Introduction

I am free. For eighteen months, from January 2016, I was a hostage at HeadStuff Towers: two rooms on a top floor in Lombard Street in Dublin where a ragtag bunch of writers, artists, podcasters and what-have-you are forced to make content for headstuff.org. (I was to discover that ‘making content’ has nothing to do with bowel movements. I apologise to other contributors for earlier misunderstandings.) We were all forced to live in the cupboards or under the desks at HeadStuff Towers, with only HeadStuff-logo mugs and stickers for sustenance. And I wrote for them. I wrote and wrote and wrote for our evil bosses, Alan and Paddy. They whipped us with their words: ‘Type that!’ they’d say, ‘Review this!’ and through tears, knuckles cracking and raw, we would. Sure, it was exciting to be part of a site with so many brilliant contributors. Sure, it was stimulating and creative. But the bosses were just so evil.

Anyway, after eighteen months of writing a weekly column called Rage-In, I finally burrowed out of there. I suppose I should have gone down the stairs and out the door, which was not locked, but still, burrow out I did and I don’t regret it.

Just kidding! It was great. The whole experience. I loved writing for HeadStuff and the essays I WILLINGLY WROTE over that year and a half are collected here, along with some new bits. And what a year and a half it was. Back when we started, we really could have had no idea what way the world would turn.

Personally, I’ve had a lot of terrible years. They happen. Years in which bad luck seems to accumulate. Years in which I’ve been dumped, or broken bones, or found myself unexpectedly pregnant. In 2015 my father died. While I was still in the throes of grief, my dog died too. Although we had the boost of the Marriage Equality vote going the Yes way, 2015 got strange again when I decided to publicly share the story of my travelling to the Netherlands nine years earlier for an abortion. There was some praise, a lot of support and plenty of vitriol too. By the end of that challenging year, I found myself an activist, whether I liked it or not. That’s when I wrote ‘I Am That Witch’, my first piece for HeadStuff. Not long after, I was writing Rage-In for them every week.

And so began a sort of journal of a strange period in global terms. How innocent we were. Brexit hadn’t happened yet, Trump’s America was still a hilarious punchline and War for the Planet of the Apes was a distant metaphor, rather than a possible best-case scenario. What – even as it unfolded – seemed ridiculous, outlandish, an extreme right-wing fantasy that would never actually come to pass, came to pass. And it came to pass while I was writing an ostensibly topical column for HeadStuff.

Now, let me be the first to say that my being a topical commentator is a terrible idea. I regularly turn the news off. I am emotional. I love to get surreal. I don’t like to write about things I don’t know about, which is a lot. So I wrote about the world’s slide into ‘The Shitness’ through the prism with which I’m best acquainted: humour. Mostly. I have no doubt I contradict myself at times. I don’t apologise for that – like the rest of us, I had no idea what was going on. The evil bosses at HeadStuff were never going to squeeze political analysis out of me, so I wrote about what I myself had experienced, or how I imagined things might turn out. I don’t think I’m any kind of guru – I’m just trying to process. I’m a crumbling mess, the furthest from self-righteous you can think of, unless I’m standing up for myself or someone else. As you’ll see, self-wrong-teousness is probably closer to the truth.

I was very grateful for the regular space to write on the campaign to repeal the Eighth Amendment, about which I’m passionate. There are several essays in this book about that. There are also essays about online life and exchanges: being a mouthy woman means people aren’t backwards about coming forwards to tell you how shit you are. I gave rein to my makey-uppy side when I interviewed a saint and imagined a day in the life of Frank, a very real troll. There’s plenty I left out: I had plenty of feelings about Beyoncé’s Lemonade, but I didn’t write about it, even though it’s all I listened to for a straight month. It wasn’t my place.

In lieu of serious topical analysis, I tried to offer pieces you hopefully wouldn’t see elsewhere. What I’m saying is: be thankful I edit myself; I held back from spouting my every thought. You’re welcome.

As we watched The Shitness take place, I tried my best to be funny about it. But, more and more, I feel that even fake rage is losing its comic appeal. Satire only works with the tension of making anger funny and the funny angry. It’s never any more than a kind of thought experiment and thought experiments began to feel like an indulgence, belittling real suffering. The world was on fire. Danger crackled everywhere – particularly for marginalised people. Hatred has somehow become fashionable, fascism has become cool (‘Hear them out!’), kindness has become weakness. Women’s rights across the globe are being rolled back. Me Too may have happened after Rage-In and it feels positive, but we have to be vigilant: there will be pushback for it. Trans rights are being erased. Gay people are being put in camps. Poverty is rampant.

I found myself – little old self-wrong-teous actor and comedian me – writing about privilege. Or, instead, offering light relief – silliness – wherever possible. Rage was going to have to become action, out in the real world, or it would just burn itself out. Rage, when the world was on fire, seemed like nothing more than extra petrol. It wasn’t funny any more.

In this collection you’ll find some topical commentary, but you’ll also find rainy summers. Religion. Imagined interviews. Mint chocolate. Acting, theatre and the need to pay people for their (our) work. Some of the pieces make me sad, knowing what we know now. One piece is about masturbation, another about boobs. These don’t make me sad. Some were written in a just-pre-Brexit London. The rest were written from an Ireland that has a chance to be at the forefront of real, progressive change. Or we can call lies ‘balance’ and follow everyone else down the chute.

I hope some of these pieces make you laugh. The ones that don’t, maybe they at least capture some of the surprise twists of a strange, shared eighteen months. Maybe they give you some ideas for how to laugh at the darkness and still do your darnedest to be kind as The Shitness plays itself out. I think that’s the most radical thing we can do.

The pieces have been grouped together according to theme, out of the light-then-shade order in which they were written. Feel free to hop around from section to section. But don’t worry; if the going ever gets too tough, we’ve made sure there’ll soon be a silly piece – a kind of intermission – to lighten the load. God knows, it was hard enough getting through those months the first time.

If nothing else, the pieces are short. You wouldn’t even get through a bar of your favourite mint chocolate reading one of them. Or maybe that’s just me. Sometimes you just have to eat your chocolate and eat it fast.

Yours, spent of rage,

Flynn.

Self-Wrong-Teousness

DISCLAIMER: Before we properly launch into the book, starting with The Shitness (yep, it’s up first; let’s get it out of the way), there’s something I want to make clear:

I am often wrong, all right?

I’m always happy to admit when I’m wrong. Wait a second. No, not happy. More like: crushed, humiliated, feeling very tiny and never wanting to try anything again or ever even think about leaving the house. But admitting it does make me feel a lot better than standing over something that’s wrong, just to maintain some notional rightness.

Rightness. Sounds almost … sore. And it often is. It hurts the person who needs to be right a lot more than their being wrong. Wrong. So wrong it’s right. ‘I’m wrong.’ Say it. Try it. Taste its bittersweet salty goodness on your tongue. It’s probably not as bad as you think.

At school we’re taught that being right gets us gold stars, rewards. It gets us approval and that’s great. Approval’s nice. But it’s also fleeting. You will be wrong some other time (NB: I am usually wrong so you might not ever be, but the likelihood is that you will) and when that happens you’ll miss the approval. Start to crave it. You’ll do anything to get it. And that’s a scary place to be.

I get people shouting at me online all the time about how wrong I am. Since – as far as I’m concerned – I’m really only spouting opinions into the void on there, that’s fine. I’m often not sure if I’m right, I’m certainly not saying I am. They are only opinions and I’m putting them out there like it’s my own backyard. I’m not dragging anyone past that yard, I’m not forcing them to read my neither-good-nor-bad-just-mine opinions, I’m not getting a wage from the taxpayer to cover their formation. So I resort to my usual suggestion that these people unfollow, mute or block. Why, oh why would you keep swinging past my page if you think I’m such ‘a giant shit’? (Their opinion. And fair play.) That’s terrible masochism altogether. I would also advise against plunging an open wound into a sackful of salt, but that’s just my opinion. There’s a certain kind of commentator, buoyed up by the current Shitness, who calls some of the things I say arrogant or self-righteous. Well, sir, you couldn’t be further off the mark. Not only am I a crumbling, unsure mess most of the time, but you could go so far as to coin a term for me: self-wrong-teous.

I can’t tell you how often I’ve been wrong. (Can’t and won’t, cos it’s much too embarrassing.) Ah, ego; the need to be right can always be related back to it. There’s a splash of entitlement in there too, plus the human fact that we all hate feeling very tiny and humiliated. But it’s ego and entitlement that lead us down that path in the first place. They stop us from, say, examining privilege. Instead we pretend it doesn’t exist because ‘we’re not bad people and we mean no harm’. But despite our best efforts, we can and do harm others. Everyone makes mistakes. I have no doubt you’ll count plenty in this book. I’m just trying to make sense of it all. As you’ll see later on, I might have made a few (un)lucky predictions, but actually ‘I’ve got nothing’ in terms of solutions.

But back to mistakes. Some of mine have been poor choices. Some have been accidents. Some have been borne of feelings of despair or loneliness. Knocking on a door that’s long-since closed because I still have feelings for someone and am overcome with selfish sorrow. Drinking too much when I feel bad and like I’m owed more than that badness. Using racial or other epithets when singing along with the radio, or retelling stories on-stage because it ‘wasn’t me saying them’. I know better now. I hope. I try. I still fuck up. But I try.

Nobody’s perfect, and I’m probably less perfect than most. I get frazzled and cranky. I forget people’s names. I take things personally (especially if they’re personal). If someone has a personal go at me, I’m not one of those amazing people who can always ignore and fly above it. My tongue’s about bitten to its limit. Sometimes I need to have my say, if only to show someone who’s insulted me that I’ve seen them and am now about to forget them. The thing is, I’m not looking to be elected anywhere; only the opinions of my loved ones really count.

Personally, I know I have plenty of work to do. I’m only learning about my own white privilege through the patience of my fella and other kind people of colour. (Let’s not even start to list the other bits of privilege I need to examine or we’ll be here all day. I have tons.) I realise that some might not be up for this kind of self-examination, not asking themselves the same tough questions. So I try to be kind, because sometimes tough questions are hard to face. It’s never easy to say ‘I’ve hurt you, even if I didn’t intend it. I’m sorry and I want to make good on it in future.’ Or just, ‘I’m sorry.’ Sometimes that goes a long way.

Just before saying sorry, I once again feel very tiny. My cheeks glow red with the embarrassment of both the memory of my mistake and the anticipation of the humble pie I’m about to eat. But then I eat it. And it turns out to be kind of delicious.

Predictions:
What Happens If The Rain
Keeps Coming?

We didn’t really see The Shitness coming. It’s hard to know how it’s going to go. But here’s my first prediction:

WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE!

In case, like me, you’re easily startled, I can reveal that it probably won’t happen in the coming year – not for most of us, anyway. Probably. But the fact that we will die someday is hard to avoid in the constant headlong stream of doom, gloom and misery we call news these days. In the past we’d read an article, shake our heads and mutter ‘oh dear’ before going back to cleaning our cappuccino machines, or whatever it is we did before coffee capsules and ubiquitous baristas were the rage. Now rage is the rage and it’s hard not to read yet another paragraph about our powerlessness without going ‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!’ and engaging in large amounts of fate contemplation. It’s hard to go back to cleaning anything in such an agitated state.

Humans enjoy the distant threat of death – it’s the dreadful thrill horror movies and roller coasters are built on. But we hardly need those any more; our adrenaline is permanently at full tilt.

Be honest: when you read something awful, the person you feel sorriest for is you. Your fear is for yourself. For a second, you put yourself in the place of the victims or survivors, but the reason your heart pounds isn’t empathy: it’s terror. Selfish, selfish terror. We’re all gonna die. That means I am. Maybe soon. And worst of all, our demise is likely to be mundane and undramatic. We’ve wasted decades fretting about nuclear annihilation when we should probably have been more pissed that our feet were getting wet. (Global warming is real, I don’t care who pulls out of what Paris Agreement in a huff, en route to the golf club.)

Which brings us to floods. I can’t help envisaging worst-case scenarios: what happens if the rain keeps coming? (This is Ireland, after all.) It’s unlikely that Russell Crowe will ever be allowed to play Noah again, so what on soggy Earth would we do? What price survival? Who would you become? Initially you’d try to make room on your makeshift life-raft for your loved ones, but what if the situation were to drag on? Would you hop off if it became a little too snug? Do they deserve your place? How much do you love them, really? Rose didn’t hop off the floating door for Jack in Titanic, and their love was so big that Celine Dion sang a song about them. Ask yourself: has Celine Dion ever sung a song about your family? No? Then I’d be jealously guarding my own raft space if I were you.

Some people are already quoting biblical texts and saying we’ve brought this inundation on ourselves because God. But I think it’s too late for such fun whys. Let’s be practical. We’ve made it this far with evolution, so let’s harness its power. I’ve come up with some useful suggestions to help us adapt for where things seem to be headed:

(Re)Develop gills. Obviously, staying above water will still be the optimum environment for a while, but long term (when we run out of floating doors) it’s going to be preferable to be capable of staying submerged. Lungs just aren’t up to the job. I’m not a scientist, but to speed up gill (re)development I’ll be staying underwater whenever I can: in the bath or at the local swimming pool. (Don’t have a local swimming pool? Don’t worry, you will soon. It’s just currently known as ‘the park’.)
Scales. Stop moisturising now. There’s no point. Try to re-evaluate and cherish dry, scaly skin as an essential evolutionary step forward. Or back, depending on how you look at it.
Take up swimming. Not really evolution, but now might be a good time to learn or brush up on your strokes.
Absorption. We already use this to retain facts – we certainly aren’t using applied thought or memory much any more. All we have to do is shift it to the physical. Imagine if we could soak up excess water with our own bodies? We wouldn’t need half as many sandbags! Plus, it’s a fun way to hydrate; getting those two litres down you every day is a pain. Now you won’t even have to think about it.
Ditch phoney allergies. We all know gluten is made up, but even if you’ve always said prawns bring you out in a rash, this is the year to get down with seafood. Also to being food, cause y’know who your new neighbours are going to be? Sharks. We all have to eat.

And finally, a few fashion predictions for the coming year:

Out – Smooth hair.
In – Permafrizz. I don’t like this any more than you do, but there’ll be nowhere to plug in the straighteners.
Out – Sandals and flats.
In – Waders. Stilts.
Out – Summer. Winter. Seasons in general. The fashion world has never known when the real seasons actually are, so designers won’t know when to start showing asymmetrical sleeves. As usual.
In – Weather descriptions such as ‘plummet’, ‘cascade’, ‘melt’ and ‘destroy’.
This year’s breakout celebs: meteorologists.

Basically, what I’m saying in terms of the future is, ‘I hope it stays fine for us.’

2026:
Reviewing The Reign
Of Emperor Trump

This was written when the prospect still seemed funny, before Brexit and Trump came true.

Ten years into the glorious reign of Emperor Trump – The Trumperor (as you’ll recall, he did away with the title of ‘president’ and the concept of ‘voting’ shortly after he came to power ) – we, his global subjects are still so very happy. Of course we are! We rise at dawn to sing ‘Hail to the Trump’ at the tops of our voices and upload it straight to TrumpChat for an authenticity check – TrumpChat, as you know, being the app for fingertip Trump news, Trump comments, proof of Trump loyalty and, most importantly, the one-click purchase of Trump products. I love my Trump heart-rate monitor, the TrumpPump. Couldn’t live without it. (Might not be allowed to.)

Turns out we were wrong to fear the mythical wall. There was never going to be a wall, because we are all America now, deep down, so there’s no need for one. Once Britain left the EU, Oxbridge’s strongest rowing teams steered the entire island across the Atlantic. Better to lick America’s butt once they realised what a big whoopsie leaving was for a nation so Europe-adjacent; no point having the Eurostar connecting London and Paris once the French turned their backs on their new, non-European neighbours (even though we’re all America now). Not only did the French cease trading with Britain at the beginning of The Great Amerification, but they unveiled Super-French, a French so French it’s impenetrable to anyone who doesn’t live inside France’s borders all year long. Now, even the most seasoned traveller can’t find out where the bibliothèque is. Maybe just as well; libraries no longer exist, so it’s a bit pointless to ask for directions to them. But not being able to order a croque monsieur or pression made the Chunnel trip a futile exercise, and eventually it was bricked up, just before Britain left the area altogether. We missed our nearest neighbours, but as we’d recently watched certain factions dragging them to hell in a handcart, we hoped a change might end up doing them good.

Ireland? Brexit left us stranded in more ways than one. It’s harder for the thousands who live in Britain to get home across the Atlantic for Christmas – sorry, Trump-mas – unless they have the oars. (Planes were discontinued after the choice became either million-euro flights or Ryanair. People chose never flying again as the best option.)

The Trumperor, of course, decreed that women are just clucking hens and that the loudest cluckers be chucked in coops for too much clucking. This was a huge relief to Ireland’s previously silenced Men’s Rights Activists (MRA) and politicians, who were able to get on with ignoring lots of other issues instead.

With Britain inaccessible for termination of crisis pregnancies, Ireland was forced back to the old ways – i.e. minimum thirteen children per household – and so the population surged to fifty million. Under the weight of this and other pressures, the country began to sink. Literally. Not the kind of flooding I had earlier predicted, but it was fairly wet all the same. Without the resources other countries have, like oars, or enough money for bailout devices (a TrumpPump is recommended), we are trapped, sinking, leaking, circling the drain. With such a massive population, homelessness is at ninety per cent with the wealthiest ten per cent living in the tallest trees. Those of us in between have gotten really good at swimming (as I thought we might) and this is probably a good time to remind you that Trump products are, of course, completely waterproof.

Irish politicians regretted going public on not wanting to deal with the Trumperor should he be elected (elections? Remember those?) and suffered a televised flogging on his coronation. Luckily for them, sea levels were already rising and underwater flogging, it turns out, doesn’t sting too badly!

US population is at an all-time low: gun control was never addressed so the disenfranchised or just plain angry kept shooting and shooting and shooting. As this became a daily occurrence, the Trumperor shrugged and said that this was the way things were and it was saddish (‘Saddish!’), but suggested that the least painful bullets were Trump-brand ones when teamed with an automatic rifle also called the TrumpPump. There is plenty of room in America now, if only you have the oars to get there and are impervious to bullets. (Trump-brand vests and helmets are fifty per cent off when you buy Trump-brand guns and ammunition.)

There is no news any more, only NEWS!!! – a Rupert Murdoch Inc. comedy feature broadcast at 10 p.m. local time around the world. It features all the great things the Trumperor has done that day: opening golden hospitals, turning the sod on mass graves (so long as they’re near golf courses), launching genius academies for genius children of wealthy white doctors, and intimate footage of him attending rock concerts and sporting events staged solely for his pleasure – such as releasing journalists he doesn’t like into an arena with a bored, ravenous tiger. It’s so funny. That’ll teach them! Rounds off the day perfectly. What a great, kind man he is not to spit at us through our screens. He could. He owns the technology.

And to think, back in 2016, everyone said this was stupid.

The New Decency

If you believe the most vocal Brexit campaigners (and many Leave voters did, it seems), Britain restored traditional values the day Brexiteers won the referendum. The vote to leave the EU was a vote for taking back control, for returning things to how they used to be. I have a problem with such reinvention and it’s not just happening in Britain.

Ooh, d’you remember when you could leave your bike up against a stone wall and not only would nobody take it, but they’d oil the chain in your absence and leave a loaf of fresh-baked bread and a pat of newly churned butter on the saddle in case you were hungry on your return? Do you? D’you remember? Even the flies would leave the butter untouched. You know, decent.

Ooh, d’you remember when you could leave the door unlocked? All that’d have happened by the time you got home would be some tradesman would have let himself in and gone around fixing and tightening this-and-bleeding-that and tidying up after himself and reusing the one tea bag he’d made his cuppa with? You know, decent.

D’you remember when a packet of Snax cost 4p? Do you remember p’s? Or Snax? You’d get them from a sweetshop run by a woman named Molly or Dolly (like the mixtures) and you’d get a giant paper bag of gobstoppers with your pocket money. Molly/ Dolly would always give you a couple of extra ounces to the penny. You know, decent.

Ooh, d’you remember when women didn’t have sex? Not the good ones anyway (and you wouldn’t marry the bad kind). The women you’d know would be good and quiet and able to have a laugh about a bit of oul’ touching, or whatever, or else do the right thing, i.e. be wives and vanish? When every pregnancy was perfect and gracefully endured? When (good) women would cross their legs at the ankles only and bake bread (some of which would be left on unattended bikes) for validation. Or maybe they’d blossom into career nuns? You know, decent.

Ooh, d’you remember when there were no drugs and no one would have taken them anyway because they were all contented with their lot? Decent.

Ooh, d’you remember the three R’s? Reading, ’Riting and ’Rithmetic? You didn’t need points then, just a willingness to overlook inconveniently constructed acronyms. You’d be straight into an apprenticeship or motherhood from school and it was all good and there was no RUnemployment. Decent.

Ooh, d’you remember when the best lad in town was the priest? You’d bob your head when you’d see him and hide your own horrible sinful face and maybe do a cartwheel or two in deference? He could call to your house any time he liked: no need for an appointment for a priest visit. The fine china would be brought out and if you’d no fine china you’d serve the tea and biscuits off the flat of your back as you balanced on all fours, trying not to get scalded in front of a priest. There was no chat of abuse or any of that nonsense and everyone went to confession, so nobody even needed shrinks or whoever it is they all go to now. You know. Decent.

Decent. To paraphrase the great Inigo Montoya: ‘This word … I do not think it means what you think it means.’ Not any more.

This is not just about Britain and Brexit, or Trump’s America: we all urgently need to reassess what passes for decency. Traditional values are not very valuable if they don’t fit a changing world, or never really existed in the first place. The women and sex thing, for instance: why do we a) pretend it’s new (there is nothing your granny doesn’t know about sex) and b) suggest that sexiness would make her in any way indecent? It makes her HOT. Hot grannies are just one example of how we have to get real about the past.

Some ‘decent, traditional’ values are awful. Exclusive, them-and-us, my-way-or-the-highway claptrap. Only in fairytales are there happy endings, and our real-life, rose-coloured versions don’t even have giant beanstalks, so why cling to them?

We paint our forebears as straight-talking, hard-dealing, simple folk, but we’re making it up. They were as fucked up as we are, doing their best to get things right but often getting them wrong. They set down and followed certain rules that simply don’t fit today and acknowledging that does not make us bad. In fact, it’s our duty not to remake old mistakes.

‘Decent’ used to have a narrow definition. It used to look a certain way, dress a certain way, talk a certain talk, go to certain schools, attend a certain church. Obviously, it’s still not cool to break into anyone’s house – even with the intention of fixing, tightening and tidying. But throwing up into the air old rules and conventions that are only in place because they’re ‘how things have always been’ is no harm at all. I’ll bet you some of them are so insubstantial and wispy they won’t ever come back down to earth again.

Some people peddle fantasy and peddle it hard. What they’re selling sounds nice – if only it were real. That the way things used to be was better. So much better. I’m just not sure that buying what they’re selling is the decent thing to do.

Constant Fear
And Endless Dread

Wait, wait, wait … you’re only getting scared now? Constant fear and endless dread are new to you? Woah. I’m jealous. I’ve hardly slept a wink since 1983.

It does seem as if the world is coming to a juddery end and that the only thing that might have saved us – given us some spark of fun and unity – was Pokémon Go, and then that didn’t last either. Still, I’m amazed at how many people only seem to be getting on the fear train now. I’ve always been on it and access to twenty-four-hour rolling news has only made it worse.

It began when I was little. I’m sure the privilege of growing up with enough food and little fear of persecution gave me plenty of time for pondering. And so I was afraid of nuclear power. But I was also afraid of fossil fuels running out in the next three years and all the cars grinding to a halt and being left on roads, static beasts decaying and rusting in the rain; of planes (should they still be available) falling out of the sky and of there being no more post. Nuclear power was, apparently, clean, and a good and viable alternative to the vanishing fossils. So my fear presented a dilemma. But I still wore my ‘Nuclear Power? NO WAY!’ badge like a talisman, as if it would miraculously shield me from the effects of a core meltdown or massive explosion, like Indiana Jones in that fridge.

We were all going to get cancer from Sellafield, as even the fish in the Irish Sea were radioactive. Unlike what sci-fi had led us to expect, however, this didn’t mean they could fly or talk or have laser eyes, which was a big let-down.

I had a fascination with disaster movies, so another pressing fear was of volcanoes – of lava, to be more precise, streaming into the house. Though rubbish at geography, I was fairly certain there hadn’t been an active volcano in the south Munster region for ages, but that didn’t stop me having nightmares about getting the dogs and cats up onto the kitchen table out of the way of the fiery flow. Clearly I knew little about lava, but I was pretty sure a wooden table would do the trick.

In case of overnight fire, kidnap, wolves or bears – overnight anything, really – I had planned an escape route from my bedroom (out the window and onto the lean-to roof below: no need to tie off sheets, the only real necessity was ignoring my massive fear of heights). I mentally rehearsed these manoeuvres daily, even had a couple of actual dry runs. It’d be CRAZY to wait till there was a real emergency to attempt jumping off a lean-to roof for the first time. I also read whatever I could find on freeing oneself from the boot of a car. On any given night, I was coiled, sleepless, under my duvet, ninja-like in readiness.

I was also terrified of:

Jack the Ripper. The Yorkshire one was bad enough, though I was pretty sure he was in jail. What if the O.R. (Original Ripper) rose from the grave or never really died at all and came to Kinsale to get me? There was so much about him they couldn’t explain. Who was to say this wasn’t possible?
Other less-killy ghosts. I’d never seen one, but who could assure me that that cup that fell really was just the wind? It’s never the wind, guys! It’s never the wind.
Train crashes, plane crashes, automobile crashes.
The unexplained.
The Bermuda Triangle, out to consume the world one light craft at a time.
Quicksand. (Whatever happened to quicksand? Or being chloroformed, as seemed to happen to Jennifer Hart in every episode of Hart to Hart?[1])
I was terrified that aliens had swapped everyone in the whole world, bar me, for robots and I was being unwittingly nurtured for scientific purposes prior to being mined for something or other.
Of course I was scared of war. It kept moving around the world but it never went away. The threat of nuclear (aargh!) war triggered by red buttons that idiots could press in a huff or maybe even sit on by accident is with me still. Regular controlled explosions and being frisked on the way in to the airport during the IRA’s heyday meant I suspected every left bag, parked car or rubbish bin, so that even inanimate objects got in on the act.
You could get Alzheimer’s from deodorant. Heart attacks from salt. AIDS from sex. Rabies. That’s right, even the dog you’d saved from piping hot lava by hoicking him up onto a table could turn on you, were French people ever to succeed in bringing their pups on holiday here.

And, should we survive all that (highly unlikely), we could never escape the ultimate shadow of our inevitable mortality. With years of looming immobility and forgetfulness before that. Erasure. Being useless. Discarded. Unvital. Oh, I’d thought of it all.

So I’m sorry world events have you fretting now, but I was way ahead of you. The world’s been ending forever. I’ve dug a bunker and soon I’ll be giving tickets to those of you who piss me off the least, which mainly leaves my dog and cat. Bet they mutiny and eat me within days. And after I’ve saved them from the lava too.

[1] Consult an elder relative or just ask me when you see me.

Pastels Are Wrong

Intermission –

I know, I know. It’s all gotten a bit heavy, hasn’t it? I had promised you some not-so-topical sugar to help the medicine go down. It’s relentless in real life; I couldn’t do that to you here. So here’s a breather – an intermission, if you will. Put on the kettle and take a break. Park those fears and gloom while I deal with something still ABSOLUTELY VITAL, but a bit less scary.

I’m going to say something controversial here. Pastels are WRONG. If you like them you are WRONG. Shops that stock them are WRONG. Designers that work with them are SUPER WRONG and I’ll bet you a million euro that they never wear them themselves. They meet other fashion moguls and bet and dare each other to produce lines in lime and peach and bleurgh which they wouldn’t touch with oven-gloves on, regardless of the colour. Designers, as we all know, wear monochrome, or primary colours. There is a reason for this. PASTELS ARE WRONG. They were wrong in the eighties and they’re wrong now and everyone knows it, but for at least six months of the year they are the only colours clothes come in. Designers and buyers know what they are doing, and what they are doing is laughing at us, sniggering up their crimson, asymmetrical sleeves.

I don’t know much about fashion, me in my mostly old clothes, but there is a universal sartorial truth I’ve come to learn which I’m going to share with you. Print it out, laminate it, stick it to your fridge. Get a (non-pastel) T-shirt made out of it. Say it aloud into a mirror every day, especially if you will be passing any shops and you have even a tenner in your pocket. You ready? Here it is. Pastel is another word for puke. This is not etymological truth, but it is something you need to learn by heart: pastel is puke. Puke-green, puke-peach, puke-lemon, puke-pale-pale-blue.

Pastels are only half colours, colours that don’t commit. ‘Hello, blue slept in and will be late for your appointment.’ That’s pastel. Who wants that? You want a colour that SHOWS UP. A hue that’s awake at 5 a.m. to do press-ups, jogs up the stairs to meet you and then carries you down to breakfast roaring, ‘I’M BLUE. DEEPEST, DARKEST BLUE.’ (I’m not even a blue fan, but I would take navy over I-might-be-orange-who-knows? any day.)

Pastels are polite. But commit? They don’t even finish a sentence. Pastels wave you off from the dock, never leaving the country themselves. They ghost you after two dates and pretend not to see you the next time you’re both in the same room. Now, I myself don’t have many statement clothes. I recently bought comfy trainers online and they are bright orange: the statement they make is ‘Visible in crepuscular light’ or ‘Please don’t hit me with your car.’ Other than that, the only statement I’m after is ‘I’m here.’ But pastels don’t say that. They dawdle, they hang back. Pastels are never heroes in a scenario: they’re the ones who need rescuing. They whine a lot.

Look, I have old history with these bastards. I know what I’m talking about because they’ve tricked me before. I know you’ve been there too, so picture this. It’s the end of winter. You’ve been wearing big jumpers, scarves and thick socks. You’ve forgotten whether you have skin or not and suddenly, even if the actual weather doesn’t, the shops start to tempt you with spring. ‘Ooh, a cropped leg!’ you say. And you start to feel a little thaw in your heart. ‘My, a sleeveless dress!’ you coo, ignoring the fact that it’s displayed near a shedload of cardigans because it has to be for health and safety (anti-hypothermia) reasons. You picture yourself in these items and, while your vision might not be of a beach, it’s definitely a warmer and sunnier picture than it’s been for months. So you buy the pukey thing.

This reveals another universal truth. Pastels are ALWAYS impulse buys. Why? Because no one in the history of dressing has ever bought a pastel garment after trying it on. When you try it on, the full evil of pastel is unleashed; it has the magical power to drain every single skin tone on this planet of life. From African to Caucasian, no one is immune. Pastels take your own natural colour and make it duller. Greyer. I don’t know how this is even possible, but it’s a scientific fact. Pastels don’t pretend to be anything other than what they are: a range of dyes that aren’t quite cooked yet. So why, every year, do we all agree to pretend they’re only gorgeous?

No one has ever packed away a pastel for posterity. Houndstooth? Yes. Plaid, yeah, maybe. Blacks, well-preserved whites, royal blues, sure. But there’s no point packing away a pastel because no descendant will ever thank you for it. The truth is that you yourself will never wear it again, not after the year in which you first bought it, tricked and seduced by the illusion of summer to come. You might buy a new pastel thing, at the end of another, future winter, when you’ve allowed yourself to forget the wishy-washy memory. But mostly, nah.

Pastel is puke. It’s puke. Give me emerald green, not the mild, sugar-free mouthwash version. Go big or go home, pastels. We’re on to you.

About the Publisher

Introduction

The Shitness

Self-Wrong-Teousness

Predictions: What Happens If The Rain Keeps Coming?

2026: Reviewing The Reign Of Emperor Trump

The New Decency

Constant Fear And Endless Dread

Pastels Are Wrong

Predictions:
What Happens If The Rain
Keeps Coming?

2026:
Reviewing The Reign
Of Emperor Trump

Constant Fear
And Endless Dread