Head Rambles

Grandad February 26th, 2008

There seems to be a lot of interest in The Book.

I call it The Book, because it doesn’t actually have a title yet.

So far, I have done written interviews for Damien Mulley, and the Evening Herald.  I believe Declan Burke is going to mention it this evening on The Last Word on TodayFM.  There is also supposed to be an article in next Friday’s Irish Daily Mail, by Sinéad Gleeson.  It also got a mention in this months edition of PCLive.

I am very grateful to all the above and I am very flattered.

My problem is that really I don’t know what I’m talking about.

I was originally approached by Mercier Press, last year and was asked if I would like to write a book.  I had never written one before and had never considered it.  It was a bit daunting.

The original idea was to do a compendium of posts – a sort of "Best of Head Rambles".  But by the time I had weeded out the too topical, the insane, the libelous and the blasphemous, I was left with about two pages.  I think Mercier expected a bit more than that?

So the idea of the novel was born.  And a novel is a different thing altogether from writing a blog.  A novel requires characters, plots, a start, middle and an end.  It requires a storyline, and all of this has to be worked out in advance.

Now comes the really tricky bit..  People are asking questions about the novel. 

They are asking what it is called.  I don’t know that yet.  I have a few ideas, but I have to discuss them with the publisher first. 

They are asking what type of novel it is.  That is a tricky one.  I would like to think it is humorous.  It isn’t a thriller because there are only a few explosions in it.  It isn’t a murder mystery, though there are a few deaths, and a murder trial.  It isn’t a romance, though there is a bit of romance in it.  I don’t really know how to describe it.  But then how would you describe this blog?

They are asking when the book will be published.  I don’t know.  It depends on when I get the first draft done.  It is 90% there, but that last 10% could be the rock that I perish on.

What is the book about?  It’s about me.  Grandad.  Herself and Sandy are in it too.  If I said it was about life in the village, that would sound boring.  I hope it’s not boring.  A lot of strange things go on in this weird world I inhabit, as any regular reader of this will know.

On a positive note, Herself asked me to read her the first couple of chapters.  When I stopped reading, she pleaded with me to continue.  She hounded me night after night to read her more.  So either she is a crap judge of literature [but she hates Cecelia Ahern?] or she’s a masochist.  She certainly isn’t listening just for my dulcet voice, or to flatter me.  Herself doesn’t believe in flattery.

Suggestions for a book title on a postcard please.

• The Book
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Grandad February 25th, 2008

Sandy and I were out the other day.  We went for a walk, and then decided to stop off for a coffee and a smoke.  Sandy doesn’t smoke but she enjoys her cappuccino [no sugar].

I like to think of this as our little bit of quality time.

Me: Well?  Did you enjoy that walk?

Sandy: It was all right.  I would have preferred it if you had let me off the lead.  I find it very irritating when you pull me when I’m having a dump.

Me: sorry about that.  I didn’t realise…

Sandy: The arched back, the tail in the air and the look on my face didn’t give you a clue?

Me: I said I’m sorry.

Sandy: Can I drive on the way back?

Me: I suppose so.  But try to keep to the speed limits this time.

Sandy: But I like seeing the faces on other drivers when I overtake them.

Me: You’ll get me into trouble one of these days.

Sandy: You are so anal about these things.  Loosen up.

Me: what are you doing?

Sandy: Trying to attract that woman’s attention.  I need a nap, and you need someone to talk to.

Me: Stop messing.

Sandy: It’s working.  She’s coming over.

Woman: Oh,what a beautiful dog.  You look so intelligent.  What’s your name, Diddums?

Sandy: Woof.

• Rambles
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Grandad February 24th, 2008

For the first time ever, I took part in a phone-vote last night.

I hate phone-votes, because they have led to a cheap, tacky format of television programming.  I won’t watch any program that involves a public vote, including all those horrendous ‘celebrity house’ type fiascos and those ‘you’re a star’ cattle markets.

But last night was different.  Because for the first time, I was effectively voting against that very kind of programme.

I remember watching Butch Moore singing “Walking the streets in the rain” back in 1965.  The good old days of black and white!  I watched it in a neighbours house because my mother wouldn’t have a television in the house.  Ireland came sixth, which wasn’t bad for a first entry.

In the early days of the Eurovision, it was a song contest.  There was a resident orchestra, which meant that it was a very level playing pitch.  Gimmicks weren’t allowed.  The song stood on its lyrics and the music.

Now, it’s a fiasco.  It’s a stage event.  The “songs” take back stage to the visual gimmickry  and flashy production.  There are semi-naked dancers and pyrotechnics which have nothing whatsoever to do with singing.

Personally, I couldn’t give a shite.  It’s only a television programme, when all is said and done.

Last night, I watched five contestants offering up their usual bland [sorry, lads and lasses] crap that wouldn’t stand a snowball’s chance of winning.  And I watch Dustin.

Ireland’s contestant in Eurovision 2009.

Dustin is the perfect send-up of what the Eurovision has become.  If they want to play silly-buggers, then we will show them how it should be done.

Musically, Dustin is crap [despite having loads of hit singles and albums under his belt/feathers].  The lyrics are a send-up of the song contest itself.  Visually it is car crash television.  It is perfect!  He is the ultimate two fingers to the whole of Europe.

I think Dustin has a good chance of winning.  They won’t know what hit them.  They are going to have to vote for a turkey that is demanding that they give Ireland ‘douze pointe’.

I have only two things to say….

Don’t mess with the Irish!

G’wan ya good thing!

• Television
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Grandad February 23rd, 2008

I have found a new tactic for dealing with cold callers.

I got tired of asking them for proof of identity.

Voice: Am I speaking to Grandad?

Me: You are.

Voice: Hello.  I’m from TalkTalk.

Me: Fuck off.

Voice: Pardon?

Me: I don’t like cold callers.  Fuck off.

Voice: But I can save you lots of money.

Me: Go away.

Voice: Do you not want to save lots of money?

Me: No.  I love wasting money.

Voice [sounding surprised]: You like wasting money?

Me: Yes. I hate the stuff.  I can’t get rid of it fast enough.  It took me a long time to find the most expensive phone company and I’m not changing now.

Voice: Are you serious?

Me: Absolutely.  I keep selling my things so I can burn the cash in the fire.

Voice: You…..?  I mean……?  And you……?

Me: Can you promise me you are more expensive than anyone else?

Voice: Thank you for taking our call.

*Click*

• Rambles
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Grandad February 22nd, 2008

Our K8 wrote a while ago about her carnivorous plant.  Her plant ate teeny little flies.  I can go one better than that.  I have trees that eat lorries.

Yesterday I got a letter.

Well, actually, I didn’t.  A letter was chucked over my gate into a puddle, the night before, and a neighbour kindly brought it into me.  It was sopping wet, but I managed to read it.

It was from another neighbour.  I’ll call him Mr Digger.

Now, Mr Digger wants some changes up our lane, and he is rounding up support.  So everyone got this letter, including my puddle.

What does he want?

First and foremost, he is losing a lot of sleep over two lads and their widowed mother.  They have been refused planning permission, and are currently living in squalor in a mobile home.  He wants them to get planning permission with our support.

Hmmmm?  ‘Two lads’?  They are around thirty years of age.  Their ‘widowed mother’?  She walked out on the family years ago and bought a house in Spain.  They don’t live in the mobile home either.  I met one recently going up to the old home to collect his post [mail].  I am all for the “lads” getting permission, and have done everything in my power to help.   What the hell is going on here?  Then it struck me.  Mr Digger applied for planning permission himself, some years ago, and was also refused.  So the crafty bugger is getting ‘the two lads’ to do all the fighting with the council, employing engineers and surveyors, in the hope that if they get permission, that he can then reapply too.

I also find it strange that he has developed such a fondness for ‘widowed mothers’, seeing as he bullied my [widowed] mother into her 80s to an extent that she required medical attention and the services of a solicitor.  He stopped bullying her then, for some reason.

The reason that planning permission is being refused is that my lane meets the main road on a bend.  It is therefore difficult to see if there is a car coming.  But we manage, no problem.  But according to Mr Digger – “I think most of us would agree that this is an accident waiting to happen, if something is not done soon“.  I don’t agree.  I have been living here for forty three years and there hasn’t been an accident?

What he wants is for us to donate some land so they can change the entrance.  He can fuck off.

He is also complaining about the potholes in the lane.  We do have a magnificent collection.  They are the envy of the county.  The irony here, is that Mr Digger ran a haulage plant hire business from his house for many years [did he have planning permission for that?] and was constantly trundling low-loaders, JCBs and the like up and down.  That’s what wrecked the lane in the first place.

He also doesn’t like my trees.  I have a wildlife stretch of woodland beside the lane with a nice selection of fir trees and silver birch.  I have let it grow wild and I think it is attractive.  It is very rural, and the wildlife loves it.  Every spring it is full of nesting birds and they sing their hearts out all summer.  I even have a resident red squirrel.

I will quote the next bit because it is all about my trees.

“Overgrown / protruding hedges and or overhanging trees onto the laneway at the cul-de-sac need to be cut back and maintained to their proper boundary lines, thereby exposing the full width of the lane to safe and unobstructed movement of vehicles, let them be large or small.
For example: oil delivery, furniture removal, goods delivery / Eircom / ESB trucks etc, are being scraped and damaged as a result of protruding boundaries.  Furthermore vehicle side wing mirrors are being obstructed by overhanging trees and hedges, which could result in further damage, or indeed injury to persons.  In conjunction with the above we as residents also have an obligation to maintain such free unobstructive access, not only for our own convenience but also for the emergency services, i.e. Fire Tenders, Ambulances, etc.”

Fighting talk, huh?  Very emotive stuff.  All these ambulances and fire tenders constantly roaring up and down our lane?  They only do that when I set the neighbours house on fire from time to time.  And how can an overhanging tree result in injury to a person?  Apparently my trees attack lorries, but they have never attacked a person that I know of?  In fact, we have had some very big lorries up and down the lane, with no problem.

There is also talk that the lane should be widened to a two lane road.  What?  Why?  That is a big fuck off too.

He also talks of how my trees are causing properties “to be seriously devalued, and will remain devalued resulting from the untidiness“.  Wowee! I’m seriously devaluing everyone’s property, am I?  That is very strange.  A small house recently went for auction on the lane.  It sold for 50% above the asking price.  I must grow more trees! If that is serious devaluation, then bring it on!!

What it boils down to is this.  He wants street lights.  He wants wide roads with footpaths.  He wants road names.  He wants all hedges and trees neatly trimmed and tidy.  Does that sound familiar?  Yes.  Suburbia.  So why doesn’t he fuck off back to suburbia where he belongs?  He’d be much happier there.  And the rest of us who like the orderly chaos of nature can continue to enjoy the countryside.

He’s holding a meeting next week to ‘discuss’ all of this.

I’m going.

Me and my shotgun.

And I’m thinking of setting TAT on him.

• Around the house , On the road
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