Friday Night Fever

Alas, another week has passed by.  For me, yet another largely uneventful and very sedentary, boring week. I was hoping to get a lot of things done this week. Like most men, I have a number of outstanding jobs on the go in and around the house, and a home improvement to-do list as long as my arm. Jobs on this list include replacing bulbs, painting, chimney cleaning, septic tank de-sludging, radiator bleeding, cat worming, timber chopping, repairing rickety furniture etc. My own particular list also reads: build another shed, lay kerbs and driveway, power wash house and footpaths etc, so no shortage of work there. And, seeing as I'm a (stereo) typical man, there is nothing I love more than pricking around with power tools.

But, regrettably, all that sawing, drilling, assembling, brushing, grinding, cutting, polishing and re-calibrating has once again been put on hiatus. My overalls, mask, gloves, goggles and steel toe capped boots will all have to be moth-balled for at least another fortnight. But what hurts the most, the one thing that cuts deeper than anything, the single most crushing blow, is that I wont get a chance to debut my brand new Super-Handy Mega Utilitarian Tool & Accessory Belt I got off santy for Christmas. I mean, come on. Who doesn't want to look like Batman when they're hanging a door or changing a fuse.

From information I've pieced together from my almost non-existent knowledge of human anatomy, bits I've picked up from reading magazines in the doctors waiting room, and things I've overhead in the que at the post office, I've came to this conclusion in its simplest terms:

Here is some medicine to clear up your chest infection.
This medicine will cure your chest infection, but will obliterate your immune system.
This will cause you to develop and even worse infection in your sinuses a few days later.
Here is some more medication to clear up your sinus infection.
Repeat step 2 and prepare to be indefinitely miserable.

On Friday evening last, I was going about my business as usual, feeling thankful for finally starting to feel better after the past 15 days of malaise. I felt a routine sneeze coming on. No problems I thought, just a sneeze. The sneeze mechanism slowly wound itself up and came out. Ah-choo!!. I really wasn't expecting this everyday bodily function to be accompanied by a blast of agonising pain to the top of my head, comparable to being hit with a sledgehammer. I saw a flash of blue light, my eyes rolled back and I almost blacked out. Wow, that was one bad-ass sneeze.

I thought nothing more of it until the next morning. I awoke, turned around to wish Mrs. Byrne a good day when all I heard was "ARRRRRAAAGHHHRRH"!!!!.
What, what, what is it I said?
When she didn't answer I knew something was wrong. Silence speaks a thousand words.

Now, have you ever wondered what the lovechild of Kim Jong Un and Minnie Driver would look like, after he got battered black and blue by Wladimir Klitschko for a full hour? That's as close as a description I can up with of what I saw when I looked in the mirror. A big swollen pumpkin head. By this time the jackhammer-esque headache had returned. I started to get really concerned when I noticed the skin lesions and a rash forming..

Well ain't that just grand. As I'm not too keen on the idea of contracting meningitis or anaphylactic shock I had no choice but to call on the excellent out of hours G.P service we are very lucky to have in the next town over. Very easy process, I gave a few details and was told to call over immediately. Similar to a fondness for power tools, like most men, I'm a pathological gobshite when it comes to doctors or hospitals, so when a medical professional uses words like "immediately", it has a tendency to exasperate one's unnecessary anxiety.

As we sped towards the doctors office I was planning what to say if I met anyone I knew. I would explain that I didn't walk into a door, I wasn't a victim of  brutal domestic violence, and I didn't fall into a manhole or over the Abbey wall when pissed. ( I haven't done that last one since the summer of '96.. Ah, the good old days...). So I would have to come clean I tell them I was riddled with something highly contagious, at which point they'd hand me a mask, a bell, and then run away in the opposite direction screaming hysterically and waving their arms in the air.

I entered the doctors office to a variety of stares. I just wanted to get in and hide under a chair until it was time to be seen. I was called within two minutes, and when I went in the doctor had his back to me while he finished off typing something on his laptop. He told me to sit down and he'd be right with me. When he finished typing and turned around to talk to me, I was expecting a sympathetic look, a little smile, and maybe a few words of reassurance. Something along the lines of:

Hi Dave, that looks nasty, but don't worry we'll get you fixed up in no time.

His expression didn't fill me with confidence..

Instead, his face dropped, his eyes widened, and he gasped. Rather than the encouraging look I was hoping for his demeanor screamed:

WHOA, JESUS FUCKING CHRIST WHAT THE FUUUUCCCK IS THAT!!!!  

Thoughts of being put in a cage and being rolled out at the circus raced through my mind.
" See the amazing singing culchie hamster-man. His face looks like the moon"

After the initial shock wore off, we settled down to business. Following assessment it was determined that I was wasn't in any immediate danger, just unlucky to have gotten two good doses one directly following another. After the prescription was written up, he offered me some tips on boosting my immune system. Plenty of fresh fruit and veg, fluids and rest. And if I ran out of  kale suppositories not to worry, just peel a kiwi and stick it up there.

I returned home, crawled into bed, tried not to laugh, cough, sneeze or move my eyes. I was happy I wasn't sent to a travelling freak show in Bolivia this time.

I am pleased to report that today, I've downgraded the swelling from catastrophic shellfish allergy to a mere David Coulthard. So, things are going in the right direction.

The Serious Bit:

We are very fortunate to have a service like NowDoc on our doorstep. A very fast, very professional and efficient service. Its great to have the piece of mind that the service is available for real emergencies.

See yiz all next week

Your health is your wealth, your sanity, your everything.

Aside from the odd sniffle, ache or sinus blockage, I rarely get ill. Thankfully, I’ve never been seriously ill. I rarely have cause to look for sympathy, but if I did, I’d swiftly remind myself that I’m from a small town in the west of Ireland, and sympathy, sensitivity and empathy are not widely practiced here, so it’s completely pointless to even try. Unless you are officially terminally ill, have lost a limb or missing an organ or two, all you can expect to get is abuse. Everyone becomes an expert. If I was to follow the advice given to me by several of my so called friends over the last 10 days, I suspect I would be well beyond the reach of home care by now, and would have been admitted to hospital some time ago. Typically, and unsurprisingly, one of the stalwart Irish stereotypical suggestions I received was:

“A few hot ones will sort ya out”

No, no they won’t.

Regardless of what time of the year it is, whatever the weather, whatever type of aliment you may have, there is always a dose going around. Always.

“I’m not feeling well”....”yeah there’s a bad auld dose going”

There is never not a dose going around.

It’s early January, 2017. The sooner this persistent and very resilient bout of respiratory contagion has expired and my medically enforced house arrest has been lifted the better. True, there are times when I would love the luxury of having a few whole days of nothing to do and be free to kick back and relax at home, but when you have to ingest a cocktail of extremely strong pills which actually make you vomit before they start working, drink gallon after gallon of water and thin broth, then subsequently having to urinate every five minutes, try and force yourself to eat when you can't, continuously try to adjust your internal chronometer to adapt your system to being totally wired at four o clock in the morning, then practically unconscious by lunchtime, spending time at home soon becomes an arduous task. It’s not so much fun when you can’t enjoy a nice bottle of red and a side of baby back ribs or a fillet steak.

Creature comforts such as a hot shower, a full larder and fridge, television, an extensive DVD and book collection, many guitars, amplifiers, effects, wireless internet, an open fire and soft furnishings which I normally would never take for granted are becoming mundane and uninteresting, and serve to add to the tedium. If I watch any more television I will start to lose all cognitive brain function, and my synapses will collapse. If I read any more books my eyeballs will liquefy. If I count the number of squares on the sofa upholstery again I'll have to be sectioned. The fire is being a pain in the arse and I think I’ll just burn all the guitars for something to do.

As from today, I officially know everything there is to know about the mating rituals of the Burmese clouded leopard, how to re-bore a cylinder head from a 1982 Ford Fiesta, make the perfect beef Wellington, abandoned Soviet missile silos, male and female wannabe non-celebrities plastered with fake tan and makeup pretending they can dance on a stupid show, honey badgers, gyroscopes, solar flares, craft beer making, the Botfly, topical jungle medicine, keyhole surgery, money laundering, composting toilets, floating raft foundations, the Panama canal, people who never met each other getting married, teenage moms, the man with 37 wives and last but not least, Margaret Thatcher's secret henchmen.

Tomorrow morning, I’m expecting a small package from An Post AND a delivery from a courier simultaneously!! I can’t say I’ve ever been excited about seeing the postman before, and my normal interaction with the courier is a long winded argument about how he knows full well where my house is but just can’t be arsed to deliver the item because it’s a few minutes out of his way, but I can barely contain my glee! If he does make it the house I'll drag him in for tea and make him watch a really long film with me. Schindler's list, Titanic or Ben Hur, something like that, even though my eyes will be burnt out of my head. I’m also very much looking forward to loading the dishwasher and folding towels. That’s how boring it can get. If I ever thought about becoming a professional criminal this has put me right off, as I know now I could never do prison.




On a serious note, these few days have given me a lot of time to think. This is only a temporary situation and I’m expecting my exile to end within another week, and I fully realise and appreciate what those who may be battling a serious illness, convalescing from surgery, receiving palliative care, or suffering from severe depression or anxiety have to face on a day to day basis.

I know I will be able to get back in the car in a few days and do the normal, routine, monotonous, everyday rat-racing that we all whinge about from time to time. But compared to what so many other poor people have to endure, the rat race is glorious, the routine is a blessing and being fit and healthy enough to deal with all life’s challenges, setbacks and assholes is a privilege.

Life is all too brief. Don’t put anything off. Be nice to others but be true to yourself. Don’t allow yourself be judged. Don’t be a walkover but don’t be an asshole. You’re only human. If you think someone needs help then they probably do. Ask them. Don’t wait for someone else to do it. If someone asks you an awkward question answer them honestly. They wouldn’t have asked if they didn’t want to hear the answer truthfully. 

Till next time...Adios!!

Shin Splints and Skin Grafts: The Story Of Trolley Malone

HELL: A place regarded in various religions as a spiritual realm of evil and suffering, often traditionally depicted as a place of perpetual fire beneath the earth where the wicked are punished after death.

Well at least that's the official dictionary definition. If, like me, you are one of the six billion-ish carbon based sentient forms that inhabit this big watery rock we call home, then you will be all too familiar with the rigmarole and commotion surrounding the compulsory practice of grocery purchasing. Allow me to outline my definition of the word hell.

HELL: An enclosed area of several thousand square feet where within the exchange of legal currency for food items and related sundries takes place. Often depicted as a place of perpetual assholes and gossipy auld women. A safe haven for shifty looking alcoholics and petty criminals. A place where the good people are punished while they are still alive.

Catchy slogans such as 'Every little helps', 'Always better value', 'Real food, real people' , 'Save money, Live better', 'Where quality is cheaper' etc, can be very contradictory and misleading to the untrained non-veterans out there. My personal favorite is 'Spend a little, live a lot', which is a blatant lie, as in most cases the complete opposite happens.

Statistically, you are ten times more likely to be killed in a huge chain supermarket than anywhere else on earth. Deaths arising from burnings, scaldings, being locked in a freezer, being killed by rudeness or being trampled on have increased steadily over the last decade. We even saw a case last year where a County Galway man lost his life following a blow to the head by a fellow shopper with a box containing a cordless drill and bench grinder set. As there was limited availability on these items, frenzy ensued when the two men rushed to buy as many as possible before they sold out, despite having camped outside the shop together the night before and becoming friends. In a statement the convicted man's wife said: "He had to have that drill and grinder set at all costs. He didn't even need the fucking thing, but that didn't matter. Now it sits in our garage with that compressor and 6 socket sets that he picked up last month and didn’t need either".

But unsurprisingly, the highest percentage by far of all retail related fatalities recorded were caused by dying of old age while queing at one of the 37 checkouts.

There are 2 main strategies one can employ when pondering a trip to hell, if you absolutely have to:
1. Go once a week, buy everything you need for a whole week all at once as quick as you can, then get out as quick as you can.
2. Go every day, buy exactly what you need for the day, no more or no less, as quick as you can, then get out as quick as you can.

Option number one is not for the faint-hearted as it requires remarkable stamina and exceptionally comfortable shoes. I always go for option number two. I did attempt option one on a single occasion in the past, but needed comprehensive psychotherapy and counselling afterwards. I still have the nightmares but they are less frequent.

I am aware that there are certain people who actually enjoy shopping. They see it as an outlet for stress and an opportunity for social interaction. A chance to catch up on the latest juicy rumours and character assassinations. You people are sick, sick bastards and need help. Better still, you need to be brought out the back and shot.

On Wednesday morning last, in a cruel twist of fate I discovered that I had to select option number one on that particular day, as we had guests coming to stay for the weekend. A “big shop” was required. Fuck it anyway. I did consider not feeding them at all but thought better of it, as I believe there are certain E.U laws in place that prohibit you from allowing your relatives to starve to death.

I believe in forward planning and leaving nothing to chance, and I always have a plan B. To make sure there is always an alternative. To never attempt to purchase something that might not exist, and to always stick with the old reliables. I don’t believe in buying pretentious fancy shit that you cannot pronounce. This would ensure I didn’t have to spend an extra second more there than I had too. This is difficult however, as today’s consumers are faced with a barrage of newfangled alternatives. Things you would never have thought edible are now a reality, thanks in part to the addition of massive amounts of sugar, fat and colouring. It doesn’t matter if it once had a tail and gills and was butchered by a fella with no legs and one eye in Somalia 7 months ago. It’s now vac-packed and in your shopping basket stamped “FRESH”. Having conceded that buying some of these items was unavoidable, I sat down to compile my shopping list:

- Kellogg’s Breakfast Shavings
- 14 litres of milk
- Rotisserie Goat 
- Tin of Campbell's Condensed Cream of Gelatine soup
- A pallet of rashers 
- 20,000 sausages
- Oven-ready thrush wrapped in a blackbird wrapped in a swan wrapped in an albatross
- Boned, rolled and stuffed something-or-other 
- Brennan's today's bread yesterday
- Various cheese products
- Pack of Bbq Flavoured E numbers 
- 27 bags of Non- Irish Potatoes
- Large pack of Alka-Seltzer 
- 43 cans of Harp
- A 25 pack of paint brushes, safety boots, a step ladder and a trolley jack.. Very important

As noon approaches, I pull into the 7 acre car park. Luckily despite being busy, there are still a few spaces left, but nowhere near the actual store itself. There are a number of designated spaces for disabled drivers only, and a few for families with young children close to the front door. But they have been occupied today, like every other day, not by people who genuinely need them, but by the same useless, bone- idle, lay-about, no good low- life spongers, who’ve never done a day’s work in their pathetic, miserable lives and are too fucking lazy to walk to the door....

Ooops...Did I say that out loud?

GOOD!!!! Bastards. I’ll get ye one day.

As my violent rage subsides I enter the Hyper-market. Immediately my senses are overloaded, and not in a good way. There are sample stands everywhere. Why did I pick world-wide sample stand day to go shopping. Shame on me. Vendors ply their wares like a pride of lions circling:

“Here, eat this, spray this on yourself, apply this, drink this, insert this inside you. Can you get hint of rosemary? Your wrinkles are disappearing! Do you feel confident and fresh downstairs?”

Time to expedite. I attempt to grab a trolley but I am bet to it by some auld buck carrying a live calf on his back. Eventually I manage to secure another, and make my way down what seems like an endless aisle. Once again my senses are in overdrive and I am being dazzled by huge bright neon signs and arrows, reminding me that you have an obligation to buy a yard of custard creams because the shop is selling them at less than cost price in an attempt to obliterate the competition. They don’t care about family run businesses or small to medium traders. We are just numbers to them. Subjects in their overall domination of earth.

I manage to secure most of the items I came in for, but need assistance in finding the last one, chilli flavoured toilet tissue, so I ask an employee for help. Instead of a smile and a happy hello, I am greeted with no eye contact, a grunt and a point.

It is at this point I was glad I had worn my homemade shin protectors, fashioned from an old orange crate. At first I didn’t see her coming. It wasn’t until her trolley ploughs into my legs and sends me into a 360 degree spin that I realised what had happened. Before I knew what hit me I was down flat out surrounded by a hairbrush and nail clipper stand I had pulled along with me. The auld woman had disappeared into the fruit and veg section, and proceeded to start sampling all the grapes.

That’s it. I’m outta here. I’ve had enough.

The checkouts were in sight. I pull myself up off the floor, shake off all the shit that had fell on top of me and make a dash for it. But it’s too late. A young couple and 4 children just get there before me. The parents are dressed in what look like hospital gowns made out of grass with willow shoes to match. Neither of them look like they’ve had a wash since they were 6 years old, and the body odour and matted dreadlocks confirms this. The children are dressed in floral patterned 1970’s cushion covers from the charity shop. They are particularly hyperactive and engage in pulling all the confectionery displays all over the floor, screaming and shouting, and banging saucepans together which can be bought for only €12.99 with 500 tokens. Meanwhile, the parents are laughing heartedly and reveling in this. To the credit of the cashier at the checkout, she politely asks the parents to try and keep a bit of control on the children as they were beginning to cause a bit of a racket. She realises that everything is far too P.C nowadays, and you can’t give someone else’s child a kick in the hole anymore like the good old days. The hippie mother then launches into an attack on our poor cashier, calling her every name under the sun, making light of her obesity problem (I sympathise) saying that her children are merely expressing themselves, and are free to roam and do whatever the fuck they like. I think about taking the matter into my own hands and giving the father a kick up the arse, but thankfully the manager has arrived and has tried to diffuse the situation. Finally the situation calms down, and the family leave with their purchases, walk out to their 1989 Hi-Ace van parked in the disabled spot and drive away leaving behind them a screen of oily blue smoke and bits of engine.

Weary, tired and frazzled, I carry out the payment procedure for my items as quick as possible. Then I also leave, get in my car, take 6 paracetamol and start to weep.

I was glad the ordeal had ended. But part of me knew this hadn’t been the worst trip to the shop ever, but that Christmas wasn’t far away, and that would be an entire different story, for another day.

Pints & hugs,

Dave xxx

All Pain, No Gain

Being an extremely light sleeper, the slightest of sounds will wake me up. If a spider in the bedroom downstairs at the other end of the house even thought about farting, I will awaken.
Despite this, I find the sound of heavy rain battering against the Velux window of my bedroom quite relaxing when drifting off to sleep. Under normal circumstances, driving rain and wind colliding with the front of the house means nothing more than bad weather, and the prospect of another shitty day in our emerald isle. Being Irish, I was born with an instinctive understanding and acceptance of the fact that the weather will be shite in Ireland for eternity, so I’m pretty used to it at this stage.

However, things are far from normal today. Today isn’t your common or garden Monday. Today really is the day. The clock radio I bought second-hand at a jumble sale 14 years ago chimes into life and ruptures my blissful tranqulity with a shriek of high pitched pulses or squeaks " Hawh hawh hawh hawh hawh hawh hawh hawh hawh” in unison with some happy-sounding bollocks reading out the weather forecast I already know. In the second and a half immediately after I awake I automatically think it’s just a regular day. Nothing to worry about here. All is cool. Closed eyed and still dribbling, I reach over to activate the clock’s snooze function. The bright red button is still intact and operational despite years of the clock being bounced off the wall on a winter’s morning, a true testament to the durability of injection moulded plastic, and Chinese child labour. However, the gravity of the situation soon dawns on me when my brain starts to work, reminding me that an extra snooze is not an option today. Instead I lie awake contemplating the mammoth task that lies ahead of me. Knowing that I may fail, like I have done so many times before, thinking about how horrible and uncomfortable I’m going to feel every single day for at least the the next 5 years. Understanding that this is the start of a very, very long term commitment.

Yes. Today is the day I start my exercise regime. Again.

Being a man of considerably ample carriage with as much interest in physical activity or sports as a dose of rickets, I am genuinely terrified of what awaits me, out there, in that big cold wet world. I suffer not from any genetic or hereditary condition, but rather a self-inflicted disorder known as Cantwalkpastapuborrestaurantitis. I try hard to rationalise the situation, and begin thinking up of any excuses I could use for myself. Maybe I could throw myself off the landing and make it look like an accident? Perhaps drink that stuff in the orange bottle that’s stored under the sink in the bathroom? Or hit myself repeatedly over the head with the bedside lamp? I decide against these proposals as all would undoubtedly result in  catastrophic injury....
But then all of a sudden: “hawh hawh hawh hawh hawh hawh hawh... Snoozy time was up. Except this time the alarm’s cries produce a sound like " Hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee”.
Anxiety then gave way to full blown paranoia. That was it. The fucking clock was laughing at me.

Having dragged myself out of bed and downstairs, I set about preparing my breakfast. The kitchen radio is emitting some kind of horrible throbbing racket known as chart music. From what I can make out, the noise is supposed to be a song containing a sample of The Jackson 5's ABC. This tripe quickly angered me, so I removed the radio and placed it in a drawer. I'd rather listen to paint dry than endure modern pop music. Jesus Christ almighty.

Tito Jackson would be spinning in his grave. If he was dead.

I tentatively roll up the window blind hoping against hope that the weather had alleviated somewhat. It had not. As the minutes roll by I am beginning to remember to my horror more and more about this new active lifestyle that I have reluctantly agreed to (Doctors know when you’re lying, by the way), and that dieting was also a major part of it. My alleged sustenance this morning would consist of what can only be described as a portion of grilled cardboard topped with baby vomit, followed by a thimble full of used cat litter and dehydrated geraniums all washed down with a gallon of boiling water. Yum. I couldn’t wait for lunch. What will it be today? Probably wasn't going to be a big aul juicy shhteak and a lock o' pints. More like a steamed brick wrapped in kale accompanied by half a lick of an OXO cube. I look forward to tucking into that later while watching a drama series about a hardened Women’s prison in Australia.

Always Women, always Australia. Never a cushy detention centre for passive Swiss tax evaders.

25 minutes pass. Back upstairs, I consider eating my tooth brush. Surely it has more nutritional value than what I’ve just forced down at the breakfast table. After completing my morning ablutions, I sombrely make my way to the wardrobe to try on my new sports gear. If you are built like me with a long back and really short legs, nothing in this world will fit you straight off the peg. I don’t think I would feel comfortable going out power walking in a dress, not withstanding the fact it would be extremely liberating and airy, but it may attract a bit of unwanted attention from the Gardai. 
So, I settle for trackies and a T -shirt. Its very hard to find a really long T-shirt and really short trackies, so instead I make do with what I’ve got, not the best solution in the world but at least I’m now relatively decent. As I descend the staircase my attention is drawn to a window once again. The rain has stopped. But now there are hailstones falling. Not regular hailstones.
Super-dooper hailstones.
Genetically modified hailstones. 
Teenage mutant ninja hailstones. 
Chernobyl hailstones.

I walk to the front door, unlock it and open it slowly. I cautiously attempt to make my exit. I only have enough time to expose the tip of my nose and one cheek when BANG!! Mother nature greets me with her full arsenal. Freezing cold, unidirectional hailstones travelling at 150 MPH pound the side of my head. Like being hit in the face with a box of Bachelors Marrowfat Peas.... Before they have been soaked overnight.

With a deep breath, I step forth into the misery. Not knowing if I will ever return again...!!

Peace out.

The Selfie

So, here we are. The year 2016. And due to enormous peer pressure I have finally relented and created a blog. A weekly journal of my own thoughts, observations, musings and general scepticism. It is not intended to deliberately offend anybody, but it most definitely will. My hands are tied. Please enjoy.

If you don't like it or if you are one of these modern day, hyper-sensitive, hipstery, metro-sexual, craft beer, quiona salad types then you know where the door is. However, if you happen to fit the description above and would still like to read on regardless, then you are most welcome.

My oh my how things have changed in the last 20 years. Where did all those years go? I hear you lament. Well, the years have gone, and that's just that. We can do sod all about it. Tough. Life is hard. Get used to it. Time waits for no man. Although some women seem to think it might.

Drinking whale placenta, injecting oneself with corrosive chemicals, applying solutions and poultices made from moss and bits of trees to one's face, and exposing oneself to hour after hour of artificial sunlight despite the huge risk of developing terminal cancer or being burned to death slowly from the inside out are just some of the extreme measures the modern lady will take in the name of vanity and in a futile, desperate, hopeless attempt to not only slow down the ageing process, but actually reverse it. Once these tasks are complete, it is customary for the lady to share her new look with the entire world. Once the concrete has set, of course.

Which brings me to the Selfie.
A craze which is sweeping the world in recent times. When I was a fresh-faced 17 year old and started to take an interest in girls, booze, cigarettes, snack boxes and general jigery-pokery, and long before the weight of this world crushed my spirit and exuberance, I had what was known as a 35mm camera. In those days taking a snap was a bit of an ordeal. You first had to load the film, wind it on carefully, then you had only 26 exposures to last all night. (A film cost 5 pounds, nobody could afford 2 films!) Then, if you were pissed, you'd say a little prayer and hope that you didn't load the film arseways and destroy 26 fabulous memories of a great night out. Then on Monday, I'd take my film to the local jewellers shop to be developed, where I then had to wait an entire week for my pictures to be returned, that is, if I didn't fuck up the film in the first place.

Apologies, I digress. Back to the selfie.
Given the huge advancements in techology and the availability of the internet to all nowadays, we can safely say there is no such thing as privacy anymore. You can't piss crooked these days without being photographed or recorded. This doesn't seem to phase the younger generation however. In fact, most embrace it. They don't seem to care if a picture of them asleep on the toilet or eating chips straight off the road pops up on social media. And when there's nobody else around to document your embarrassment, why not do it yourself! Or, after a long session of shaving off perfectly good eyebrows and replacing them with exclamation marks painted on at right angles a half an inch away from where they should be, its only right and proper to take a picture of yourself and let everybody see it. Instantly. Then sit back and wait for the likes and comments to roll in: u luk fab hun ...swit swoo... omg wtf u bg rde...etc etc.
And in the unlikely event of your ego not being sufficiently massaged, you can purchase a selfie stick. A telescopic pole that balances your smartphone atop, which also doubles as an extension of your amour-propre. This device is particularly useful if you have overdone it on the poly-filler, or have injected too much goose fat into your lips. It provides a distance prospective, and will make you look less like a constipated trout when you pull that silly pouting face.

Back in my day, we smiled at the camera....

See you next week.