<body><script type="text/javascript"> function setAttributeOnload(object, attribute, val) { if(window.addEventListener) { window.addEventListener('load', function(){ object[attribute] = val; }, false); } else { window.attachEvent('onload', function(){ object[attribute] = val; }); } } </script> <div id="navbar-iframe-container"></div> <script type="text/javascript" src="https://apis.google.com/js/plusone.js"></script> <script type="text/javascript"> gapi.load("gapi.iframes:gapi.iframes.style.bubble", function() { if (gapi.iframes && gapi.iframes.getContext) { gapi.iframes.getContext().openChild({ url: 'https://www.blogger.com/navbar.g?targetBlogID\x3d3200994\x26blogName\x3dDreadful+Nonsense\x26publishMode\x3dPUBLISH_MODE_BLOGSPOT\x26navbarType\x3dBLACK\x26layoutType\x3dCLASSIC\x26searchRoot\x3dhttps://shazzle.blogspot.com/search\x26blogLocale\x3den_GB\x26v\x3d2\x26homepageUrl\x3dhttp://shazzle.blogspot.com/\x26vt\x3d7615377689624956874', where: document.getElementById("navbar-iframe-container"), id: "navbar-iframe" }); } }); </script>

Dreadful Nonsense

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

Post Three, in a series of Some: Entitled: MY CRAZY FAMILY

I went out disco-dancing with my best friend Mrs Bishop and He Who Only...'s little brother (more about that tomorrow, gossip fiends), and this morning I woke up at 12.45pm - THREE FREAKING HOURS AFTER I WAS SUPPOSED TO BE AT HOME.

I woke up bolt upright and covered in a panicked sweat (and also some booze-fug which gathered during the night). I was not at home. I wasn't wearing pygama bottoms. I had miscara all over my nose. I was dehydrated. I was Three. Hours. Late.

I turned on my phone and had a message from Little Sister Edel that read "The house is full of fucking [my family name]s it's a bit scary".

It was my Dad's 60th birthday, and they had all been gathered in the same place at the same time to celebrate it. As one of my uncles, who was very drunk at the time, and standing in a shed, observed, we usually don't see each other in the same place unless it's a funeral. And there's usually less crying.

That last bit? I was joking.

In the end, my Dad's birthday party was superb. Since the heatwave that's been torturing me in London has also been affecting Dublin (but don't think you've had it hard, you paddy bastards - you don't know what fucking heat is!), my parents decided to have a garden party, for which they hired a bar.


One tap had Guinness and the other tap had something that was beer-like in essence, but nothing that I ever managed to identify, but that's mainly because one tap had Guinness - Guinness was literally on tap in my house over this last weekend, and what the fuck more do you want from life?

My brother's fiancee taught me and Little Sister Edel and Mrs Bishop how to draw shamrocks in the top of a pint of Guinness, and even though none of us actually managed to master the skill, we still made a good grab at it each and every time we poured and pint, and I think it's that kind of enthusiasm that matters. I myself was very dedicated to mastering this new skill and when there was no one else about for whom I could pour a pint, I took to pouring myself half-pints (or "glasses", as they're known at home) and practicing, and then selflessly drinking it all so that I could try again.

The rain, he came down early and he came down heavy. The reason my uncle was able to make the above observation while standing in the comfort of our garden shed was because it was raining so heavily that your drink had no alcohol content at all after standing less than five minutes outside due to the pure volume of water filling up your glass. Garden party? God mocks.

The majority of the day was taken up being told how much I looked like my mum/dad/aunty/uncle/grandparent/cousin/random member of extended family, and also how good/old/young I looked, how much/little I'd changed, admiring/being revolted by my tattoos. On a whole, though, every single female at the party who had met me at least once before in my lifetime spent the day telling me that (a) they had never seen me looking any better and (b) that my boyfriend must be incredibly good for me.

But, ssssh, people. Don't tell him. He'll only get ideas.

This is my Granny's dog. She was staying with us for the week while my Granny is in Norway. There is no reason for this photo to be here.


Post a Comment