Rebecca Riots

Bob* is nearing forty and lives with his mother. In her house.

A homosexual, Bob has yet to find the man for him, mainly because he’s not the man for many people.

Fat, balding and exuding an air of tragic desperation, Bob asked me to find him a date for the night.

“How about HIM?”

“I don’t think so Bob, he’s pretty handsome. I’d say he’s already attached.”

“I don’t care, go and ask him”

“(Reluctantly) I hate that kind of shit, can’t you ask him yourself?”

“Pleeeeeeeeeease, I’m all alone.”

“Excuse me, do you see my friend over there…” “No”

“Oh, he’s the one sitting by the…..” “No, I mean as in No, I don’t think so.”

“Oh”

No matter how bad things get. At least I left home at 18, have a thick head of hair and maintain a BMI under 25 thanks to boxercise and multigrain bread.

All depressive feelings from last week’s horrible cabbie encounter have been dissolved in an “at least I’m not THAT bad” mantra.

Phew.

*Not called Bob really

A Galway Races bad clothes round up. Just for you.

When not betting on horses, Maud and Jane also picked up Sky Digital

Sharon heard that pink makes the boys wink, but unfortunately in this case, it made them vomit

Is that a hat or a field?

Lisa and Karen beat the credit crunch by making their frocks from the curtains

my...eyes....oh God...my....eyes

Jess thanked her personal stylist, Stevie Wonder

A story in parts in the style of acclaimed author, Amanda Brunker..

The nearly deserted carpark outside Sizzles was littered with empty fast food trays and cigarette butts. A dejected Ukrainian man half-heartedly scraped chips from the tarmac and poured sawdust on the liberal piles of vomit that carpeted the ground.

A pale, drawn face appeared at the window, surveying the grey drizzle and clean-up from the warmth of an office. Pat Parsnips tried to ease his throbbing head with his masculine, cool hands but it didn’t make him feel the slightest bit better.

The previous night had been great for takings. The club was packed to capacity and the bar completely sold out of blue WKD and pineapple Bacardi Breezer. But the success did little to ease the burden on Pat’s broad, strong shoulders.

Stirring his coffee and taking a deep drag from an uncharacteristic cigarette, Pat sighed heavily with the release of the smoke from his manly lungs.

Whichever way he looked at it, Jack Jam held all the trump cards. If Jack said jump, Pat asked how high and for how long. Truth be told, Pat hated being indebted to Jam, but without his bucks, Sizzles would be over. Kaput. Closed up and turned into another home décor warehouse. The very thought made Pat buckle with grief.

From a young age, Pat had dreamed of owning his own nightclub. He watched his uncle, Pete, run a successful mobile disco service, often accompanying him to weddings and First Holy Communions. Yes, Pat had gotten the disco fever and had never been cured.

But Jack Jam was an antibiotic if ever he saw one.

It was figuring out how to buy him out and keep the club running that was causing Pat many sleepless nights. But for now, he had to agree to everything that loathsome man wanted, including sleeping with tired hookers and smoking those awful cigars.

At 35, Pat had often considered what may have been if he had stayed out of the club business like his mother Patricia wanted, and instead became an insurance salesman like his father.

One things for sure, he’d sleep a lot better at night if he was only flogging health plans for a living.

A determined knock at the door roused Pat from his daydream.

“Who is it?” he demanded.

“It’s Sandra,” came the reply.

“Oh, come in why don’t you. The door is open.”

Sandra Sausage glided into Pat’s modern office, wearing a long, columbo style trench coat.

“Howreye Pat,” she said, smoulderingly, tossing her long, silky mane behind her head and batting her long, blue eyelashes in Pat’s direction.

“I dunno WHA ye were tinkin’. Messin around wih dat sluh Shardon when ye could have me wha?”

And with that, Sandra, Sharon’s best friend, colleague and confidant, dropped the coat to the floor, revealing nothing underneath, as she proceeded to betray her friend in the most callous way imaginable…..

WIll Sandra steal Pat from Sharon? Will Sharon find out and go fuckin mental? Will Pat buy Jack out of Sizzles? Will Fingal County Council extend the green bin collection to once per week for all residents? Find out…soon……