Thing 198 Free Hugs

When I was in college I used to get bored of queuing for a seat, so I'd hop up onto a desk, and walk across the top of rows of desks until I found a seat, then I'd plonk myself down. Years later several friends would tell me that they thought I was a giant douchebag. I didn't see the problem at the time - I didn't want to wait, and there was a quick way to a seat. Embarrassment never occured to me. No idea what shame was...

That can be remedied though. Testicle waxing on live radio is a quick way to mortification. Walking through Limerick City Centre with a sign that says free hugs is another way. I don't do embarrassment very well.
I picked clothes out that were inoffensive and relatively easy on the eye - being bearded was also a poor decision. Few people can pull off the beard and still be huggable. Jesus and Santa being prime examples, but other than that, it's not easy to be bearded and have people trust you enough to want to hug you. I went out to the streets armed with my sign and and expecting an unholy and god-awful torrent of abuse.

At the best of times these things are an unpleasant combination - embarrassment and abuse. I'm usually the one dishing out the abuse.
Went well. Not just well. It went amazingly. One kid of about twelve walked past and gave some guff, and some woman who appeared to be in her thirties said she'd be happier to give me hugs if I was good looking (which made me laugh my ass off, and stung the ego a tad). Other than that, there was no abuse, there were loads of hugs though.

Well over a hundred. Pony Boy watched for quality control purposes, and because he knew he'd get a laugh out of it. Three little kids followed me around for about an hour. Advance warning people that a walking hugging machine was making its way through town.

Up and down Cruises' Street, O'Connell Street, Bedford Row, Thomas Street, outside Penny's.

Honestly though, if you think about it, who in Ireland likes having their personal space invaded? I don't. Which kind of makes it a shitty stunt to go invading someone else's for fun. Plus, it seemed like the kind of thing someone would do in California or something. Not very Limerick for sure.

I had every age group, every race, colour and creed. I even had a Charlie Chaplin hug. Parents walking with their kids hugged me, and then their kids did too. I hugged three generations of one family. A group of shoppers walked passed, shook their heads at me as they laughed, stopped came back and hugged the crap out of me.
I was full sure I'd hate today. I didn't. I kind of loved it actually. Spreading the love. It's good for the soul, apparently.

Thing 197 Hack Into a Computer

I'd an idea of how you might hack into a computer. I figured it would involve hours of work. Typing quickly while cyber police bang on the front door, "Access Denied" flashing up on the screen every few minutes, sweat pouring out of me. Smoking cigarettes like they're going out of fashion. Cursing at the screen. Typing getting progressively faster as the laptop's intelligent defence systems try to out-pace me to the codes that will give me access...

No. Wrong. Stop watching too much shitty television and commence living in the real world - I am in fact a moron.

Pony Boy is a developer. This is computer speak for a smart person with smart knowledge of how to use a computer properly. I am a user. This is computer speak for someone who can just about use a computer, but has absolutely no idea how it works...

The photo up at the top is of what Pony Boy calls "Pass me the Key". It's a basic piece of software that can be downloaded for free from the internet. It costs literally nothing. It's terrifying.

I popped it into Pony Boy's disc drive. I turned the thing on. It asked me to boot a particular screen. I did. Not literally. I'm a user, but I'm not stupid enough to kick the computer. It runs the disc. Just before it does, it shows this screen, the only nod in the direction of what I thought was some stereotypical looking hacker screen...
Then it does a brute force attack. If it was people, it would sound like this:

Hack: Hey, mind if I get in there?

Comp: Eh... yeah, a little. Have you got a password?

Hack: I'm jedi dude. I don't need a password. I only need a mind trick. Check it - I don't need a password to access admin details....

Comp: You don't need a password to access admin files.

Hack: Sweet....

Then it goes after Pony Boy's profile on the laptop:

Hack: Hey there. Listen, I've got admin access yeah? So I'm just going to make my way inside there?

Profile: Eh, that's not really cool dude. I can't just let you in.

Hack: Jedi mind trick?

Profile: Nope. No good here. I'm Sith.

Hack: What if I had the password?

Profile: Oh, that's different...

Hack: Does it start with "A"

Proilfe: No.

Hack: "B"...

Profile: No.

(The Hack goes on asking what the first character is, until your dumb ass Profile tells it it's right. Then it starts all over again on the second character).

It's a brute force attack, and it's genius. And eventually it reveals Pony Boy's password. Which would allow me to pop in and attack his facebook page with statements questioning his sexual performances. There's no way I'm doing it now. He's got more smarts than me. It's the last time I mess with his facebook page...

There are ways around it. Plenty of modern laptops have adequate protection, but most of them don't, which effectively means that Pony Boy could be on his way over to yours right now to hack your laptop as I type. He's not though. He's on the couch having tea.

It's a scary thought. There's nothing even remotely difficult about hacking into your profile. It can be done quickly and easily. I'm hiding my laptop...

Thing 196 Set Dancing

Set Dancing. An ancient Irish tradition. Practiced in groups of four couples. It makes sense to think that I might go to a set dancing class as part of a couple. The Thief is a set dancer - she's got two all Ireland gold medals. I've got two left feet, so there's no way I'm going with her. The Frenchman's in Germany. Token Northy was at work. And there's no way on earth I'm going set dancing with Pony Boy. He's nice and all, just not my type. Ahem. Moving on.

So instead, I decided to go on my own. Well if that's not the greatest statement that I'm a giant loser. I went to set dancing class on my own. One is the loneliest number. It gets worse.

On arriving I discovered all manner of age groups from early twenties to early seventies. I was expecting a room full of elderly women, if I'm being honest. Instead it was all manner of ages, and a fifty-fifty split in the genders. Which meant equal parts men and women to laugh at the loser sitting on the sideline watching thirty or so people set dancing. Because that's what I did. Like some kind of creepy bearded weirdo with a fetish for old folk dances, I watched from the side of the room as fifteen or so couples danced the night away.

I could feel their judgement.

There was one other man there, a spritely seventy one year old Limerick man by the name of Billie. If I can move like that chap at his age I know I'll have been doing something right. He took a breather and sat down for a chat. He's only been set dancing for six weeks. He loves it. He's made friends of all ages. His wife loves it too. They get great exercise out of it. The man made me feel terrible for judging the whole thing to be lame- make no mistake by the way, I thought the whole thing was ridiculously lame.

This is where it gets worse: The guy organising the whole event, with a mic in hand, walked by and asked me if I was going to dance. Embarrassed now with all eyes on me, I told him I didn't want to break up a couple and I was too much of an amateur to jump in with this crowd. He wasn't having it - get up and try a few moves yourself he said... all the judging eyes still on me, and not wanting to look like I was there to get my jollies from watching people set dance, I got out of my seat...

While everyone else danced their moves in the middle of the dance floor, I stayed on the outside of the floor, just off my seat, and set danced on my own, for twenty minutes. With an invisible partner who also had two left feet, I practiced my set dancing moves, all the while watching the highly amused regulars who observed me tripping over myself.

I used to think that I'd no shame. Now I know otherwise.

After twenty minutes I left. Hanging my head, but before I reached the door I remembered that not too long ago, some blog readers were accusing me of being lazy. Some unnamed individual's scorn forced me to turn around, walk back in, hit the edge of the dancefloor, and set dance with myself for another ten minutes, getting redder and redder by the second.

God bless Billy... he gave me a little round of applause after.

It's not something I'll ever take up with any regularity. I'll probably never set dance again (emotional scars, you know), but I've to tip the hat to those that can. It takes skill and concentration. As activities on a rainy Tuesday evening go, you could be doing an awful lot worse.

And at least the rest of them seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely.

Thing 195 Read A Book Backwards

Pretty much like this blog. And it made no sense whatsoever. It was that racing almanac.

So I did.I digged through the List, and there was a great suggestion, I can’t for the life of me think who suggested it, to read a book backwards. So it had to be something else.It was closed though. It’s more than just a chippy you know. Anyway, I wanted to make today’s Thing all about eating the entire menu from Donkey Ford’s, the Limerick City chip institution.

It’s nerdy, I know, but I think I’ve picked out a few good ‘uns. Just as little extras that I think would suit people. In a nerdy kind of way I also got into the habit of giving gifts of books at Christmas.

World War Z (the most important zombie novel ever, in my humble opinion), and a racing almanac which Lester Piggot did the forward for. May You Live In Interesting Times (Conor O’Clery’s memoirs). Freakenomics.These days is a pretty mixed bag. My recent favourites include:

I couldn’t get enough. Books on cooking. Books on movies. Books on science like The Way Things Work. I read books on the lives of dead people: Gen George S Patton, Adolf Hitler and Martin Luther King. I branched out too. I didn’t limit myself though.

Then it got darker, slightly, with David Gemmell, which was a prelude to Robert Jordan… man, I will never get enough of fantasy novels. All in a relatively sensible novel for a young man. Dragons, knights, magic and heroes who started small but overcame odds and scored the novel’s hot chick. From Mr Dahl I moved into extra nerd with David Eddings. I’ve never been much of a sleeper, so I’d just stay up until I’d finished a book, and then start a new one all over again. I moved on, graduated to Roald Dahl which I read at a ferocious rate. That was just the start though.

It started with a novel about a smart nerdy kid who invents his own pimple juice for getting rid of other kids’ acne and sells it to bullies, thereby teaching young readers a lesson that it’s okay to swindle people, as long as they’re complete douchebags. My Nana was fed up of seeing me with my face buried in some novel. I must have been the only kid whose grandparents were giving out that I wasn’t watching enough TV. I eat them for breakfast, has been that way since I was about ten years old. I devour books.

Thing 194 Piano Moving

Sweet divine mother of someone holy... I shouldn't be allowed to touch expensive things. Honestly. I shouldn't be let near your fancy kitchen china, and that doesn't even count as expensive when you consider what they let me get my hands on last Sunday. Bought second hand, you can pick up one of these pianos for a measly ninety thousand euro. I don't think that looks dramatic enough - here's the digits: 90,000. If you wish to shell out for a new one, say for example if you let some clumsy oaf help you move it, it's going to cost you about 150,000 euro.

Would you trust me with that? The guy that couldn't make an origami swan?

Chris Jackson though, now that guy can be trusted. His Da tuned pianos, and he learned the art himself before opening a piano business. If you're looking for a piano, or piano mover - Gallery Pianos. The question you'd have to ask is why would Chris let me move a piano? Why? Do I need to start typing zeros to emphasise my incredulity?

Thankfully, professionals have professional equipment. Like piano tanks...
Yes, that's a giant grand piano on what I can only call a piano tank. The grunt work comes from getting it out of the van and onto the tank, and that's donkey's time to shine... Pushing and pulling is pretty basic, even I can handle that crap. So that's what we did. Three of us versus piano. A battle of wits, no wait, a battle of brute strength. On the piano's side: weight. On our side: a tiny little cylinder underneath the crate... genius. Ancient Celts thought of it when they were making Newgrange, but I'd have stood there all day without coming up with that clever little plan.

You know how much I dislike sweating. Or exerting myself. Or standing up excessively.
As I said, I can appreciate donkey work, it's what I'm good for. When Ci Ci Do was getting her attic converted, Puc It Out's dad needed a hand with the conversion. When I say he needed a hand, what I mean is that he needed some donkeys. The difference is that my donkey work here was going to cost someone 150,000 euro if it went wrong. That's pressure. Pressure's not just for tyres you know.

All went well though. Out of the van with a serious grunt. Onto the tank. Up the ramp with a little gentle persuasion. Through a narrow little hole in the stage loading entrance and behind the set for that night's show. I think I can count that as a success. No one has to shell out in the six figures for my mistakes... that's definitely a win.
On the plus side, it gave me the chance to get back into the Wexford Opera House. Did I mention I'm in love with it? It also presented me with a great opportunity for posing, a skill I've acquired after years of practice.

The Thief's a poser from time to time. Marketeer's wearing a tux. If that doesn't entitle him to pose, I don't know what does...

So... Posing and a chance to see the opera house in exchange for a little sweat? I think that's a pretty sweet deal.

Thing 193 A Night at the Opera

Let's all be very honest here, do I strike you as the type that would enjoy a night at the opera? Saturday's are best spent with rugby and Guinness. I never thought for a second that this would be the kind of thing that I'd enjoy... It was unreal. Amazing. Flabbergasting. Stunning. I know I'm given to hyperbole, but I can honestly tell you that I think this was one of the best nights I've had since I started the Project, and there have been lots of good nights.

My first fear was a simple enough one: You can't polish a turd, and putting me into a suit isn't going to fool anyone into thinking I'm posh. Opera's posh right? They're going to know it's a fraud... If they did, certainly no one seemed to care. The atmosphere was light and breezy, even for a huge crowd of people in suits.

Second fear: I'm going to be bored out of my mind and I'll disturb the other patrons with my snoring... No chance. Mind you, we picked a good one to go see. The Golden Ticket is the opera version of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. It all might have been lost on me if we'd been looking at an 18th Century Austrian show with the big lady who screams the songs out as my very first operatic experience, but it was a well loved childhood classic instead. The talent (and I'm not talking about women smart arses), was incredible. The stage and set can be summed up in one expression: classy.

P.S. That photo up top is me and the man who played Granfather Joe. Leg-end.

I guess it kind of helped that the Opera House in Wexford is so savage and that me and The Thief were set up with top notch seats, front row and centre. Just look at the photo? Impressed? Sure you are. Jealous? Of course you are. I don't blame you. Am I smug much? Indeed I am.

I'm sure it's not for everybody, there's bound to people out there that have no interest and who won't engage with it, but there's no reason at all why that should be true. If you're going to give it a shot though, try it out with something in English first would be my advice. Like I say, the danger would be that you'd get lost with the classics.
It was a classy night out. And if I can pull off classy, you'll do just fine.

For the lads out there, take the missus on a date. Dress up snappy (for a change, you lazy bums), go for dinner. I'm sure there are other Opera venues around the country, but I think I might be in love with the Wexford Opera House. Apparently the acoustics are among the best in the world, not that I'd notice, philistine that I am. And if you're going to be in Wexford - Simon's Place is the bar me and The Thief went to with some of the gang we met at the centre. Solid pint. Good banter.

Now that I think about it, I wonder if they'd let me commute to work from Wexford...
And for my next trick... they let me move in a grand piano into the Opera House the next day... that should be entertaining right?

Thing 192 Drive like a Geriatric

First of all, thank you South Park for providing me with numerous ideas that amuse me no end. Also thanks for all the laughs. Most importantly of all, thank you for Randy Marsh, the funniest character in the show. The second two are not relevant to the project though, so we'll stick with the first one.

Second of all, it's never prudent to attempt to photograph yourself while driving. Other things that are imprudent while driving include: Making coffee. Texting. Playing air guitar while attempting to negotiate bends. Cursing at George Hook and solving complex equations. Because of this imprudence, the only photo you get to see is that one from South Park. Try not to miss my face too much.

I suffer from the road rage. There's no point in denying this. Anyone who's been in a car with me for ten minutes gets treated to a running commentary laced with expletives regarding the manner and conduct of other drivers. The exceptions are old people and learners. I don't know why I exclude old people, I guess I just figure there's no point in being mad at someone for being safe. I do know a long list of people who dislike elderly drivers.

The problem with road users is that generalisation is easy: Men drive too fast. Women can't park. Old people drive too slow. Cyclists are all annoying and smug. Merc drivers think they own the road. The list of generalisations is long. You can be certain that not everyone conforms to these stereotypes. But I fins generalising amusing... so here's today's Thing.

I took the new tunnel and dual carriageway from home to work, then from work to town. Before I left I pushed up my seat close to the steering wheel. I leaned forward and I grasped at the wheel like it was holding me up. Then I set off on my painfully slow, merry little way...

I drove at about fifteen to twenty miles an hour under the limit. I indicated approximately three minutes before I actually started the turn. I stopped at a yield sign. I watched people get mad. Then I laughed my ass off when the passengers in the cars overtaking me did a double take and looked puzzled. "He's not fifty five thousand years old, he's in his twenties".

Drivers out there will understand this. When stuck behind someone driving in a particular manner, it's automatic to decide, by their car type and mannerisms, exactly what type of driver they are. For example: I'm behind a Honda Civic, it's edging toward the line looking for an opportunity to overtake all the time, it does so and accelerates quickly. I'm thinking: Twenty something boy racer with about as much sense as he has petrol in the tank (not a lot).

So everyone behind me just assumed old person. I know I'm occassionally an old man in my head, but this was hilarious.

On the way back to town, but this time it was dark, so no one could see me, and I couldn't see anyone. Basically, a pointless exercise that I got no fun out of... at least the trip to work was a laugh.