Yes, I’ve just been watching Winning Streak. Yes, it’s Saturday night. No, I really am only thirty four. Miss Marple loves it. It’s switched on immediately after she comes in from Mass. Imagine being ninety three (on Wednesday, not yet) and going out to get your pension on Friday and do your Credit Union business; Saturday evening going to Mass, every other night bar Sunday getting on a bus to go to Bingo till eleven at night. I couldn’t do it, not a hope. She was born four days after the signing of the Anglo-Irish Treaty: which one has made a better go of their eight and a bit decades?
I feel a bit lonely tonight. I’m with my family and I don’t feel like harming, I’ve eaten and I’m not stressing but there’s something missing. Listening to Christmas Lights by Coldplay probably isn’t the best plan on your first festive season with nobody to buy Lego or Jack Sparrow figurines for, or Batman socks. They were for Quarter Pounder, not a kid. Well…
Carol of the Bells is one of my favourites. I loved singing it in choir. I miss being in a choir. I’ve always been in and out of choirs. There is something to focus and free the mind in collective song: you have to concentrate because you don’t want to be the eejit who comes in early or the one holding the note when everyone else is smiling in relief to have made through a four part Kodály.
I think, for the most part – that sounds so much better en français: pour la plupart. I love the way the French have one word where we need three or four. Comme la petite mort. I also love that a phrase to describe a post-orgasmic state only really exists as a succinct entity in French and features a feminine noun. That wouldn’t happen in English: lie back and think of the homeland is the best we get – I completely forgot I was on another point, tangentalisifying. I was saying… I think that I’m making progress. I feel very stable, compared to previous weeks anyway. The SaltScrubs have been back for a few nights. I have zero clues as to why. I haven’t changed my meds, I’m not taking the sleeping pills I suspected might have been to blame (I’m not taking any: I’d suggest switching your email or Twitter or Facebook notifications off as there’s a strong chance you’ll be getting more four am updates). I’ve had a few NotSexySteamUps during stressful daylight moments. Like today, I obsessed over my Leinster Jersey for about forty minutes before I eventually found something else to “sort out”. Then twenty minutes later I remembered that I had been very cross about said jersey’s disappearing act and told myself to cop the fuck on. When I’m feeling really anxious about something that isn’t right I try to think upwards. Sr. Agnes used to tell us in choir at school and in singing lessons to go above the note in your head, sing up over the note. I’m trying to do that with the stress: to go above it: I try to visualise looking down at the world from the sky, maybe up there with the Gossamer Moon Goddess, looking down and seeing the buzzing masses of lives and suddenly my hoodie seems less significant than a Victoria’s Secret model’s intellect.
I brought up Victoria’s Secret for a reason. Andrew Hozier Byrne: I’m disgusted with you. Why, other than for cheap and easy publicity, would a man with a credible talent and obviously strong and intelligent views on society and culture, perform at a glorified soft porn pageant? He had pretty much broken America anyway, now he’s just broken our trust. I’m sure there are women around the world who are thinking “Ah, all talk, another Robin Thicke, just smarter”: dissing rape culture in his lyrics, getting the women hooked and then cashing in on the periphery of the ingrained societal degradation of women into tits and ass. Donald Clarke wrote a great piece on the show for today’s Irish Times and pointed out Hozier’s Twitter silence. Now he’s nothing to say.
They’re all the same, every single last one of them.
I will however point out that Caroline Flack’s Argentine Tango on Strictly tonight was as intense as it was classy. I really like her. She’s classy in her own nonconformist way but I think Pixie fits some sort of bill for the male judges: blonde, cute, beautiful, smiley, breezy and they have singled her out as a fait accompli for the old Glitter Ball. Caroline is just as good (no, I know nothing about dancing) but I sense their hearts have not been wilted by her maturity and understated self awareness whereas they have been by Pixie, the ingénue. But I could be wrong.
There’s probably irony in the contradiction that I would love a man to dance an Argentine Tango with me like he really meant it when the Argentine Tango developed between prostitutes and ganchos in seedy saloons and I’ve just been giving out about Hozier’s support of an industry giant that promotes women as body parts.
But don’t argue with me. I’m a feminist. And you know what we’re like.