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Dreadful Nonsense

"I've read your blog. it's really funny. you should write a column." - Jon Ronson

Today I was being the truly kind, caring, wonderful, selfless style person that all of you who know me will already know full well that I am. I, without a thought for myself, my own wellbeing, my own lack of sleep or the alcohol poisoning induced by spending a week with The Dimpled One (JC), I dragged myself out of bed at SEVEN O'CLOCK OF THE MORNING and went to sit behind a desk ticking off names on a sheet while wearing a red t-shirt.

My mother is running a course in a hotel in Dublin this week, all about autism and various related disorders, and the newest most recommended treatment thereof. I volunteered, about two months ago, to pop along and help her with registration, selling books and directing people to the toilet and smoking areas. Two months ago, this seemed like a great thing to be doing. This morning it seemed like the most surreal thing in the world.

Ongoing hangover aside, I have always been reminded of the scene from the childrens book The Witches whenever I see a group of people gathered in a hotel room for a conference. You know, where the two kids have been turned into mice, and they hear all of the gathered witches plotting together to capture and eat all the children in the country, and they have to try to find a way to stop them all? That book, like all other Roald Dahl books, freaked me out when I was a child, and left a lasting impression. And coupled with the fact that all but 2 of the 102 delegates at the conference were women, I couldn't shake that image off for ages today.

Seven in the morning looked lovely and peaceful on Sunday when myself and Mrs Bishop arrived back at my house, having spent Saturday night in Dublin's one and only most wankery - sorry, most prestigious - venue, Lillie's Bordello. We were in the private room where I have literally just discovered from looking at their website you have to be over 32 to be a member. Goodness me. While Mrs Bishop was queuing for the loo (even in private wanky members clubs with private wanky members, there's still queuing), a tiny blonde child started asking her if she thought the tiny blonde child needed to wear a girdle. Mrs Bishop, being the kindly creature that she is, turned around the study the tiny blonde child before returning with her verdict, and discovered that the tiny blonde child was none other than famous wife of ex-Westlife chubby man Brian, Kerry McFadden. Mrs Bishop dashed back from the toilets (after finishing her ablutions - Mrs Bishop is nothing but the essence of cleanliness) and told me all about it. I was just as excited, as I do think that tiny blonde child wife McFadden is a lovely little thing, full of joy and bubbles and with no harm in her at all. We saw where she was sitting - in actual fact on a seat at the table beside us - and we discussed whether or not we should approach her to say how darned great we thought she was. We decided against it, but while leaving (at 5am) we gave her a little wave instead. I think she understood our intention.

Also present in this most pretentious of Irish night spots was the former chat show host and sports commentator once immortalised by Zig and Zag as Amoan Grumpy. Amoan is a law unto himself, and therefore above the law of this great country of ours, and we were very concerned to spot the fact that he was SMOKING INDOORS and apparently enjoying every minute of it. We thought about ringing the smokers hotline to dob the bad man in, but instead settled for some very cartoon style tutting and wagging fingers and raising and lowering of eyebrows in a disapproving manner, led on by a tall man who appears on a cheese advert. Yes, I know everyone.

But. Yesterday was a day of terrible mourning, of teeth-gnashing and hand wringing and all manner of crying. JC has left the town and we are all a-feared that he will never return. The depression set in early on Sunday morning, when I woke up lying beside Mrs Bishop after three long hours of kind of sleep. The beeping noise from my phone heralded a message left by JC at 7am, as he walked back from his friend Bungalow Bill's house. The message went something as follows: "I'm cold. So cold..." And that's how all of Dublin city feels. It's just not the same without his magic.

This entry was posted on 26 April 2004 at 7:46 pm. 0 comments

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