Well, this is just the best thing ever. Granted, it makes no sense if you haven’t seen The Princess Bride. But if you haven’t seen The Princess Bride, maybe this is a good time to admit that your life is in a terrible mess. Available to buy as a print here.
Dear William,
My Dearest William,
To William,
To: William,
Hi William,
William:
Hello there William,
Hello there, William,
Greetings William,
Greetings, William,
Greetings!
Dear Bill,
My Dearest Bill,
To Bill,
To: Bill,
Hi Bill,
Bill:
Hello there Bill,
Hello there, Bill,
Greetings Bill,
Greetings, Bill,
Hey Bill
Hey, Bill,
Billster,
Billy-boy,
Billbo!
Dear William,
And so begins the football season. As is my custom, I have been trying to get excited about it and failing badly. Not a year has gone by in the last ten when I haven’t decided that this will be the season when I recover my former enthusiasm for all things kicked and headed and craftily handled. It never works out. I can get through September and most of October, but sometime around Hallowe’en, I begin to stop caring. By Christmas I have as much interest in who wins the Premiership as I have in who wins the annual Bolivian Ker-Plunk tournament (where veteran Arturo Castillo is aiming for a record fifth consecutive title – yawn). The problem, no doubt, is that I don’t support any particular team. I used to, mind, when I was a child. Like every other Irish schoolboy, I more or less tossed a coin that said Liverpool on one side and Manchester United on the other. Mine came up Manchester and that was that, like an arranged marriage. But somewhere along the way, I realised that – wait a minute – I had never been to Manchester or even met anyone from there. My devotion to one of its football teams was utterly random and sort of silly. So I drifted away. With the benefit of hindsight and powerful hallucinogens, however, I now see that randomness and silliness is the whole point. You just pick a team and get on with it. So this year, I’m making a special effort. I’m going to get a randomised list of all Premiership teams and I’m going to stick a pin in it. Repeatedly, until it hits Newcastle (I like their shirts).
I’ve written a song! I haven’t got around to recording a demo yet but I’ve reproduced the lyrics below. It would be ideal for One Direction, I think, or maybe even (dare I hope?!) my heroes, Westlife.
Show Me You’re Whole
You say you want to try again
To give our love another go
But last time wasn’t romance
It was a Japanese game show
I don’t want to hurt your feelings
I know you have your talents
But you weren’t just hard to live with
You were mentally unbalanced
Are the pieces back together?
Have you fixed your mind and soul?
If I’m going to take this risk again
You have to show me that you’re whole
Show me you’re whole
Show me you’re whole
Oh won’t you show me you’re whole?
You say that you’re all better now
Not impulsive, loud and rude
But you said that last November
Then you got your face tattooed
I miss our time together
I want to give you one more chance
Just promise you won’t go shopping
In nothing but your pants
Show me you’re whole
Show me you’re whole
Oh won’t you show me you’re whole?
Repeat to fade
I suppose that anyone who really wants to be in Google+ is in there already, but if you’re stuck for an invitation, please take one of mine. They’re available here.
This sign is on display in a Dublin city centre car park. I love it. It’s like a little lost puppy that has so much wrong with it – bleary eyes, matted fur, hideous funk – that you want to take it home and fix it up. Just look at it. Quotation marks have been added, mysteriously, but the concluding question mark has been excised. This odd combination lends the whole thing the air of a Zen koan. But it’s the lack of a proper sales pitch that really tickles me. What if my answer is yes, now that you mention it, my car is filthy? What am I supposed to do? OK, I admit that the car cleaning service isn’t far from this location, but still. The effect is downright unsettling. I half suspect that if you peered very closely at the bottom of the sign you would see, in tiny letters, ‘DIRECTED BY DAVID LYNCH’.
These are just gorgeous. Minimalistic posters for classic children’s stories. Available to buy here.
It’s funny how the verbs we use for romantic entanglements change over the years. Remember ‘going’ with people? I used to listen to my older sisters gossiping loudly about who had ‘gone’ with whom, and I must say I always found the phrase lacking in descriptive detail. ‘Did you hear the scandal? Kevin went with Sheila last night!’ This confused me no end. Went with? Went where? How? On foot, on a bike, what? And what did they do when they got there? It turned out to mean mere snogging, of course, the type where you’re not sure of their name and you can’t wait for it to be over so you can tell all your mates, even though many of them have been watching the whole thing from a distance of eight feet. The time comes, however, when ‘going with’ just doesn’t cut it any more. Enter ‘going out with’, which sounds more sophisticated and has a longer shelf life too. It more than does the job all through those early days when it differs from ‘going with’ only inasmuch as you do it at regular intervals and you’re almost certain of the other person’s name. And it really comes into its own as you get older, when it suddenly gains the benefit of accuracy. That’s what you do with your significant others in your twenties, after all – you go out places with them. By the time you’re staring down the barrel of thirty, however, you feel silly saying you’re going out with someone, largely because you’re not; you’re staying in with them. Then staying in with them becomes simply staying with them, and that’s that. Going with. Going out with. Staying in with. Staying with. The four stages of, you know, whatever.
Happy
Grumpy
Dopey
Sleepy
Sneezy
Bashful
Lust
Damien Owens