Summertime

So maybe I do think that John Prescott is putting the Bull into Bulimic, I mean how does he get his stubby chubby fingers back his throat in the first place anyway to make himself sick? But enough about me. I would like to apologize to Sun Worshippers, Farmers, Homeless People, Strawberry sellers at sides of roads and those suffering from Seasonal Affective Disorder. I am praying for a bad wet windy Summer. I think sunshine brings out the worse in us Irish. What’s that I hear you cry? How could we get any worse?

There is the obvious example of people drinking more alcohol outside of pubs when the big blazing ball sticks its cancer causing head out from behind the clouds. We’re all so happy to see it, that we have to celebrate with a few more drinks than usual. But drink is a depressant. So when you’re getting up the following morning for work with a sore head and it’s raining as if God is projectile vomiting and emptying his foodless bile-filled belly on us, was it really worth it? You look in the mirror, your nose is burnt, you think “Ah at least I got a bit of a color”. But no, it’s burst blood capillaries because you drank more that evening than you earned that week. You’re Irish, you must know the sun is not your friend, never has been, never will be.

I hate when the sun shines because it brings the perverts out in force, the old fashioned perverts. Not the modern ones who take things a bit too far. I am talking about the ones who have that white coating on their lips: probably just some toothpaste but on the wrong man it can look sinister. They trawl streets they have never trawled before, their eyes ready, the mouth pre-packed with drool. We are so starved for sunshine in this country that every woman of a certain age (and some of an uncertain age) has an “incase of sun throw this on” outfit hanging by the front door, usually flashing leg or cleavage, sometimes both. And it’s these outfits that bring the perverts outside in their bachelor smelling macs covered in stains that not even a scientist can explain. They will gladly give up an afternoon with Grainne Ni Seoige and venture outdoors to pour a dirty gawk over a suspecting Irish cailin. And why should I hate these perverts I hear you ask? Because they have stopped gawking at me: and believe you me I have tried to get their attention, sitting up right on the bus, pulling knots out of my hair, licking actimel off my arms. All to no avail.

I also hate the sun because it brings “The Wans” out in force. You know “The Wans”, not to be confused with your soul mate “The One”. The Wans: full of attitude, full of Cider: Swarming the streets like flies on cow excrement. Or maybe they have always been swarming its just the sun makes them more obvious as it reflects off their gold medallions, their gold hoopy earrings, their gold belt buckles, their gold sovereigns. These Wans can be seen pushing prams full of innocent babies they don’t know the sex of, the babies like big gold Euro signs, their nappies full of stolen hair accessories from Penney’s. They abide by their own rules, rules we can’t understand. Partly because there are no rules, partly because we can’t understand what their saying anyway what with the cider and heroin floating thorough their sun burnt veins.

For those of you who do need sunshine, I have a tip. Ignore it when it comes out for the first few time. Don’t give it any attention. Just like a lover it will come back for more. Maybe not though…..