Bus Mammy

It’s one of those days that doesn’t know whether it wants to freeze you or fry you. At the bus stop, a murderous black cloud tries to drown me and my fellow commuters. But on the way home, the evening sun, aided and abetted by the magnifying effect of the bus windows, is broiling us alive. I sit, steaming, on the clammy, packed top deck, in the standard Irish commuter position: head against the window, contemplating the misery of existence.

Suddenly, there’s a clenched cry of human anguish. I look up, and it is quickly apparent that a young guy four rows ahead of me is having serious convulsions. For a second, no-one seems to know what to do.

Then a woman two rows in front of the young guy wheels around, although I soon realise that this is no ordinary woman: she is, in fact, a sentient command-and-control centre.

She is Bus Mammy! Continue reading

Make Love To Ireland

I want to make love to you Ireland,
one last time before I go.
Place a kiss in every county,
run my fingers through your hedgerows.
Lick you all around your outline,
you’ve got such a sexy coast:
Malin Head To Mizen Head,
Mmmmmmm,
tastes like Cheese & Onion Tayto.

I want to ride you like a lovely horse,
I want to take that horse to France, Continue reading

Mother’s Day

I’m forty years old, and I’ve never been arrested. I have my mother to thank for that. As she always said, “If you don’t believe what your mother says, the police will come and take you away,” so I’ve always believed her.

She’s an amazing woman, and she’s looking really well for a twenty-one year old. I think it’s because she eats the crusts on her bread which keeps her teeth straight and her hair curly. It must save her a fortune on dentists and hairdressers. Also, I help her to stay healthy, by never walking on a crack and breaking her back.

I did think I was in serious trouble yesterday, though. Continue reading

10 Things to Remember on International Women’s Day

1/ Dads, when you’re looking after your own kids it’s not called “babysitting.”

2/ Once she is over three she is not a “baby,” once she is over eighteen she is not a “girl,” and she was never, ever a “chick” – that’s not respect, that’s just basic biology.

3/ However, nobody puts baby in the corner.

4/ Never ask a childless woman in a relationship, “Will we hear the pitter patter of little feet soon?” Some women can’t have children. And some women don’t want to have children, on the sound basis that children don’t pitter or patter: they piss and poo all over your peace of mind.  Continue reading

Jupiter Poos

My ten-year-old daughter does Jupiter poos. While your children are doing their lovely little Plutos, Sophie is releasing toilet-blocking planetoids into the universe. Sometimes, they hang around so long that we have to name them.

I’m not sure if this is something to do with her being autistic, or if it’s some sort of family trait that has skipped a few generations. It’s not the sort of thing you bring up in polite conversation: “By any chance, did Great Grandad Comerford do poos so big that your bum would hurt just looking at them?” “Your Great Grandad, BigShits Comerford? No idea.”

The other night, Sophie made a dash for the toilet saying, “Sophie poo!” in her usual two-word English. A few minutes later she hadn’t come back so I went to check on her. She isn’t quite consistent about privacy yet, so the door was open. “Are you okay?” I asked. She was straining. It’s not surprising; just the thought of her poos gives me constipation.

“Don’t go,” she said. Also, not surprising. If I had to do one of her poos I would want someone with me for moral support. After a minute of obviously painful trying, I finally heard a splash that would put a depth charge to shame. She was relieved. I was relieved.

Then, with a delighted smile, she put her hands in the air and shouted, “I WIN!”