Can’t we all just get along?

In a word: no. I get on with most people, and try to give people the benefit of the doubt, but every so often I take agin’ someone and once I have taken said agin there is no coming back.

Just as I really really like some people from the first time I meet them, there are individuals I take a pretty much instant dislike to. I try to fight this and not make snap judgements. It doesn’t work. All it does is dampen the dislike so it festers, breeds maggots and becomes an altogether more virulent beast.

My hackles rise at the very sight of them, my ears smart at the sound of their voice and my lips purse violently in an attempt to avoid exclaiming 'oh do feck off / shut up!' as they whinge on about something incredibly dull. I find whinging extremely annoying and dull chat, well, very dull, so when the two combine it's like a perfect storm of pet peevery (it’s a word…)

It’s particularly unfortunate (for me) when I get stuck with one at work, where it is quite inappropriate to exclaim 'oh do feck off / shut up!' when they’re whining on about how hot/cold it is in the office for the 327^th time. I manage to avoid throwing things at these types through a mighty combination of self-restraint and headphones. Thank you Nathaniel Baldwin, thank you (for the headphones, you can keep the Mormon stuff).

Luckily (for me and my co-workers) most of my aginsters are of the celebrity variety and I can release the tension that builds up on sighting them by screaming at the TV. These ‘famous’ people I dislike intensely (hate is a strong word, but if the cap fits…) include:

• ·       Jedward (Louis Walsh – I will never, ever, forgive you for THEM)
• ·       Bruce Forsyth (national treasure my arse)
• ·       Piers Morgan (I think we can all agree on that one…)
• ·       Amanda Holden (fake phony forgery of the highest order)
• ·       Alex Salmond (trout-faced moron)

Please note that said intense dislike extends only to the aforementioned shouting at the TV. A troll I am not (although I do tend to look like one after a night out). This is merely my personal opinion and if you want to consider Brucie a national feckin' treasure, you go right ahead. But you might want to consider counselling of some sort at the same time. I find him incredibly annoying and mildly creepy (in a Yewtree kinda way…)

Hungover / hater

Broom Bloody Broom

Given my mild manners and temperament *ahem*, it may surprise you to learn that I suffer from the odd bout of motorous furious. A.K.A. road rage.

It is very much at the milder end of the scale, I hasten to add, and the ginger temper is kept within the confines of the car. No axes have been wielded (that actually happened to a friend of mine once…) and no fingers have been extended (how uncouth!), but my tendency towards offensive language goes into overdrive, and it's not unknown for me to use the recognised sign-language for 'what the f… are you doing you utter moron?!' (hands aloft, palms up, tongue stuffed behind bottom lip).

It's my poor passengers who really bear the brunt of it, as I cut off them off mid-sentence, bellowing 'FOR F#*! SAKE!' at the top of my lungs at the eejit who's just cut in front of me (yes, I know, how uncouth…) My friends and family know me well enough to let this wash over them, but there have been times when I've given work colleagues (or ‘fellow corporate whores’) a lift. As you can imagine, I work hard to maintain a professional image *ahem* and professionalism and prodigious potty mouth don’t tend to go hand in hand. How on earth I manage to secure AND hold down jobs I’ll never know.

The first time a friend of mine was in the car with me she was in the middle of a story when my travel tourettes kicked in (the aforementioned hollering of 'FOR F#*! SAKE!', or similar). We worked together at the time but didn't know each other very well, and the poor girl thought I was having a slightly mental reaction to what she got up to at the weekend. Luckily she's made of stern stuff and our friendship has lived to laugh at the tale. (I can’t remember what she did get up to that weekend, but knowing her as I do now it probably involved pampas grass, a bowl and some car keys, the filthy mare.)

The one that really gets my goat is drivers that don’t say thank you when I have extended a motoring kindness to them. Hence my more frequent, but less foul-mouthed, outburst; screaming 'YOU'RE WELCOME' at these ignoramuses (or ignorami, if you will). A wave of the hand/flash of the lights costs nothing when I've let you out, you boorish *bleeeeeeep*s. Did your mother not teach you basic manners?!

…and breathe.

Anyone want a lift?

Liz doesn't suffer motoring morons gladly either...

I do, I do, I do, I do, I do, I do

I've talked before of the wedding circus mafia and the arseholery that goes on, but there is also a very bright side to the nonsense. Being a guest. Sadly the wedding 'party' themselves often get too wrapped up in the photocalls, speech nerves and potential family feuds to actually remember to enjoy the day, but as a guest; no public speaking, no months (or years) of organising, no weeping wallet, just the bubbles and the dancing.

There is a little preparation involved, granted, but it never fails to amuse me how quickly the wedding visage crumbles. The hours, and sometimes days, we spend making sure we look as good as we possibly can (for some that's just about presentable, but all I can do is work with the ginger raw materials I was given) only for it all to be destroyed in a matter of hours.

We find ourselves on the dance floor in our bare feet, the shoes so carefully matched to the dress abandoned under a table, with a tie around our head and our dignity whimpering beneath an avalanche of Michael Jackson/Mick Jagger/Pigeon inspired dance 'moves'. Oh yes - we've got the moves like Jagger. The makeup, hair dos and manicures are long forgotten as we swing our sweaty mane in time with the 80s power ballads.

In addition to revisiting my rock star (*ahem*) youth, I tend to unearth a worrying passion for interpretive dance after a few dry sherries. My Kate Bush impressions are 'inspiring', so I've been told (look out for me on got to dance next year; I'll be the one who inspires the phrase 'would her family not tell her...?')

There is a delightfully unhinged quality that is unique to a wedding dance floor. Maybe it’s because it’s such a happy occasion, or that some of the guests don’t get out much, or perhaps it’s the unique mix of ‘performers’; where else do you get to share the floor with an 80 and an eight year old?

On a more serious note, I must issue a word of warning to wedding bands/DJs. If you will play Tiffany and Footloose back-to-back, be prepared with a crash cart/ambulance on standby. Some of us are not as young as we used to be, but we can’t seem to stop ourselves.

From this...

..to this...

...to Kiss.

Small People V Sleep

 'When are you getting a baby?' my 6 year old niece asked recently. (I suspect she may be in training to be a nosey b@$t@rd…) But she's a little young to hear about the horrors of pregnancy, childbirth and child rearing, so I used a trusty 'I don’t know' in response. If it was as easy as getting a baby, from the shop, like you would a pint of milk or a nice new handbag, I might consider it, but I know too much. FAR too much. Thank you friends, family and far-too-intimate TV for sharing.

Don’t get me wrong. It's not that I don’t like small and miniature people, they can be great fun altogether when you know you can hand them back to their sleep-deprived parents at the end of the afternoon and skip off to the pub.

Therein lies the rub. I like children, but I like some other things more. These things include, but are not exclusive to, sleep, the occasional 5 minutes of quiet and TV that does not feature Barbie and/or Barney and/or 'bonkers' presenters (you know them - the 'I'm mad me!' types). And there are other things I do not need to experience directly to know I would not like one little bit. These things include, but are not exclusive to, cracked nipples, tearing (down there!) and projectile vomiting.   

'But it's all worth it!' they tell me, at the end of another story about getting covered in poo, with a smile that doesn't extend to their hollow, exhausted eyes. I'm not really sure if it's me they're trying to convince or themselves.

I know I risk sounding like a self-centred cow, but rest assured it's not purely selfish reasons that keep me from boarding the broody express; I am also thinking of the children. ('Will no-one think of the children?!' I cry…) Sleep deprivation and copious amounts of hormones would not a loving, nurturing ginger make.

Me + hormones - sleep = THIS.

 A womb, an egg and a few good swimmers may be all it takes to make a baby*, but it takes a hell of a lot more to make a mother (as the girls on 16 and pregnant so ably demonstrate).

*According to some of the nuns at my old school simply sitting on a boys lap is enough to get you 'in the family way'. Unless, of course, you place a telephone directory on said boy's lap first; if, for instance, you have to sit on his lap for a play or suchlike. Sound contraceptive advice from the Catholic Church there. And there are more pearls of wisdom where that came from... Ladies please take note - this is important - you should exercise extreme caution when wearing patent shoes with a skirt. Boys can and will see your knickers in the shine. You have been warned.

Sage advice AND stylish head wear. Is there no end to their talents?

Milk, Milk, Lemonade...

 I was watching Father Ted recently (I'm Irish, so I have to watch it at least once a week. It's the law.) and as Pat Mustard was putting his enormous tool in Mrs Doyle's box, it made me wonder - what are all the milkmen doing now?

Popular myth would have us believe that they used to shag all round the neighbourhood, so now that having milk delivered is largely a thing of the past they must be gagging for it. Have they transitioned into the adult film industry maybe?

When I was growing up not only did we have a milkman (yes, he was ginger, but my family preferred the 'you came from the knackers' story) we also had D'egg Woman. She was so named, bless her, for her fine dis-dat-dese-and-dose Cork accent and she provided us many happy moments of amusement, as well as d'eggs, when she regularly exclaimed 'Jesus, Mary, Joseph and de dunkey!'

We had a seafood guy too, but we kept our distance - there was something fishy about him. BA-BOOM, TISH! Thank you, thank you, I'm here all week, try the horse…

Speaking of meat and entertainment, my Nana used visit Billy Farrell, her local butcher, practically every day. I'm not saying she stalked him, but she definitely had strong feelings for Billy and I'm not sure if it was his meat or his witty repartee she was more interested in. That came out all wrong. Oh god... Nanas and innuendo should not mix. Moving swiftly on…

Nowadays it seems local fresh produce (and its associated friendly producer) is confined to Farmer's Markets, which carry a much higher than average risk of rubbing shoulders with Barbour-clad types called Crispin and Tarquin, because they 'simply have to try the olives!', or dreadlocked tree-huggers in search of all-natural fair-trade organic wheat germ soap infused with the essence of bee tears.

Not only have the big bad supermarkets been killing ponies, they've wiped out our local shopkeepers and delivery folk. Damn you Tesco /Sainsburys /Waitrose /Asda / Dunnes/ Super Valu/ Aldi /Lidl /Morrisons /Farmfoods /Iceland <Delete according to income level / likelihood of appearance on Jeremy Kyle> Damn you to hell!

In other milk-based ponderings, I remembered a popular little ditty from my childhood:

Milk, Milk *point to boobs*

Lemonade *point to front 'area' *

Round the corner *point to back 'area' *

Chocolate's made!

I think I'd better leave it there.