At high school track and field he was rated number one lepper,
Poor Mr Pepper (stifles guffaw). His career never quite recovered after Battlefield Earth. Would only recommend watching it if you like the sound of John Travoltas credibility being burnt along with huge piles of his own money.
Hello to you and yours, I put out my first Mid-Leek review posting this week, the response wasn’t 100% positive. In particular Meaghan’s Mom had a right old go. “You’re boyfriend is a real jerk, and his writing is the writing of a jerk” she raged. I was honestly taken aback, but if that’s how Meg tells it then that’s proof enough for me.
I’ll be continuing with the Mid-Leek reviews this week (one in the eye for Meg’s Mom there), though in all likelihood I will be writing the posting from rural Poland. Last week I was in Copenhagen for (fur) work and no one who has been to Copenhagen has soaked up less of their characteristic sleek modern design and foul herrings than me. On the five occasions I have visited, (all for work) you would’ve been more likely to find me smearing poultry-grease into my shameful gullet in the city centre KFC, than pondering a very expensive and uncomfortable chair.
When the cat’s away, he eats fried chicken and does push-ups in his room. Don’t ever leave me Meg.
My Poland trip is shaping up to be a biggy as there is a 4 hours train journey once I land in Warsaw which also happens to be the name of a WW2 rationbook-friendly replacement for coleslaw, mainly made from woodchips and engine coolant. Trivia. I will be hitting the Pret a Manger beforehand to stock up on train food. A few things about Pret, My mother is obsessed with it (“You can’t go wrong!”) and Meg is obsessed with this obsession, constantly referring to it as “Pret(sh)” in order to capture her pronunciation. Alternatively we refer to it as we found ourselves explaining it to some Northern visitors as “Posh Greggs.” Not that Pret is posh. Just that Greggs is trash. Sorry Manchester.
Megs Irishisms are often more offensive than this. Friday night she started singing this little ditty, “We all ate potatoes, but then they got the famine.” Because that was the issue. The potatoes got the famine.
Despite my gallivanting I’ll hold off on doing any travel review type stuff as I will be saving this for my Mid-leek reviews in a future month (watch out Meg’s Mom). In lieu of such finery, I elect to draw your attention to something myself and Meg were discussing recently.
I grew up in a pretty sheltered existence, raised in rural Ireland, in a school of barely over 20 students in a class of two. Not to say I wasn’t interested in the world around me (no one else in my school knew what Hong Kong was and why it being Chinese and not British was a geopolitical hot potato, I was 9 and evidently a squit) but suffice it to say I didn’t know what a crackbaby was.
Who’s this baby? He look like craic. Also he stalks my nightmares.
But this kind of splendid isolation gave me a handy filter for weird prejudices in society. This was because many of my views, were pretty much based on stuff I’d thought up myself or not at all. On that basis I had kind of kyboshed all major religions by the age of 12. Basically on the back of this: “if God’s only keen on people who are all “no other Gods but me,” then the Hindus are really in for it.” That was it pretty much solved in my mind. If there is a God in any kind of way suggested by the major religions, bit of a jerk. And I’m out.
This meant that some ideas that I guess are accepted in some quarters seemed completely nuts to me.
For example, we were watching some piece of garbage on TV recently and there was some joke referencing the “Black guy stealing all the white women” …thing. I first encountered this reading Roll of Thunder Hear My Cry, about a sharecropper family trying to get by in Jim Crow Mississippi. It went comfortably over my head and I had to take it on a, “Oh I guess some people think this” basis. Like thinking chicken doesn’t go in an omelette.
But this simple thing required so many leaps of non-logic it really boggles when you think it through.
- White women, more desirable than black women. Beyonce? Naw, more of a Susan Boyle man myself.
- White women, their own fidelity, tastes, whatever don’t even come into it. If someone wants to allure them allured they shall be. Women really are the silliest little things aren’t they?
- It is then the duty, of white types to prevent any kind of white-non-white no-pants scrimmaging. Because mixing of the hypothetically pure racial line is worse than anything done to prevent it. Very Sig Heil-y.
Another thing that I had to baby-feed my own brain was the bonkers notion that somehow homosexuals = paedophiles. As a teenager I was going off on a group activity with a really camp and largely out gay guy, but who for the purposes of his dealing with parents maintained he was as straight as Meg’s Mom hates my review blogposts.
Very much so.
When I asked Ingrid why he’d bother with the charade, she shrugged and said, “I guess some parents wouldn’t feel comfortable with him taking care of their kids.” Such parents should probably be more concerned with the mercury-laced DNA they’re passing along but hey.
Even now though I don’t think there is a trackable thought process behind this. As close as I’ve got is “I find lasagna unsettling. I find turkey stroganoff unsettling. Maybe lasagna… is turkey stroganoff?”
In short, if you’re worried you might be mental, ask a rural child with too much time on his hands. He will be weird, but he may be right.
In other news I was able to trick Meg into watching the All-Ireland Semi replay where chalk-white man-mountains hammered each other into a fine creamy paste. Her favourite part was watching the various cabbage-headed Mayo-men (Mayo being both their county of origin and their favourite food group) and scobey Dubs in the pub.
Above: Scobey Dubs.
Watch out for my second Mid-Leek podcast review later this week everyone!
And Megs Mom.
Roll of Toner Hear My Cry