Hooray for everything!

If misery is an art form, I know more than a few Da Vincis. Indeed, being Irish, gloom is part of our very fibre, a strange flipside to our reputation for being the life and soul of any party. Any party with alcohol. Recent economic and meteorological events have fuelled the perverse satisfaction we get when things actually are going wrong, probably because then we don’t have to invent things to moan about. In short, being unhappy is just too easy. And since I love a challenge, I’ve compiled a list of things that make life worth living. For me anyway, if you think I’ve missed out anything, throw a comment in, this is a list I hope to add to!

 

·      Radiator pants

Radiator pants is where this whole idea began. A delightful comedic fellow by the name of Russell Howard first put the idea of radiator pants forward as the best reason he could think of as to why a man shouldn’t throw himself off a building (it’s actually a great and poignant observational bit that I’ve just ruined but check it out). And I agree. If there’s anything guaranteed to get me out of bed on a winter’s morning or out of a lukewarm bath (or probably a rooftop, if it ever came to that), it’s the promise of a radiator-toasted garment. I take my hat off to you sir.

Toasty

 

·      A nice cup of tea

There are few things I enjoy more than a really good cuppa, yet it’s surprisingly elusive. That is because I suffer from a condition (possibly genetic as I share it with my dad) where I CANNOT make decent tea. Try as I might, with variations on teabags, milk brands and water boiling times, many cups of tea I make taste like dishwater. I’d say of my usual 3-a-day average, maybe 2 cups of tea a week will be drinkable, and the rest need to be forcibly choked down. 

There's only one way to find out...

So why do I persist? Well, like many things in life, it’s the really good cup-o-teas that keep you going back for more. Also I do not even remotely understand it. I have however, noted in my studies a few observations:

1. Tea made for you always tastes better than tea you make yourself.

2. Tea after any sort of stress/effort/deprivation is generally delicious, particularly if alcohol has been added “for medicinal reasons”. (Note: This recipe is not recommended for everyday use).

3. Tea can be successfully reheated in the microwave without losing its flavour, though you may suffer loss of social standing as others will judge you. But that’s just because they haven’t tried it.

4. Milk goes in LAST. Don’t mess with that, it’s like, science.

5. Best dunking biccies – Boasters chocolate and hazelnut. Amazilicious.

6. Along with toast, tea can cure most minor ailments and is the number one treatment for people undergoing traumatic events in tv soap operas.

First aid kit

 

·      Having a moment

I don’t know how else to describe this one, but it’s these moments in life, where the monotony of the norm is broken by some event, even for a second, and you find yourself unexpectedly connecting with another person, well, it’s a good feeling. It could be anything; a smile from a randomer on the bus, reliving some hilariously scarring childhood event with a old friend, or the first time you realise you love someone - these moments can encompass a wide range of pleasantly gut-wrenching situations. The thing I like best though, is that they’re difficult to fake. Having a moment is a fragile, practically indefinable process, and a pretty rare thing. Then you watch tv and realise some situation you thought was special has become a cliché overnight and is now being used to sell cheese.

The moment when I meet my future husband. He may not be much to look at, but he'll understand the comic genius of Bea Arthur. We will both claim to have met online.

·    Monkeys

Don’t think I need to explain this one; monkeys are clearly awesome. Next time you feel a bit rubbish, look at a monkey. Instant cheering up, every time. In fact, I’d say anti-depressants would be much more effective if they had pictures of monkeys on the bottle. I like to think that someone, somewhere, is working on this…

If you don't find this hilarious, there IS something seriously wrong with you

 

·      Music

Little explanation required – music is so innate to humanity that practically every culture has developed its own style. This can be seen on a stroll up Grafton Street, where on any given day you’re likely to encounter a diverse range of sounds, from the feathery pan-pipe dudes, the make-shift drummers, the bagpipe guy (avec kilt, for the pleasure of hen parties) all the way to “the junkie rapper”. Indeed music can range greatly, from the sublime to makes-me-want-to-somehow-vomit-into-my-own-ears, and can thus be powerfully divisive. And I’ll admit it, I’m musically prejudiced. For some reason punks are my mortal enemy. Don’t know why, just always have been. Any acquaintances of mine reading this who have a penchant for ugly safety-pinned hairdos tunelessly shouting out of time to terrible guitar backing, know that you must have some seriously over-powering alternate levels of cool to have survived in my social sphere. Either that or I hate you, why are you still here?

I am so scarlet for your ma right now

·      Getting to a bus stop just as a bus arrives

If, like me, you have a pathological hatred of being too early or late, there are few things better than catching an arbitrarily timed bus. Take that world, I WIN! Bonus points if your card won’t scan and you get a free journey. Super bonus if the driver sings to you (happened to me just last week). Basically, daily life could be greatly improved if it were somehow more like video games. Unless you had to fight your boss at the end of the day.

This princess had better be worth it...

 

And some other things, non-exhaustive and in no particular order:

·      Food

·      Sunny days

·      Kissing

·      The sea

·      Great books

·      Being safe somewhere dangerous

·      Laughing

·      Playing

·      Bill Murray

·      Good company

·      Inspiration

Dammit, none of these beats radiator pants!

Flypaper eyes

Until quite recently I thought, in my naivety, that people carried little compact mirrors about with them for the same reason I do – I was wrong. You see, apparently the average schmo just likes looking at their face now and again, to check it’s still there probably, or as a Sims-like confidence booster. I don’t know, and frankly I don’t care – I have actual problems people, for I MUST carry a mirror on my person at all times or risk BLINDNESS. (Also, I like to think that if ever I should find myself shipwrecked, it’d come in as a handy fire-starter/way of making planes crash so I’d have company).

Representative results of direct comparative tests - note control subjects not observed using mirrors for purposes of removing bonsai tree pieces from own face

You see, things end up in my eye most days. MOST DAYS. It could be an errant eyelash rebelling against its natural function, a bit of invisible dust, cigarette ash or even small insects (seriously, once I found an ANT in there) – these are all things that have somehow found their way into my eye. 

Non-exhaustive list of foreign bodies that have wound up in my eyeballs. It's all gone a bit Ren & Stimpy

At the risk of sounding like an eyeball hypochondriac, I wonder whether I have some kind of disorder where my eyes are somehow made of magnets (did my mother have a fling with an X-man? Probably not). Or maybe my tears are made of glue? Or, the worst scenario of all - maybe it’s not that there’s stuff going into my eyes so much as things coming OUT – suddenly Lil Bro’s childhood taunts of brainivorous earwigs become a chilling possibility. Alternatively I could just have over-sensitive eyeballs, an expected result of a teenage penchant for wearing glitter (essentially tiny razor blades) as eyeshadow. I wouldn’t be too surprised if I develop glittery cataracts in my old age too. Glitteracts, they’ll call them. And I probably won’t mind bumping into stuff so much, if it means the world looks like a brilliant kaleidoscopic dancefloor.

Glitteracts, coming soon to a retirement home near you.

So I’ve that to look forward to.

My hollow friendship with Terry the monkey

Maybe my best day of my childhood was the day my “uncle” gave me a monkey. The “uncle” in question was an “uncle” not ‘cos my moms be hookin’ or anything like that, but since he was a relative of a cousin of an uncle, twice removed, once adopted or something along those lines. For some reason my mother felt the need (and still does) to stress this every time he’s mentioned, as if a 5-year-old would be asking him for a kidney or something.

Anyway, he was delightful as far as I recall, but he could have been Charles Manson for all I cared, because the man always turned up with at least one big bag FULL of sweets – and not just any sweets - English sweets. They had the same look, smell and names as ours, but I liked to think they tasted different; more worldly somehow. The first time I saw a blue Smartie was the day I knew the world had more to offer than TK red lemonade and Tayto.

It's a miracle I still have all my own teeth

But the year my uncle brought the monkey stands out as being particularly awesome. OK, he was made of chocolate (hadn’t I mentioned that?), but I was at the age where that didn’t really matter – I had MY OWN MONKEY! I named him Terry and swore never to eat him, since we’d quickly become best friends. I have several distinct memories of playing happily with Terry. He was a special guest on my “cookery programme”, wherein I’d make variations on the classic mud pie recipe (his favourite was a grassy mud pie with worm icing as I recall) and end the “show” by flinging the mud pies at the back wall. (Don’t judge - that’s how most shows I watched in the ‘80s ended). Each show was recorded on my Fisher Price recorder, for posterity.

Those tapes are still out there somewhere…

Terry also featured in my version of “mammies and daddies”, where I played the harassed battered wife of a drunken misogynistic jerk (played by kid down the road to much critical acclaim; particularly when our parents found out). My cabbage patch doll played the part of our often-neglected and sometimes abused child (I once tied her to the exhaust pipe of my mother’s Mini), while Terry played the part of a foreign businessman with whom I was having a torrid affair. (This was the ‘80s folks, The Simpsons hadn’t been invented yet, and Madonna was seen as the height of fashion. We had literally nothing better to do).

They just don't make toys like this any more

I don’t know exactly how long my relationship with Terry lasted, realistically it was probably only about a week max, but in kid years that’s a long time. My mother, who (perhaps not without reason) seemed to think I was a little slow, patiently explained to me that Terry “not real” and “you know he’s only chocolate, right?” Rather than being puzzled over this, I was outraged. Of COURSE I knew Terry was chocolate-based, and not an ACTUAL monkey! The foil-based nature of his skin had never bothered me, I could see past all that. Terry was the best friend I’d ever had, he was funny, smelled good and was a great listener. Plus, I reasoned, if my mother saw how good I was at taking care of a chocolate monkey, she might be more likely to one day consider expanding my monkey army. (That is the collective term for monkeys right?). Well, that was the theory anyway…

Until one day, disaster struck. My mother called us in for dinner, and as I ran through the door I fell, CRUSHING TERRY TO DEATH. There was foil and chocolate shards everywhere. My mother found her recently bereaved child hilarious. I still remember her making weak attempts to comfort me through her fits of hysterical laughter; by the end we were both crying, as usual for different reasons.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times

I was inconsolable for days, so much so that I never touched a bite of Terry’s fragmented corpse. Not only had I lost my best friend, I moreover felt cheated. See, I’d thought Terry was completely SOLID chocolate. It was the main reason I hadn’t eaten him up until that point – I’d thought that, since we were friends, it’d be downright rude not to finish eating him in one go, so I’d been waiting for a day when I was sufficiently hungry (stew Tuesday for example) that I could give Terry the proper send-off he deserved, like some sort of delicious Viking burial.

Goodnight sweet prince...

Instead I was swindled by a funny-talking fake uncle.

So the lesson is kids, never take sweets from strangers. Or, take the sweets, but try not to bond with them. Toothache heals more easily than heartache.