Hello to Super Special Friends Dave and Joanne (now known as "Mrs. Bishop"), who both managed to discover the updates, read the updates and text their thoughts on the updates to me and Susan within moments of the aforementioned updates going online. Our thoughts are with you as you sit in your work place while we dance around in our pygamas all day. Imagine that.
I am very pleased to report that the double wedding plans I commented on in last Thursday's post have been confirmed, via text message from Dave Mum, who said that they were "still on". We cheered when we heard and set out choosing our veils, bridesmaids and flower girls for the fictional weddings set to take place in the year 2027, i.e. when me and Susan are 50 and over the hill.
We got back from Galway via a long and unsteady drive in our rented Vectra, who we named Roger after a small, plastic dog owned by Gareth Tunley. I hated every second of the journey, as Susan drives like a mental, holding her head out the window and screaming profanities at everyone who dares to drive in front of her. She swerves around the road like a demon possessed by another more violent demon, throwing bottles at pedestrians and deliberately and indiscrimately running over wildlife and domestic animals. Seriously, folks, it's a wonder I'm still alive today. [NB - none of this is true. I just put it to see if she'll read my blog. Read the real account of our trip here
Plus we had to stop in Enfield for a bathroom break, and that was as terrifying an experience of the Irish netherworld as I'm ever likely to experience again. I am never leaving the jurisdiction of the M50. It's just not natural to live in a world where electricity is still viewed with suspicion and fear.
For our first night in Dublin, I decided to introduce the young English lady that we all like to call Susan to the comedy club in town I've been attending with JC. I forgot, of course, that all Irish comedians still living and working in Dublin like to play the Anti-Brit card as often as possible, and cringed in embarrassment as each and every act started in on tired old nonsense about the Troubles, the Famine, the Oppression and forgot completely that we trashed their arse at the rugby last week, which is what they should really have been going on about. Susan didn't seem to mind, or if she did, she had the good breeding not to mention it.
The ratio of Good Comedians to Bad Comedians in Dublin is teetering on the brink of disaster now. It now stands at 6 Good Comedians to 8 Bad Comedians, and I don't count open spots or Gerry Mallon in that, because they can't fairly be counted as comedians, being either beginners or just mentally unsound. Happy news is that JC is slated in to perform at the club in the next couple months, perhaps making the scores slightly more even.
And speaking of JC, this morning we thankfully received a call from him, as we hadn't heard from him for a while and had started to think impossible things, like maybe he had better things to do than ring us and slag us off from the comfort of his flat in swanky London. We had come up with four reasons why he was not responding to text messages from us with his previous enthusiasm, and these were as follows:
1. He had fallen down, broken a hip and couldn't get up.
2. He had run out of credit.
3. He no longer loved us as much as he used to.
4. He had been in some showbiz based accident, fallen down and couldn't get up.
It was none of the above. He simply had lost the use of his thumbs, and had been crying all night at the thought of not being able to reach us. Thankfully, he instead used his fingers to call my house, and then laughed a lot at the thought of coal being delivered. Like a mental. All is right again.
Tonight: Aqualung at Whelans.