Below my office window there is a man-made pond. In that pond there are two ducks who visit every year and have done for a number of years. It’s really nice to see. Their arrival is announced with a lot of quacking and flapping by the daddy duck and then they stay. Every year, same time, just the two of them.

The day is taken up with the mammy duck floats around always closely followed by her loyal duck-husband. The pond is on a main walkway towards a shopping centre so they have a large passing audience who take great joy in stopping and feeding them. I have often wondered where they go when they are not visiting here for weeks on end. Who else thinks about these two ducks, who I have named Daffy and Tom, and wonders where they fly off to and who feeds them when they are not here.
There is great joy in taking a moment to just look at them floating around majestically or when they arc their necks into their body if they are taking a mid day nap. Refreshing to know they have stayed together all these years, loyal and loving.

Last Tuesday, a mild day, the usual noisy students passer bys were trekking to the local spar at lunchtime past the pond when I heard an almighty roar and then the noise grew louder and louder so I turned and opened my window to the exclaims of:

“Jaysis fuckin’ christ I can’t look!!!!” …. I feared the worse for my two feathered friends..

Scanning the area, people began to part and then I saw the horrific sight. Camera phones started to be produced and a clap started. There on front of everyone, out of the pond and on the footpath was Daffy being absolutely hammered by Tom. For anyone who hasn’t seen ducks having sex it is a sight to behold. Tom was leathering Daffy ‘ducky’ style flapping his wings away as if he was in full flight and his tail going like a singer sewing machine as the whole of transition year from the secondary school up the road watched on.

Fair play Tom, fair play.

I decided in October that I was going to give up the drink for the month of November, no big deal right? You don’t need drink for a good time surely? I enjoy a pint, I like going out, I’m young (I am!) and why shouldn’t I? But of course it shouldn’t be hard to just leave it off for a month, ‘save a few quid too’ I told myself.

Back in generations past they used to give up the drink in November ‘for the old souls’, probably a clever ploy by the Irish housewife to get her husband to stop drinking so they could afford Christmas.

So after a hefty October bank holiday weekend session in wilds of the west or Ireland I said that was that. To much pass remarks of ‘you won’t last a week’ I dug the heels in and tried to think of anything but having the first luscious gulp of a creamy pint of cold Arthur!
Instinctively I looked at the weekends in November, four of them, four challenges to decide what I could do that didn’t involve the sweet nectar, the 4.3% holy water. These were going to be the main hurdles to success on this mission. Things you realise when you are not the one drinking:

1. Everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, that is drinking and pissed when you are supping away at your 5^th pint of lucozade is an arsehole. Of varying degree but an arsehole none the less.
2. You may as well have installed a meter and applied for your P.S.V. licence because you just turned into a taxi.
3. The above mentioned arseholes will ALWAYS insist at after 12 oclock at night pointing out that you are a bore and try and convince you that you should start drinking NOW, to catch up.
4. Abrakebabra is no longer viable substitute for actually proper food.
5. Arseholes, as mentioned above, do not like to relive their actions from a previous night, especially from a sober asshole.
6. Any point you raise whilst sober in a pub is null and void, assholes are always right.
7. Some assholes will spit on you when they talk but the fact that they are pissed makes them completely immune from the awkwardness this would present in a normal conversation. Your spit detection levels increase with the sobriety.
8. Eight is the number of pints of Budweiser I would have now and be having a fuckin’ whale of a time.

You begin to think, ‘am I really this boring’? The answer is probably yes, yes I am. There is nothing worse than a sober asshole coming out with the ‘oh I don’t need drink to have a good time’ mantra. It is nearly up there with the other assholes who don’t get hangovers. There’s another thing I don’t miss. Waking up and a decent vomit is the only thing you can look forward to. Knowing as soon as you open your eyes that you won’t feel any way human until it’s time to close them again. When you have to think about new and improved excuses every week why you don’t feel you are up to visiting that little farmers market or do a quick dash around IKEA. Fuck off.

When people ask you why you aren’t drinking and you just casually declare (with a small sense of pride) “Oh I’m off the drink…” it immediately conjures up images of you cracking open a can of Harp at 9.15am on a normal day. ‘He must get violent…’. No, no I don’t…FUCK OFF. I am not Shane McGowans twin brother in this scenario.
But on the flip side of that argument I realise *I* have turned into that arsehole who goes around telling people I am not drinking. Like its rubbing it in with all the other fuckers who can’t comprehend it. I know a handful of people who have also given up the drink for November who have lasted days. I am beating them. Fuck yeah.

I am on the final lap, the last stretch. One week to go, one weekend left. I have done the cinema, the farmers markets, the zoo, fuck I even went to the Aras visitors centre in the Phoenix Park. I’ve gone as far as to take up that stupid past time called jogging (pronounced with a soft ‘j’) and I have lost a decent bit of weight and I have been that annoying prick to tell everyone about it too, ‘Sure Jesus, I’ve lost over half a stone…”. I have an app on my phone that updates all my friends on facebook how much I am running and how quick. What a wanker I have become.

So it is with this same passion that I can have my first serious session in December planned already. With the money I have saved, and it was a fair few hundred, I can now piss it all away in the name of festive cheer. I am that kind of asshole.

Have been using the Samsung Galaxy S2 for about 6 months now and really impressed with it. It has been crowned phone of the year for 2011 and it’s easy to understand why once you get to use it day in day out. People will argue the Apps are not as polished as Apples iOS but in the six months I have used it I have seen lots of mainstream companies releasing apps for both iOS and Android Market. I will just draw up a few pros and cons of the phone to give it a fair run and just run through some of the Apps that I would use most frequently.

First up, my previous phone was the iPhone 3GS. Straight out of the box the S2 is much much faster, more responsive and the battery life was much better. There are more variables you can change to lengthen then battery life on the S2 as opposed to just changing the screen brightness on the iPhone.

The camera is amazing. Crystal clear 8.0 megapixel and records video in 1080p High Definition. You wouldn’t know you had taken the photos with a camera phone when you see the results. There are many settings to be played such as the normal shot settings you would find on a point and shoot camera, from light mode to shooting scene. A nice addition is it has inbuilt Panoramic Shots as a feature. The only drawback I could find is the flash, it actually is TOO powerful. It’s very sharp and bright, which sometimes can overblind or pick the wrong object in some shots. Again this could be as a result of me having it on the wrong setting.

Below is a screen grab of my Home-Screen. These are the most common used apps:

Music: Pretty standard music player, does what it says on the tin really. A major plus is you don’t have to connect it to a laptop to update tracks / albums / playlists. You can remove songs and copy songs as you see fit within the user interface.
Youtube: Video looks great on the big 4.2 inch Super AMOLED Plus screen. I prefer this native app than the one available in iOS, much more user friendly.
Internet: Allows for multiple windows and opens all pages (including Flash) as they would appear on a desktop / laptop.
Endomondo: Great app for training (Cycling / Running / Walking). It follows the GPS of your phone to track your workouts so you can measure distance, lap times and even calories burnt. All uploaded to their main site / community where you can add other people as friends or just to track your own progress.
Livescore: Handy app for keeping up to date with sports results if you can’t watch it / be there. I use it for soccer, covers the League or Ireland and also UK Premiership.
The Journal: Irish News app which is a great portal for their main site.
Gallery: Although a native app I thought I might mention it as Android really have the whole ‘Sharing’ concept down to a T. Within Gallery you store all your photos / videos which can be shared within seconds to your other apps installed (Twitter, WordPress etc.). All the functionality is inbuilt into the user interface, something iOS is only getting to grips with now.
Facebook: I think it doesn’t matter if you are on Android or iOS, the FB app could be a lot better than it currently is. Just when they seem to be getting it right they launch an update which brings it ten steps back.
Vignette: When I left my iPhone days behind me one thing I really missed were the Camera Apps. I had used Camera+ and Instagram which could really take some decent shots considering it was only a 3 megapixel camera. Vignette offers the same kind of filters / colour saturation and lets you border and share images. Couple that with the 8.0mp camera and nice light filled lens It takes some really nice shots. There are plenty of camera apps available on the Android Market but this one I can’t recommend enough! Worth the few quid to go Pro too!
Plume: Having used TweetCaster and the Twitter app prior to Plume I can easy say, for functionality, this is the best app I have used for Twitter on Android.
Gmail: Overall not as nice as the integrated mail system on iOS but still as usable. Multiple accounts with all your contacts right there.
WhatsAPP: A must for anyone using a smartphone. Using data you can send text / images / video / voice / share location. Cross platform too so regardless if you are on Android, iOS or Blackberry it is a great way to communicate.

Also on the Task Bar I have installed Handcent SMS and use this rather than the native Message App for Android. It is more customisable with different themes and makes using SMS that bit better.

Verdict: Over all there were some functions and aspects that I did miss about using an iPhone but when you really get to use the S2 and see how powerful it is, it leaves the iPhone behind. No amount of telling your phone to remind you to turn the immersion off when you get home will ever change that.

All of the apps listed can be found on the Android Market

My head is banging like a Venga Boys cult 90’s classic as I investigate my new surroundings. I turn over in the bed and I pull a cheeky smile as the bed sheets stuck to my mid section confirm what went down here but all of this stops in one giant freeze frame as I catch the sight of a young boy in the corner of the room.

FUCCCCK

I’ve never been more conscious of the fact that I am naked than now. He’s tapping away on a laptop, what looks to be Modern Warfare 2 and judging up his skills the kid has either the motor reflex skillset of an amazon jungle child or he’s retarded. Quick scan of the floor for my lucky Calvin Kleins….

“Hey there big guy…” the kid looks about 10 but is a prime candidate for The Biggest Loser in a couple years…. “I don’t suppose your sister is…”

“MAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!! HEEEESSSS AFTAAAA WAAAAKKKINNN!!!!!” his head doesn’t move

FUCCCCK

Boxer search has gone up in priority as I hear movement downstairs. The kid is still merrily distracted and I am convinced he’s a dead ringer for that weird lookin’ lad out of the Goonies, I don’t hold too much hope of the kid being adopted.

Heavy footsteps up the creaky stairs now just as I spy a disgarded bra \ hammock on the floor, but no boxers.

FUCCCCK

Just at the last second I sit up in the bed and pull the sheets all the way up my chest and under my arms and give the floor one last quick glance. Oh shit what’s her name.

The door creaks open and in she bounds. Cup of coffee in hand. Not a bad start.
“Marnin’ soldier….haw are we , alri…” – Not as heavy as the creaky stairs had suggested. The face is nothing to update facebook about and i didn’t think pink velure was ever back in fashion.

She’s after giving the coffee to the retard.
“Ah yeah no worries…eh ya know yourself wha’ ” I’ve skangered up my accent to match hers. God know’s who or what i was last night.

“I don wan rush ya or wha bu i have to take lil jonny ‘er to his swimmin…” she says while slappin him on the ear.. “if he ever gets off the bleedin Playstation…”

I haven’t the time to correct her about the laptop thing because the hunt on the ground for my boxers has just been replaced by her darlin’ son’s namesake.

“Yeah, yeah no worries, sure i have to go to work myself anyways ya know so, yeah no worries”

“Gran’ job love, well i’ll be headin past your way n anways so drop ya ta work if ya like?” pushing the simp out the bedroom door dragging his knuckles on the ground behind him. “we be downstairs when yer ready Davie…”

FUCCCCK

Well that at least explains what name I gave her. As soon as the door closes over it’s out from the bed and into my jeans as soon as you can say ‘well woman clinic’, scanning the room for anything that will bring on a flashback of whatever went down last night. The room is strewn with pink shit, and the wall is plastered with old sun holiday photos of her with her mates and judging by her mates it’s apparent i didn’t get the pick of the litter here. But there doesn’t seem to be any ‘couple’ photos knocking around so with any luck a good aul beatin’ isn’t on the cards.

Still no sign of the jocks.

Watch off bedside locker and I’m away down the stairs having a nose as I go. And nose is right, the place smells like some one is after cross breeding a decomposing ferret with the smell of hair and crud you’d pull out of the bottom plug of the shower after a year . I’d seriously think about letting the fart I have brewing go just to improve the smell of the place but I’m sans jocks and I really can’t be taking chances like that in my hungover condition.

I loiter in the hall and spy the typical family photos. A communion one. Johnathon being flanked by his parents. I can immediately tell where he got his looks and his lazy eye from, they all look as if they are looking at different cameras. My mind wanders a bit, Debenhams……..37 euro ……. what a waste…..the last pair of the style I wanted too…..

“Don’t be botherin’ yer ballax with him…” she’s caught me mid trance gazing at the photo …

“ah yeah . . no just . . . yiz look well ya know…” i stammer while clearing my throat. You wouldn’t need a polygraph to account for the obvious nature of the lie i’ve just told, but she has actually taken it as a compliment and she starts gazing at the photo, maybe thinking of a time she was truly happy, when true love had given her the turn she had looked for all her life, when cupids arrow had flown….

“Da cunt’s doin a stretch up in Arbor Hill…. aggriva-ed burglary or some shit. Fuckin’ idiot wen’ n got caught, still gettin hiz welfare so the muppa is good for somethin’ wha….”

FUCCCCK

“WILL YA EVER BLEEDIN MOVE IT JONNY OR I’LL BLEEDIN BURY YA IN THE SAME PLOT I PUT YER BRUDDAR!!!!!” she bellows up the stairs…

– what the fuck have I gone and done –

“Ah don’t be worryin” she says while pattin me on the arse… “he doesn’t av a brudder but I like to threttin’ him with sumtin ya know…can be tough what with no fadder figure in der life ya know yerself”

The sight of her dolphin tattoo on her left breast has just triggered a vivid moment from the night before which immidiately caused the dislodging a lump of phlegm in the back of my throat…

“I’ll just be out side here in the car yeah, i wanna grab a smoke anyways…”

“Be with ya in a bit if yer buzzin out” ….She throws me the keys. More teddy bears and charms than keys. Her keyring tells me she’s a pisces and goes by the name of Kate. There’s a key ring in the shape of a mickey. I feel sick.

Opening the hall door to a welcome blast of fresh air up my nostrils I look around. No idea where the fuck I am. The place smells like musky chipper and council estate. The over grown front garden has all kinds of shit in it from a mouldy shower tray to a kids plastic trike. The kinda place where everyone leaves their key in the door

‘Ya couldn’t script this shit..’ I mutter as I try open the car door. A ’92 Toyota Starlet. Possibly an LX model. Faded teal with a go faster rust stripe down the passenger side and what looks like someone has spilled battery acid on the bonnet. The word ‘FAG’ is etched into the thick dirt on the back passenger door.

I unstick my door with a sharp pull and it flings open as Jonny bustles past with sports bag, banging against me with his shoulder. If I hadn’t been so hungover i’d have given him some fatherly figure in the form of the back of my hand. Instead I push a load of McDonald’s wrappers and used tissues off the front seat onto the floor and sit down and feel for my smokes in my pocket. Just get me out of here I think. I don’t even give a shit about the boxers at this stage, if she hadn’t of offered me a lift I could be stuck fending for myself in this shithole. I spark up a marlboro light

“Giz a fuckin smoke wuddya” , the voice rasps from the back seat as Kate slams the front door of the house and walks to the car while shouting something to some kids in the next doors garden. …. “…go on giz a drag off dat…”

“Eh man, to be honest like ya know…”

“Jonny don’t be so fuckin rude” she spits while getting into the car, that strains and lurches under the weight. She takes out her own pack of John Player Blue and lights one up and throws the rest of the pack in the back seat. . . “ya better make dem fuckin last now, dem don’t bleedin grow on trees and ya still owe me…”

FUCCCCK

We bail up the road and I begin to get my bearings once we leave her estate. The small talk is staggered as we puff away, the smell of smoke drowning out the stench of the over kill of the Tweety-Pie air-freshener and stench coming from a pair of New Balance pink runners on the floor. Hardly used for the gym.

“Really had a good time last night so I did…” we’ve stopped at traffic lights and she’s run her hand onto my knee , “yer a mad fucka so ya are , ya know dat? . . .”, her hand runs up my leg… “a right mad bastard! WHA! HA” The light goes green and she takes her hand back to the suckin’ of teeth off yer man in the back.

The silence is broken by her ring tone. Mark McCabe Maniac. She answers on loudspeaker and throws the phone in her lap… “if da guards catch me on da phone id be fucked, sure dey took me licence last year….HELLO???”

“Howya Kate….ya drivin….” , another bird with a similar accent.

“Ah whats da bleedin story leeeesa….yeah im doin the swimmin dis marnin…fuckin state of me head after las night”

“Don’t bleedin start…will have to go up me ma’s now in a bit ta collec da twins…me arse is killin me…” I politely gaze out the window . . . “speekin of dat…did you ride tha fuckin’ eejit last night….”

Dear god.

“Ya bleedin’ mad thing ya. . he’s in da car here wit me”

“Jaysis yisser doin it in the bleedin’ car! Scarla for ya..”

“G’wan will ya…”

“Right well this fella here is wakin up and I’m fucked if I’m kartin him home to wherever he lives…”

FUCCCCK

We drive past the entrance to my estate and I thank god that I didn’t let slip where I actually live, but then again I can’t remember exactly where I told her I worked either. Jonny’s disproportionately sized legs keep on kicking my back through he seat and I know the fucker is doing it on purpose.

“Jaysis it’s busy around here….” She narrowly misses a City-Link coach coming off a roundabout.

We’ve taken a turn into the airport and I blush a bit as I vaguely remember what I said I worked at last night.

“Wha’s best for you here now…”

“Eh , sure just throw up me to departures there and….”

“Ha, jaysis sorry…yeah that’d make bleedin sense alright….the state of me…” I must have told her I was a pilot.

We pull up at departures and she parks the car. I go to open my seat belt but its sticking and it just adds to the tension.

“Right well I better go in and get sorted…”

“Yeah sound love…” She reaches over to kiss me at which point the seat belt comes free and my hand jerks up and grazes around the Dolphin territory.

“Oooh you’re a keen one!” she only catches my cheek

‘”Fer fuck sake ma…im gonna be late”,  I couldn’t agree more with the shithead than now.

“Well listen I’ll catch ya again, cheers for the lift n’ all. . . yer very good…I don’t wanna keep ya late..”

“Sure thing babe. . . c’mere I don’t spose I could hit ya for a few quid Davie, only I need to get some petrol and I don’t draw till Tuesday marnin”

“God yeah, sure no problem, let me just….”,  great exit cue I think as I practically have to Paul O’Connell the door to get it to open. Reach for my wallet when I get out of the car and my heart sinks when I see a single yellow crisp one lying there on its own. I half pull it out… “well eh…”

“Ah jaysis yer very good…sure I’ll grab a bit of lunch as well when Jonny is in swimmin’ so…” , she clasps onto it….

“‘IM GETTIN’ A BURGA OUTTA THA MA”

She leans across the passenger seat for another kiss, spilling completely out of her 4 sizes too small top. I pretend not to notice and close the door over but it takes two attempts before the door clicks. Free at last. I can hear through the car door the young fella still claiming his stake on their windfall.

I walk into the Departures area and loiter for a minute. Looking out, the car is still there and she’s shouting at some Airport Policeman who probably has told her it’s a set down area only. An over-rev in first gear and away they go. The fucks.

I limp my way out from the airport building and pull my watch out of my pocket and put it on. 11.45, at least not a bad hour to ring someone looking for a lift considering I’ll probably be on next months Crime Call how easy she robbed me of fifty lids. I adjust my jeans and decide I can’t walk any further due to the chaffing. I go to light another cigarette, she’s lifted my lighter as well, could it get any worse, reaching in my pocket for my phone to begin the ringing of potential friend-taxis and as soon as my hand touches my phone it becomes very apparent that it can ALWAYS be worse….BEEP BEEP

FUCCCCK

“Keep up the pace, down with the heel, up with the toe”

To the left there is a couple, with a young enough girl to my immediate left. She is trying to get her partners attention who is on the bike to her left. He’s struggling. A Nirvana song is blaring as we are sprinting away…

She has gotten his attention and he is looking at her quizzically with a beetroot red face pouring with sweat as he squints to try and hear better…just as she is relaying the important part of the message the music ends abruptly and she shouts

“I can smell your willy“

I haven’t seen the couple since.

The best bit is the dude who just stands there with his hands in his pocket. 

For more Keyboard Cat goodness click here. A lot of these can be found on failblog sans cat. 

Via Facebook

Someone nestles in beside you at the bar, you give up your place in the que insisting that the barman serves her first. She thanks you with a bat of the eyelashes and a smile and a faint ‘thank you’ but you only did it to find out if she is ordering the kind of drink a lurking boyfriend would have.

Gin and tonic. Sorted.

‘It’s mental in here tonight…’ that’s it, play off the fact that you let her get served before you…

‘yah yah eet is alri shore’ god she looks better than she talks, where is that accent from…

‘you wouldn’t wanna be thirsty at all ha’ minimum interest in pursuing this, she sounds like that auld fuck who commentates on the All Ireland Final.

‘Yah I don’t rally come out up here’ – up here? Christ next thing she will be asking does she know me from St. Pat’s in Drumcondra …

‘no no, sure first time in here myself…’

The barman interrupts, ‘pint of stout ben?’

‘Yeah yeah go on..’ – she didn’t even notice.

I watch her turn the mixer upside down into her drink and it’s then I notice the god awful dogs dinner job she has done on her fake tan. Her knuckles look like they’ve been dipped in treacle and then someone let her run loose in Claire Accessories with fifty quid..

‘that’s a lovely perfume you have on…’ the conversation had stalled and it’s all I could think of…

‘oh yah thanks…it’s eh a nu wan from Impulse…’ oh god.

She is after tipping her change into her handbag in one go and I’m nearly sure I catch a glimpse of a packet of Fisherman’s Friends in there too. I’m wondering where else I would be if I hadn’t ordered Guinness.

‘do ya wan do a shawt?’ I’ve actually partially turned my back to her at this point…

The only shot I’m interested in right now is the same one they gave Gene Hackman in the end of that film that he was in with Chris O’Donnell. I’m actually looking around to see if anyone is watching this…

‘Who me? No no thank you’ – It’s always nice to remain pleasant, even in the face of pure evil, with a ponytail.

She’s ordered two shorts of aftershock, I’m starting to believe I’m stuck in 1998 as she tips one of them down her throat. Who drinks Aftershock? I’m thinking as she beckons the second shot to me by pushing it across the counter while it’s fairly clear she is trying to stop herself from wretching.

I protest politely and push it back as the barman, who is fully fuckin’ aware of what is happening is shaping a heart on the top of my pint. The dick.

I’m home dry now, all I need to do is remain polite and hope she doesn’t get sick on me. After she knocks back that second shot she’s gonna be someone else’s nitelink problem.

‘Listen it was lovely meeting you…’ stall for name

‘oh sarry its OOOONA’ – she extends her paw. I shake it weakly.

‘Sure I might catch you in Abrakebabra after wha’ …….knowing full well there are 11 Abrakebabra’s in the Dublin inner city and there’s more chance of me getting up on Katy French tonight than bumping into this wan again. I’ll go to SuperMacs just to make doubly sure.

I go to walk away from the bar when a young looking guy with hair like the statue of liberty makes to shuffle in my place and just as I walk away he starts to chance his arm as the second shot of Aftershock dribbles down her chin

‘I was just saying to my mates it’s mental in here tonight…’

Go wan the Una!!!

What’s even funnier than ROG scratching his nuts on front of the Queen is Dricko’s expression. 

Make-a-with-da-funny-captions

Dads are funny creatures.

We’ve missed our roundabout exit and nearly rear ended another car and dad has started laughing hysterically. Maybe it’s to laugh off the ‘senior moment’ he’s just had or maybe he too has just realised he’s wearing his reading glasses instead of his driving glasses. He has more different types of glasses than the Specsavers Spring / Summer catalogue. I shouldn’t laugh, based on looking at photographs of him from yesteryear and watching too much Discovery Channel it’s apparent I’m going to turn out exactly like him. Exactly.

He’s hunched up close to the steering wheel and squinting now. I have unconsciously started using my brake foot on the passenger side.

But age isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It should be celebrated. Plus it’s about to get me 10% off a Kingston Patio table and chairs on Seniors Day in Woodies so I can’t really complain.

‘Play it easy, I will pretend I am buying it for me…’ As if we were about to knock off the place Tiger-Kidnapping Style.

‘I don’t think they care to be honest who buys it, once you produce and old fart like yourself they give you the discount…’

‘No no give me your money’ I think he just wants to talk to the blonde girl behind the counter.

I reach into my pocket and pull out the Laser card and I immediately know this won’t sit well. Cash cards and dad don’t mix. They’re the devils work. I remember we travelled all the way to Dundalk as a young family of a Sunday about 15 years ago. Now there were no motorways as there are now, so this was a big deal and a full days trip. What was an even bigger deal was dad had brought with him his brand spanking new ATM card but what he had neglected to bring, although he claims the machine was at error, was his PIN number. So all we could really manage was look at Oliver Plunketts head for an hour before all 7 of us were corralled back into the Ford Sierra and set off on the lengthy trip back home. To date he has never used an ATM since.

‘My PIN is 8181, 8-1-8-1 ok? Do you want me to write it down for you?’ I say while passing him the card

‘Nonsense…’ he says in a dismissive manner, I don’t know if this statement is directed at the fact that he has to use a cash card or at me for repeating my PIN in a slow and clear manner…

There’s a guy ahead of us in the queue arguing about the price of some crysanthiam bulbs he wants to buy but judging by the look of him even if he planted them last month I doubt he’ll see the finished product. The girl on the desk is mid forties, blonde and a dead ringer for one of the lesser looking Baldwin brothers and she has a black tooth.

Dad is rehearsing the pin number in a soft whisper over and over.

‘Howya chicken’ he exclaims, and you can tell by her face she is praying this isn’t about the price of crysanthiams… ‘Myself and the lesser looking fella are having a barbeque at the weekend and we wanted to know if you want to come along’

She’s gone a little red but starts smiling.

‘Jaysis there’s an offer but I’ll be in work I’m afraid’ she says looking around seeing if anyone heard her being propositioned.

This carry on isn’t new, but it never stops getting embarrassing.

‘We’re here for the Kingston table set you have out front please and thank you..’

She’s gone to the phone to get someone to bring it from the stock room. I take the moment to repeat the PIN number discreetly into his shell.

‘He’ll have that up for collection now in a moment…I hope you get the weather now for that…’ She’s taken control of the conversation now, possibly to stop him from inviting her to any other family functions.

‘That will be 150.00 euro please…’

Dad has done the fake shuffle to look for his wallet WITH my laser card still clearly in full view in his hand. He does the aul, produce it out of the pocket trick,

‘There we are now chicken…’ and he gives her the card but he doesn’t let go when she goes to take it. She looks at his face now to see what the problem is ‘eh you wouldn’t knock the aul’ discount on that, don’t shame me by askin’ for ID, to tell you the truth if he see’s what year I was really born the game will be up on the aul adoption, ya know yourself’

She’s not sure whether he’s serious or not and is looking for any hint of resemblance between the two of us. He winks at her, waiting and she nods with another smile….

‘Certainly, no problem Mr. Kenealy…if you just want to input your PIN there and hit the green button’
Dads hands have stayed in his pockets. He’s acting like this wasn’t going to happen and I know he’s forgotten the PIN and he’s all flustered now.

‘Eh yeah no problem…’ He starts fumbling around like he’s looking for something in his jacket pocket.

I leave him cook for a few seconds, enjoying the show. I walk up to him to offer my assistance….

‘Dad have you….’

‘OH! EIGHTY ONE EIGHTY ONE!!’ he shouts, proud as punch like he just called out a winning line at bingo. People from the other registers looking over now….

Black-Tooth just looks a bit shocked. He pushes the pin-pad back across the counter to her without inputting the PIN. This is the same man who bought me a personal little shredder machine after Joe Duffy had declared on the radio that people were snooping through your green bin to find out your most personal of details, such as your, let’s say, PIN!

‘Eighty one and eh Eighty one…’ she punches in the PIN while looking at me, I just shrug back in a manner that says ‘I only borrowed him, I’m not responsible…’

I load up the set into the back of the car and he’s hopped straight into the drivers side, probably to avoid the whole ‘eh do you want me to drive’ statement rather than question.

We’re driving around another roundabout for a second time as he has missed his exit again while I figure out was this all worth 10% off 150 quid while he interrupts my thinking..

‘If you hadn’t embarrassed me in the shop like that you would’ve been in there like swimwear with that babe…’ he says while laughing…

Christ his eye sight must be that bad.

‘…and not a word to your mother about the roundabouts…’