Greenery and Impotence

Awoken by a dog barking outside and a fly buzzing in my ear. Not the worst way I’ve ever been woken up but fairly up there. Staggered out of the early morning oven my room had become and headed downstairs. Managed to get half a glass of water into me before I was roped into more agricultural work. Which a lifetime of living in the country has led me to despise. Slapped on some sunblock (rich with second hand sand) and spent an hour or so cutting down a few trees. Then it was time to sacrifice this morning’s and yesterday’s spoils to the every hungry god of the recycling plant. The first load (ooh err matron) wasn’t too bad, despite the car being so full that a sudden stop would have led to a fairly rough decapitation, it was mostly just one big tree. Back home and a bit more cutting followed by the second trip to the recycling centre. Here is where disaster struck.

Due to our victories in the war against the green the boot was packed too full to close. Science was the answer, science in the form of a few bungee cords to hold it closed. It truly is a new millennium. Anyhow, we got to the recycling centre and pulled up ready to unload (saucy). I was standing at the side of the car, pulling on my gloves, minding my own business, when something hard and travelling at a velocity that I can only describe as “unfortunate” collided with my delicate man-meats. As I doubled over in pain my mother doubled over in laughter. It seems that when she was disconnecting the bungee cords one had flown off and collided with her best chance of a perfect grandchild. I tried not to puke as she tried and failed to apologise through the laughter.

After that the third and final load was something of a blur. I had been planning to whinge about how I managed to get bitten on the head again (despite never taking off my fucking hat) but that pales in comparison to the testicular trauma mentioned above. But I’ve mentioned it anyway because I wanted to compare my twin mounds to Ms Eleniak’s (the only reason anyone watched Under Siege) and I couldn’t live with myself if I let a sweet 90’s reference like that go to waste. It was still stinging when after the third load we ventured into the metropolis of Dundalk. Dundalk is actually surprisingly even more depressing in the sun, full of the scantily clad and shittily tanned sporting even shittier tattoos. It is not a place for the beautiful people. Nipping into Dunnes for some supplies was even more depressing, some stellar child rearing on display.

I was still feeling rather sorry for myself as we headed down the Quay to trade custard creams and a wonky fan for a cylinder of gas. As I slowly cooked in the car and my mother chatted to hers I heard the siren call of the ice cream man. Not just any old ice cream man at that, no sir, Charlie’s ice cream van. I’m not shitting you, and I use no exaggeration, when I say that Charlie’s homemade ice cream is the nicest ice cream I’ve ever eaten. Went the whole hog, flake and a bit of the auld red sauce. Finally felt myself returning to something akin to human. Now I’m finally home, with the feet up and sipping a capri-sun (orange of course, I’m a gentleman). I’ve come to terms.

Vent your spleen

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