Here’s the story of conundrums, the future, and a booger.
Have you ever been in a public place when something inconvenient has happened to you? You know what I mean. An awkward scratch in a private place. A lump of earwax hanging by a thread inside one of your Lords and Peers (think about it). A passage of wind from a certain nether-orifice trying valiantly to creep its way out like Sir Ranulph Fiennes trekking valiantly to the pole. The pole being your backside, of course. I do hope you’re not munching on your Christmas chocolates, by the way.
You have a few options. Try to hide it with a cough. Pretend to drop something and give it a quick scratch as you brush past. Pretend you have an itch to wrangle the wax out. You could try to suppress it. This isn’t advisable, though. You’re likely to make the problem worse. It has to happen. And suppression means you’re likely to blow the vicar’s hat off.
Or you can try a mixture of these options and end up looking a fool. Like when a really large, really hard booger suddenly appears in one of your nostrils leaving you in agony and unable to express it. You’re there in a very public place with nearly 500 people, all as silent as a Jehovah’s Witness after you’ve invited him in. You’re trying so very hard to keep it in. You have no hanky. All you have is the power of your sniff. It’s a dire situation.
It was only when my nose started to trickle with drops of blood that I realized I was completely screwed. The nuclear option was the only option, although if any kids are reading, nukes are never the answer and in this analogy, the ‘nuclear option’ is simply there for atmosphere. Stay in school. Mathematics rocks and so forth.
So, as I stood there, grasping the bench tightly, I started an almighty sniff, one that could have brought the house down. Or up. I sniffed and sniffed, and sniffed some more, until the booger from hell released its icy grasp and shot up my nostril. If you’ve ever tried that, it hurts like hell. Yes, I was released of my blood-inducing agony, but I felt compelled to scream and collapse to my knees shouting, as loudly as I could, “Jesus, Lord Almighty! This feckin’ hurts! Oh Jebus! Oh, help me, someone! For the love of God!” I didn’t do this, though. Why?
It was midnight mass.
Of course, this whole post isn’t going to be held down by my nostril affairs. Nope, it was Christmas again this week. Midnight mass was beautiful, lit by candlelight with a colossal organ lighting up St. Mary’s Cathedral with flares of noise and excitement. I’d imagine. I was a tad preoccupied. That mass is when Christmas really starts for me, when it really feels like Christmas. And you’re home by a measly 12:30am.
Because it started at 10:30pm. Used to start at 8:00pm.
12:00am is late, though. I’ve noticed that now I’m in my old age. 12am for me now is like what 2am was for me when I was 12. I’m half-asleep by 11. And I don’t go out. I don’t drink. Or smoke. I don’t do these drugs the kids are raving on a high about. I do eat a lot of chocolate, though. Does chocolate make you tired? It makes you fat, I know that.
12am. I often wonder what that late hour will do to these old bones by the time of July 19, 2013. My 23rd birthday. What? That is old! I didn’t even think I’d hit 23 considering that, until recently, I was hit every year by at least two buses.
So, Christmas has come and gone. I got some lovely presents. Some books. A cardigan (told you I was old). Two boxes of Celebrations, each one 12 inches across by around four inches high. I’ve finished one already. I also got the obligatory slippers. And, of course, there was Christmas dinner. Everyone had turkey, but I don’t eat turkey because I don’t like the look of turkeys. So they did pork for me. That was nice. Well, I say ‘nice’. It damn near killed me. Have you ever tried eating half a pig?
Christmas end signalled the beginning of the end of 2012, and the dawn of another year that nobody will be able to pronounce correctly. It’s twenty-thirteen, by the way. That’s the official pronunciation. In the last three 13s, we said seventeen-thirteen, eighteen-thirteen and nineteen-thirteen. And what comes after nineteen? Oh yes, that’s correct. Two-thousand. What? Oh God. Look, I don’t make New Year’s Resolutions, but if there’s such a thing as New Year’s World Resolutions, mine would be to tell the world to PICK UP A FRICKING HISTORY BOOK!
And don’t get me started on the decade name. The next decade is officially the twenties, making this decade the tens. But oh no, we have to call it the teenies! THE TEENIES! I mean, seriously, what the heck! What the hell went wrong in the life of the lunatic who dreamt up that marijuana soaked insanity! Oh good Lord, somebody shoot me!
As you can see, I’m ending 2012 how I started it and how I plan to start 2013, which, by the time of my next new post, it will be. So, getting serious for a moment, I’d like to wish each and every one of you a very happy New Year and thank you for reading this blog and being the support that has carried it and kept it alive in 2012.
You want me to end it there, or do you want me to end on a funny note? What’s that? Ah, I hear you. Righty-ho.
Sir Ranulph Fiennes is the fart.
British diarist and critic, James Evershed Agate (1877-1947) once said: “New Year’s Resolution: To tolerate fools more gladly, provided this does not encourage them to take up more of my time”.
Happy New Year :|:
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