Banjo and the shit.

Banjo and a bag of his own shit.  Cute.

My sister got a pet dog there a few weeks ago.  She lives just around the corner from me so when she was away for her husband's birthday last weekend she asked me to look after him for the night.  I call him Banjo.  He's a real cutie pie.  Anyways, it's the night of the minding so meself and husband walk round to her house to keep the poor, old thing company.  Husband gets distracted by their telly and sits down to watch some crap while I bring the dog for a walk.  We're walking around the green area down the end of our estate, it's surrounded by bushes and shrubs and all that malarkey.  The dog loves it.  He sniffs everything and loves having a good old gander about. So we come to one particular exciting set of brambles. Banjo sniffs at them, he is loving them. He sticks his little snout in and has a root around. There's something in there he wants.  Now, it's pitch black so I can't see a thing, only Banjo looking cute rooting around in the bushes. Then he starts to roll around onto his back.  He looks up at me; on his back with his little paws like a bunny rabbit. Little cutie! He rolls around a bit more before I get bored and yank him away with his lead. After a while we head back to the house. I let Banjo off the lead as he runs in the door and up to Kieran who is dying to give him an oul hug and a pet.  "Aw, Banjo, you're so cute, c'mere Banjo, you cutie little bundle of cuteness." He's hugging and kissing him and giving him a good rub on his little belly.  Then Banjo comes back over to me and I'm about to pet him when husband sniffs the air, then sniffs his hand, then sniffs the dog.  "What's that smell?" I sniff the air, then sniff my hands, then sniff the dog. "Ugh, Jesus! He's covered in shit!" The dog is covered in shit.  It's all over his back, his face, his collar, everywhere. "Ya dirty fecker!" I yell.  How'd it happen though?  I think back to Banjo rambling around in those brambles, looking so cute.  He wasn't being a sweet little dog, he was being a dirty old mongrel, rolling around in some other dog's shite! Needless to say we had to give him a good old scrub. The dirty git.

The Gym.

New Years, ugh!  Lucky it's nearly over. I reckon those resolutions have lost their novelty by now for most of you. The daily hours jog you promised yourself you'd do has turned into a quick stroll around the block and back home. I mean, who'd want to spend more than twenty minutes out in those freezing temperatures? It's bleedin' Baltic out there! And the healthy lunch that you'd get up every morning to prepare has become nothing more than an inconvenience, ten more minutes you could have spent lying in bed listening to Ian Dempsey shite on about how much he loves David Bowie before he plays "Heroes" for the trillionth time.  And that session in the gym you swore you'd commit to at least three times a week has dwindled down to your reluctant attendance of the odd step class, consisting of you standing at the back shuffling from one foot to the other while cursing the instructor for her amazing figure and boundless energy.  Ah yes, the gym. The one place in the world where I feel significantly fatter, uglier and dumber than everyone around me.  So here's my list of reasons for hating the gym. Feel free to add to it with a comment below!

Sweet Jesus.  God, help us all.

1. Not knowing how to use the equipment but being too intimidated by the muscled bound oafs who work there to ask for help. Seriously, why don't they get some normal looking people working at the gym? Someone who doesn't look like a steroidal Honey Monster after a body waxing session. 

2. If you exert yourself in any way you will end up looking like Waynetta Slob after a quick one down the alley way with some randomer. This is completely unavoidable.

3. The fact that the last statement is only unavoidable for you! Others will end an hours treadmill session looking refreshed and positively blooming. 

3. The mirrors stuck to the walls everywhere you look will make sure you are constantly reminded of the above facts.

4. Not knowing where to look. When you look in the mirror and watch yourself exercising you will feel like a complete tool/tit. This is especially true when completing squats, probably the most embarrassing exercise ever invented. However, if you chose not to look in the mirrors then where do you look? At the other people doing their exercises? And risk being thought of as a gawping idiot, verging on lewd stalker? Or maybe you could just look into space, look no where and end up smacking some lad in the head with your bar bell. Well done, Nutty.

Me and me husband before we head out for a jog

5. The constant feeling that others are looking at you, judging you and laughing at you. Even though you have no proof of this and it is clearly paranoia of epic proportions due to lack of self worth brought on by exposure to impossibly perfect bodies parading themselves about the place.  

6. Men standing around watching one another bench press. Yeah, they'll say they're spotting but we all know it's all about competition brought on by their feelings of inadequacy. Losers.

7. There is always one weirdo who strolls about the place, picking up this weight and that weight, standing just that bit too close and staring for just that second too long. This guy never actually seems to do any weights, exercises or machines and he is always at the gym. Always. Even when you get up at half seven in the morning in a desperate attempt to avoid him. He will be there.

Model doing a poo, I mean squat. Attractive, eh?

8. It ruins your whole week. If I go to the gym I always feel great after a session, so glad I pushed myself and went and did what I had to do.  But how long does that feeling last? Maybe an hour or two, until you realise you have to go to the gym again tomorrow. Until you remind yourself this isn't a one off thing. You have to keep going to the gym to maintain any kind of fitness level and/or slim figure. How depressing is that? I literally spend hours dreading the gym. It's there in the back of my mind the whole day. Contemplating going, contemplating just legging it home and getting into my pyjamas and watching "Tallifornia" repeats on TV 3. It drives me crazy. Takes any pleasure out of the day. This year, I reckon you should add up all the time you spend feeling good after going to the gym and then add up all the time you spend dreading going to the gym. Maybe after a glance at the results you'll do the same thing I did, not bother your arse going at all.

Jaysis aren't we a great bunch, the Irish?

There he is now; oul' Jimmy

Walked into the classroom today in college and the lecturer had a clip from youtube ready to show us.  It was Ed Byrne slagging off Alanis Morrisette for that song "Ironic" and it's actual lack of irony.  And immediately the thing that comes into my mind is; "he's from Swords." And I wanted everyone to know that; cos I live in Swords too. And you all know that if you live in the same town, city or country as someone famous that means you are partly responsible for their fame or in some way great because they are great. Now, don't get me wrong, I don't think Ed Byrne is great, in fact I think he's a bit of a twat and not half as funny as he seems to think he is.  But he's Irish ye know, and he's famous and we were watching a clip of him so I felt I should let everyone know that we shared something.  Like that entitled me to some sort of kudos.  Somehow their celebrity status rubs off on you and you are in actuality famous too.  Not unlike the time we were discussing James Joyce's Ulysses; I felt like I had dibs on it cos I was the Irish student.  Or that I deserved a pat on the back: "well done, what an achievement.  Born in the same city, you say? Truly an amazing feat!"  Sure I knew more about it than the lecturer cos it's about Dublin, yeah, and that's me home town, sure what would he know about being a Dub or a strayed Catholic; that's my territory.  Never mind that I have never actually read Ulysses or any of Joyce's works, sure why would I need to do that, it's in me blood, like.  When reading Molly Bloom's soliloquy aloud he mispronounced Howth and I let out a satisfied snigger.  Me and James Joyce, wha', sure me Granda used to drink pints with him in the Bleeding Horse.  Genius by association, even if that association is rather dubious, or in fact, completely fabricated.