Terletoner of Leek

His wife’s constant warbling makes her a bit of a pill,


It’s Billy Joel lookalike Rene (Mrs Celine Dion) Angelil

He picked a pretty bad week to pop his clogs eh? But don’t feel too bad, he started that up when she was young. Weird young. Jimmy Page young.

This weekend past, Meg and I shot home for 24 hours of a mini-family reunion. Champagne was quaffed, tiny sausages were placed onto and then eaten from sticks and everyone inhabited a slightly larger volumed space than we last saw each other, myself, very much included.

Depending on how well you know me, you may find in your file that my family is Protestant. This is semi-exotic in the Republic of Ireland with the main differences including we’re very keen on making our own jam, baking generally and our church services lasts slightly longer(extra few lines on the Lord’s Prayer). Though in the mid-20th century, our church was less likely to end up in the middle of an episode of “To Catch a Cardinal”. This Protestanatanism is what I choose to explain the fact that my larger family has some pretty interesting names. There is an Arthur, which gets shortened to Autie. There is an Ernest. Shortened to Ernie. My own dear grandfather’s first name is Victor. Muriel. Myrtle. Valda…

… Xena.

Yes, my grand-uncle Richard is married to a lovely lady by the name of Xena.


Unlike the TV show however, my grand-aunt was not a spin off from the Adventures of Hercules. Though she did have a walk-on in Dr Quinn Medicine Woman (After Dark).

I think it was “Valda” that broke Meg, she ended up deciding that she wasn’t going to learn any more names and came up with one catch-all name for all my other family members she hadn’t met.

“Sheboof.” The name she chose was “Sheboof.”


Which would also be this guy’s nickname if he was in a power couple with himself.

Meg has learned that being with my family requires being Boyled, frequently and thoroughly. This term of her own creation means, you will be presented with a schedule. You will believe this schedule.

This schedule means nothing.

You will not be leaving at the time on the schedule. It will be much earlier. And you will miss lunch. In previous trips Meg has been caught on the hop but she’s starting to develop the prescient second-sight that I learned early on, unconsciously but correctly guessing the real start-times of things.

In a less financially punitive way than her engagement ring, it’s a good way of making her part of the family. Breaking down her resistance to things that make no sense but just are, which is pretty much how I define family anyway. Acceptance of nonsense.

Moving along, I ruined my back and neck on Saturday and did it in a predictably dumdum way. I was on the terlet and…

Oh, an aside. I have been calling the commode the terlet for months, maybe years now, I don’t remember ever starting. It’s mainly because it sounds a bit Tennessee and I like to drop into that accent from time to time ’cause I’m prejudiced against whitey. For example, I don’t eat maccaroni and cheese. I eat cheese maccarone. “Y’all see dat cheese maccarone?” I will say to Meg as we walk down the street. While wandering around with Meg’s family at Christmas, Meg, completely without realising asked her sister where the terlet was. The reaction was one of both incomprehension and disgust. The best part of all this is when others see a glimpse of the too much time we spend on this twat-talk (that’s a phrase of Meg’s that’s taken the opposite journey.)

Anyway I was on the terlet and I found myself reaching for the toilet paper in a strange way that struck me as both very familiar but immediately quite odd. As a lefthander I reached my left arm across my chest and over my right shoulder. That was not quite far enough to reach the paper so I used my right hand to give my left elbow an extra shove to get around to the roll. Text is really not the medium to describe this. Then I asked Meg how she did it, repeating my weird cross-body with righthand-helper technique as example. She said it looked weird and said she just uses her right hand. I attempted this and now I have to turn my entire body to look at things.

Meg has been increasingly influenced by my love of all things current events. Nothing gets me stoked like human rights abuses in the Sinai. She as a result found time to sort out the Republican party’s Donald Trump problem, that he is the unelectable frontrunner who shares none of their opinions and is alienating most of their potential undecided voters. She has sorted this by calling him Donald Chump. Yizzer welcome Yanks.


The Republican Party does in fact need her help, this is their current leader. Imagine what Trump would do to this poindexter. Odds are, attempt to deport and/or marry him. 

While searchinfor the above photo I came across the below. I can’t think of a context to make it relevant to anything else in this blog. But I’m gonna include it anyway.


I now don’t even see this when I look at it. I see all the times I will Google this image to cheer myself up in years to come. 

In a similarly unrelated, but-it’s-my-blog-and-I’ll-write-what-I-want kind of way, my friends from the aul sod have put me onto a wondrously unsettling Youtube account of a young man from my home town who has become a lifestyle coach. People from where I’m from do not normally go down this kinda route. We’re more of a sheep innocculation wholesaler kinda town. Some of them even end up working for he fur trade (imagine that!?) One of the most memorable of his beady-eyed direct-to-camera wafflings is about the empowerment he has attained from total cessation of all his below-beltline activities. He describes the movement as “No Fap” and it’s followers as “Fapsternaughts.” He thinks this is good. And not creepy. Which is what it actually is.

He’s… kind of a scary dude.

In other news, I’m slightly concerned about my aunt Shena (again, Protestant naming rules apply). She’s developed a slightly unhealthy fixation on Prince George, or as he will be known in the future George the Bloodlustful, Deathbringer of the Sandbox. She was very curious about his lunchbox while we were home, wondering outloud whether he’s into Minions. Our reaction is best exemplified by what happened two Christmases ago when she pulled up photos of him on the laptop and started showing them to my deeply unimpressed family. My uncle framed the problem best when he asked, “Why are you showing me photos of a stranger’s child?”

Clearly nonsense. Which I accept.

Terletoner of Leek.



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