Homeless Joe

Lunchtime at UCD.

Joe sits and stares silently,

Seeking solace in slowly-sipped soup.

Encircled by students; heads buried in Macs;

The outsider.

He sinks deeper into anonymity as he wraps his mac around him,

Pulling it tighter; closer;

Cocooned in the warmth of the Arts Block;

Ignored by the throng;

A frosty reception.

Myth and mystery surround him

A double-edged, non-hubristic shield

Protecting him from those who would pursue the truth;

A blunt weapon to fend off intruders;

Prying minds.

Unwashed; ungroomed; unkempt;

The tenacious grubbiness of life in the gutter

So much more terrifying to the coiffed young girls

Than the dangerous spectres that roam the same streets

From an elevated perspective.

And at those dizzy heights

The girls place misplaced trust in soap and scent;

In virtual men, masked by designer cologne.

Manicured hair and macho-grooming win them over

Till they are at risk.

Fingernail dirt disquiets and frights;

And those beauties blanch at Joe’s barbarous beard;

Conformity to cleanliness

Cements safety as inseparable from sanitation;

And so the strange stranger sits.

Undisturbed; unquestioned; unloved;

Yet legend gnaws at our conscience and rumours abound:

Joe saved a girl from being raped on the campus;

Three square meals a day in return for his deed;

Kindness cubed.

Facebook

Ah, facebook. Invaluable social networking tool or stalker’s paradise? Or perhaps both? Even for the most normal of individuals, (I include myself in this group), it cannot fail to prod and awaken our inner stalker. You know, the one we didn’t even realise was there in the first place. And so, in response to finding ourselves hunted down by ex-boyfriends/girlfriends who we’d sooner forget, and ex-colleagues/school friends we no longer remember, we turn instead from hunted to hunter. We eagerly set about seeking out ex-boyfriends/girlfriends who, quite frankly, would rather we remained forgotten and ex-colleagues/school friends who haven’t the faintest idea who we are.

And then, of course, there is the case of mistaken identity. Dislodged incorrectly from the deepest recesses of our brains comes the vague ‘Oh yes, I remember you’ moment in response to a ‘friend request’, not helped in the slightest by the fact the requestor has failed to upload a photo of themselves to their profile. The arbitrary shadowy silhouette accompanying the request, therefore, leaves our poor brain to work out the identity of the sender all by itself. And therein lies the problem.

And so it was that I found myself in a slightly embarrassing communication as a result of my faulty memory. The friend request from Alistair MacDonald, accompanied by a rather non-specific ‘Hello you – how are things?’ message, prompted an immediate and rather distinct ‘Hey Alistair, I remember you!’ response from my mind’s nether regions. The only Alistair taking up lodgings in my memory cells was an ex-colleague from my days of media sales at The Guardian. That Alistair was one of those English-accented, but immovably Scottish, Anglo-Scots. A plastic Scot. The type that never misses an opportunity to sport a kilt and spout about his ancestry at the merest hint of a mention of a black-tie do. That Alistair journeyed to work on a motorbike, for frugal rather than Hellish-Angelic reasons, and in the colder months, his chosen mode of transport required that he wear long-johns under his suit trousers.

Alistair was a fun-loving type, as were most of my colleagues in those alcohol-fuelled days at The Guardian, so I was not disappointed to find myself seated to his left at our Christmas bash at Covent Garden’s ‘Break for the Border’. There is nothing quite like Mexican food and a few tequila slammers to add festive cheer and a boisterous tone to any Christmas party. Much tequila into the night, Alistair announced to myself and Carol, another female colleague seated to his right, that he was wearing long-johns under his trousers. This brought squeals of drunken laughter from the two of us, because, today, Alistair was sans motorbike due to the binge drinking that was certain to form most, if not all, of that evening’s proceedings. He had dressed himself that morning out of habit rather than necessity. Carol and I wasted no time in each grabbing one of Alistair’s legs and rolling up his trousers to the knee to satisfy ourselves he wasn’t lying. Alistair was too polite (drunk) to stop us and so his legs remained in a state of half-undress as our main courses arrived.

It was about this time the food fight started with the adjacent table of employees from KPMG, (believe me, accountants really let their hair down when they’re let loose!). If memory serves me correctly (which admittedly, it has failed to do on several occasions), KPMG were the protagonists.

Under the circumstances, a food fight was really only to be expected by the proprietors. The mushy South American fare suited itself much better to being flung than eaten (and let’s face it, no one really cares about the food at a Christmas party as long as the drink keeps coming…which in this case it did). Guacamole came at us from the rowdy number-crunchers. A chimichanga was our retort. They replied with an on-target combination of sour cream and the contents of a burrito. As we launched handfuls of refried beans behind enemy lines, we realised we were running low on ammo. We had to resort to desperate measures or the battle would be lost and so, with much Mexican-themed whooping and hollering, Alistair’s long-johns were torn in strips from his poor unsuspecting legs to be hurled across the restaurant. He was rather good natured (drunk) about the incident and it certainly didn’t seem to spoil his enjoyment of the rest of the night.

Yes, they were good days at The Guardian, fondly (hazily) remembered. And so, that brings me back to facebook and explains my reply to Alistair’s friend request which went, ‘Yee-Haw! Do you still wear long-johns?’. When he replied, ‘Er…did I ever?’, I suddenly knew I’d made a mistake, and, quite possibly, a horrible one.

‘Alistair....? Alistair…?’, I racked my brains, failing to find any other Alistair in my personal vaults of time. Thank goodness then for google! – the stalker’s next resort after all search attempts on facebook have drawn a blank. Having entered his name and restricted the search to the UK, I scanned the results in the hope of some little inkling that would point me straight to the identity of my new ‘friend’. And there it was. His business website, complete with photo to enlighten and embarrass me. An old business contact; a former client; a consultant for whom the response, ‘Yee Haw! Do you still wear long-johns?’ was as inappropriate as it must have been bewildering for him to receive.

All I could manage to type was, ‘Oops! Wrong Alistair… NOW I know who you are! How are things?’, which, thankfully, led to a back and forth dialogue about events in our lives since we were last in contact, with no further probing from Alistair (No. 2) about the long-johns comment. Otherwise, I would have had to go to the lengths of explaining the above and that would have just been too long-winded.

So, Alistair (No. 2), if you are reading this, you now understand my facebook comments (and I hope they’re not too dull in contrast to what image they may have conjured!) and Alistair (No. 1 – whose surname still eludes me), if you are reading this, ‘Hello you – how are things?’

Names have been changed, but only a little bit.

Henry

Henry trips me up.
I stumble; hit my head off the wall.
Shaken, I turn to look at him and he just smiles.
Always that smile.
He never dares to look me in the eye; stares off into the distance; distracted.
And always that smile.
Sinister, eerie, inhuman.

We are in the living room. Thankfully.
It’s safer here.
For Henry is dangerous despite his diminutive stature.
It’s on the stairs I fear him most.
It’s on the stairs where he poses the greatest danger; where the biggest fall awaits me.
It’s on the stairs where he could prove fatal.

Now and then I shout at him and swear revenge, but just when I feel at my most murderous, I look at him and he gives me that smile.
Like a baby’s secret weapon, pulled at the last minute against the fraught mother, pushed to the brink by its incessant wailing.
The smile that stops me in my tracks and gets me to just flick the ‘off’ switch.

You probably wonder why I don’t throw him out.
After all, it is my house.
But the truth is I need him. It’s my choice.
Believe me, my life would be a mess without him.
And it’s not really all his fault. I must accept some responsibility for the ‘accidents’.

And, you see, I know Henry needs me too.
For he follows me round the house like a forlorn puppy, constantly whining at my heels.
Who would he whine to if it weren’t for me?

Then again, what cause would he have to whine if it weren’t for me?

But today, somehow, is different.
As I rub the spot where the wall made contact with my head and I feel the indifference of Henry’s smile burning into me like shame, something inside me snaps and I shout, ‘Fuck you, Henry! Fuck you and your smile!’ and I kick him so hard I knock him off balance and he falls.
Before there’s even time to reconsider, I run to the cupboard in the hallway where I’m sure there is a hammer. My heart is leaping in my chest as I fumble in the cupboard’s half-light, then my fingers find its distinctive non-slip handle. I grab it and run back to the living room to find Henry prostrate and helpless.


Even now, he smiles at me.
But this time it doesn’t stop me in my tracks.

I take the hammer and I smash and I smash and I smash at his face; raining down blow after merciless blow until that smile is no longer recognisable.

And when I’m spent, I feel a sense of release.
As I recover my breath, I feel no remorse; no guilt.
Even as I grasp the full horror of Henry’s destroyed features, I know it’s OK.
I know everything will be alright.
And suddenly I am bereft of fear.

I stand over Henry and I stare at the deathly grin I created out of that smile, and I say, ‘You know what, Henry? I can replace you. I can find another who can take your place and, who knows? maybe be even better than you.
And do you know why, Henry?

Because you’re only a fucking vacuum cleaner!’

Rampant Rabbit

I love my Rampant Rabbit with its features leporine
It often satisfies me when I find myself supine

I love my Rampant Rabbit; I like to keep it handy
It’s in my bedside locker just in case I’m feeling randy

I love my Rampant Rabbit as I’m coating it with lube
It’s like a form of foreplay as I squeeze it from the tube

I love my Rampant Rabbit with its little buzzing ears
I muffle it with bedclothes and I pray that no one hears

I love my Rampant Rabbit with its trade marked piston action
When I use it on the highest speed it drives me to distraction

I love my Rampant Rabbit; it fits inside just right
It ensures vaginal pleasure and brings clitoral delight

I love my Rampant Rabbit with its shaft of purple plastic
It helped me find my ‘G’ spot so I think that it’s fantastic

I love my Rampant Rabbit; God bless Homo Erectus
Who clearly was the model for this toy sent to delect us

I love my Rampant Rabbit, but can it make me feel loved?
Well it makes me feel quite marvellous as inside its deeply shoved

I love my Rampant Rabbit but can it compare to Man?
It doesn’t have emotions so I say it surely can!

I love my Rampant Rabbit; it never seems to tire
Its ardour’s not connected to libido or desire

I love my Rampant Rabbit; it can’t feel hurt or spurned
It doesn’t go all sulky if the favour’s not returned

I love my Rampant Rabbit; it has no strings attached
And when its duty’s done it can be hastily dispatched

I love my Rampant Rabbit; it never criticizes
It doesn’t give a toss about my arse or bosom sizes

I love my Rampant Rabbit with no surplus fleshy parts
No smelly foreskin to manoeuvre before the fun bit starts

I love my Rampant Rabbit; perhaps you’ll think I’m quirky
But it so much better looking than the ‘oven-ready turkey’

I love my Rampant Rabbit; it’s my favourite way of fucking
It has no expectation that I’ll swallow after sucking

I love my Rampant Rabbit; I meet its basic needs
After use I wipe it and on batteries it feeds

I love my Rampant Rabbit; it has only one agenda
To satisfy the carnal needs of womankind’s pudenda

I love my Rampant Rabbit as I’m lying here prostrate
It really is the only way a girl should masturbate

Thrush

I’ve got an itch
And it’s a bitch
It’s deep inside my fanny

Like soldier ants
Inside my pants
In every nook and cranny

It’s my belief
I’d find relief
If I could only scratch it

But I’m in my review
And my manager’s view
Is that 'up' I need to ratchet

I really do think
He’d do more than just blink
If my hand reached into my panties

I think that recourse
Might throw him off course
From his mission to up me my ante’s

He’s talking of bonus
And how it’s my onus
To turn things around and take action

He’s shown me my targets
Discussed untapped markets
But my vulva is causing distraction

I tell him he’s right
And a load of old shite
About how much I’m loving his firm

I say this while smiling
And hope it’s beguiling
As my lower half’s started to squirm

I throw him a line
About how things are fine
And I’m doing my best to appease

But under the table
I’m feeling unstable
As my knickers are filling with cheese

I know I’m defeated
But I have to stay seated
And hold out to finish this meeting

I feel perspiration
But find inspiration
As I make subtle use of the seating

Back and forth as I rock
My boss looks in shock
It’s a dangerous line that I’m crossing

But it doesn’t seem wrong
To manoeuvre my thong
And attempt to perform body-flossing

The situation is dire
My fanny’s on fire
How much more can this poor woman take?

The answer’s ‘no more’
It’s too fucking sore
So career suicide I must make

I jump to my feet
Admitting defeat
And I tell him I really must dash

He says, ‘Please explain!’
But I’m in too much pain
I just have to attend to my rash

I make for the door
But he crosses the floor
My hasty retreat now prevented

So what happens next
May forever be etched
On his mind’s eye, and firmly cemented

‘I was in such a rush
As I’ve terrible thrush’
I say, for there’s no turning back

And I lift up my dress
Now he’s blocked my egress
As I feel I must show him my crack

I point to my twat
And I say ‘look at that!’
And I give it some well-deserved rubs

And buried in hair
My labia’s there
Like a couple of red inflamed slugs

I thought if he saw
A vagina this raw
He’d be quite sympathetic at least

But he’s no comprehension
Of a female infection
That’s caused by a source such as yeast

He’s visibly shaken
By the action I’ve taken
But my intuition I trusted

My trust was misplaced
As he’s turned quite po-faced
I can tell he’s completely disgusted

‘Good grief’, says my boss
‘I’m quite at a loss
And I struggle to find words sufficient’

‘I feel disappointment
For since your appointment
I thought you were rather proficient’

‘You interviewed well
You were skilled, I could tell
And I thought it was prudent to hire you’

‘But in this situation
As you’re still on probation
You leave me no choice but to fire you!’

It could have been worse
I might have left in a hearse
As I literally thought I'd expire

Now I leave on the premise
That I'll find a chemist
Who'll grant me my utmost desire

For you must understand
There is only one brand
That will prompt me to utter 'Amen!'

I may have no job
But all I need is one blob
Of that miracle cream, 'Canesten'.

Low-waisters

Attention please, all dedicated female fashionistas
Listen up young ladies, here’s a message for you sisters

It currently may be in vogue for waistlines to hang low
And for navels and their piercings to be blatently on show

But if you choose to wear your jeans slung down around your hips
I urge you, show some self-restraint when tucking into chips

Stick strictly to a regimen of fruit and veg that’s fresh
For nothing’s less attractive than the sight of too much flesh

You may believe you’re beautiful as down the road you strut
Displaying for the world to see, the horror of your gut

But it's really quite revolting to be showing off your fat
In jeans designed for skinny girls with tummies taught and flat

And when those jeans are worn with heels on which you’re forced to hobble
The result is just an increase in your lumber-region wobble

So if you have no will-power and you feel you must indulge
Show some consideration, please, and cover up your bulge

Fire Blanket

Fire blanket, fire blanket
You save my life

Fire blanket, fire blanket
I’m one lucky wife

Fire blanket, fire blanket
You saved us all

When the chip-pan exploded
into a fire ball

Fire blanket, fire blanket
My lesson is learnt

Fire blanket, fire blanket
My eyebrows are burnt

Fire blanket, fire blanket
If I want food that’s greasy

I’ll go to the chip-shop
’cos it’s safer and easy