BLOOD, SWEAT AND TEARS OF HYSTERIA

Hi guys,

I know it's been a while since I posted here, (I say as I blow the cobwebs out of the corners of my old blogging haunt) but I have returned for a noble cause. In the hazy blur that was the Yuletide season, a time for giving and for sharing, I heard about Dublin Pub Box, a charity boxing event where various pubs around Dublin, sponsor willing 'victims', ehem, I mean, willing bar staff to go toe to toe with one another in the name of goodwill. This year we will be trying to raise some essential funds for Pieta House and St. Vincent de Paul. 28 members of the hospitality industry have to become not quite mediocre boxers in 2 months which equals 17 hours training. Me, ever the adventuress, thought it was a splendid idea. I am going to blog my experience in a post training diary, a blow by blow account if you will (unfortunately that pun was intentional) plus you guys have to read it, I'm doing this for charity, so if you don't it makes you a bad person. 

Day 1

Prior to entering the gym today I was  mainly worried about what my entrance song (Smack My Bitch Up by The Prodigy) and nickname (TBC) for the match were going to be, following today's little training session I am now more worried about the fact that my muscles are cramping so much there is a real chance that all of my limbs may regress into my own backside overnight. I was swimming in a sea of my own sweat 5 minutes into the so-called 'warm-up'. Don't be fooled by the gentle nature of the word 'warm-up', in boxing it's merely code for lets just run around until someone's lungs cave in on themselves. Unfortunately, we were all reasonably fit and that didn't happen, so we had to 'warm-up' for a really, really long time.

We learnt about technique; your stance, how to jab, how to punch etc. that was actually a bit of a hoot. However, I am not the most co-ordinated individual and truthfully at the ripe old age of twenty-five I still question which way is left and which way is right, so while it was my favourite bit, it's not my strongest part of the training. 

Then we moved on to what our trainer/fuehrer referred to as conditioning, during 'conditioning' I became privy to some information I had never known up until that moment. The entire quarter of a century that I have roamed this earth I have always thought there were only two forms of the medieval torture that is known as 'the plank'; front plank and side plank. How horribly misguided of me, it turns out, the plank has its own evil alternate realm FULL of different planking styles, a particular favourite of mine was the front plank that converted into a forearm plank, genuinely thought I had simultaneously suffered from an aneurysm and a hernia during that little gem. 

Other than that, everything was good, the other people taking part seem really nice, even though they are going to try and knock the head off me numerous times over the coming weeks AND Darren O'Neill was at the gym while we were there, yep, you heard right, we were training in the line of vision of a member of the Irish Olympic boxing team #likebosses. Now back to the more pressing issue of a nickname, do you guys have any suggestions? Nothing with any reference to genitals please, my mom might be reading this, let's try and maintain some semblance of decorum.

Until Thursday,
Carlynn,
xxx

THE THIN LINE BETWEEN LOVE AND HATE

I heaved open the shrieking metal doors and stepped tentatively out of the welcoming sunshine. The first thing that occured was that a sensation of complete and utter panic enfolded me. One of two things had happened; I had burst into an anti-christ like ball of flames or had been momentarily rendered blind.

As I blinked furtively in the darkness, I tried to decide which of the two was more plausible. The first of my senses to come back into play was my sense of smell. The acrid smell of stale sweat, physical exertion and fear filled my nostrils.

The next man off the sensorial bench was my hearing. The morbid metal entrance seemed to be hiding some sort of sadistic chorus line within its depths. There was a crescendo of deep-bellied grunts, squeals of nervous excitment and whimpers of what could be deciphered as pain or pleasure. The baseline consisted of the whirring of leather straps, the harsh clanking of metal on metal with varying degrees of ferocity and harsh intakes of breath.

Slowly but surely, the furtive blinking technique (excellent for those of you who want to regain their momentarily lost sight or appear like a complete sociopath in public) was taking effect. A blurry vision of tendons, red tear-stained faces and mountains of doubled-up bodies strewn across the floor floated before my eyes.

My whole being buzzed with fear. I began to hyperventilate and break out in cold sweats. What the hell was I doing in this sinister place! How had things come to this? I began to back out slowly, trying not to draw attention to my presence in this dark den of disrepute.

Oh no! Too late! One of them spotted me and like a flock of vultures, one by one, they all turned to gaze at me with beady eyes, all of which held the same message...fresh meat!

I felt like the proverbial fattened calf to the slaughter in more ways than one. Yes readers, Euro Stud has signed up to the gym.

In my humble opinion, joining a gym is a little bit like picking a scab. It seems like a great idea at the time but you´re almost always left with a scar. For example, If you have low self-esteem, the chances of you leaving your first calorie killing gym session feeling fatter, sweatier and about as attractive as a leech in a hemophelia pond are pretty high.

On the other hand, your inner gym-bunny may just burst forth on a wave of newly discovered non-chocolate induced endorphins and convince you to leave behind everything you cherished in your past non-aerobic lifestyle i.e. sharing gossip and a glass of wine with friends, being a couch potato and eating meals that don´t consist of dust, lukewarm water and a slice of lemon.

So, this begs the question; if there´s a thin line between love and hate, should going to the gym be classified under self love or self hate? narcissim or sadism?

This question has been eating me up so much over the past few weeks that I´ve regretfully had to give up my gym membership. It was a sad day for all concerned. However, the brain is also a muscle and after weeks of asking myself, what in the name of all that is holy, was I doing frolicking on a revolving strip of P.V.C. pavement, my noggin is in tip top shape.

DRESSED TO REPRESS

'The Emperor's new robes are making a killing.'

Of late, due to certain raucous behaviour i.e. the mass murder of his own people, the name on everyone's lips is Muammar al-Gaddafi.

Currently fighting for both his place at the top of the Libyan food chain and his life, the longest serving leader in the history of the Arab world is in a precarious position. The balance of power could be tipped at any second. He could have lost his last 'last stand' while I write this very article. He's now on his fifth or sixth 'last stand' , I'm not too sure; I lost count and interest at the third one.

This multi-faceted political sage has accomplished many things in his lifetime. Like any make believe-Marxist dictator worth his weight he has published a little mono-coloured book full of his idealogical preachings....the punchy title reads ....'THE GREEN BOOK'...like 'The little Red book' published by his Chinese counterpart Mao. This book basically exalted the virtues of his idea of Islamic socialism and Pan-Arabism.

At the tender age of 27 he manned a successful coup against the Libyan Monarchy.

In 1977, he invented a unique governing system called 'Jamahiriya'. He describes it as a 'state of the masses'.

The nation is governed by the populace through local councils..a.k.a people's militia...a.k.a.. Gaddafi's secret police. It's only unique because it's a complete shambles and barely shrouds the shackles holding the system in place.

In addition, in his forty years as shepherd of the Libyan flock he has managed to piss off almost every country on the planet. He has sponsored terrorist groups in:

-Chad
-Sierra Leone
-Liberia
-Morocco
-The Philippines

He also gave the I.R.A the gift of endless Semtex during the '70's and in '72 he was tangled up with the 'Palestinian Black Movement' which was responsible for the Munich Olympics atrocities.

Furthermore, King Abdullah- the reigning monarch in near-by Saudi Arabia finds the 'Mad Dog of the Middle East' a little bit irksome since he attempted to have him assassinated last year. Lets just say that he's not on his phone a friend list.

However, the Pièce de résistance of his career as 'The Brother Guide' has to be the Lockerbie fiasco of '88. The now infamous Abdelbaset al-Megrahi decided to blow up Pan Am Flight 103, which resulted in the deaths of 259 passengers and 11 innocent by-standers on the ground.

Despite all of this Gaddafi has actually gained more notoriety for his eccentric dress sense than his tyrannical psychosis.

One day he is swathed in animal skins in homage to his African 'brothers' and the next he is decked out head to foot in purple in what can only be construed as a shout out to his brother from another mother, 'the artist formerly known as Prince'.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, who would have thunk it... a dictator who is a versatile fashion subject. One who isn't afraid to step out of those dull and so last decade khakis. He dons everything from African cool to military chic and he is showcasing next season's MUST HAVE accessory - The Amazonian Guard, a posse of 40 blonde-haired, long-legged virgins all hand-picked by the Colonel and highly trained in martial arts and military combat. They're simply to DIE FOR dahhhling. The problem is many people are.

With the country creeping ever closer to an all out Civil war, which will undoubtedly lead to an International Security crisis what will become of the already tenuous relations between the Western Superpowers and their African and Middle Eastern counterparts? Where will the unrest in Africa and the Middle East end? Is the world as we know it changing? Has the world as we know it changed?

CHEESUS CHRIST!!!!

You gouda be kidding!



This is the communal expletive being muttered throughout Ireland in the run up to the festive season. The Irish Government are planning over 6 billion euros worth of cuts in the 2011 budget. Over double the amount foreseen by the 2010 budget.

In a country with just over 4.5 million inhabitants 6 billion euros doesn't go unnoticed, so in order to soften the budgetary blow the boys in the Dail have come up with a genius idea; Free cheese. It is the season of goodwill after all. They're politicians, not heartless, and most definitely not lacking in calcium.

The free cheese scheme is basically a continuation of the Butter voucher scheme which was phased out in 1999. Many people are outraged by the government's attempt to mend the rift between them and the by now very weary electorate. Some say (mainly Fine Gael party members) that Cowen and cronies are taking a leaf out of Marie Antoinettes book and saying "let them eat cheese".

I personally don't believe that. We all know where that flippant remark left Mrs. Louis XVI, headless and homeless, thats where.

Many are up in arms over the apparently new anti-crisis measure, but it has in fact been in place since 1987. However, the floundering Fianna Fail-ers misguidedly decided to publicize the scheme this year due to their falling popularity with voters.

Irish Minister for Agriculture, Brendan Smith said the aim of the free cheddar was to "contribute to the well-being of the most deprived citizens." The cheese is of Irish origin and the E.U. have funded the scheme to the prize sum of 818,00 euros.

It's seen primarily as a "social measure", but coincidentally results in the reducing of intervention storage costs at E.U. level. So, if you think about it, it's not really the bargain of the Century - 818,000 euros worth of 'free cheese' that nobody wants in return for 6 billion euros worth of public sector cuts.

But never fear, the numerical genius that is our leader and former Minister for Finance has come forth and said:
"The government's budgetary strategy is on course and the cuts could be managed if people recognise that we are half way through the adjustment and will be two-thirds through by next year."

How reassuring. If the fact that Biffo has finally worked out how to use fractions doesn't instill hope in the Irish nation nothing will.

There is another explanation of course. Perhaps we are just a nation of cynics. Perhaps , the Minister for Agriculture is a Rap lover. Urbandictionary.com states that :
Cheese;
Cheddar;
Gouda;
are all ebonic (african-american) slang terms for money. I can just see it now, Brendan Smith (or B-boi as he's known to his 'homies') commenting to a farming constituent "Fo shizzle, that new Massey Ferguson cost some mad cheddar, yo."

Holla

Later pimps

And remember, "them bones, them bones, need calcium. Them bones, them bones, need calcium."

LETTING ONE'S HAIR DOWN

Meaning

Behave in a free or uninhibited manner.

Origin

Letting one's hair down was a commonplace part of women's daily activities in the 17th century. The hair was normally pinned up and was let down for brushing or washing. The term used for this at the time was dishevelling. Anyone who is unkempt and generally untidy might now be described as dishevelled but then it applied specifically to hair which was unpinned.

http://www.phrases.org.uk/meanings/228000.html


I, on the otherhand, have my own theory on the matter. It's quite similar to the above explanation but just takes it a step further. Recently I happened upon a book of fairytales, but not just any book of fairytales, oh no Sir, it was a book of the ORIGINAL fairytales. In this book I found the subject of today's blog, Rapunzel - the truth behind the braids! So, we are all familiar with this poor Princess' faith. Thanks to her mother's strange pregnancy cravings Rapunzel's father had to hand her over to the local witch at birth. If this wasn't bad enough the diabolical dame forced 'Punzi' to live in a tower high above the town and the cheapskate conjurer wouldn't even fork out for a lousy rope ladder. Punzi had to throw her luscious locks out the window and down the turret so that her captor could shimmy up her braids and hop in to 'Me Lady's' chambers (even en medieval times Hop on/Hop off tourism was a hit). Well one day, Prince Charming was a-wandering in the valley and witnesses the witch's ascent up the tower and as is the way in fairytale land, he instantly falls in love with the follicley gifted Princess. So the following eve the dashing young fellow went to the tower and shouted:

"Rapunzel, Rapunzel, Let down your hair."

Well, imagine the shock poor Punzi recieved when this hunky young specimen jumped in the window of her towering turret (quite the fallic symbol for a so-called childrens tale) but she obviously came to terms with the shock quite quickly as the Prince's late night tower trysts became more and more frecuent. O.k. so here is where all similarities between modern day Rapunzel and the real Rapunzel end. The Walt Disney-fied, morally correct Princess lets her relationship with her Royal lothario slip when she stupidly asks the witch :

" Why is it so much easier for the Prince to climb up my hair?"

However, in the original story Rapunzel unwittingly asks the wizened old hag:

"Why are my clothes getting so tight around the middle?"

Yes folks, Princess Rapunzel was a 'baby mama'. As a result of "letting her hair down" Rapunzel had:

A) the presence of a very very unattractive person she couldn't wait to get rid of in her bedroom. (the witch)
OR
B) the presence of a handsome stranger she didn't want to get rid of in her bedroom. (the Prince)

Alas, this handsome stranger brought sad tidings to the Princess. She was booted out of home and left bare foot and pregnant in the enchanted forest. So what is the moral of this story?
In the wise words of Pop Princess Beyonce

"If you like it then you should put a ring on it"

Woah woah woah oooh ooh oh ohoh

PERIWINKLES IN A PICKLE

Seaside species stuck between a rock and a hard place

Of late, I've been pondering on the lost art of periwinklin' (not to be confused with winkle pickers which are in fact pointy-toed male footwear). I don't know how it came about but one day I went for lunch with a friend and the topic came up. In the blink of an eye I was brought back to a regular enough scene in the summer holidays of an Irish child, known locally as 'yung wan'...and no I'm not of asian descent nor aspire to be the next Karate kid...I'm simply a Kerry culchie. In Spain the summer period is usually defined by the three S's -Sun, - Sea, and -Sand, in Ireland we have the three P's -Paper bag (usually white), Pins (safety pins) and Periwinkles. But, Alas, these little gems have fallen by the wayside, or in the case of the poor periwinkles, by the seaside. As a 'yung wan' I wandered the beach with white paper bag in one hand and moderately large safety pin in the other trying to tease out the promised winkle, but things have changed in Irish seaside society. Upcoming 'yung wans' don't have the foggiest when it comes to these meaty molluscs. If I were to ask my younger sibling what a periwinkle was my bets are that her reply would be ..the latest in designer cocktails, a kind of dry martini dressed up with decorative umbrellas, sparkly sugar cubes and the like. So, basically, todays youth don't eat periwinkles. Can you imagine the critter's dismay...a female periwinkle can lay up to 100,000 eggs at a time...this is not good news for periwinkle society...very high birth rate, very low mortality rate. Anywho...
I have always been led to believe that the periwinkle was a purely Irish phenomenon but it turns out I was very wrong. They exist throughout the whole of the North Atlantic Coast i.e. Ireland, Scotland, Northern Spain and Russia. Then I got to thinking...is it possible that Periwinkles have personalities? Does their geographical location have an impact on their development? Have they absorbed some of the charachter traits of their respective lands?

The Irish Periwinkle (Latin name ; Periwinklus Drunkus)
A little green around the edges, not very attractive but full of flavour and charachter. Serve with potatoes. Great for parties.

The Scottish Periwinkle (Latin name ; Perwinklus Braveheartus)
Slightly smaller than your average periwinkle but don't let that fool you, this devilish delicacy packs a punch. Makes a good accompaniment for the Periwinklus Drunkus a.k.a the common Irish Periwinkle.

The Spanish Periwinkle (Latin name ; Periwinklus Iberius)
It has a dark brown shell and a very dramatic flavour. For best results use slow cooking techniques, never be in a rush with this periwinkle. The male meat is always superior to that of the female. Warning : may have aphrodisiac effects if consumed with cheap red wine.

And last but not least..

The Russian Periwinkle (Latin name ; Periwinklus Brutus)
This is by far the largest and most aggressive looking of the periwinkle family. Not very popular outside of the Eastern Bloc and has been rapidly losing popularity within the Bloc since the mid 1980's. No nonsense cooking methods only. Usually eaten raw or in Vodka soup. Important note
Don't store Russian periwinkles with other periwinkle species. They are carnivorous and likely to eat their crustacious comrades.

For further info on the common periwinkle please see

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Common_periwinkle

MURDERLY LOVE

Mother left in car park as couple head off to France

"A couple alerted police at one of Britain's busiest ports after accidentally leaving their elderly mother behind in a car park at Dover while taking a ferry trip to France. The pair made an urgent call to the Port of Dover Police after discovering mid-way across the Channel that their relative was still sitting in the vehicle in the multi-storey car park."

Full article =

http://www.independent.ie/world-news/europe/mother-left-in-car-park-as-couple-head-off-to-france-2137419.html

This is clearly a case of murder the in laws. Mummikins is being a grade A pain in the ass all the way to Dover and the couple used the age old threat of "Don't make me stop this car young..I mean ...old lady." This was blatantly a rookies error. Those of you with any semblance of wit or self preservation would have guessed by the foot long furrows on this dames face she was probably the genius who invented this parental gem. Anyway, dear mummy-in-law decides that her not so new daughter-in-law is getting way too big for the fake designer boots that HER son had bought for her and calls their bluff.

Now, imagine the scene.....

Dover Port dolesome, dreary and drizzling.

Harried mothers dragging red-nosed children in anoraks eating ice-cream, whilst trying to clean their runny noses on the shoulder of aforementioned anoraks.

Three tense figures in a nearly new navy blue ford escort. A stale yellow air freshner in the shape of a pine tree hanging from the rear view mirror in which the fearsome mother-in-law is glaring into with rage.

Firstly, she has been relegated to the back seat. Her place, as the head of the family, is in the front with her son. Secondly, who wants to go to France. It's full of frogs and french things. She's never really trusted the french you see. Not even during the war. They're all so 'arty farty' which is just the french for being too lazy and hedonistic to get a job or abide by the rules of common decency. In England even the unemployed men had more respectable pursuits i.e. meeting the 'boys' for a few pints down at the 'Dog and Goat', playing darts and putting money on the horses down at the bookies.

Now; cut to the wife...a straight from the bottle red head, wearing a fuschia pink tracksuit top which clashes brilliantly with the magenta lipstick she is applying in the left wing mirror in an effort not to turn around and slap the old hag behind her. Little does she know that she will be exactly like her in about 10-12 years time.

Lo and behold the man himself. In the driver's seat, white knuckled hands wringing the steering wheel in an attempt not to scream at the two battleaxes which were more than likely the cause of his premature hairloss. God he wanted a fag, but since both of them had forced him to give up 5 years previous, even that simple pleasure was lost to him. From the corner of his eye he sees his wife's head jerking strangely and interprets this as a 'get out of the car, I want to scream at you for a moment' gesture.

They get out of the car and she lets off some choice words which he doubts even some of the sailors coming into port are familiar with.

"Come on lovey, she's just an old lady, she has no-one except us. She'll come around. I promise. Lets go grab a quick cuppa and you'll be right as rain again."

Wife's face turns a startling shade of purple and her gestures become more frenzied and violent.

Husband gently nudges her towards the tea vending machine next to the embarking area of the now infamous ferry to France. Husband inserts the necessary coins and watches listlessly as the dirt coloured liquid is poured into the squeaky polystyrene cups.

Wifey needs the bathroom. She makes her way over to the public toilets only to find a substantial queue. Then she spots the ferry toilets. Yes, genius, she'll use those ones. She enters the cubicle, bloody door doesn't shut properly, typical! She shouts over a group of cold and confused foreigners, to her oaf of a husband and tells him to get on the boat and hold the door shut while she pees and adds to her already impressive amount of make-up.

Husband tries to hurry her up a little. She refuses. This continues for 15mins. Finally, she exits the toilet in a cloud of chokingly cheap perfume, just in time to see the crowd of cold and confused foreigners get smaller and smaller, seemingly by magic.