I Am Landers. Or Hunter Kincaid. Or Rob. Or Fez. You decide!

The television show Glee is a bit of fun, isn’t it? Mind-numbing silly fun. I love it! It’s not a show that ever inspired me to do anything special but I imagine if I was twelve-ish I’d be watching it and planning my life around it. Didn’t inspire me, that is, until the episode the other night.

This particular episode had a storyline featuring domestic violence. A rather well-built female teacher, someone they portray in a very masculine way (she’s the football coach, of all things!), came to school with a bruised face. A group of students started making jokes about it, and she made excuses that she was at the gym and misjudged a punch at a punchball which came back and hit her in the face. The truth was that she’d been punched by her husband for not washing up. Eventually the real story came out and she was urged to leave him, but she protested that he didn’t mean it, he was angry, it was her fault, he was sorry. At the end of the episode, she told everyone that she had moved in with her sister. Good for her! Sadly she hadn’t really left the guy at all, and went home to him.

A number of years ago I worked for the Citizens Advice Bureau and ended up doing some training in domestic violence counselling. I wasn’t exactly the ideal candidate as most women don’t want to see a man after they’ve just been beaten up by one, but I made myself useful by offering behind the scenes support. I’d arrange beds at secret safe houses run by the likes of Women’s Aid. I’d be a liaison for the police to talk to, and on the odd occasion I’d talk to these violent men and explain to them why they couldn’t be told where their partner was. I was verbally, sometimes physically, attacked by these men who claimed I didn’t understand the situation, or that the partner was lying.

Throughout my time there, I often wondered why there was no training around the issues of men getting beaten up by their partner, female or male. I was never given a satisfactory answer when I asked about it.

Years later, while working for a different charity, I had to arrange training on domestic violence for our volunteers. While speaking to one training provider, I was told that domestic violence towards men doesn’t exist, and that whenever it WAS reported it was usually a pre-emptive lie to cover up the man’s abuse of his partner! Suffice to say I told her how wrong she was, hung up, and then reported her to her superiors.

I continued to search but could find nobody willing to offer training including the abuse of men by their partners. In the end I took it upon myself to create a training course that looked at both aspects. I was shocked at what I found out during my research.

It was claimed at the time that one in every four woman was a victim of domestic violence from a man, yet for every reported victim there is one unreported. Also, one in every six men was a victim from a woman but for every reported case there were two unreported. When you take into account the unreported cases it becomes two in every four women, and three in every six men. Look at those numbers! It’s basically saying that 50% of women have suffered domestic violence at some point. And so have 50% of men! That’s equality for you!

You can choose not to believe those figures, I know I was a bit skeptical; but before you dismiss them so easily take this into account: not all domestic violence is physical. I dealt with a case where he’d never hit her but instead he’d leave crime magazines lying around with certain stories highlighted. Stories about husbands killing wives because she’d been ten minutes late home. He’d drop a magazine onto a table and say “you should read that!” and it would be a similar story about murder. He drove this woman to a nervous breakdown without ever touching her; she lived in constant fear.

Having sex when you don’t want it, being shouted at constantly for things beyond your control, being ignored. When delivered daily, or even weekly, these are all forms of domestic violence; there are many other examples.

I’ve completely digressed from the point of this entry.

Domestic violence could be happening to your nearest and dearest and you wouldn’t know it. You also might not believe them if they told you.

Luke was gorgeous. I spotted him working behind a bar in the gay village in Birmingham and I was utterly in lust. He was funny too! He had a personality to die for, everyone loved him, everyone wanted to be with him. One night I was drinking with some friends when my mate Pete decided to ask Luke out on a date. Luke was flattered, but refused. Pete came back from the bar and handed me a note.

“01827 715430. Call me, neighbour! Luke x”

I was amazed. It wasn’t often I got that kind of attention. I did call him and it turned out he lived two streets away with his mother, hence the word ‘neighbour’ in his note. We met up, got along well, and a few weeks later we started ‘officially’ dating.

It wasn’t long before he moved in with me; I was living on my own and he spent most nights with me anyway. Three months into our relationship he got refused a business loan. As far as he was concerned this was the end of his world, as the business was all he could think about.

I got home and rang him to see how he’d got on. He didn’t answer. An hour later I tried again but still no reply. Close to 11pm he fell through the door incredibly drunk.

My initial reaction was to say something along the lines of “where the fuck have you been?!” and his reply was to back hand me across the face. They say for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. My reaction was to punch him in the jaw. Seconds later we were rolling around on the floor, blood and fists flying, until all our energy had been used up. What happened after that is not only irrelevant but more suited for a XXX Tumblr blog I’ve heard some people have.

The following morning he cried a lot and told me how sorry he was, and how it would never happen again. I believed him. Why wouldn’t I, I’d given as good as I’d got!

A few weeks later it happened again but for different reasons. After the state I’d left him in previously, I didn’t fight back this time. I’d trained in Jiu jitsu for thirteen years and knew I could really hurt him if I had to. In reality I was so angry that I might not have stopped if I’d started. I know this about myself and I’m very good at controlling it.

Again he was sorry and sobbing and I told him he got one more chance. I made sure he knew if he even tried it once more I’d put him to be floor then out the door. He assured me it wouldn’t happen again and I believed him.

A month later I went out with some friends I worked with. I told him I wasn’t taking my phone as it was to a ‘foam night’ at a gay club and I didn’t want it getting damaged. He was working in the bar across from it but said he’d want to go straight home, so I said I’d see him back there later. We kissed, said goodbye and I went off and had an awesome night. I got home at about 4.30am after getting a lift from a friend. We were close friends and had a “cheek-to-cheek-make-kiss-noise” goodbye and a quick hug. Thinking Luke was in bed, I quietly unlocked the door and went thorough to the kitchen for a glass of water.

“Who the fuck were you kissing?” he asked. I made some flippant remark which didn’t go down too well and he pushed me back against the wall and repeated the question. I pointed out that he knew full well who it was and that he was being silly, but that just made things worse. He started to get upset and accused me of cheating on him. He told me how I obviously didn’t love him if I could do that. I pushed him away and he pushed me back, more fiercely than before. He pushed again and again, both his hands hitting my shoulders as he screamed phrases like “how could you do that?” and “don’t I give you enough love?”

Before long he back handed me again, and I let it happen. I was drunk and my mind wasn’t as clear as it should be and I actually started to think he was right. Maybe I HAD been too amorous with my friend. In my drunken state it’s quite possible I’d taken things too far. I took his beating after eventually deciding that I deserved it.

I didn’t sleep that night. I lay there trying to work out what to do. Having that conversation in my head with myself about staying or going proved fruitless. My mind kept saying he was bastard and then my heart took over and told me how I’d fallen completely in love with him. I decided that as long as it didn’t happen again everything would be okay. We’d be together forever, so all we needed to do was get over this little hurdle.

In the morning I cleaned myself up and while he went to work I went to dinner with a friend.

“What the hell happened to you?” she asked when she saw the state of my face.
“I went out last night, got drunk, and didn’t I go and fall down the stairs!” I replied.

There it was. That very moment was the point from which I knew there was no going back. I knew I’d be forever making excuses for bruises and going home to face yet another beating. I could have ended it as soon as I got home but there was this teeny little problem. I loved him.

You’re probably asking how I could love him when he was doing these things to me, and I cannot give you an answer you’d be happy with. I wouldn’t be happy with it!

To the outside world, our relationship was perfect. I remember a conversation with a friend who told me how jealous he was of us. He was in a relationship and they’d been together a lot longer than us, but he didn’t think their relationship was as strong or as perfect as ours! If only he knew.

In all other respects, Luke was an utter gentleman. He would open doors for me, shower me with inexpensive yet very thoughtful gifts and pay me so much attention. When we were out, I’d never have to get a drink; he’d insist on going to be bar. Yes, I could give him money when it was my round, but he fetched the drinks. In public, and most of the time in private, he acted as though he worshipped the ground I walked upon. Add all this to the fact that he had an incredible personality, was stunningly handsome, fit to be a model, and had a body men would die for. Toned and smooth and without having to work hard to keep it. Almost perfect.

About seven months into our relationship we started talking about the future and where we saw ourselves.

“I think we should buy a house. Work and pay the mortgage for ten years or so, and then remortgage it and buy a bar. What do you think?”
“Sounds good,” I replied.
“I’ll get some house details tomorrow.”
“Erm… okay.”
“You don’t sound sure!”
“Oh I am, for the future, I just like it here and I’m not sure I’m ready to move again.”
“Right,” he said as he got up and left the room.

I heard him go outside, so I followed him to make sure he was okay. I’d obviously upset him and knew I needed to make things right before I got slapped again. The violence at this point had escalated to at least once a fortnight; never more than a punch or slap, not that that makes it acceptable, but at least I knew how far it was going to go.

“Are you okay?” I asked.
“I’m fine, just a bit annoyed. It feels like you’re leading me on. Don’t you love me anymore?”
“Luke don’t start that, you know I do!”

He put his unfinished cigarette out and went inside saying he needed a drink. I finished my smoke and went in a few minutes later. As I pushed the door open and went to walk in, he slammed it on my wrist, breaking it. I screamed and he opened the door. He had a look of pure fury on his face and I really didn’t know what to do other than stand there, clutching my wrist. I sank to the floor hoping he might take pity on me but instead it just meant he didn’t have to try so hard to kick me in the ribs and then my head. I didn’t black out, but I felt woozy as he knelt down beside.

“When you want to come back in and are ready to prove you love me, knock the door. Until then stay out here unless you want more of the same!” he whispered into my ear.

My phone was in my pocket, as it always is, and once he gone in and I’d heard him lock the door I stood up and made my way out the back gate, around to the front of the house, and walked up the road a short distance to call a friend, Emma.

“I’ve been mugged,” I said through tears, “can you come and get me?”

She picked me up along the road where I’d told her I’d been mugged by someone as I came out of one of the shops. On the way to the hospital she asked where Luke was, and I told her he was out, but not to bother him because he’d be angry and upset and would just want to find the guy who did it. Whilst I was being seen by a doctor she called Luke and told him what had happened. He came straight there.

My ribs were bruised, my head scratched, my nose bloody and my wrist broken. I can’t say for sure but I have a feeling the doctor had twigged what was going on; he said the type of break and the bruising to my arm looked more like a crush injury than a fall, but I stuck to my story. I was treated, put in a cast and sent home.

At home Luke cried. I couldn’t. I lied and told him I had to go to the fracture clinic the next day and he said he’d take me. I told him I’d be there a while and there was no point him cancelling work just for me. “Especially when we need the money for a house deposit!” I said, playing on what he’d said earlier. He smiled, and I knew he’d fallen for it. I told him Emma was going to take me. She was under the impression that that’s exactly what she was doing until we got in the car to head off the next day.

“Take me to your house, I need to talk to you.”

She didn’t ask questions, she just drove. Once there, I told her everything. Her first reaction was to accuse me of lying, and I forgive her for that, given the outside appearance of my ‘perfect’ relationship. But eventually she saw I was telling the truth.

“You can stay here!” she said.
“Emma, I’m not leaving him. I love him, I just need to know how to deal with this.”
“What? You’ve got to leave him!” she said with anger.
“I can’t and I won’t.”

We argued over it for a while but eventually we agreed that if it got any worse I’d consider leaving him. She was sworn to keep all this a secret, which she managed to do for all of approximately eight hours.

After another chat with her later in the week I felt comfortable enough to tell someone else. They didn’t believe me either. This happened with quite a few people, such was the power of Luke’s personality. No one could imagine him doing something like it, so no one believed me. One friend said I was trying to find a way to get out the relationship as I was bored with him. That couldn’t have been further from the truth! The last thing I wanted to do was leave him!

A month passed by, and even though my arm was still in a cast I’d received a couple of slaps for things I’d done wrong, such as not buying the right brown sauce or coming home thirty minutes later than I’d said. We’d been out on the Saturday night as he’d got a the night off, and we’d enjoyed a really lovely meal in a local restaurant. Sunday morning, we were lying in bed watching television and thinking about getting up and doing something with the day.

As we lay in each others arms we were jolted into reality by a loud and forceful banging at the door. I slipped on some boxers and went to answer it.

“Is he here?” said Irene, Luke’s mother, as she barged past me and into the lounge.
“He’s in bed!” I replied, utterly astounded at her behaviour.

I’d always got on well with her and I’d never seen her like this. When Luke was at work she’d often invite me up for a bite to eat, and we’d sit and chat and watch some awful film. Her husband had left when Luke was still small, and as far as I’m aware neither of them had any contact with him.

“He’s just like his father,” she shouted as she stormed upstairs, “and you deserve better!”

I followed her up, still not understanding what was going on, and as we entered the bedroom he was out of bed putting boxers on. She grabbed his ear and dragged him out of the bedroom.

“It’s over!” she shouted at me, “you shouldn’t be getting the crap beat out of you, no one should!”
“Irene we’re grown men, we’ll decide when it’s over!” I shouted back.
“That Emma has been round and told me everything! You’re a fool!” she said as she looked at me, “and he’s a violent little bastard just like his father!”

Luke never spoke, never uttered a word, just allowed himself to be dragged out of the house.

“He’s coming back to mine. I’ll be down at some point to collect his stuff. Keep nothing! You hear me? Keep nothing! No one needs the memories of this!”

She shut the door behind her and I watched at the window as she pretty much kicked him back to her house. I wanted to go out after him and drag him back, but as I started to silently sob I knew that the right thing to do was stay here.

I rang Emma and told her I’d never forgive her. I rang Craig and told him I needed a friend. They both arrived within minutes of each, Craig first. He’d heard the rumours of what I was saying but said he’d never wanted to ask, as he felt I’d tell him if I wanted him to know. He said some of my friends believed me and some didn’t. I didn’t care. When Emma arrived she threw her arms around me and I bawled. I apologised for what I’d said on the phone, and then explained everything that had happened that morning.

Once I’d calmed down and got dressed, we started clearing his stuff up, and in the afternoon Irene arrived. As I let her in she threw her arms around me and started sobbing. She told me how sorry she was that she hadn’t seen it and that someone had had to tell her. She asked me to keep in touch with her and told me that she’d get him help, but there was no way she’d ever let us be a couple again.

By eight that evening I was alone. The only memento I had was his name on the cast I was still wearing from him breaking my wrist. Using a knife I scraped it off, locked up and went to bed.

For the first time in months I woke up feeling like I’d really slept well.

My bedroom looked out on the road at the front and, as the house was in a slight dip, from the window it looked like you were at road level. A few nights later, while lying in bed, I saw Luke standing on the other side of the road, just looking into the window. I don’t close my curtains when I’m in bed, so I had full view of him, as did he of me. As I stood at the window I realised how much I missed him but how it felt so right to be apart from him. I waved, he waved back, and I closed the curtains and went back to bed.

Aside from in passing while drinking in the same bar, I’ve never seem him since. We never spoke to each other; just nodded an acknowledgement. I corresponded with Irene via emails for quite sometime. She passed away a few years and I miss her a lot. Luke and I have a mutual friend so I still get updates on him. He attended anger management classes but didn’t complete the course. He still lives in his mom’s house, which is now his, and he eventually got his bar. The last I heard he’s single and wanting to stay that way. Maybe he knows he can’t control himself?

Strangely enough, if he rang me now in trouble, I’d be there for him. If he needed a friend I think I’d still be a shoulder for him to lean on. I honestly couldn’t tell you why.

My scars have faded, as have the memories, but the feelings surface every now and then, just like they did because of Glee the other night. Of all the shows I watch regularly that’s the last one I imagined would make me write this. Even when they do surface I know I have someone to turn to. I have a man who loves me. A man who has never raised a hand to me. A man who loves me as much as I love him. To make it even better he’s not just the man I love, he’s my husband.

Sorry for the long entry but i felt like I needed to share. I feel better for it.

I’m working on a short film project for a couple of film festivals and I’d like your help. Actually, I’m pretty desperate for your help!

Please read the short description below and then answer the questions.

A man is lying on top of single bed wearing nothing but pyjama trousers. He looks sad. Behind him, above his head, on the wall are various photos but you can’t make out who or what is on any of them. He sighs and lifts an arm above his head and pulls a photo off the wall. He stares at the photo, which you can’t see, then rests it on his chest and sighs again. He gets up and heads to the bathroom. He sticks the picture to the mirror then splashes his face with water. He examines himself in the mirror and occasionally looks at the photo, which you still haven’t really seen. He heads to his kitchen and makes a coffee, still holding on the photo. Once the coffee is finished he walks out of his house, still only dressed in the pyjama trousers (no shoes, sock etc) and still clutching the photograph. He walks along a couple of roads and country lanes and along a high street full of shops. His facial expression doesn’t change, he continues to look sad and continues to carry the photograph with him. Eventually he arrives at a beach. He sits down on the sand, pulls his knees up to his chest and looks out to the sea, occasionally looking back at the photograph. This is the one and only time you get to see the photograph (maybe). He looks back at the sea, then the photo, then into the camera and smirks. That last bit might change as I’m not entirely happy with the smirk, it just feels like he would. There is music playing from start to finish that gives an air of sadness.

The questions:

1. Who or what is the photograph of? (Is it a person or a place?  Maybe an animal or something else of some significance.)
2. Why is he sad? (He doesn’t cry but looks as though he could but why?)
3. How does it end? (Does he walk in to the water? Does it just fade out and end? Does a boat come pick him up? Does someone turn up?)
4. Could you add a twist? (Is there some hidden meaning or sudden twist that could be revealed at the end?)

You can either click here and answer them or answer them as a comment below.

There will be a prize for the one chosen (I might chose elements of more than one in which case all those chosen will get a prize) but I’ve yet to choose what the prize is. You’ll also get your name in the credits. You also get to be happy in the knowledge that you really helped me out!

Thanks!

P.S. Please share this with as many people as you can! Twitter, Facebook, emails, whatever! Thanks again!

So Brad found a great hack for our Kindles which allows us to have our own screensavers!  It’s here if you’re interested.

It’s simple enough to do but if I was you I’d prepare all your pictures first.  I cropped them all in photoshop to 600x800px and then changed them all to greyscale so I could get an idea of what they’re going to look like.  Save them as .jpg’s and use a middle resolution as they don’t have to be perfect – they’re on a Kindle after all!

I love it as I was getting a bit bored of the ones that came with it.  I think I went a bit mental though and have ended up adding over seventy images!  Oh well.  And just in case you’re interested here they are!  Enjoy!  Oh, and you may recognise some people!

I’m not in the slightest bit surprised that most of them are men I’ve had/have/would have!

At the weekend, and Monday night, I spent a lot of time working on a couple of different website designs for a project we’re working on at Planet39.

It’s made me realise that when I set my mind on something and take my time rather rushing it I’m actually quite good at designing web type things.

I’m not great at drawing but I’m sure some lessons will sort that out, but give me Photoshop and a mouse (and lots of time) and I think I’m not too bad!

The site we’ve been working on at the weekend will look incredible once we tweak the graphics a little. Cathal and I worked hard on Monday night to come up with a design that’ll impress and hopefully bring in many visitors. With his eye for detail and our merged ideas it’ll be a site that when you see it you’ll know what the connection is straight away and hopefully what it’s trying to promote. I’m really proud of the work we’ve done and can’t wait for it to go live.

Of course working on that site made me want to redesign my own, which I have.

It’s not the best design I’ve done but I’m pleased with it. Its simple and I like the colours. I’ve no idea why I chose cowboys though!

I redesigned my Facebook header the other night after activating ‘Timeline’ and you can see it below or in action here. It’s something else I’m pleased with.

It’s not often I actually like some of the things I create as I’m my own worst critic and rather than saying, “Yes, I like that!” I just pick out the faults. Take the Fru logo. I designed that for a friend who was putting together an iPhone app. Every time I look at it rather than think it’s not bad I notice two things about it I wish I’d done better. Even though he was pleased with it, and the other two I sent, I still notice the errors or omissions.

They say practice makes perfect but I don’t think, no matter how much I practice, I’ll ever consider anything I produce as perfect. I love some of the graphics we’ve done for apps and I’m proud that I’ve had an involvement in those.

It’ll be a long while before I’m good enough to pick fault in others work but I’m always up for a good bitch so I think I’ll start looking around, pointing and shaking my head disapprovingly. That’s something that I am good at!

Claiming back your PRSI.

Over the last few weeks it been revealed that many people have overpaid on their PRSI contributions. Obviously Enda isn’t going to tell you that you have, you need to ask!

Here’s how…

Write this letter:

To whom it may concern,

I would like to apply for a PRSI refund from 2007 to 2010.

My name is [insert your name]

My PPS number is [insert YOUR pps number!]

My address is [insert your address]

My phone number is [insert your phone number]

Yours sincerely

[Sign you name]

Post it to the following address:

PRSI Refunds Section
Department of Social Protection
Oisin House
212 – 213 Pearse Street
Dublin 2

It’s that simple!

People are getting anything from €5 to €500 back so even if you only get the fiver it’s worth the cost of a stamp to find out!

I did hear that if you earned over €26’000 then you haven’t been overcharged. Well I’m still applying! You never know!

Uncle Gordon was 6ft9. I always thought he had a bad back but no, he was always bending over to hug us.

I’ve finally finished watching ‘Band of Brothers’

I watched the first episode a few years ago, the second a few years after that then third two years ago when I borrowed the box-set from a friend. Got to about episode five and then never watched again even though I kept meaning to. I watched episodes one to four again the other day and then today, off sick from work, I managed to watched the next six episodes.

I’m not sure if it’s my awful gay-flu (much worse than standard flu and virtually lethal compared to the dreaded man-flu) affecting my hormones or what, but at the end of it not only was I in tears but also feeling incredibly inadequate.

No tie! His father, my great-grandfather, would be furious!

Many years ago, too many to want to think about, I applied to join the RAF. I wanted to be a pilot. Not a fighter pilot, that kind of thing never appealed to me, but a pilot of the big troop carriers or bombers, possibly even AWACS or something like that. So I applied. What harm could it do? At the time I applied the British armed forces still had a ban in effect on gays entering its military so I’d have to keep that schtum. At the time I was having a “pretend” relationship with a girl. She was a lesbian and couldn’t come out as she thought her parents would disown her – thankfully, when she finally did, they didn’t! Although I was already out my dad still had an issue with my homosexuality so in front of him I made out she was my girlfriend. She was my beard and I was hers. Having this facility – a horrible way to describe it really – was useful at times, including applying to the RAF.

Read the rest of this entry »

It started like any other day, as you’d expect, only I wasn’t in my own house and wasn’t planning on going to work. Actually that’s nothing like any other day really is it?!

Let’s start again shall we?

September 22nd is “Arthur’s Day” in Ireland (and possibly the rest of the world) and this year, thanks to John and Cathal, our business partners at Planet39 we were heading off to celebrate this exciting day in Dublin, the capital.

After a detour to the nearest tailors to buy more boxers and socks as Brad had forgotten to pack them, we finally arrived in Dublin and at Davy’s apartment. “Compact and bijou” is pretty much an understatement when describing Davy’s apartment but let’s face it, do you need more than a bed and bathroom when you’re a young guy who spends most of his time either at work or in a bar? After chatting with him and his flatmate Dylan it appears a freezer would be useful, though.

Read the rest of this entry »

So yesterday, due to work, I had to have a full medical. Part of this included a hearing test as I’m quite deaf in my left ear and slowly losing it in my right and work wanted to know, I assume, just how bad it is and if it will affect my work. I don’t think they’re doing it so they can say “No! You cannot work here!” but are ensuring that any help I need is available for me if I need it.

At my last hearing test, a shameful six years ago, I was told that my left ear is quite bad and I’ll lose all hearing in it eventually. He estimated five to six years but said he couldn’t know for sure without further tests which he never booked and I never asked him for. My right ear was much better than my left although still had some hearing loss and he guessed I’d have twenty years left before I lost all hearing in it.

Although I’d known I was going deaf for some time it came as a shock when he said I’d need a hearing aid. For years I’d been able to say “You’re mumbling!” when I couldn’t make out what someone was saying. On the phone I’d claim it was a bad line and I’d make any excuse possible not to have call someone. That is still an issue now and I often have trouble hearing people on the phone.

Read the rest of this entry »

You know those surveys you get where you answer agree, disagree strongly or not etc, well I was sat at home when I realised that I could actually categorise parts of my week within similar answers. So here they are. I think I’ll make this a regular thing. Oh and if you’re reading this and tempted to comment then please do. Maybe do so here rather than on twitter or facebook? You can sign into the comments section in various different ways or even do it anonymously. Thank you.

P.S. To clarify – the “Strongly Agree” items are the things I’ve enjoyed or liked. The “Strongly Disagree” items are the things that have me angry or upset. Obviously I’m not strongly disagreeing that I’m upset about Dave being sick, but I am unhappy that he’s ill.

Strongly Agree
- I’ve lost weight without trying.
- I have some great friends
- As much as I’m dreading it I’m also really looking forward to the in-laws coming over.
- John got us tickets for Arthurs Day at the Olympian! Scissor Sister and Ed Sheeran. EPIC!
- Season Six of 24 was incredible and I’ve heard that seven is better!
- I have news I can’t share that could be very good and you should all be pleased for me! (I’m not pregnant – don’t get excited!)

Agree
- It was good to meet Dave the other night.
- Brad and I are still arguing over whether to get one or two cats. Either way we’ll get something! Maybe a pig?
- Medical was good. Clean bill of health from Dr. Will. C. Younow.
- I have some lovely chavvy runners I bought for the cheap which I really like!

Neither agree nor disagree
- Hearing test confirmed my hearing is worse. Knew it was coming, not really bothered about that.
- iOS Beta 5-5 is a better than 5-4 but it’s still big buggy but he’s far superior to iOS4!

Disagree
- Galway weather is fucking shit!
- Car is having a bitch fit but getting better.

Strongly Disagree
- I’m really worried about a friend back in the UK. He’s in intensive care, unable to breath on his own. Quite upsetting.
- There are a few things I really want to blog about but can’t. It’s very annoying!

So, after nearly four years I’ve finally had the dubious pleasure of experiencing my first gay bar in Galway. It was more than just a bar, it was a club; Dignity West on Shop Street.

We didn’t actually plan to go there but it looked like one of the few places we could actually get a drink and not end up soaked in sweat due to sheer numbers of people and lack of air conditioning on a hot night. Seriously landlords, if you own or manage a bar where your only source of air is the front and back doors and these are both rammed with people, then it’s a good idea to get air con! Those of you that do have air con, it would be wise to turn it on you fucking cheapskates!

The Latin Quarter was absolutely heaving; we left the very crowded Kings Head and decided to head towards Eyre Square to see if anything was going on up there, what with it being the last night of race week. Surprisingly it had nothing more to offer than any other Sunday night – people milling around, and annoying canvassers desperate to stamp your hand for cheaper entry into a club or bar you’re desperate to avoid! “Hey Guys,” one of them said in her faux American accent, “fancy coming to Coyote’s? I can get you in cheap!” I think her shit-eating grin was supposed to be another tool of her trade to try and entice us into a bar you’d have to pay me to go to. I actually can’t decide if her bigger failing was the fact she’d put her make-up on in the dark or that she was trying to get me to go to Coyote’s. I’ve been there four times to support a friend in a singing competition, and that’s the only way I’ll be going back in there! Who would want to spend a night in bar that stinks of body odour, stale beer and cheap perfume! The majority of men (the majority, I said; of course that doesn’t include you dear reader) that go in there are only there to see whores in denim shorts dance on the bar or ‘ladies’ – I use that word loosely! (how apt!) – fall off the rodeo bull. Other than our friend’s singing the only entertainment was reading the text on the display screens dotted around the place. The spelling is atrocious. I know mine isn’t great but ‘wedenday’ is unforgivable, as is ‘Henikken’ when you work in a bar surrounded by the stuff! It’s even worse when it’s on screen as “Special offer on Special Offer! – Win FOR, yes 4!!!1! pints of Henikken every wedenday in our super competition!” – What’s worse is that I’m not even joking!

I’ve digressed a lot here haven’t I? Sorry. To make a long story even longer I’ll just add this: Avoid Coyote’s, and the sluts* at the top of Eyre Square.

So after trawling a few more bars and and listening to bad music – if you see a band called ‘Milhouse’ playing anywhere, mostly in Galway I’d imagine, take a note of the date, time and venue and let every one know. That way we can all avoid them! Oh and another things while I’m on the subject of bands. What the fuck is it with Mr. Brightside by The Killers? There are millions upon millions of good songs out there yet still every fucking band in every fucking bar (aside from trad stuff) has to sing Mr. Bright-fucking-side! Aside from me hating it for personal reason it’s now the most over played song in the world! And that’s a fact!**

Argh! I’ve digressed again! Sorry. Again. In essence: Avoid Milhouse, and bands stop playing Mr. Brightside!

So we finally made it in to Dignity West! No, that’s a lie, I’ve missed out that it actually took us nearly five minutes to get in even though there was no queue! The camp thing on the door should have been the first clue as to how the night was going to go.

“Four please, all with stamps,” I said. The stamps had been given to us by the large lady outside who was actually really nice. I think this may have been to lull us into a false sense of security – it worked!
“Four?” he replied.
“Yes. Four.” He’d probably have understood if I’d have tried to say ‘for’ instead!
“Do you have stamps?”
“Yes,” I sighed given that I’d just said that!
“All of you?”
“Yes.”
“It’s €8 each.”
“I know, four please!”

He went inside his little booth and I expected him to pop back out and say “NOBODY SEES THE WIZARD!”, but after he hadn’t returned for a few moments I poked my head in to see what was doing. He had a calculator and was working out how much four €8s was. I’m not entirely sure why he didn’t just press eight button on the till four times but I’m guessing he was worried he’d get €88.88!

“That’s thirty-six euros!” he eventually said.

I didn’t need to speak, my look said it all.

“Oh! Sorry! Thirty-two!”

I paid and we headed up the stairs. It wasn’t the best decorated place I’d been into but there was something about it that felt quite familiar for a gay bar.

We’d been told outside that ‘Gaydar Radio’ were hosting the night, and sure enough we were soon handed goodies; a fan (advertising gaydargirls.com) and a whistle on a lanyard. Oh yes, a whistle. The ideal free gift in a club. That won’t become annoying at all will it. Noooo! (Sense the tone, promoters, and take the fucking hint!)

Drinks were bought and I hadn’t really paid attention to the price as it wasn’t my round, and I was sober-sister for the night so hadn’t drank anything more than a coke.

When the four of us walked in we’d doubled the numbers but now, twenty minutes later, a few more people had come in and the place easily had twelve people in it. Wow! Thankfully, as the time went on, it started to get busier. Sadly as it got busier it also got a little worse.

Sometimes, in Ireland, things happen that show it’s way ahead of other countries. Take health care. The Irish complain about about how bad it is, yet it’s far superior to the UK National Health Service. Free health care doesn’t make it good health care, in fact it’s often worse. At least when I want to see my GP I see them at a time convenient to me; in the UK you’re lucky to see one the same week. There are many other things that show Ireland is ahead of its game, and this is pleasing.

If Dignity West is anything to go by fashion in the gay community is one area Ireland is behind in. Almost twenty years behind! Given that I’ve met some Irish gays*** and consider them very close friends and know that their fashion sense is actually quite good I was shamed to see the majority of gays in this club looking like rejects from the Breakfast Club!

The only explanation I could come up with was that it was some sort of 80s night at the club, but there were no posters up saying so.

Sadly this wasn’t the only fashion faux pas of the night but it was the most common. I’m not sure why the Miami Vice/Knightrider look is back, it just is. If they weren’t dressed as a throwback from the 80s then they were dressed in the most stereotypical clothing ever. If they were thin and camp then it was a bright single colour tee with white jeans or something with glitter and maybe in chiffon. If they had a goatee and muscle then it was a black or dark coloured tight tee with either black jeans or dark green combats and boots with the odd wrist or bicep strap here and there. The lesbians seemed to stick to the only three fashion statements socially acceptable to them; sporty, mannish (often merged with hippy and/or geography teacher) or whore. I’ve never been too sure why the majority of lesbians feel like they need to look like a man. In the same respect I’ve never understood why some gays decided to be as effeminate as they can without actually getting a vagina! If a man is gay, surely it’s because he wants another man. If he wanted a woman he’d be straight! As for lesbians the same, yet opposite, is also true. If you’re a lesbian why go to all the trouble to look like a bloke when your sexuality denotes that you want women who like other woman to find you attractive. I just don’t get it. I’ve also never been sure why some lesbians (a minority yes but still a regular contingent) seem to think true tramp is a good look! There was a group of girls there who looked like they hadn’t washed in weeks – neither themselves nor their clothes! Why would anyone find this attractive? I just wanted to shout at them to make a fucking effort! This doesn’t mean you have to cover yourself in slap and put on a pretty frock, but maybe have a wash… Just think, you could be having sex later and no-one wants to dip a finger in a fanny that smells of stale piss and sweat. One girl, not a diesel but a proper lipstick lezzer, looked quite nice in her little black dress and understated make-up. She ruined it when she revealed to the entire club that she wasn’t wearing any underwear and appeared to have given herself a Brazilian without the aid of ruler or mirror!

"I'm going to play some records and you're going to charleston!"

As if the fashion and the views weren’t bad enough we then had to put up with the awful DJ. We were told Gaydar**** Radio were DJing there that night and if the guy we were listening to was from Gaydar Radio then thank fuck I’ve never listened to that station, and I never will! The ‘mixing’, if any, was atrocious, as was the music choice. I’m all for remixes and mash-ups, as certain people will attest, but in a club it really should be relevant or up-to-date. Madonna’s Ray of Light? BBE’s Seven Days One Week? Come on! There’s so much modern stuff out there to fill a nights entertainment why play shit from years ago unless it’s a theme night. Being a ‘Gaydar’ night doesn’t mean you have play old stuff. Yes yes, so Madonna may be popular with some queers (I love her music but hate her as a person) but there really is a whole myriad of popular shit that fags and lezzers will dance to!  Oh and just because you can press play on a CD player it doesn’t make you a fucking DJ!  It just means you can press play!  Being a DJ takes a bit of skill!  Thanks to my mate Tobes I have enough skill to be passable but it’s nothing compared to him.  This DJ wasn’t a DJ.  He was just a man who could press play!  Rubbish!

To make the night even worse I decided to buy a round. €5.10 for a bottle of Miller. A 330ml bottle of Miller! That’s fucking ridiculous! As is the €5.30 for a 330ml bottle Henikken and €10 for a double Captain Morgans and coke! Are these prices for real in bars? I can buy twenty 330ml bottles of Miller for €15 from the local supermarket! It’s no wonder bars are getting quieter and ‘staying in’ is the new going out! Why pay €170 for my night out (€102 on 20 Miller, €60 on two taxis (one in, one out) and €8 into the club) when I can pay €15, choose my own music and not have to rely on getting an honest (and sane) taxi driver!

"Eighty euros for two pints of piss and a strawberry daiquiri? Fuck! Off!"

So in conclusion: Coyote’s is shit, the last night of race week makes town look like the seventh pit of hell, the majority of gay and lesbians in Galway have no sense of style or taste (I’m not including my friends in that one as I know they do) and Dignity is a fucking awful bar/club in a great venue. It’s a great venue as it reminds me very much of how the Nightingale in Birmingham used to be before it became a prissy self-obsessed arrogant glitter-queen pretentious asshole filled place.

I will, however, give Dignity a second chance and try out some of the other gay bars around town but I make no promises that my opinions of the venues or the people will change!

*I’m sure not all of them are sluts. Just most of them!

**I may have lied about it being a fact but it’s still played a lot!

***For those of you that don’t know when I say ‘gay’ I mean gay men. It pisses me off that men are “gay males” and women are “lesbians” but can also be gay. What gives them the right to have their own term for being gay? With that in mind, as far as I’m concerned, women cannot be gay, they are lesbians and will only ever be that. Of course either men or woman can be homosexual. Here endeth the lesson!

****I. Fucking. Hate. Gaydar. It ruins relationships, turns people into liars and makes gays look like vile whores. Sometimes it doesn’t surprise me when ‘straight’ people blame the spread of HIV on us faggots.