Life's a Box of Suppositories

Well that’s just f****n lovely…

“These are the voyages of the Life’s a Box of Suppositories, it’s continuing mission to explore new comparisons, to seek out new metaphors and new explanations, to boldly go where no blog has gone before…”

Nevertheless, what you’re reading right now has yet to be addressed. You see, the answer to this is a little more complex then would first appear. Simply, because I don’t know if you’re holding a book, sitting in some internet cafe, or you have accessed my computer and just happened to have stumbled across this gibberish. Or perhaps it’s the distant future, and you’ve found refuge in some dark basement surrounded by spent car batteries and appliances that once held purpose yet stand mute in silence, stubbornly refusing to cooperate as your tired hands no longer hold the will to breathe life into the skeletons of our now pointless creations. Worthless possessions on empty streets lie dormant, ignored, like broken toys scattered across a dark attic. A light flashes, your heart beats, momentarily reminding you that your faint pulse still exists. You’ve survived, and have been given the burden of sight to witness the conclusion to our pitiful tale, to see the fools that once believed they owned this earth and the greed that tore apart our reasoning to call our ourselves human. A sign of life… The screen dies. Desperately you fidget with cables. The light returns. The screen nervously flickers, displaying its open wound, the congealed blood from the cracked screen stretches the length of the monitor, hindering a story that has long since been forgotten. An unfamiliar noise startles you. You listen… Be quiet… Nothing… Footsteps… You are not alone. Desperately you scramble to kill the light of the monitor. The light dies. Silence…
What am I talking about…? Why am I writing this…? Why did I take the remote control for the tele to the pub with me last Thursday week…? And why can’t I get that ridiculously happy ‘Golden Girls’ theme out of my head…? Patience…!
First thing’s first… What is this… I don’t know… I can tell you what it’s not…!
This is not an autobiography, an autobiography has one simple purpose in life, and that is to give a voice to someone who has spent their lives being listened to, because of who they are and not because of what they have to say.   Take for instance Jordan’s autobiography “Being Jordan,” since it has been published it has sold an astonishing 900,000 copies. That’s a book for every man, woman and child living in the state of Alaska. Apart from having monumentally large breasts, what does she actually do? John Joe Finegan that lives three houses up from ours has the largest ears that I have ever seen on a human being, Peter Murphy has the longest forehead west of the Shannon, does that mean that they should write an autobiography?  Yet Jordan and her gravity defying monstrosities somehow managed to fill 277 pages and sell close to a million copies, and at the same time be nominated by the British Book Awards for the biography of the year…    Personally, I would sooner eat a mile of wild cat shite, whilst crawling on my knees over broken glass through the streets of Calcutta, whilst being repeatedly drop-kicked between the arse-hole and the bollix by the most infamous ball kicker from the All Blacks wall of fame, then read past the first paragraph… Okay, given the choice, and if those particular circumstances were my only other option… I would probably read the first paragraph, but I should stress, I wouldn’t be one bit happy about it.

Me, on the other hand, I am not famous, nor will I ever be famous. I am just your average guy who over-cooks chicken, sporadically enjoys ‘Judge Judy’, and tends to dislike people that use the words “refreshing, furthermore and honest-to-goodness. ” So, why am I writing this?   This all started in a small tin cabin on the outskirts of Baghdad. I was staring at my laptop and I had just brutally murdered about two hundred blue bottles with a ‘limited edition springer softail catalogue.’ I should also add, whilst working in Kirkuk in northern Iraq, I took a fly out from eight feet with a stapler, under restricted light. Maybe eight or ten guys in the world could have made that shot. In fact my boss told me at the time “It was the only thing I was ever good at.” And for those of you who aren’t Lethal Weapon fans, well I guess you’ll just have to resign yourself to the fact that I am a raving lunatic. Anyway, I was at my desk in Baghdad, and was after returning from a rather unsavoury experience in a porta-loo when I started to reminisce about another rather memorable occasion I had in a toilet and wanted to share it with someone. Given the fact that I had just killed every living thing in the room, the telephone lines were down, and Marconi’s transmitting tower would have provided a faster broadband service then the yoke nailed into the side of my little tin cabin, which looked like a pressure cooker that was bent into shape using an articulated lorry to resemble a satellite dish that some backstreet Iraqi electrical store was kind enough to sell to me, I was left with no other choice other than to write it down. However, my life has made some rather drastic nose dives since my declaration of war on the fly population of Iraq. Let’s just say, I too got involved in the whole ‘property ladder’ bullshit… Rather than elaborate, lets just say that one could say, my first step on the property ladder was about as successful a venture as attempting to land the first hamster on the moon, by tying him to a firecracker. Anyway, gettin’ back to how I landed in Baghdad…                                                                                                                                                                                                                           CUT TO: INT. GALWAY NIGHTCLUB – LATE THAT NIGHT
All previous efforts had been exhausted in trying to find a suitable partner by erotically gyrating like an epileptic tarantula to ‘Eye of the Tiger,’ which I had requested, taking in or around three visits to the DJ box to convince him I was serious. I then found myself resorting to the more conventional method of reciting my well rehearsed, word for word rendition of “Maniac 2000” utilizing far more decibels then were required, into some girl’s ear, who would probably have been more intrigued by an eight hour seminar on athletes foot then by my lame attempt at chatting her up. It was now becoming blatantly obvious that my fading sent of ‘Old Spice’ had now been replaced with the unmistakable whiff of ‘Eau de Desperation.’ And there was growing evidence to suggest that in the unlikely event that I was the last male homosapian residing between here and further reaches of our galaxy, there was now a higher likelihood of me meeting an orange humpback whale dressed as the Easter bunny, preforming the funky chicken in the dole queue the following Tuesday morning than finding a compatible female companion on these premises. The rest of the evening, I must admit is a little blurry. All I know is that I fell asleep on the street around the corner from the nightclub. However, The Man Above certainly works in mysterious ways, and He chose to shine His hand down on me that night, well, so I believed at the time… I awoke to find the most ravishing mademoiselle I have ever laid eyes on, standing beside me. Although my vision was partially impaired I vividly recall her having a pale complexion, her virgin like manner seemed hesitant, almost apologetic, yet she possessed a remarkable air of confidence. Her clothes caressed her sylphlike body, whilst her perfectly conditioned hair rested neatly upon her delicate shoulders. She chose not to speak, as did I. I was content in savouring this moment of purity, of acceptance, of clarity, of questionable confusion. Who was this girl? And why, of all the men in Galway City… why, why did she choose to stand in my company? And yet, in that precious moment that her eyes met mine, I genuinely felt that I had found the one person that effortlessly possessed the authority to make a heartfelt difference without uttering a single word.

Nevertheless, I was fully aware that from where she was standing an explanation was the order of the day, as I was of course very inconveniently lying in the gutter at the time of our encounter. And this issue, as awkward a topic as it may have seemed at the time, was one that needed to be addressed. If I was to resuscitate my waning dignity and proceed with the task in hand, this rather inconvenient situation called for a generous helping of diplomatic engineering and some delicate footwork. Eccentricity, seemed like a viable option, which very inconveniently led me to a poem I learned as a child…
I proceeded to recite a timeless classic written by W.B.Yeats…
“I wandered lonely as a cloud that floats on high ore veils and hills. When all at once I saw a cloud, a host of golden daffodils…”
I paused for a moment… She remained silent! This very untimely interlude was due to the fact that I could not remember the rest of that nonsensical ludicrousness written about lonesome clouds and feckin’ yellow daffodils. However, I was not deterred, and proceeded with the first two, and second last verse of “Willie McBride.”
From the corner of my eye, I could see that my silent stranger had stayed with me…
I muttered… “Thank you… Thank you for listening”
Turning to her, our eyes met once more… And my motionless, silent, elegant, apparition-like,  visitant came into focus…
…I had just spent the last twenty minutes reciting poetry to a mannequin in the window of Debenhams.

Two weeks later I landed in Baghdad on a C130.

To be continued…

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One thought on “Well that’s just f****n lovely…

  1. i’m seriously hoping for some more stories. i laughed out loud at this entry, as i do with all the entries. you’ve a gift for outrageous analogy. 🙂

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