Author Archives: julian.mannion@gmail.com

Well here we are once again; the festivities are over, the credit card bills have arrived, your once snug fitting clothes are now chafing ever so slightly and on top of all this comes the crushing realisation that you have to back to work.  Happy New Year my arse….

I know that my ever sunny disposition would suggest otherwise, but I’ve never really felt like celebrating a “new” year because more often than not, it just ends up being quite like the old one.  Yes, you can resolve to do this, that and the other but let’s be honest with ourselves, how many of those resolutions actually succeed?  January and maybe even the first couple of weeks in February will likely see a new you as you quaff pints of pureed fruit instead of Guinness, buy Holland and Barrett instead of Benson and Hedges and bask in the warm glow of self-satisfaction that comes with knowing you’ve beaten your cravings and changed your life for the better.

But that’s not true, is it?  The warm glow isn’t self-satisfaction, it’s just your muscles screaming at you to stop as you stagger around the streets at some ungodly hour in the morning, sweating buckets and longing to be tucked up in your warm bed again.  Having given up the old coffin nails is great but now you’re sucking on an e-cigarette so hard you risk inhaling it and have more patches than a bloody quilt.  Finally, yes I’m sure the kumquat, kiwi and mango mush that you choke down is doing a power of good and cleaning out your colon (it’ll certainly be cleaning out your wallet) but you’d be getting the same anti-oxidant powers from chucking down orange juice at a fraction of the price.

It’s not even really a new year, is it?  It’s just a wholly arbitrary point in the Earth’s revolution around the sun.  Given how preoccupied our pagan ancestors were with regards the solstice and celebrating the harvest etc. how did we end up with New Year’s Day not being December 22^nd?  Surely it makes sense to have a new year where the days are now getting longer again and the evenings brighter?  This concept of a new year was very important to our predecessors, so much so that they built monuments to it.

There’s a Neolithic tomb in Ireland called Newgrange which was built over 5,000 years ago and pre-dates both the great pyramids and Stonehenge.  In this tomb (though tomb is probably underselling it – temple may be more appropriate) there is an opening above the main entrance through which sunlight only comes through between December 19^th and 23^rd and lights up the central chamber.  The logistics in gathering the materials for the structure, building it and aligning it so perfectly are phenomenal when you consider that this was done with just man power and the most basic of tools.  However, it was worth to those ancients because of what the new year signified.  Thinking about it, for them it was always going to be pretty similar.  Celebrate surviving the winter, rejoice at the coming of spring and warmer weather, sow the crops and set yourself up to survive to this point in 365 days’ time once more.

Anyway, I guess the same ol’ shit isn’t so bad.  2015 wasn’t an especially good year for me but I’m still here, still in good health and still employed.  That’s something to be thankful for though I’m also the miserable, grumpy bastard that I always have been.  So for 2016, I resolve to try and wear a smile more often than a frown, be more positive and try to have a bit more fun.  I only get one life, I may as well live it.

Well, that’s the madness over for another year (or at least nine months); the leftovers have been stored in the fridge, the dishwasher has been loaded and gently hums away while my brother in law snores peacefully on the sofa in front of the fire and the rest of the family slouches in a post Christmas dinner torpor.  Even my sister’s two jack russells, normally so energetic and lively, are content to plonk themselves in my lap and endure having their tummies rubbed.  ‘Tough life, eh?’ I remark to Poochie as she turns and gives me a pleading look for momentarily stopping the rubbing to make myself a little bit more comfortable.  The weather outside is frightful but inside it’s so delightful and for the first time this holiday, I feel truly relaxed.

I will freely admit to being quite the grinch around this time of year.  I remember as a child that I would always look forward to Christmas, not just for the presents (though they of course are a part of it) but also for the decorations, the songs, the food and just the general feel good factor that accompanies the season of peace and good will to all.  I always remember a hint of anticipation in the air as soon as you heard the gravelly voice of Shane McGowan reminiscing about Christmas Eve in the drunk tank and the old man singing The Rare Old Mountain Dew (it just occurs to me that I’ve never checked if that’s an actual song or not) and a puerile glee in singing along to the third verse as loudly as possible, preferably in the shop where it was being played (Ya scumbag, ya maggot, ya cheap lousy faggot, happy Christmas yer arse, I pray God it’s our last!)

Alas, as I’ve gotten older the anticipation has diminished considerably and Christmas is becoming less and less a celebration but more a feat of endurance.  I think the first thing to go was the desire for presents; those who know me are well aware that I make a conscious choice not to celebrate my birthday as since I turned twenty-one almost a decade ago, each revolution of the sun just reminds me of having one less year on this mortal coil.  I think my opinion of Christmas and the obligatory new year celebrations after it have been probably been unduly influenced by my birthday attitude.  On that subject, you know that you are truly getting old when you appreciate socks, underwear and pyjamas for Christmas presents.

I’m not making any exaggeration when I say that in the UK at least, there have been Christmas decorations up in some of the shops since September.  It was Wizzard who said they wished it could be Christmas every day, and while their wish may not have been quite fulfilled, it’s certainly true for a quarter of the year and that fraction seems to be getting ever larger.  The one thing I do love about Christmas is the food but even I (and I very much doubt I’m the only one) think it’s more than a bit ridiculous to have mince pies on the shelves in September with a sell-by of mid-November.

I’m also becoming ever more resentful of the orgy of consumerism that Christmas represents these days with the US import of ‘Black Friday’ now being present in the UK for the past two years.  I realise that with online shopping becoming ever more prolific, traditional retailers have to do everything they can to try and get people back into the stores but it has backfired slightly.  The hoped for crowds never materialised as people got up just after midnight, reserved their (much needed) massive TVs for in-store collection online (oh the irony…), then went in at a leisurely time to pick them up.  I wouldn’t be surprised if in a poll of today’s youngsters, when asked whose birthday Christmas is intended to celebrate, the majority would answer SC rather than JC.

It’s all relative though.  I whinge however I am spending Christmas with a full belly, a roof over my head and most importantly, my family.  That’s definitely something to be thankful for.

Finally, my first post.  Well…not technically my first post, it’s actually the second post but what it is is the first post of note.  What note you ask?  A#; a sharp (har de har har), entertaining and hopefully somewhat account of the general goings on in my humdrum life.  I am not writing this to satisfy some narcissistic urge to have everyone read about me and my opinions or to make money out of the inevitable syndication and fame it will garner me.  No, I do this because on occasion something will provoke me to record my musings for, well, my amusement and if others find it entertaining, so much the better.

Indeed, thinking about it, I can pinpoint the exact moment that this urge first occurred.  It was in fifth year in secondary school and my English teacher, Mr. C, had set us an essay on the subject of designer clothing.  I’m not really certain what sort of a mood I was in but for some reason, as I sat in the school library trying to put together a coherent and logical argument as to why designer clothing is over- price and over-hyped, a little voice in my head just told me to go for it, go wild, go crazy, take hyperbole to a new level! Let it all out, vent your frustration at the world in general through an argument as to why anyone in their right mind would pay premium prices for the stuff.  Look at me!!!  I have enough money (and little enough sense) to buy boxers from Tommy Hilfiger when I could have bought pretty much the exact same 100% cotton elasticated underwear from bloody Primark for a fraction of the price.  Incidentally, I read in the paper this morning that Mr. Hilfiger believes people should wear their underwear so the band with the branding shows.  Quelle surprise.  Tell me Tommy, should I wear it so high that it gives me a wedgie or my pants half-way down my arse (with obligatory but also superfluous belt) so that I can look like a tit before I fall over as well as after?

Grrr…sorry, where was I?  Ah yes, sitting in the school library writing a rant about designer clothing.  Anyway, as I continued with the essay, I found myself smiling and then chuckling quietly.  Yes, I agree, it is a bit up yourself to laugh at your own jokes but fuck it, it cheered me up and I enjoyed the process.  A few days later, Mr. C declared that he would read out two of the essays that he’d received.  The first one was a well-reasoned, logical argument about the questionable merits of designer clothing; the second was an over-the top diatribe about people being walking corporate billboards i.e. mine.  As I sat mortified with my head in my hands staring intently at the desk, there were guffaws around the class and at the end of the recitation, my classmates wanted to know who had written it.  I sheepishly put up my hand and accepted full responsibility (Well not quite; the writings of Joseph O’Connor in his “Irish Male” series certainly set the tone of my writing.

From that point on, I got a real kick out of putting exaggerated and colourful arguments forward on anything from Banquo being a toe-rag (as Mr. C once eloquently put it) to the in-your-endo present in the poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins.  It didn’t matter to me that this stuff was never to be read out to others, I enjoyed writing it and that was enough.  I do like to think that Mr. C got some entertainment himself and indulged me as my arguments, though outrageous and perhaps excessive, were logical and had a point.  He did however tell me once that I should probably tone it down as if my Leaving Certificate English exam were to be marked by a nun from Cork, I’d be screwed.

Now I was going to launch into a tirade about lessons learned from waiting on hold however that can wait until the next time.

Happy trails,

J

This is not just a test, it is a small tentative step into the unknown. Where it will lead I know not but at the very least, I hope it will be an interesting journey.