Tales For The Socially Inept…

I was going to write something else about the Olympics. I really was. But then I got lazy. I got a book from the library about Canada. I entered a competition to win a €100 HMV voucher (give us!). I went to the playground. I worked on my singing voice. You know. Life got in the way. Now too much time has passed. Everything that I could say about ‘em has already been said. Probably better. And the paralympics are on now. So fuck it.

You wanna talk about some of the most awkward commonplace situations ever?

You do?!

Well that’s great news. You’re in the right place ol’ buddy, ol’ friend, ol’ pal!

After you… And you, and you, and you…

Okay so you’re coming out of… I dunno… the bank. There’s a frazzled looking woman on her way in. She’s pushing a buggy with a crying toddler inside. She’s trying to open a Milky Bar to give to the kid to try and get him to shut the hell up while she’s doing her banking. She’s carrying two bags from Dunnes, one from Heatons, she’s about to drop her keys and her phone is ringing somewhere inside her giant handbag. Hold the door open for her. She’s having a crappier day than you.

Behind the frazzled mother, dawdles a little old dear in with a tweed hat and orthopaedic shoes. You have to hold the door for her too. It’s the right thing to do. Hold it for the jolly looking farmer. Why not? He smells like shit, you can tell he’s probably illegally parked his tractor to run in and pay his credit card real quick, but heck, he looks appreciative and you’re in good humour.

But what about the woman with the Tesco bags? She’s still a good six steps away. Do you wait and hold it for her? Or do you let it go and get back to your car before your parking is up? Thing is, if you let it go, it’ll probably close just as she gets to it, rendering you the prick who let the door slam in the poor woman’s face. But then, if you hold it for her, why wouldn’t you hold it for the guy six steps behind her?

Where do you draw the line? What’s the etiquette? I’ve been here many times; caught holding a door for a flood of people, all taking advantage of your spontaneous good deed. Sure, it’s all graciousness and smiles until the fifth person doesn’t even bother saying “thank you”. Then you’re left reeling at the sheer audacity and lack of gratitude of the general public, vowing never to bother your arse again because “no one would feckin’ hold a door for me if it was the other way around!”

Until the next time you come out of the library and there’s a friendly chap who just has one too many books to effectively get through the door himself… I got it dude, after you…

Sorry? Say That Again…

“Hi, I’m Holly. What’s your name?”

“Vpojdsfasos.”

“Sorry? What was it?”

“Vawpadkkslcm.”

“Stacey, was it? Sorry. I’ve very bad hearing. One more time?”

“Iolkjanflkan.”

“Ah… It’s good to meet you…”

What was that chick’s name? I’ve no idea. Couldn’t hear her. Three times. Didn’t care enough to ask her a fourth. Which would be fine, except what if Vaalkefnvlew is really sound and you end up getting on really well with her? What if you’re having some drinks together and you’re laughing and she knows your name and your dogs name, you’ve taken loads of pictures together and you’re gonna definitely add each other on Facebook?! That’s great but… YOU DON’T KNOW HER NAME!.. You bolox… It’s too late to admit that now. You’ve been faking it for hours. She’d think you were some eegit if ya asked her name at this stage. Sure you’ve been to the toilet together for Christ’s sake!

“Yeah, yeah, give us your number, I’ll definitely text ya… 086… 313.. 8251.. cool… So I’ll just save that… under…. Uh…. Under your name… Which is… Hey, you know what?! I’m gonna save you under ‘Fleetwood Mac’ coz we were singing it earlier and it’ll be really funny and crazy and cool!”

Look at this video of these two cool dudes showing us how it goes when you forget someone’s name… They’re so awesome and brilliant at acting… 

How Much If I Put This Back?

Okay, so you’re broke. And I don’t mean, ‘shit, I can’t go to the cinema this week’ broke, I mean, ‘shit, I have to choose between meals and petrol this week’ broke. Maybe you’re broke because it’s another week till payday. Maybe you’re broke because you bought tickets to The Foo Fighters next summer, in case it sells out. Maybe you’re broke because you bought a round for everyone in the pub at the weekend in another stupid fit of drunken generosity. Regardless, you’re broke. And now you need milk… and Lucozade… And Buffalo Hunky Dorys… And maybe a pizza…

But, you’re a feckin’ genius so you know that these things are totally within your reach.

€1.90 from down the side of the couch.

€2.65 from the inside pocket of the jacket ya had on ya on Saturday night.

€0.90 from on top of the washing machine.

And €3.20 that your room mate left on the table to buy dishwasher tablets with later.

Sorted.

So, safely inside the aisles of your local supermarket you beeline for the frozen foods and collect one sumptuous stuffed-crust loaded cheese pizza (€3.99). You opt for the store brand milk to save a few cent (€1.60). Your regular bottle of Lucozade, no Sport or Cherry Cola for you (€1.99) and a packet of Buffalo Hunky Dorys (€.70).

Smug in the knowledge that you’re under budget and wont look like a bum when you pay, you make your way to the counter. Subtotal: €1.60, €3.79, €4.49. FUCK! The pizza was priced wrong! It’s €4.99! We’re on €9.48! Balls… Stuffed crust Chicago Town Loaded cheese for €3.99 was too good to be true in the first place. You knew that. This is your own fault.

“Oh Fiddlesticks, you know what? I didn’t bring my purse! I’ll… I’ll just… not get this then.”

Now what? There’s a line of bemused people forming behind you and you can’t afford your dinner. There, look, waffles. €2.00 for 6. Do rightly. Grab ‘em! Go! Laugh! Pretend it happens all the time because you’re so fun and scatty.

“Hahaha! Aren’t I so silly?!”

Now get out. And don’t come back until you’ve taken control of your habits.

To Eat or Not To Eat?

Food is a very personal thing. No two people will ever have exact matching tastes in food. I like garlic bread. My best friend once tried to kick me out of a bed in an Amsterdam hotel because I’d had garlic bread at lunch. She really enjoys peanut butter. I can’t stand the stuff. My brother wont eat peppers. My sister gags at the thought of steak. I’ll eat carrots but I wont touch cabbage. I love chicken but I don’t do fish. I’m wary of cous cous and hummous because I’m not really sure what they are. You know? Food is just a matter of personal preference.

So what do you do if you’re at someone’s house for dinner and they dish up something that you wouldn’t let past your lips in a month of Sundays? Like, I dunno, you’re at your boyfriend’s house meeting his parents for the first time and his Mam serves you a big plate of liver (cooked to perfection) with brussel sprouts, chick peas and a side of shit flavoured pate. What do ya do?

“Mmmm, looks delicious Mrs. Badchef! You’re quite the cook!”

You’re not actually gonna eat any of that crap are you? Why don’t you just go out to the garden and have a few worms instead? You could pretend to be sick. She might get offended though. It’d be a bit convenient to get suddenly ill just at that very moment. You could say that you had a big lunch and would she mind if you had it a little later (by which you mean let the dog enjoy it after she’s gone to bed)? It’s a tough call to have to make. Although, if your boyfriend had any manners he’d jump in and save you.

What I’ve been served / What I would rather eat

Do You Think You’re Funny?

You walk into the room and into the middle of a conversation between two of your friends.

Friend 1: “Yeah, that’s what they wanted to do but apparently it’s too big…”

You: “That’s what your mom said last night! Oh!”

Friend 2: What?

You: “Your mom… Like, the joke… Implying that I did the nasty with your mom… And she said it’s too big… You know?”

Friend 1: “We’re talking about my mom’s inoperable brain tumor…”

You: “Oh… Shit…. I… Jesus, that’s… I’m so sorry… I was just messin’, I didn’t mean… Is your mam gonna be okay?…. I’ll uh, I’ll get my coat.”

Humour 101: Know your audience.

Don’t tell jokes about paedophiles around parents. Don’t make cracks about sex around your dad. A priest isn’t gonna appreciate any hilarious one-liners you’ve got about the catholic church and all that… controversy.

You covered your friend’s car in masking tape? That’s very funny and all, except he’s gotta collect his granny from the her hospital appointment in half an hour and now he’s really pissed.

Just… Be careful.

“Happy Birthday Dear Friend O’ Mine, Happy Birthday To You!

You know when you’re at someone’s birthday and the band takes a wee break for the emergence of the cake? The person comes in with the candles glowing and everyone bursts into a rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ except the only thing anyone can hear is the horrific singing voice of the person standing next to them.

The ‘Happy Birthday Song’ is usually just a big hilarious mess. Mostly because no body, no where, no how, sounds good singing it (much like ‘Silent Night’ at Christmas… “Sleeeeeep in heavenly peeeeEEEEEEEACE!). I believe it was likely written by someone with a great sense of humour. And then there’s the fact that everyone sings it in different keys, with some coming down or going up to try and match the majority key. Some people opt for a bit of “you look like a monkey”, some people stick to the script.

I usually just move my lips a bit and try to look like I’m really into it.

“No, I was looking past you…”

This one time I was out Christmas shopping in Clery’s in Dublin. As I perused the novelty gift items, I noticed a little girl sitting in a pushchair between two aisles. Her Mam was obviously nearby doing some perusing of her own. The kid was super cute. Probably about two years old, dressed in a red, festive dress and with a little green bow on her almost bald head. I couldn’t help but stop to look at her. I didn’t go near her or anything. I just stood for a minute, taking in the cuteness. Then she copped me. And went ballistic. She started screaming and (shockingly articulately for a child of her size) calling for her mother to come because there was a girl staring at her. Shitballs! I scarpered fairly lively.

Moral? Don’t stare at babies in department stores. Apparently they can talk these days. That kid, I instantly assumed, was about to tell her mother that I was likely assessing her worth in some kind of child kidnapping operation. I didn’t need that. Not at Christmastime.

So now I mostly just mind my own bidness when I’m shopping.

You Couldn’t Be More Wrong…

You: “Salma Hayek was Johnny Depp’s wife in Blow.”

Them: “I don’t think she was.”

You: “I’m tellin’ ya! She was the wife and she loved the money and the cars and she was the full time smoking. Salma Hayek.”

Them: “No, it was that other one, I think.”

You: “Are you mental!? Did you see the movie or no? Yer man’s wife… In the movie, Blow… With the Spanish accent… Was Salma… Hayek.”

Them: “Was it not Penelope Cruz?”

Flip! It feckin’ was Penelope Cruz and all. Now that you mention it. I forgot she existed.

“Aw maybe it was. I haven’t seen it in ages.”

Backwards roll out of the conversation…

She’s My Cousin, you know…

Eminem once said, “goddamnit you little motherfucker if you aint got nothin’ nice to say then don’t say nothin’!”

Eminem’d be full of valuable advice like that.

Alas, not all of us listen to Eminem in time for him to save us from making a bolox of ourselves in front of people.

This one Monday morning, when I was just a furry grey cygnet, I was in the schoolyard gossiping with my friends about the youth disco we’d been to on the Friday night before.

“Remember when Mikey Badskin came over and asked if you’d shift Tommy Wonkytooth?”

“Yes! It was right after Jennifer Tinyhands was all over him on the bus!”

“Guys, did ya see yer one from Ballyenemy?”

“Yeah, what was she wearing?! That top was a crime!”

“What about that one the year below us! She could have done with getting that skirt about five sizes bigger!”

“That’s my cousin…”

Oh balls… Dig up! Dig up! Dig up!

“No, like I mean she looked amazing, it was just, maybe, a little… um… tight… Her hair was killer! She’s got such amazing hair! I’m so jealous!”

Ya just never feckin’ know, do ya? So nowadays, as a precaution, everybody looks fabulous. Chick with the pink boob tube? Fabulous… Girl in the ridiculous big hoopy earrings that keep getting caught in the fingers of everybody she drunkenly hugs? Fabulous… Lassie in the white dress whose underwear is visible through it? Fabulous… Yiz all look fabulous…

That’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it.

Well That Was Rude!

Yesterday I was about to cross the road in town. I stopped to let a car pull out in front of me. It was my friend! In the passenger seat. And I’m all, “Hey!! Well!! Hi!”. I’m waving like crazy because I haven’t seen him in a while and I’m tryin’ to make sure he sees me. And he looked at me and kind of, half-waved with a “who the fuck is that?” look on his face.

Of course he did… Because it wasn’t my friend at all. It was just some dude who happened to look really, really like him. His doppleganger, if you will. So I tried to look real busy and rushed on across the road and out of sight as quick as I could, hoping to never see that guy again.

I do this all the time! I’m walking past people I know and saying hello to them just before I realise they’re actually strangers. I’m passing people on the roads and beeping my horn and wondering why they didn’t beep back. I’m starting conversations with people after a few drinks because I know their little sister, except no I don’t, I know someone else’s little sister and this person is looking at me like I’m the biggest pest goin’.

But what do ya do? There’s no point in engaging a stranger in a whole rigmarole about how you saw them and thought that they were this friend of yours who looks like them and that’s why you were waving like an ape and you’re sorry but it’s uncanny how similar they are. They don’t care. They saw you waving and immediately assumed you were just some mentaller. They don’t need an explanation. To hell with ‘em.

If they’ve got any questions, just make something up. Tell ‘em you’re pretty sure that you joined the mile high club together on a flight from Bangkok to Bogota back in ’96. Then get offended and storm off because they don’t remember and you thought it was special.

Lewd, Crude, Nude and Tweeting Some Dude…

Last week I read a story that, for no reason I can put my finger on, shook me to my core (lie). I was horrified (lie). It was one of those stories that you hear and then it lingers in the back of your mind for days after, discreetly bothering you at random interludes throughout the day.

The story was about Melanie Sykes and her new toyboy lover, Jack Cockings. They’ve been doing some very racy and public talking about their relationship via Twitter.

We’ve known Melanie for years. She used to do ‘The Big Breakfast’ on Channel 4 way back when. She did ‘Today With Des and Mel’ and ‘Let’s Do Lunch With Gino and Mel’. She did ‘The Vault’ on ITV. She did ads for ‘Head and Shoulders’. She’s done loads of crap. You know, the kinds of shows that tired, slightly overweight housewives watch at 12:30 on a Tuesday afternoon with a cup of tea and a packet of Bourbons while the kids are at school and before the washing machine finishes. Melanie is one of those people that have just always been there. She’s always been around on the telly, smiling, laughing and generally being far too hot to be someone we can all relate to (in the same vein as Myleene Klass). We know her. We like her. She’s a successful television presenter. She has two young boys aged 10 and 8.  Her physique is riDONKulous.

Awww look, it’s Des and Mel! We know them!

Except now Mel has gone and forever tarnished her lovely image by being a cheap, filthy, over-sharing tart on Twitter.

After going through a divorce in 2009, Melanie soldiered on. She got herself a Radio2 show with Alan Carr. She landed a gig hosting ‘Missing Millions’ on ITV. She posed nudey, nude, nude for Esquire magazine in December 2011. And then, in May this year, Melanie did something no self-respecting (and incredibly good-looking) celebrity should ever do. She hooked up with some nobody that she met on Twitter! WHATADUMBBUTT!

The guy is a 26-year-old investment, finance something-or-other whose Twitter handle is @bespokespartan. He’s 15 years her junior. So, what’s that rule for dating younger?  They say that the lowest age you can date is someone half your age plus seven. So Melanie is 41. Half of 41 is 20.5. 20.5 plus 7 is 27.5. Melanie can, therefore, unashamedly date someone who is 27.5 years old. Uh Oh…

Anyways, Melanie clearly is not familiar with this rule and is flagrantly parading her new love on the social media website.

Right, the dirt…

So they met on Twitter in April when Jack, having failed to attract the attention of either Jodie Marsh (“Do you need a boyfriend?”) or Cheryl Cole (“Love you.x”) with his tweets, turned his focus to our Mel. He tweeted her saying, “No way are you 41. Marry me?” He then proceeded, mortifyingly, to barrage her with photos of his kid and pictures of himself working out (awesome. How cool is he?!) until Mel, idiotically, started replying. She followed him. She told him he was “adorable” despite the volume of evidence pointing to him being a cocky, arrogant little prick who was chancing his arm with a celebrity, likely for the amusement of his equally pompous mates.

Jack Cocky, sorry, Cockings… What a stud!

Long story short, they’re now boyfriend and girlfriend and appallingly crude for all to see on Twitter. She’s calling it an incredible modern day romance. I’m calling bullshit. I’m also calling a decidedly short relationship lifespan.

Here’s one exchange:

@MsMelanieSykes: ‘Jack the rabbit I need some bunny love so hop to it!! Xxx boing boing!!! Loooooool xxxxxxx’…@bespokespartan: Only if I can bounce into your face! Xxx’ … @MsMelanieSykes: ‘Will you fill mine? Xxx’

Good. God.

Ahem, I continue…

@bespokespartan: ‘I’m ready and very hard! Bouncy bouncy xxx’… @MsMelanieSykes: ‘Me nips are up! tweak tweak!! Xxx’

@MsMelanieSykes: ‘Get off Twitter and get back in bed! Xxx’ God you are insatiable! I love it! Xxx.’

@MsMelanie Sykes: ‘My white jeans can’t take it anymore gonna have to rip these babies off! X’ and ‘my throat is inflamed can you help? : )’

I mean, you know what I’m sayin’? Tone it the fuck down you guys! I’m delighted that yiz are havin’ great sex and all but some of us are Catholics up in here! All evidence points to Ms Sykes not doing very well free from the constrictions of a daytime watershed.

I have drawn one main conclusion about their relationship…

Poor Melanie Sykes must having some kind of mid-life crisis. She’s the wrong side of 40 now, her kids are getting older, she’s been through a divorce, her career hasn’t panned out quite as well as Holly Willoughby’s and she’s decided “fuck it. Despite having the rockin’ body of an athlete, Melanie lapped up the attention of the brash banker, who, let the records show, has a tattoo on his ass of his mate’s name that he got for “banter” (well done on your life, son). She’s all consumed and flattered by the interest of a “hot” younger man and wants the world to know. She might as well hijack BBC News and announce, “I may not be Claudia Winkleman but I’m hot and young men still want me!” . I mean, I’m assuming that she’s just loving the notoriety that comes with having a toyboy and all the attention that her personal (public) exploits have garnered. Damn it, if she can’t be Kate Thornton then she’s gonna be a whole new Melanie Sykes. Fuck to being a responsible mother. Fuck to being a family-friendly TV personality. Fuck to being in any way respectable. Fuck to dignity. She’s gonna have at it!

See though, the thing is, I’m not saying that she’s out and out wrong. On one hand I’m thinking, good for you. Why not? If she wants to have a toyboy then have one. She’s clearly very satisfied. But Jesus Christ would ya shut the heck up about it on Twitter?!

Her older son is ten years old. No messin’, I know ten-year-olds who are on Twitter. Ten-year-olds today are not like ten-year-olds ten years ago. When I was ten I got on the ol’ dial-up very occasionally and when I did, I was looking up shit like, “horse grooming brush”. These days I’ve got eight-year-old kids telling me about the referendum and saying that Wayne Rooney is a bad man “because he kissed someone else that was wasn’t his wife.” Kids know stuff. They’ve got access yo.

In the days since the media picked up on her smut, Melanie has apparently gained something like 15,000 new followers (I’m one of ‘em!). Perhaps that’s all part of the plan. I don’t know.  What I will say though, is that if she continues down this line, destroying her respectability as a daytime TV figure, unconscientiously producing cripplingly embarrassing ammo for playground bullies to use against her children for years to come and categorically abandoning her sense of morality through her lewd messages, then that’s gonna be 15,000 horrified yet highly entertained individuals.

HOLY. SWEET. JAYSUS!!! She posted this in between bouts of “giddy knickers”.. Like, ya can almost see her.. YIKES!

By all accounts it would seems that @MsMelanieSykes is under the impression that this is a real relationship. This week she tweeted, “‘I’d like to formally announce that @bespokespartan is my boyfriend.” She is evidently oblivious to just how, ahem, whorey, she is actually coming across. See, it’s great to have a full and active sex life and all but there are certain things that just shouldn’t be said on a social networking site to thousands of people. You know, things like, “I’ve got the raging horn, please take me.”

All said and done, the fact is that any dude who tweets,”tweeting while hanging out the back of @MsMelanieSykes”  (yeah… I know) is probably not the man that you’re going to share a long and happy life with. He’s not likely going to be an honourable father figure to your two sons who, in just a few short years, will probably be big enough to give him the slap they’d be entitled to give him.

@bespokespartan: “Should I take @MsMelanieSykes in the ass tonight???” – Oh God! I dunno brother! Maybe just ask her! I don’t… Like, I just can’t… Ugh!

Sigh, and like, the fing is, yeah? I’m sure Melanie Sykes is a very nice person. Despite my scornful mockery, I do really believe that she’s probably as happy and fun as she comes across on-screen. And I s’pose I better also say that ’m sure she’s a great mother. She’s happy with this guy. Maybe he’s decent behind the swag (I said maybe).Maybe the whole sordid thing will do wonders for her career. Get her a spot on Celebrity Juice or something.  I mean, who the fuck am I to have an opinion, right?

But I just… STOP IT MELANIE SYKES! GO BE EROTIC IN PRIVATE!

Note: I began this piece without thinking. I subsequently got carried away. I have since come to realise how utterly irrelevant and fluffy it is… And I’m so very sorry.

Handy Work If You Can Get It…

“Tell me about the health issues you’ve had recently.”

Staring blankly across the table at the man I was paying €40 to read my cards, I racked my brain.

“I’ve always been pretty healthy,” I replied, almost apologetic at having failed to come up with anything that had ailed me in recent months.

“No, emotionally,” he made a second attempt.

Again, I hit a brick wall. I understood his logic. It would be a fairly safe bet to assume that the majority of the usual suspects that graced the curtain of his “psychic’s lair” would have had some kind of emotional turbulence going on thus provoking their visit. Alas, I was not one of those people and, having been informed that I was incredibly fearful of rejection and that I cry a lot on the inside, I was now concluding that this man was nothing more than a very good con artist.

I would like to clarify at this point that paying €40 to have my future told by a chain-smoking medium down the back of a pub in Mullingar was not my idea. It was my mothers. Inherently trusting and full of faith, she wholly believes in angels, banshees and the ability of those few to see the future. She’d been to this guy several times. Swore by him. Many do.

I, on the other hand, am innately more sceptical. I have little time for religion, UFO sightings or ghosts. In general, if you can’t explain it to me, it aint getting past the door. I once read a saying on one of those funny signs you see outside churches in America. It went, “Faith sees God. Intellect does not.” Accurate and witty. I remembered it. That’s how this scribe sees it.

Having said that, at the encouragement of my ever compassionate, entirely trusting and kind-hearted ol’ Mum to accompany her, I found myself sat in front of one of Ireland’s most renowned psychics the other evening.

Having agreed on the reading and aware that it came at a princely cost, I decided to try and open my mind a little. Maybe I haven’t got it all figured out. Maybe I’m wrong. I’ve heard many people raving about this guy, how he’s predicted deaths and illnesses around them and gave them lucidity on a lot of things.

Driving down there after work, with my mother doing some Oscar worthy acting in her role as ‘most-nervous-passenger-in-the-world’ for the trip, I will admit that there was a part of me hoping I’d be told something profound. Something insightful. Something that I might be kept awake pondering that night. Even just some form of reassurance that I’m making decent decisions. No such luck.

Of course, the client themselves play a huge part in defining how good these guys are. As far as I can make out, the majority of clients at this particular dude are middle-aged women, house and duty bound and crippled with regrets.

That was way harsh Tai.

Point being that the best part of the people that go to see psychics go because they’re looking for some kind of emotional reassurance. They go hoping to emerge fulfilled, hopeful and enlightened. They go, so certain it will put their mind at ease, that when Mr. MoneyBalls tells them that he sees a wonderful future in store for them and that their dead dog wants them to know that he’s happy on the other side with Granny and Paws the cat, they lap it right up. I mean, he knew that Granny was dead! And you never told him! He must be legit!

Or perhaps he just clocked you coming in all positive and accepting, took in your age, your clothing, your immediate persona and he made some generic but fairly accurate conclusions about you. He sees health problems? Maybe you had a chest infection out last year. Death in the family? Perhaps your great-aunt died just before Christmas. Travel on the horizon? Who doesn’t have travel on the horizon these days?

Sitting in the dark room the other night with the tatty old cards laid out on the table in front of me, I was determined to poker face my way through the session. He was gonna have to do this on his own.

He asked about the animosity on my father’s side of the family, wanted to know why there’s a separation there, why we don’t speak very often. I took a moment to correct my raised brow and duly told him that we were actually a very close-knit family and had, in fact, all been away together the weekend before. Not quite on top form there buddy. Go again.

“What about the recent death on your mother’s side of the family?”  … “Well, my grandmother died 12 years ago.” Ouch. Strike two. It really wasn’t going all that incredibly well between myself and Mr. MoneyBalls here in his curtained cave. My inner cynic was utterly frothing at the mouth at the realisation that it had been right all along. The naïve, curious side of me, however, was a tad crushed in the knowledge that my life really was in my own clumsy hands.

With a mutual recognition that this reading was turning out to be far from the best show he’d ever done, he got a little more specific. He told me he saw travel in my future. Right. No shit Sherlock, but okay. Apparently Australia’s not for me but I’d really enjoy South America or Africa. He told me he saw marriage. Again, doesn’t take a genius, but all right, I’ll take it as a prediction. He wanted to know why I thought I wouldn’t have children. Fair play, you took a risk, thought maybe I looked like someone who didn’t have much time for kids. But FAIL nonetheless. He told me I’d always come back home and would end up settling within 30 minutes of where I currently live. Game over buddy. My definite (vague) and intended (hoped) life plan dictates otherwise.

I reckon that was about the time he gave up on me. He’d gotten it wrong so many times it almost seemed pointless to continue. I wasn’t buying it. He knew I wasn’t buying it. He told me to enjoy my travels and the session was brought to an abrupt and slightly awkward end with a shake of the hand and the exchange of what I’ve decided is a sufficient amount of money to justify scamming vulnerable, insecure housewives from across Ireland for a few hours in the evening during the week.

There’s a medium in the UK by the name of Derek Acorah. Some might know him from his work on ‘Most Haunted’ in which he became “possessed” by a spirit called Kreed Kafer. Kreed Kafer was subsequently exposed to be a total fabrication and a rather obvious anagram of the words ‘Derek Faker’. Clever. A while back I watched a documentary featuring Acorah. He was accused of being a fraud, cold-reading his clients, throwing out non-specific statements, gauging reactions and essentially just allowing people to make their own assumptions. He had hoards convinced. In reality it was all just years of honed fakery and showmanship. Acorah, of course, was enraged at the suggestion that he might be a liar and denied everything. But like, come on. I am, however, giving Derek one more shot at pursuading me. He has predicted that he will be involved in a plane crash between the UK and Canada in 2013. He reckons he’ll be one of three survivors and will consequently need a walking stick. So… Yeah… Look out for that news… I swear, if that happens I will eat your hat (I like mine)!

Derek Acorah under the influence of Derek Faker… Wait…

Anyways, feeling both disappointed at the lack of any kind of philosophical insight into my healthy, loss-lacking, socially acceptable life and decidedly smug at the confirmation that good old, time tested logic always prevails, we drove home, with me explaining to Mum exactly why I had deemed the man a fraudster, in between bursts of trying to reassure her that yes, I could see that the car in front of me was indicating and I wasn’t driving too fast.

Moral? I dunno really. Don’t go see a psychic. Instead, maybe just… get on with your life and quit being so darned scared of fucking it up. Be graaaaand!

Here’s a link to the art of cold reading. Why not set up down the back of your local and charge innocent old ladies a fortune to come and be cheated? http://www.wikihow.com/Cold-Read

PS: In case you’re wondering, my eternally trusting mother’s reading turned out to be a much more insightful experience for her.