The Color of Leek

If we judged people on how they understand theatre, we’d judge him to be kinda dense

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It’s Number Two-rump squinting-makes-me-hate-ovaries, Mike “sword of Damocles” Pence

Ahh, how refreshing. I took a little weekend off from the blog which mean I was able to finally squeeze in my normally customary monthly teeth cleaning. You should see these chompers. As yellow as a ripe banana playing centre-back for Borussia Dortmund.

Glorious.

Though I partially jest, life admin does take a hammering when you have back to back (to back to back) weekends of wandering this scorched earth.

Last weekend I returned to the mütterland to both see Munster play some hardcore oval-ball and generally irritate my family with my presence. It might have been the hours spent outside or that toilet seat I licked, but as the weekend whiled on I could feel a familiar swelling in my throat.

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And not like what I felt when I tried to complete the Chiquita “no-chew” challenge.

I was getting sick. Despite being in my youth a wheezy sickly little Tsar-child (great Rasputin reference there for the Russian history buffs <punches chest> I got you…) I haven’t been particularly sick over the past few years. Since once catching light hypothermia on a PARTICULARLY terrible date and almost losing my leg in India after getting human poop in my mosquito bites (not even my own poop, how embarassing) I have been pretty much illness free.

That said, with almost perverse regularity I get a 36 hours flu, complete with bone-aches and flopsweats once a year. I have missed one day of work for sickness in my life. This one occasion was because in the same job I had come in sick to work previously. This work was with autistic kids who in response to my sneezes and lack of ability to respond, would then go spare and start punching me.

They were pretty clear about me staying home.

Another choice flu workday was when I was in Japan and I fell asleep on a piano. It doesn’t make me a better worker, but it does not necessarily make me an absent one. This last week was no different, with one full day of me sweating through my thick sky blue sweater and at one point accidentally slapping my computer screen.

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I have a good track record with Apple products. I genuinely just had this photo from my life.

I later found out that no one had realised that I was ill, which either speaks lengths of my ability to hide my suffering from a cold and indifferent world (also works for hiding more murderous impulses towards my fellow commuters on the 08:11 for Waterloo) or betrays much about my day to day levels of sweatiness.

The real low point of this bout of November speed-flu, came the night after a day of explaining away splotches on my sweater as careless beverage consumption rather than excess man-tit moisture. I set myself up on the couch and cooked up a bellyful full of fajitas… and maybe washed it down with an inebriating beverage that was not a what you use to whip eggs, but was like it.

Whisk-y. It’s my little reward for when I am totally banjacksed with illness. It did make me real emotional and this threatened to spill over into a full blown meltdown when I ate a particularly good chocolate cookie and felt overly grateful for the sweet ennervating sugar crust. It wasn’t a tear. It was like 1/4 of a tear.

God I want a cookie.

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What’s that universe, I deserve 2? You generous F you.

The future travel itinerary is thick enough, with a commute to Brussels this Tuesday and a wedding in Ireland on Thursday.

The challenges of work travel are myriad but the baseline is getting up very early indeed and then sitting still while getting dehydrated and holding in a number 2 that you ran out the door without addressing because you wasted loads of time trying to find the tie with the fewest mayo stains. This much can be assumed.

We had a weekend visitor in the form of fellow #TraleeBoy Colin, who both gave us an excuse to shovel pizza into our gizzards and keep me company through the trying time of a latenight boozy movie doubleheader of Stop Or My Mom Will Shoot and and The Color of Night a piece of Bruce Willis erotica. Which I think we can all agree is the only genuine type of erotica.

Interesting thing about him, as well as an erotic artiste, he is also an accomplished dendrologist. Indeed Bruce Willis is the only former members of the Planet Hollywood ownership crew to have a tree named after him.

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I give you- Spruce Willis. Are your legs sore? I had to bring you a long way for that joke.

The rest of the weekend was very grown up, including getting through a lot of life admin. I even drove us to the HomeBase. Like a baby deer that had cocaine injected into the base of its spine. But I did drive us.

As a little reward for doing something I’m less than keen on, we decided to basically empty Aldi out of their range of delicious boozes now that we had the boot to get it home. Note how I didn’t say “buy.” They will remember the day we darkened their door for some time. Even used their own off-brand Black and Deckers against them.

I wonder what the headline will be? “Budget Alcohol-Crazed Powertools Massacre Aldi Staff in Surrey (We Can Only Assume).”

Print it.

In other news, Meg had some interesting thoughts on the rugby recently. We were watching the lead into the Ireland vs All Blacks game, when she seemed uncharacteristically interested in the Haka.

After finishing, she was silent for a moment, taking in the aftermath of the ancient and even mystic ritual she remarked “Wouldn’t it be awkward if you forgot the moves? <waggling her index finger>  HOOKI HOOKI!”

Wouldn’t it be awkward indeed…

Oh and in a final punchline after writing a bunch on how I don’t take sick days, I ended up taking Tuesday off after being struck down with stomach cramps and vomming up a shepherds pie so hard that is splashed back up in my face and when I blew my nose after a chunk of potato came out.

Time doth make fools of us all. And shepherds pie.

Shepherd pie doth makes fools of us all.

The Color of Leek

Belly Buttoner Of Leek

He’s doing it voluntarily he’s not getting paid,

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It’s Goggle-eyed robot maniac Randy “on Dennis’s couch” Quaid
So I almost welched on this weeks blog, but you know I had a long look in the mirror, took a gaze at the guy on the other side. Kissed him on the mouth. Took a nap.
After all my troubling tribulations  (one for the Star Trek fans there) I decided in the end, YOU the reader deserve a new dollop of creamy nonsense, dribbling over the edge of the bowl because you overfilled it you greedy galoot. You deserve it
You might have a bit of buyers remorse at this stage. That’d be fair.
The past week has been busy but fairly regulation. Meg and I are bighting the biker (I drafted this on my phone and autocorrect chose the image for me, highly appropriate) and finally decided to buy a car. Over the past two years Meg has been getting to work in a rickshaw pulled by a man who’s actual name is Richard Shaw.
No word of a lie, but read together as a sentence…
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“I never killed your daughter. The rebels turned themselves into the military re-education council. A salad would be just as good.” Pinocchio = lying bollocks.
So we went to the local car buying house (I’m a total natural as you can tell) and blitzed about 8 different dealerships including somewhat foolishly some swish German ones. “No we will not accept a baggy full of belly button lint and a horsechestnut for this S-Class. Acorn or better Sir, otherwise you waste both our time!”
Considering how we’re so obviously a pair of rubes, it was hard to believe how resolutely ignored by everyone we were in the dealerships, like the shy little girl at the prom sitting on her own, eating oily, stinking mackerel from the tin that she brought from her home in the sulfur mine.
Sidebar, my girlfriend at the prom (called a debs in Ireland) didn’t eat mackerel from the tin however she did lock herself in the toilet, possibly because it was such a magical night (more likely because I went with someone else). Almost entirely her idea.
We were so desperately trying to get attention out of these car jerks, I was one frustrated moment away from taking my top off and bouncing around a little. Like they like.
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And I thought I had the whole attention-seeking thing down pat.
Eventually after I had alienated the staff at the second to last dealership pointing at a mahogany jeep (actual quote) “who chose shit-brown for the for the floor model eh?” we got serious. Had to, my charm wasn’t really winning them over. Surprisingly.
“We don’t arrange the colors sir. Now here is a picture of a wreck in another dealership filled with garbage, richer than Christmas pudding and smaller than a seahorses danglers. You don’t want it. Leave.”
Larks. Eventually we sat down with a chap in Toyota and after entertaining buying a different car that one could accidentally inhale should one gasp with surprise next to it we eventually settled on a hoor-red Yaris with enough space for a talented blogger to have a tantrum in and still not break any windows. Before deciding to purchase we had a bit of a testdrive to make sure we weren’t purchasing a puce lemon. It was my first time driving automatic and indeed my first time driving since finally driving safely for 25 consecutive minutes and passing my test 6 or so months ago.
There’s no way for you to know I didn’t pass my test by just teaching Herman my tester how to kiss properly. Lots of teeth, that’s the key.
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Okay Herman, you and I are about to break down some boundaries.
Joking aside I am still haunted (not to mention Meg loves bringing it up) how my first instructor Zsolt would in a panic grab my hands and swerve us away from traffic and after the emergency subsided he would lean back over to his side of the car and mutter “…sorry to…touch you.” Yeesh.
I hopped into the business end of the first automatic car I was ever to drive and as it was a new-fangled button-start car to boot (the boot was regular-fangled mind), I was instructed to just put my foot on the brake and press the button to start.
Then I planked my hoof squarely on top of the accelerator and kept prodding the button until the salesman’s embarassment was outweighed by his desire to get going and the error was pointed out to me. As I struggled further he had to advise me to take my left foot off the brake as it’s apparently not the done thing. More bloody rules and etiquette than a hot-tub party with the Queen of England!
Rule 1 – there are no rules
Rule 2 – Prince Philip gets to watch.
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Okay Prince Philip is all done. Send in the corgis…
Ever the canny businessboys, we decided to head home to pretend-think about the purchase in case he threw in a punnet of goose-eggs extra to sweeten the deal. Meg’s Canadian. She thinks all eggs are goose eggs.
As the salesman stewed like a bag of sweaty giblets in a roast chicken (it’s called foreshadowing) Meg and I got to prepping for Canadian Thanksgiving as we do most every year.
Regular readers will know Meg was recently flummoxed into some purchases by a wandering meat man (apparently she produces the readies to any stranger willing to give her a flash of beef) and most went straight into the freezer. Among these items was an organic chicken we decided would be the flagship meat pile of this year’s calorie-drive.
After struggling to defrost the sucker in time I was gratified to see it good and floppy as I banged it into the oven. Oh and should you have missed it, there was an opportunity for a crude intercourse joke there, but I dunno, Trump has kinda ruined genitals for me for the foreseeable. Yours. Mine. Burn it all down and start over.
Anyway, I assumed the extra blood and general oily gore was down to the organic-ness of the chicken. Indeed it was because I had left a plastic bag of frozen guts inside the offending fowl and had roasted that bird all the same. I’d be lying if I said the next morning wasn’t a bit touch and go belly-wise but that’s why they put windows in toilets.
In other news I have recently been told I am going to Iran. On Sunday.
I have nothing controversial to say on that issue and I for one am welcoming this opporuntity to shut my dirty mouth.
Silencio!
Belly Buttoner Of Leek