of who they are.

Buenos días!

Tomorrow I'm jetting off to sunny Spain for my holidays. This time tomorrow, I'll be lying under the hot Spanish sun, drink in one hand, book in the other, maybe some music playing in the background. If it gets too hot, I might take a dip in the villa's private pool, or I might walk down to the beach and go for a swim there. I'll have to see how I feel at the time.

Now, as you know or have probably guessed, I'm not a girlie-girl, and I don't get up at 6am to spend three hours blow-drying my hair into submission every morning. I'm pretty much a wash'n'go kind of person. But I do like to take some pride in my personal appearance, and thus I've had to spend almost a week getting ready for this damn holiday! Let me explain...

Monday - had to wax my bits. I will be spending most of my time in a bikini and, really, nobody wants to go on holiday with this:

So, the bits had to be waxed (which was, incidentally, excruciatingly painful, despite consuming a large glass of Pinot Grigio beforehand) and trimmed and moisturised and so on.

Tuesday - had to exfoliate and moisturise all over in preparation for Wednesday.

Wednesday - the first application of fake tan. Now, because I'm Irish, I'm ridiculously pale. To the point where strangers in cafés and on the street often poke me in the eye to see if I am actually still alive. If I went to the beach sans fake tan, airplanes would crash into each other because the pilots would be blinded by the glare from the sun on my bare, Irish skin. Because I'm such a humanitarian, and to avoid worldwide catastrophe, I apply fake tan.

For years, fake tan has been crap. It's been orange and streaky and smelly and horrible. But, the scientists who couldn't get jobs in real labs curing cancer and whatnot, and who, instead, have to work for the cosmetics overlords developing fake tan and the like, have finally gotten it right. There is no reason in this big and beautiful world why fake tan can't look natural. There is no reason in the world that anybody should be this orange:

Now, I admit that I've gotten it wrong on a couple of occasions before. My tan has gone streaky or hasn't turned out quite like I imagined it would (I was hoping for bronze goddess but instead got jaundice sufferer). The one time I had my tan done professionally, the girl fucked it up royally, and I just looked dirty, as Mozz can attest to. And not in a good way. Incidentally, this was at the same place where I had my bits waxed three days previously, and they royally fucked that up too, making it very painful for me to get it done from now on. I don't go there anymore :-/

Anyhoo, where was I? Oh yes. This time, I've done the waxing and the tanning myself and I have to say they both look pretty good. So...

Thursday - second application of fake tan. Because I'm so damn pale, one application makes me look somewhat human, but it takes two or three applications to make me look like I have a tan.

Friday - check all the hairy bits to make sure they're still hair free and apply final application of tan. I'll also deep condition my hair tonight to protect it from the sun, salt and chlorine during the week.

A consideration that all blondes must make is whether or not to get your hair done before you go away. In my case, it's usually not necessary. My hair is light enough naturally that a bit of sun tends to bleach it enough to avoid a trip to the hairdressers for a few months afterwards. But, if you do decide to get the colour topped up, then you need to get it done about a week before your holiday. Otherwise, you run the risk of the chlorine in the swimming pool reacting with the colour in your hair and turning it green. And remember girls, a dodgy tan plus a dodgy 'do plus copious amounts of chlorine equals...

And that's just not attractive.

However, all these things have now been done and I am holiday ready! My suitcase checklist has been completed:

- bikini (x2)
- books (x6)
- camera
- suncream

Here's hoping I can get through the rest of the day without having to actually do any work, but still looking busy enough so that the boss will feel guilty and let me go home at 3pm!

Hasta la vista, amigos!

Hold me, thrill me, kiss me, kill me (With a bloody kitchen knife)

I love horror.

Regardless of the medium, horror never ceases to fascinate me. Like gawking at the rotting corpse of some unlucky animal, lying by the side of a dusty road with its guts squished across the asphalt, I can't help but be drawn to horror. My morbid curiosity gets the better of me, and I stare, transfixed, at the screen, the page or the canvas.

I'm addicted to the sense of my flesh crawling, as I imagine unspeakable events unfolding before me. My spine turns to ice. My scalp tingles. My heart quickens. My mind starts shrieking...

You know that quote: "Ever wake up screaming only to realise you weren't asleep"? I think that's one of the most evocative, horrific quotes imaginable. That quote verges on the edge of madness. That's the point when the human mind collapses into insanity. When you wake up screaming only to realise you were never asleep, that's when you know there's no going back.

And that, to me, is the epitome of good horror. Something so awful that madness would be a welcome release.

I much prefer psychological horror, rather than slasher- or blood'n'guts'n'gore-type horror. I prefer the stuff that makes you think. The stuff that really gets under your skin. The stuff that in broad daylight seems ludicrous but at night time, when you're lying in your bed listening to the wind and the rain outside, and your brain is working overtime.... that's the stuff I like.

---

My love affair with the macabre started when I was quite young. I remember watching my first horror film. I can't remember what it was called, but it was about a man who falls into a coma and then dies. However, the doctors resuscitate him and bring him back to life. But, he's different. He goes home to his wife and family, but she notices that he's not the same. It's like something inside him, some fundamental human trait, was lost when he died, and was never recovered when he was resuscitated.

I remember watching that movie when I was about nine or ten years old. My parents and my brothers had all gone to bed, and I had stayed up watching some documentary on TV. I was flicking through the channels, and saw the opening credits of this movie. It looked interesting, so I started watching. Two hours later, I crawled into bed, scared shitless. And I was hooked.

I graduated onto reading Stephen King. I think the first Stephen King book I read was "It", quickly followed by "The Stand" and "Pet Sematary". I remember reading "The Dark Half" on a ferry to France when I was 16 and nearly vomiting at the idea of having an undeveloped twin in your brain. It's such a ridiculous idea, but King's mastery is in making the ridiculous absolutely sublime.

With King, my obsession with all things dreadful and horrific was sealed. I started actively seeking out more horrible, frightening and ghastly books, devouring them at an almost fanatical rate. I'm sure my parents were slightly worried with the level of my fanaticism. But, I wasn't dressing like a Goth or a zombie, so I suppose they weren't too concerned. I would make bi-weekly trips to the local library, scouring the shelves for some nightmarish book to read, quizzing the librarians about the collection, begging them to buy in more books.

Even on holiday, I wouldn't and couldn't escape. I remember going on a family holiday to Co. Kerry. We were staying in a beautiful house in the middle of the countryside, surrounded by breathtaking views of the mountains and the coast. But the highlight of my holiday was coming across a battered old copy of Poltergeist on a dusty bookshelf. I grabbed the book and retreated to my room where I stayed up all night reading it. I have always had an overactive imagination, and sitting in a huge bedroom in a strange house in the middle of the countryside, with the wind howling around us outside, my mind boggled at the horror of that story. Once scene in particular stands out in my memory - when one of the ghostbusters goes into the bathroom and looks in the mirror and starts pulling chunks of flesh off his face. I still get goosebumps when I think of that.

Of course, I've since seen the movie Poltergeist and, whilst it's not as good as I had imagined, it's still pretty scary. In fact, I watched it again a couple of weeks ago and was amazed that it still has the same effect on me as it did the first time I saw it, many many years ago.

As far as movies go, anything with children or religion in it is pretty much guaranteed to give me the creeps. The Exorcist, which combines the two, is one of my favourite (can something that scares that much you be considered a favourite?) movies. Interestingly, The Exorcist was banned in Ireland for over twenty years. It was made in 1973, but was only released in Ireland in 1999. I remember going to see it in a cinema in Cork and, despite the fact that everyone else was laughing (nervously) at the outdated special effects, it still chilled me to the bone. That scene where the kid crawls backwards down the stairs...

*shudder*

The Omen is another favourite of mine. I went to see the remake that was released on the sixth of June this year and, even though it wasn't as good as the original (the acting was a bit wooden), the story still gives me the willies.

I think that classic horror films, such as The Exorcist and The Omen and Poltergeist tend to be more frightening than modern-day horrors in spite of the outdated special effects. When there was no such thing as computer generated animation, films relied more on the actual story. The plot was central to the film. The directors used music and lighting to build the tension and create an atmosphere.

Take, for example, two popular slasher movies: Psycho, which was released in 1960, and Scream, which was released in 1996. For all its special effects and gore, Scream still seems, to me at least, to be more of a comedy than a horror film. Psycho, on the other hand, still scares me, even though it was filmed in black and white with little or no special effects. Of course, Wes Craven whilst undoubtedly talented is nothing compared to the genius that is Alfred Hitchcock.
Some more modern horror films have really appealed to me. I went to see the American remake of The Ring, and that gave me nightmares for three weeks afterwards. No exaggeration. I think part of the reason that it scared me so much was that I watched it in the cinema with approximately 200 other people. There's something about 200 people screaming in unison that will put fear into even the most stoic heart. I saw the Japanese original soon afterwards, but it was more comical than horrific. Having said that, I've also seen Dark Water (the original Japanese version) by the same director, Hideo Nakata, and it's bloody scary! Again, it's got the kid connection.

I really enjoyed The Others. It's not so much a horror as a psychological thriller, but still a very interesting story (even if it is a little predictable) and very well made.

The Blair Witch Project had a profound effect on me too. I was living in Canada when it was released, and I remember this sort of underground hype that was slowly building up about this film. There were rumours that it was true etc., and online interviews with "local" townspeople and sheriffs, and even the families and friends of the "victims". Part of you was thinking "yeah right, it's all a big publicity stunt for the movie", but part of you was thinking "but what if...?" It was so well marketed that it was believable. Again, it was a very simple concept, with no special effects whatsoever and it worked. The last scene, of the guy standing in the corner of the room.... still chills my blood.

One film that I saw recently that I really didn't enjoy was The Hills Have Eyes. This is everything a horror film should not be. It was vile and disgusting, and really disturbing. I suppose that's also the mark of a good horror - preying on your darkest fears - but this was done in such an offensive way that it made me feel physically ill. I wouldn't recommend it to anyone. I had to watch three episodes of Father Ted afterwards, just so I could go to bed in peace. Come to think of it, Father Ted would probably be considered a horror to some people ;)

I also enjoy the macabre in paintings. I recently mentioned an exhibition that I went to in the Tate in London entitled "Gothic Nightmares: Fuseli, Blake and the Romantic Imagination". This exhibition was based around Henry Fuseli's painting "The Nightmare". "Ever since it was first exhibited to the public in 1782, this picture has been an icon of horror. Showing a woman supine in her boudoir, oppressed by a foul imp while a ferocious-looking horse glares on, the painting draws on folklore and popular culture, medicine, concepts of imagination, and classical art, to create a new kind of highly charged horror image." (source: London Town)

The exhibition also displayed some of Blake's more sinister engravings, and, as a fan of Blake's work, I was immensely excited and fascinated to be able to stand in front of the work of this macabre genius.

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I've noticed recently that horror seems to affect me more profoundly than it ever did before. In the past, I would watch a horror film or read a book and, whilst it would give me the shivers, I was usually able to shake it off quite quickly and carry on. Nowadays, however, it seems to stay with me for longer. I think about it more. I marvel at the depraved mind that came up with the idea behind it and wonder what it would be like if it were me in that situation. Maybe it's because I'm more aware of my own mortality? Maybe my imagination has gone into overdrive? Maybe it's because I've been reading too much Stephen King? Or maybe I'm just sick in the head.

All these things that I've learned

Here are some things that I have learned since the weekend. They're not necessarily rules to live by, but they certainly make the ride a little smoother ;)

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The worst thing you can say to a goth is that they have a nice tan.

Tattoos sneaking out of shirt collars or cuffs are incredibly sexy. They make me want to explore.
Whiskey does not cure colds, but it's still fun trying it out.

If I buy a return ticket for the tram on a Saturday night, I will inevitably lose track of time and end up getting a taxi home.

No matter how many times I pack, unpack and repack my suitcase for my holidays, I'm still convinced I've forgotten something.

There is immense pleasure in buying a book because it was cheap and would pass the time, rather than because you thought it was any good, and then finding yourself unable to put it down and finishing it in a day.

Nothing ever happens in Lost, and yet I keep tuning in week after week because they always end it on a cliffhanger. How can you have a cliffhanger when nothing has happened for the entire episode?

Horror films only really creep me out when they have children as central characters. There's something about a kid saying "Mommy?" in that sing-song voice that makes my blood run cold.

The sooner they bring in a smoking ban in England, the better.

Some of the best modern poetry I've ever read has been written on the walls of trams and hanging in airports. I read one in Inverness airport on Monday, called "Contraband". It's excellent. Can't remember the author though. Does anyone else know it?

Although it's been this way for most of my adult life, I'm still continually pissed off by the fact that during the week I struggle to get out of bed at 7am every morning to get ready for work, but come the weekend, I'm wide awake by 6:30 with no hope of getting back to sleep.

Rock Idol, or Supernova, or whatever its called, is still ridiculously bad, but I've got a major crush on the Australian boy since he took his top off the other night. I've come to the conclusion that I am often very shallow when it comes to looks. The older I get, the shallower I get.

Drinking three very strong coffees in quick succession is fine as long as its done before 11am. Anytime after 11am, and I won't sleep properly for two days.

The smaller the plane the smoother the flight.

The standard inflight service (complimentary drinks, complimentary snacks, competent and friendly cabin crew, pilots that actually know how to land a plane, etc.) that you used to get for free on board most flights now costs approximately £400.

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Hell is entirely relative

The other day, I overheard someone tell someone else to "Go to hell!" And, instead of quivering in fear, the other person (or the damnee, as we shall call him) merely laughed. "Ha ha!" he exclaimed. "Suits me! That's where all the cool people go!" But he's wrong because, you see, hell is relative.

There seem to be two schools of thinking on what hell is all about. The traditional idea of hell, as preferred by bible bashers and Catholic priests the world over, is a place made of fire and brimstone; a place of eternal agony and torment for murderers and people who don't eat their vegetables.

In some versions of the story, the place is guarded by a three-headed dog called Cerberus. In other versions, the place is ruled by Satan, images of whom range from the sublime to the ridiculous.

The one common theme throught the various versions of the religious hell is that, once damned, you will spend eternity being flogged with a cat o' nine tails and being forced to commit unholy acts, such as work as a telephone operator, or ungodly chores, such as washing Hitler's underwear after curry night. And guess what? Every night is curry night in hell! Muhahaha!

The other more modern and trendy school of thought on hell is that hell is where all the cool people go. This really annoys me. Hell is not a biker bar with unlimited free booze and a fantastic jukebox, where you can still smoke and shoot pool, and which is full of cool people like Jimi Hendrix and Bill Hicks.

You see, the whole concept of hell is that it's supposed to inflict pain and suffering on the person who's been damned, and we all know that one man's heaven is another man's hell. Therefore, hell is relative. Ipso facto.

From dictionary.com:

hell ( P ) Pronunciation Key (hel) n.

1. a. often Hell. The abode of condemned souls and devils in some religions; the place of eternal punishment for the wicked after death, presided over by Satan.
b. A state of separation from God; exclusion from God's presence.

2. The abode of the dead, identified with the Hebrew Sheol and the Greek Hades; the underworld.

3. a. A situation or place of evil, misery, discord, or destruction: War is hell (William Tecumseh Sherman).
b. Torment; anguish: went through hell on the job.

Hell is the absolute worst case you can imagine. And then some. So, to picture your own personal hell, here's what you need to do: (1) Think of the worst place in the world. The one place where you would give anything not to be right now. (2) Think of all the people you'd be more than happy never to see ever again. (3) Think of the one activity that you would sell your left kidney never to have to do ever again.

Now, imagine being in that place, with those people, doing that activity, FOREVER.

Congratulations. Now you know what hell will be like when you go there.

For me, hell would be sitting in my office, with my boss constantly interrupting me, trying to edit the typeface on a huge report that I've been working on for months, but he keeps making changes to the report, and I have to keep going back over it to update the font. He's constantly making crap and/or sexist jokes, and asking me inane questions about reports that I completed months ago, and then getting pissed off when I don't know the answer straight away. For eons and eons and eons.

So, yeah, I'm pretty much already there. I knew I shouldn't have laughed at Denis Leary's Jesus joke.

So, remember kids, the next time someone tells you to go to hell, don't flash the smug grin and make some lame joke about how you'd be more than happy to go and drink tequila with Bill. Because hell, for you, is more likely to be a New Kids on the Block reunion concert. In Milton Keynes. And, trust me, you really don't want to go there.

Heaving on a jet plane - Part III

The pilot eventually shut up, and we only had to sit on the tarmac for another ten minutes or so before he started driving over towards the runway. Of course, because we were so late taking off, we had missed our scheduled take-off window, and had to sit there watching all the other planes take off for sunnier climes before we were allowed go.

Finally, hurtling down the runway at over 100 miles an hour, I began to relax. I picked up my book and started reading. The sound of the wind rushing past drowned out the sounds of quiet chatter from the other passengers, and I snuggled down into my seat, delighting in the fact that for the next forty minutes or so, I could read uninterrupted.

And then the trolley dollies started making their announcements.

"Please remain seated... blah...."

"We will shortly begin our snack service.... blah blah....."

"We have a range of duty free..... blah blah blah....."

Of course, all announcements are made in some Eastern European accent which, I'm sorry to say, is difficult to understand at the best of time, let alone when it's at ear splitting volume. I've noticed that PA systems on airplanes have only two volumes - the barely audible mutter and the ear-bleed-inducing piercing screech. And the trolley dollies always seem to use the latter.

I always find it quite funny when you see these trolley dollies, on the short-haul flights, trying to flog as much booze/tea/coffee/sandwiches/snacks/duty-free as possible in thirty minutes. As soon as the plane is in the air, they're up out of their seats, getting their trollies ready. Then they whip up the aisles asking "Any drinks or snacks? Any drinks or snacks?" but not actually watching the passengers to see their reactions. I don't know how many times I've thought "Oh, I could murder a cup of tea and a Twix" and then tried, in vain, to get the dollies attention before they speed walk past my row. I've only ever managed to catch the guy's attention once. I've since given up.

Incidentally, the 'hot' drink selection only has two options also - it's always either luke warm or scalding. Anyway, if they do deign to look at you, as soon as they've handed you the cup, they're on their way back down the aisle, clearing up as "We're now ready for landing." So you have to neck back the scalding cup of tea whilst the trolley dolly stands beside you, tapping her foot with impatience, waiting for you to hand her your empty cup. But, wait! Before we land we'd like to offer you a chance to purchase some of our fantastic duty-free perfumes or booze, or maybe you'd like a scratch card? There's plenty of time for that! Ever heard a north-Dublin trolley dolly trying to sell J-Lo's new perfume? No? It's worth taking a trip on Ryanair for that alone.

Let's hope her salary isn't commission based.

But I digress.

The pilot, in fairness to him, made up some of the lost time and the flight only took about 40 minutes in total. Before long, we were beginning our descent into Southampton. The descent was surprisingly smooth, considering the massive thunder and lightening storms around the whole of Southampton. So I was really, really surprised when the pilot then whalloped the plane down onto the tarmac. I'm sure it must have been his first time landing a plane. There's no other excuse for such recklessness. I could have done it better myself, and I'm a girl! All around us, people gasped and gripped their arms rests with white knuckles, and I'm not ashamed to say I was doing the same. That was one of the worst landings I've experienced in a while.
Is it just me, or have airlines decided not to bother training their pilots how land airplanes anymore?

Anyhoo, two days later, I'm back at the airport for my return flight. I got to the airport about two hours early, but figured I'd connect to the wireless network and waste some time on Myspace, have a beer, etc. Southampton airport is pretty small, and once you've checked in, the only place to go to is the departures lounge. There's not a whole lot else to do there.
So, I went through security with no problems (*gasp!* I know! But I never have any problems in S'ton! Weird, innit? Hmm...) and looked around for the wireless 'hot spot'. And there it was, upstairs, right below the huge glass skylights with the sun beaming down through them. Somebody really didn't think that through when designing the place.

"Let's see.... where could we put the computer corner? Oh, I know! Let's put it over here in direct sunlight so none of the nerds can see their laptop screens! What a great idea! And when they go to sit down, they'll scorch their cord-covered arses on the really hot metal seats! Hahahah, fuckin' nerds....!"

On second thoughts, perhaps they knew exactly what they were doing.

Anyway, before I got my computer all hooked up, I decided to get a beer as it was really hot that day, and the old air conditioning wasn't really up to much. I went upstairs to the restaurant-type place, and queued for about five minutes. When I got to the counter, I ordered my beer, which came to £3.80. I handed the lady my company credit card (natch) to pay for it, and she then informed me that there's a £4 minimum when paying with plastic. Why? There just is. But I'm only 20p under. Sorry, ma'am, no can do.

So I had to hold up the entire rest of the sweating, hungry, cranky queue whilst I searched for something to add to my beer to bring the total up to, or beyond, £4. Didn't feel like eating anything (remember kids, eating is cheating!), but eventually I found a bottle of water, paid for my drinks, and scurried away before anyone tried to poke me in the eye with a fork. Having thought about it, perhaps I should have just ordered another beer. Damnit brain!

The plane was only delayed by half an hour this time. My taxi driver only got lost twice on the way from the airport to my house. He insisted that he knew all these shortcuts, and I didn't complain as the taxi was paid for by the company. But I did get a bit pissed off when he, yet again, I told him to go straight on, but he insisted on taking a right as "it's waaaaaay quicker than going straight on". Then we'd get to a junction and he'd turn around, eyeball me impatiently and say "Well, where do I go now?" I swear, I was beginning to think the whole trip was one big Candid Camera set-up.

And, do you know what the best part of all of this is? Can you guess? Yep, I get to do it all over again next week! Woo hoo!

Ok, that's out of my system now. Regularly scheduled programming will resume tomorrow.

Heaving on a jet plane - Part II

Having survived the ritual humiliation of getting felt up by the butch female security guard, I now had to face the gut-wrenching wait for the muppets to announce which gate my flight would be leaving from. I hate this part because they usually only post up the gate number about 20 minutes before the plane is scheduled to leave, and then everyone rushes down to the gate and you end up standing there for ages and every time I swear to myself that I'm not going to do it, that this time I'm not going to run down there like a lunatic, and then every time I panic and think "If I don't run to Gate 11 this very minute, the plane will take off without me." Of course, it never does.

And then you spend the next forty minutes trying to surreptitiously shuffle closer and closer to the desk where they check your tickets so that you'll be the first on the plane as if it was some sort of prize; as if spending half an hour longer sitting in that cramped metal tube waiting for the rest of the morons to board was some sort of goal that leads to inner enlightenment once achieved.

Anyway, they announced the gate, and I dutifully trundled along with my fellow passengers. Luckily there weren't too many taking this flight, so there were plenty of seats to spare. The flight wasn't due to board for another five minutes or so, so I took a seat. And waited. And I waited a bit more. I took out my book and started distractedly flicking through it, thinking there's no point in getting stuck into it, as we'll be boarding any time soon.

Aaaaaaaaaany minute now.

Oooh! There's the trolley dolly, I mean, air hostess. We must be boarding soon.

Then I looked out the window and noticed that there was no airplane. And my heart sank. I understand that if you're going to pay budget prices for your flights then you have to expect budget services. But I am shit sick of waiting for the damn plane to show up. This seems to happen every time I fly on a low budget airline. And it's not as if the tickets are that cheap either! I was only flying to Southampton, but it still cost me (well, the company) almost £150. I'm tired of budget airlines thinking they can treat passengers like cattle just because we refuse to pay astronomical prices for the privilege of being given an actual seat number with a bigger airline. If your don't have the fleet numbers to be able to provide airplanes at the allotted time, then change your fucking timetable. If you only have three airplanes, and you're offering ten flights a day between London and Paris, then you really need to rethink your business plan.
Anyway, the trolley dolly announced that they were still waiting for the plane (duh) as it had been late taking off from its previous destination, and there would be a 15-minute delay (yeah right) and that they apologise sincerely for any inconvenience this might cause (uh huh, sure).

Then my boss arrived. I prayed to all the gods I could think of that, just this one time, they would grant me super-chameleon powers so I could blend in with the awful upholstery of the chair I was sitting on, so that he wouldn't see me and he'd walk on by. The gods did not look favourably upon me (I don't blame them, really. I'm not a very nice person). He came over and sat right beside me and, whilst trying to block out his noise, I stared daggers at the trolley dolly in a vain attempt to let her know that this is all her fault and, come judgment day, she'll be first against the wall.

The plane eventually arrived, only forty minutes after we were supposed to actually depart, which was about five minutes before we were due to land in Southampton, had everything gone to plan. We had to wait another twenty minutes or so for the arriving passengers to get off the plane, then for the pilot to have his regulation cup of tea, then for the throwers, I mean, 'baggage handlers' to load the luggage onto the plane, and then we were allowed to board.

When we were all settled and seat-buckled in, the pilot made an announcement over the PA, apologising for the delay but saying that it was due to a technical fault before they took off in Southampton. He then proceeded to describe said fault, in almost excruciating detail, which I find completely unnecessary. Again, this is something I find completely irrational in the wake of 9/11. Before the terrorist attacks in the USA, pilots would never discuss this kind of stuff.

They'd never tell you that the reason they were late taking off is because they had no power on the plane when they were on the ground in Southampton because they couldn't find a power cable to go into the ground and therefore couldn't switch the engines on, and when someone eventually found the power cable, they then realised that they had an electrical fault with some of the equipment in the cockpit and they had to wait for someone to find an engineer to take a look at it, and then when the engineer arrived he had to go off again to find some part to fix the problem. And all this had made them late taking off.

No, the pilot would never have told you that. He would have said that some passenger was too pissed to board, so they'd chucked him off and had to wait to find his bags in the cargo hold before they could depart. That's a nice, comfortable, safe lie.

This era of FTMFI (that's 'far too much fucking information' for those of you who don't deal in acronyms) is starting to carry over into other industries too. A few weeks ago, I was on the train to London and we had to stop for half an hour whilst the driver explained in minute detail why he couldn't continue on the track because someone had thrown something onto it, and then explained all the possible accident scenarios that could have happened, had he not stopped in time in front of this obstruction.

And I know why they do it too. They're just trying to pass the buck. They're ensuring that people know it's not their fault that the plane/train/whatever is late departing. They're doing all they can. In fact, if they could, they'd just pile everyone into their own car and drive us to our destination; that's how nice the pilot/driver is. But, you know, company regulations, blah blah blah. So, instead, here's a whole lot of technical info which proves that I'm not making this up and the situation really is out of my hands.

But, all that does is make me wonder, well, even if they do find a power cable and plug the plane in so he can start the engines, what happens when we take off? Is the cable long enough to make it to Southampton? How can they make power cables that long? What happens if it snaps? Or comes out of the ground? Is the pilot planning on freewheeling it all the way to the other end of the country? Those are not things I want to think about on an airplane. Neither do I want to start thinking about the 'real' electrical problems they're having in the cockpit (i.e., that the co-pilot has spilt her coffee all over the dials and they're currently arguing about the best way to remove it), and how that might possibly affect the functioning of the plane.

Too much information. We don't need it. Stop telling us that kind of stuff.

Heaving on a jet plane - Part I

I hate airports with a passion. Because I live in foreign places, and because of my job, I travel quite a bit, and it seems like I'm in Manchester airport every other week. And I'm really beginning to loathe the place. The sooner they build some sort of teleportation device, the better, as far as I'm concerned. But that's another story.

Lately, my airport experiences have been unfavourable, to say the least. It's probably something to do with the fact that, now, I almost always expect the worst when I'm flying anywhere, but I think it's also something to do with the fact that airports are run by muppets. Complete and utter muppets.

It's funny (that's 'funny hysterical-verging-on-madness' rather than 'funny ha ha') because I'm not afraid of flying whatsoever. In my job, I know a little bit more about airplanes and how they work (and sometimes don't work) than the average person. I know what noises to listen out for during the flight, and how to tell if everything's going ok or if there might be a slight problem, etc. In this age of hyper-sensitivity regarding all things big and shiny and metal hurtling through the air at speeds upwards of 500mph, I'm quite comfortable with flying. It's definitely my preferred mode of transport, unless the alternative is a swanky BMW with a cooler full of beer. I love seeing the land spread out before me, marvelling at how tiny all the houses and fields are, watching the sun glinting off car windshields miles below, and then soaring above the cotton wool clouds, feeling as though the laws of physics and gravity do not apply. I love flying. It's the bits beforehand and afterwards that bother me.

Last week, I had to fly to Southampton for a couple of days work, and it was, without doubt, one of the worst trips I've ever been on. Things got off to a funky start in the taxi to Manchester airport. I hopped into the regulation Black Cab, and gave my destination to the driver. Before I could even sit down, he slammed his foot on the accelerator, throwing me backwards into my seat, and sped off towards the airport. At the first set of lights I was still adjusting myself, desperately trying to buckle my seatbelt and willing my heart rate to slow down, when the driver decided that some hardcore dance music was needed to liven up the trip, and turned the stereo up full blast. As both my eardrums simultaneously started to bleed, I tried to shout at the driver to please turn the music down, but, of course, he couldn't/wouldn't hear me, and so I had to endure "duf-duf-duf-duf" for the rest of the very long 20 minute journey.

We eventually got to the airport, and I practically fell out of the cab. My ears had that weird ringing/cotton wool sensation that makes you feel like you're really, really stoned. I wandered into the airport in a daze, and checked in for my flight. I have always found checking in for my flight in Manchester to be a doddle. I think they do it on purpose - make check-in as easy as physically possible in order to lull you into a false sense of security before you have to face the complete mindfuck that is running the security gauntlet before you can get to your gate.

The security area in Manchester airport must have been designed by an alcoholic with the DT's and not enough cash to buy chewing gum, let alone his next bottle of moonshine, and who wanted to inflict the same amount of pain and confusion on anyone able to afford to get this far in the airport. If you're travelling to anywhere in the UK, Channel Islands or Ireland, they have a separate 'fast channel' through which you can get your boarding card and passport checked and then you can go through to a separate X-ray machine, and basically you skip the huge queues of Mancs heading off to Torremolinos, or wherever. But, if the airport isn't particularly busy, then you all go through the same security machines. In theory, this is a good idea, and it usually works.

Anyhoo, so, I went off down this corridor, expecting to get through to the departure lounge fairly quickly, so I could get my caffeine fix smartish. I arrived at the end of the corridor only to find out that there was, unusually, a really long queue. This is because the muppet in charge of checking the passports, etc., was... well, he was being a muppet. He was pretty much going through everybody's passport, page-by-page, double checking the photographs, etc.

As an aside: I know 9/11 was an awful, awful event. I watched it live on TV. I saw the second plane hitting the WTC in real time, and it scared the shit out of me. I can't even begin to imagine how the people who were directly involved or who lost family members or friends must feel. But I have to say that airport security has gone to the point where it's ridiculous. And, what's worse is that it's not even consistent. One day, you might get strip searched even though you're only flying to Dublin. The next day, you could be flying to LA and they won't even glance at your luggage as it goes through the X-ray machine. That really annoys me.

Anyway, so there was this huge queue, and I looked over at the queue for the people flying to other destinations, and there were only about five people in it. So I thought what most normal people would think, which was "Why am I standing here waiting for Kermit the Frog to check my passport when I could get through security there in about 30 seconds?" We were all being directed to the same X-ray machines, so I didn't think it would be a problem. I went over to the other queue, waited behind the five people for my turn, got to the top of the queue and handed the lady my boarding card and passport. She looks at it and says "Oh no, you have to queue over there".

I said "But, that queue is really long, and we're all going through the same machines, so could you not just check my details here".

"No. You have to queue up over there."

"But I'm only going to Southampton. It's not like I'm flying to foreign places."

"No. Over there."

The woman had a head for slaps. It made absolutely no sense whatsoever for her to make me wait in the really long queue. There was no one behind me, so it's not like I was holding up other passengers. All she had to do was check my boarding card and passport, and she could have let me go through. But, because she's a bitch, and because it would require a small amount of thinking, she refused. I can't stand people who do this kind of thing. It reminds me of going into KFC or some other such fast food place once. I ordered a burger and fries. The girl asked me what drink I wanted. I told her I didn't want a drink. But... why not? She couldn't understand this. I said I don't like fizzy drinks, therefore I don't want one. But it only costs 1p more to get the drink. I don't care, I don't want a drink, I just want the burger and fries. At this point, the girl's head exploded. Moron. Life doesn't run according to the script! Get used to it! USE YOUR BRAIN!!!

*and breathe*

Anyhoo, so I queued for ages and Kermit eventually checked my details and let me through. Then the fun started. I put my bags through the X-ray machine, and then stepped through the metal detector. As per usual, the detector didn't beep because I had nothing metal in my pockets and, oh yeah, because I'm not a terrorist. But, every time I go through the metal detector in Manchester airport, they always call me over for a random search. I like to think it's because I'm so damn hot that the women can't wait to run their hands up and down my body, but in reality I know it's because I always look guilty and/or like I'm hiding something. I kid you not - every single time I go through security there, I get searched. Anyway, this 'lady' calls me over (I'm using quotes there because she was rough! I felt kind of dirty afterwards) and starts to feel me up. She spent a long time feeling my bra to check I didn't have a grenade or something hiding in there. She had me there for about two minutes and I swear I had bruises afterwards.

*shudder*

She eventually let me go, and I grabbed my bags and ran all the way to Starbucks for the precious rocket fuel, and finally began to relax. Then I remembered that my boss would be along soon, and I got all stressed out again. I swear I'm going to have a stomach ulcer before my contract is up in October.

While my guitar gently weeps

Isn't it amazing how music has evolved over the centuries. From Beethoven to Boyzone, from Elvis to Evanescence, from Mozart to Metallica, when I think about it, it makes me marvel at the ingenuity of the human mind.

However, it's so easy to become blasé about music. I listen to music for a couple of hours a day - when I get up in the morning, in the car, at work, at the gym - but I don't often take the time to actually listen to the songs. Usually, when I'm listening to music, I'm engaged in some other activity, and the songs become part of the background noise.

In almost every aspect of life, you are bombarded with music - sometimes good, sometimes bad, and sometimes plain shite. There are catchy jingles on the radio and tv selling you everything from hemorrhoid cream to bread. TV shows and movies are rated as much by their soundtrack as they are for the acting, directing or aesthetic appeal. Live gigs have become big business and going to summer festivals has become almost a rite of passage in modern society. All in all, it's quite easy to just let the tunes wash over you.

But every now and then, I'll hear a song that quite literally stops me in my tracks. Sometimes it'll be a new song on the radio, that I've never heard before, but sometimes it's a song that I've heard dozens of times before, but never really paid attention to.

And I think it's incredible that music can have this kind of reaction. That music has the power to inspire such emotions in a person. Music can cause you to feel joy, hope, confusion, depsair, hurt, longing, lust, nostaliga, heartbreak, and so much more.

Anyhoo, on Saturday I was on the train down to London, and was listening to myPod, as usual. The tunes were pretty good, as I have great taste in music (:-D), and then Black by Pearl Jam came on, and it made me catch my breath. I've been a Pearl Jam fan for many years, and I've heard this song countless times before. I always thought it was good, but on Saturday, as I sat on the train watching England whizzing by, with myPod turned up loud, it had a heart-wrenching effect on me.

I think the combination of a very mellow and yet dramatic tune, Eddie Vedder's mournful voice, lyrics that are utterly despairing and the haunting piano just made me feel hollow inside. Towards the end of the song, the last verse, his voice becomes so anguished and wretched that it made me want to howl and weep in sympathy with his pain.

I'd forgotten that music can cause this kind of reaction; that it can be this powerful and moving.
From now on, I'm resolving to spend more time actually listening to music, rather than letting it fade into the background. And I'm dedicating this blog to Mr. Eddie Vedder for reminding me of this simple pleasure.

Won't you be my neighbour?

Neighbours are a funny thing, I think. Funny weird, that is. Not funny ha ha. Not usually.

For most of my adult life I've lived in apartments (some fabulous, some not so fabulous) and it's always struck me as bizarre that on the other side of a relatively thin piece of plywood or cardboard or rice paper or whatever it is that they make apartments out of these days, is a person whom I've only ever met in the elevator and have never spoken to beyond the odd grunted salute. Whilst I'm lying in bed reading my book, this stranger could be lying inches away from my head, and could be getting up to all sorts of tricks, from kinky sex to cannibalism.

When you think about it, it really is quite strange how, in a single apartment complex you can have literally hundreds of people living side-by-side and yet they know nothing about one another. The last place I lived in in Dublin was like that. It was quite a fancy complex of about five or six four-storey buildings, with about 20 apartments in each building. I lived in one of the penthouse apartments (ooh! posh!) and I think I only ever exchanged greetings with one person in my building for the entire six months that I lived there. And that was only because we just happened to step into the lift at the same time. In fact, I know there were people in that building (yes, stuck-up-lady from number 419, I'm looking at you!) who used to deliberately wait to make sure no one else was leaving their apartment for the elevator at the same time, so that they wouldn't have to make small talk with a stranger. How bizarre is that? Why are people so afraid to make contact with one another nowadays?

Anyway, at the moment I'm living in the upstairs apartment of a nice little duplex about twenty minutes from Manchester city centre. My downstairs neighbour should be The Neighbour From Hell for many reasons, some of which include the fact that he's a complete alcoholic and has a very tempestuous relationship with his ex-wife. I've only been living above him for two months now, but he's a constant source of soap-operatic antics that will keep me amused for many a time, I hope.

One day last week, I left my apartment in the morning and found him fast asleep on his doorstep. He'd obviously been so pissed when hed gotten home the night before that he couldn't even get into his own apartment. I checked to see if he was breathing, but didn't try to wake him up as I was in a bit of a rush to get to work and just didn't need to deal with that first thing in the morning. However, Norman the Mormon (my car) was parked right next to his door, and his head was resting about an inch from Norman's front bumper. The guy didnt budge even when I slammed the door, started the engine, revved it a bit and drove off. He was out cold. Nutter.

Every now and then, his ex-wife calls over with the kids and they have the most spectacular rows. They'll be screaming insults at one another, calling each other every name under the sun, slamming doors etc. They're very considerate though - it often spills out on to the street so that all the neighbours can watch. Hilarious. Thank god for soundproofed apartments, is all I say.
But he's by no means the worst neighbour I've ever had the unfortunate luck to live next to or above. He doesn't watch TV at ear-splitting volume, doesn't play his Dire Straits album at full blast well into the night, doesn't throw garbage into the back garden until it rots in the sun, etc.
Even the smallest thing can turn a good neighbour into a bad neighbour. I lived in a terraced house once and the girl next door had the most beautiful singing voice. She liked to sing aby herself quite a bit, and it really was a pleasure to listen to her. Sometimes. At 3am, it's not quite so magical. And no amount of banging on the wall would shut her up.

I like to think of myself as a good, considerate neighbour. Although that wasn't always the case. In my first year at Uni, a bunch of us were sharing a ground floor apartment in a duplex in a student village. The students who lived above us were noisy buggers always dragging chairs across the ground when we were trying to watch Friends or Podge & Rodge. So we used to phone them, pretend to be the owners of the building and tell them they were having a spot check in the morning to make sure the place was clean. All night long, we'd hear them vacuuming and cleaning like mad trying to get the place in shape, whilst we sniggered downstairs. Childish, I know, but you take your pleasure where you can. And they never copped on it was us either. Dumbasses.

But that's neither here nor there. The point of this blog was merely to say how strange it is in this day and age to live literally side by side with someone else, often for years and years, and never even know their name. Or have a decent conversation with them. I think human beings are possibly the only creature on earth that could have this amount of unfounded fear? loathing? for another of their own species. At least dogs sniff each other's arses when they meet for the first time. They don't scurry away, afraid that the other dog might realise how lonely and vulnerable they really are.

People make me laugh.

In a weird way.

Not in a ha ha way.

Random thoughts make for a rather pointless blog

There's a saying that goes along the lines of "Life is what happens while you're waiting for it to start". Sometimes, I wonder if my life is just slipping by whilst I'm looking in the other direction, trying to figure out what it's all about.

Human beings have this fundamental belief that we are all in control of our own lives. And to a certain degree this is true - we can decide what actions to take in particular situations and how to handle events that we find ourselves in. I don't really believe in the idea of fate or destiny - that our lives are predetermined by some higher power.

But, every now and then, I seem to 'wake up' from the daily grind and wonder "How the hell did I get here?" I wonder how I ended up in this particular situation, with this person, in this country, with this job and having to deal with this boss. I don't remember signing up for this, so how did it happen.

I wonder if someday I'll 'wake up' and I'll be 50 with three kids and a house and a car and stuff, and wonder "When did this all happen?" Is it just me who feels like this? That sometimes life is like a dream and that, whilst I'm the one making the decisions and taking the actions, there's something else out there that's guiding it all along? Some higher form of... something... that's whispering in my ear "marry that man, buy this car, live in that area, take this job, call your child this name". Some might call that "advertising" and maybe they're right.

I met a couple in their 60's at the weekend, and they'd been married for about 30 years or so. They seemed like a very happy couple and very contented with their lives. But the woman confided to me at one point that inside she still feels like she's about 20. I know what she means. I'm only 28 (! nearly 30!) but inside I still feel as confused about life as I was when I was 16.
It seems like life has become so much more complicated and busy that we all get too bogged down in the minute details, and never take the time to look at the bigger picture. I think life was so much simpler when I was younger. When I was 16, I was able to look forward to life. I could sit back and think about "what I want to be when I grow up". The possibilities seemed endless.
Nowadays, there's so much crap that people have to worry about. Are my family ok? Do my friends all get along with one another? Is this person that I'm sharing my bed with the person that I want to spend my life with? Were the clothes on my back made in a sweatshop? Were animals tortured to test the mascara that I'm wearing. Will the food that I eat choke the planet with exhaust fumes from the delivery trucks? Is my job really advancing my career? Will my boss give me that pay raise next month? What's my credit rating like? Will I be able to get a mortgage? Will I ever be in a position to buy a property? Where will I buy it? If I move to California, will I miss my family and friends? If I don't go to the gym today, will I put on weight? If my car gets a puncture, can I afford to get it repaired? Will I be able to pay my bills this month? And so on and so forth.

We get so bogged down in the minute details of everyday life, that life just slips by. We find ourselves in situations that we had never envisaged when we were younger. If someone had told me, aged 16, that this is where I'd be and this is what I'd be doing, I would have laughed in their faces. A big nervous disbelieving laugh.

I remember a previous summer job that I had, and there were a couple of people who worked there full time, and they used to live from week to week. All they ever seemed to think about was "get through this week, and then it's the weekend". And they never seemed to be able to see beyond the next weekend. I remember being horrified and thinking I'd rather hang myself than fall into that trap. And yet, here I am. Maybe not living from week to week, but not far off it. It's so hard to think in terms of the future. Where will I be in 5 years? Who fucking knows. I can hardly think in terms of where I'll be in five weeks.

Life seems so transient now. People have become so demanding. We want everything now. Instant gratification. But... what happens after that? Do we ever really think through the ramifications of our actions? Or what we want to do with our lives?

I have a couple of secret ambitions - huge, epic goals that I've always wanted to achieve. But they seem so ridiculous in this day and age. People used to dedicate their lives to a single cause before, be it climbing Mount Everest or finding a cure for cancer or whatever. Do people actually do that any more? Or has this new celebrity/wealth/status/instant gratification culture destroyed our interest in anything more than the here and now?

I don't know what the point of this blog is. Random thoughts, I guess. Just trying to sort my head out. Am I the only one who thinks about this kind of stuff?

In anticipation of a hangover

There are some days when you finish work and you feel that all is right with the world. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, your boss didn't annoy you too much and you've just been paid.
And there are other days when you finish work and you just think, "I need a drink." Today is one of these days.

Luckily for me, one of my beer monsters, I mean, friends, is in town tonight, and is ready for action! And so, without further ado, I'd like to dedicate this blog to tomorrow's hangover.
I love those nights when you go out, usually "just for one", and you know in your heart that you're not going to be doing any work tomorrow. In fact, if you make it into work tomorrow, it'll be a frickin' miracle. You won't be capable of much more than drinking a pint of lucozade and eating a few bites of a bacon sandwich, whilst trying to piece together the last few hours of last night.

Your head will pound, your stomach will roll, your muscles will ache and your arms will be covered in those tiny little bruises that look like someone's been stabbing you with a pencil all night long. So much pain, so much agony. Is it really worth it?

Of course it is! And here's why!

The first beer of the night. He Who Provides The Beer places that first glass of heaven on the bar in front of you, and all you have to do is give him some metal discs in return. You lift up the cold glass, feeling the reassuring weight of the amber nectar inside, and return to your seat. You don't take a sip straight away, no. Instead, you gaze upon its glory for a little while, marvelling in the neverending stream of tiny bubbles that race their way to the top. You watch the slow lazy trickle of condensation on the outside of the glass. You shiver in anticipation of that first sip.
You lift the glass to your lips and drink. The bubbles burst on your tongue and then the cold liquid hits the back of your mouth and slides down your throat, all the way to your stomach. You delight in the instant sensation of the cold elixir moving down your throat, immediately followed by the heat of the alcohol, warming your torso and slowly spreading to encompass your entire body.

You take another sip. You accidentally gulp too much liquid and the bubbles fizz up your nose, not unpleasantly, tickling you from the inside. With each succeeding mouthful, you become more and more convinced that, truly, this is the drink of gods.

Whilst the converstation flows around you, the warm feeling spreads to your brain, wrapping it in cotton wool, and you become convinced of the goodness inherent in everything and everyone around you. All your problems start to melt away and everything seems bathed in a fuzzy amber glow.

You decide to order another beer. It would be rude to leave now! It would be an affront to the gods, the givers of life and beer! He Who Provides The Beer smiles at you with approval as you order a second drink from the holy grail. He places the second glass of frosty nirvana on the bar in front of you, you exchange metal, and return to your table holding the glass aloft. You stare at the glass again, and your body tingles in anticipation...

That is why one beer is never enough. That is why hangovers are worth it. That is why beer will never go out of fashion.

Hangover, I salute you!

Food, glorious food

In preparation for the bikini season, The Maori® has decided to put me on a strict diet & exercise regime for a couple of weeks, starting tomorrow. Thus, today will be my last opportunity to indulge in food that actually tastes of something other than bland, and all the other nice things in life, like alcohol and coffee.

Food is a touchy subject these days. There's such a glut of information about calories, carbs, grams of fat, salt content, sugar content, preservatives, additives, vitamins, nutrients, minerals, protein, GI level, slow-release energy and so on and so forth. None of it complementary, and all of it utterly, utterly boring.

I'm completely fed up with these food bores, who drone on and on about the negative calories in a piece of lettuce. The world is becoming food obsessed - you're either too fat or too thin and either way, you need help. And it's not just the ladies who are obsessed with waistlines and calorie-counting. The boys are at it too!

The other day, the beau announced, with great surprise, that ham and cheese pizza was, in fact, loaded with saturated fat.

The beau: This thing has about 20g of saturated fat in it!
Me: Eh.... your point being?
The beau: Well, I had no idea there was that much fat.
Me: Oh, you thought pizza was a health food, did you? Recommended by doctors?

If it tastes nice, of course it's bad for you. What about these bastards who are suing McDonalds because eating three fast food meals a day has made them fat. What the hell is that about? Are you serious? Really, why hasn't someone taken these people out yet. Shit, I'd even pay for the hit. Here's ten quid, go tell those people to stop eating burgers all fucking day long, and then shoot them. Shoot them in their big fat heads. Please and thanks.

If you need to lose weight, then don't bitch and moan about it whilst stuffing that sixteenth slice of choclate cake into your maw. Go to the gym. Swap your McChicken sandwich meal for some fruit and veg. Get your ass up off the sofa and stop being so fucking lazy!!

It's not easy being green

So, I recently admitted that I enjoy being a consumer, that I love these new 24-hour mega-super-markets, and that I'd rather peel off all my skin and roll around in salt than purchase the goods in my local corner shop. Supermarkets are better for one simple reason: choice of products.

But, rather than being allowed to wallow contentedly in the fact that I can eat foods from all over the world; rather than being allowed to marvel with my fellow consumers at the ever shrinking nature of our spinning space-planet; gasp at the wonders of modern technology that allow us to purchase apples from New Zealand and bananas from South Africa; and cosy up in some sort of feelgood "we're all one global village" cotton-wool world; rather than being allowed to do all this, I'm being made to feel guilty. Why? Because I'm not buying local, and thus I am effectively strangling the very same world that I thought was marvellous just a few moments ago.

When did everyone suddenly become so obsessed with the number of air miles their food has travelled before it reaches their plate? I don't really care if my food has travelled to the moon and back four times before I wolf it down. I agree that, in theory, it's a good and moral stand to take, but I have a few issues with it.

The problem that I have with buying local produce is that I live in England, and local produce means cabbage, asparagus and potatoes. Now, I agree that locally grown food can be delicious, if you like that sort of thing. But I don't. I prefer foods that actually taste of something, like chillis, pineapples and mangoes. It's hardly my fault that they don't grow locally, so I have to buy the foods that are imported from Mars or wherever. Why should I punish my taste buds just because I live in a climate where the food I want to eat couldn't, and wouldn't grow, even if you held a gun to its... eh.... roots?

I do actually try to shop locally when I can. When I did my grocery shopping last week, I bought all British fruit and veg (with about three exceptions), so I felt quite proud of myself and I'm sure the checkout clone girl was thinking what a hip and PC young woman I was.

I'm feeling a similar sort of pressure with the car that I drive. When my car was born, the words "fuel" and "efficiency" would never have been uttered in the same sentence, and, thus, my car is a petrol-guzzling behemoth. I would drive a hybrid car if I could afford to buy one, but I can't so I don't. I would car pool with the people at work, insteading of driving to work by myself each day, except I work with just three other people, each of whom lives in the opposite direction from me. I would cycle to work, except I live 35 miles away. I would get public transport except I work in the middle of fucking nowhere and the nearest train station and bus stop are an hour's walk from the office (no exaggeration - I did get the train to work one day. Never again).

I have similar problems with recycling. I used to recycle pretty much everything when I lived in Ireland. I even had a compost bin! But in England, all I'm allowed to recycle is paper (magazines and newspapers), tin cans (beverage cans only, please!), and glass bottles or jars. I can't recycle cardboard and I can't recycle plastic bags, which is just ridiculous. If I did want to recycle these items, I'd have to drive to a specialised centre which is over 50 miles away from where I live, so I'd still be killing the planet with my pollution-belching monster car.

I just can't win.

I want to buy local produce, but I can't get the foods I want to eat locally. I want to buy Fairtrade produce when I can't get it locally, but it costs almost 50% more than "normal" (unfairtrade?) food, and I can't afford that. I want to buy a hybrid or fuel efficient or planet-loving car, but they're also too expensive for my budget. I want to recycle, but the country doesn't have the facilities for me to do so.

So, in summary, I have three things to say:

1. Kermit the Frog said it best when he said: "It's not easy being green".

2. Denis Leary also hit the nail on the head when he said: "I didn't break the planet, it was this way when I found it".

3. I've tried to be a good person. I've tried to look after the planet. I've tried to do the right thing. But, at the end of the day, I figure I'll be long dead before the world becomes some sort of Mad Max-type desert planet.

So, screw the air miles. Screw the pollution. Screw the dolphins getting caught in the tuna nets. Anyone for a spot of tiger hunting?