What can I say, he fell for me.

'HAAAAA HAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA!'

'.....but I just thought that...'

'BAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA!!!'

'I HONESTLY thought that if I....'

'HAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!'

I pursed my lips, folded my arms and just stared. One of my closest friends, my best friends, was suffering. Actually suffering because she was laughing so hard at me. Can't say at this moment in time that she was going to garner much sympathy from me.

'Saucy....' she gasped, wiping the stream of tears from her face '....Saucy...ha ha ha...sorry it's just...you, YOU should NEVER try to be sexy...' and with that another eruption of laughter exploded from her mouth. She didn't even bother trying to suppress this one and I watched her collapse under waves of giggles until the point where she was laughing so hard, no sound was coming out and she was just a vibrating heap of malicious delight.

I tried to slap a look of outrage and hurt on my face. ('Me?! Unsexy?!') But I quickly realised I was not fooling anyone. I had just unwittingly regaled my friend while asking her for some advice on a boy problem. I was trying to figure out what to text him back next after he'd got quite flirty in some messages. She asked to see what I'd text back so far, and it was at that point she started laughing. Obviously my attempts to come across as a coquettish seductress had been the funniest thing she'd seen all day. I patiently waited for her to finish.

The truth is, when it comes to the opposite sex, I am like the female version of The Inbetweeners. I'm not saying this in a, 'ooh aren't I like a little Bridget Jones with my hilarious anecdotes' kind of way. In an actual 'thank god for artificial insemination' kind of way. As soon as romance is involved my brain goes above and beyond the call of duty to make itself as useless as possible. Unbelievable right? I can understand how some of you may be incredulous. 'YOU Saucy?! A smooth talking, quick witted little charmer like yourself?! It's completely implausible to think you wouldn't be anything short of a modern day Jessica Rabbit with men.'

No one who knows me well is thinking this.

 I have a list of examples as long as a dole queue myself up here. Most of them however, are literally unpublishable. Even the most black hearted of you would struggle to read them, that mortifying. Unfortunately, no exaggeration. However, there is one story which all my friends like to use as a point of reference every time I shoot myself in the foot romantically....

*****

Last summer, I had just leaped with exuberance into single life after a very long relationship. After being blatantly lied to and deceived by the rom-com industry, I was very excited to test out the power of awkward and traditionally unattractive females in getting a man. I would emulate at least one of the story lines from Love, Actually if it killed me, goddammit. I have to add though, if my love life at this point in time had been made into a romantic comedy, it would kick arse in the box office, being the most entertaining tragedy since Titanic. The ending would be a bit of an anti-climax though, with me lying alone in my flat, crying and listening to 'Lonely This Christmas' and drinking nail polish remover just to get some more alcohol into my system to stop the hurt. But I digress. Sadly, my motion feature would also feature a montage of me giving myself 'a sexy new makeoveeeer!'. Yes, that's right. To kick off my single life I decided what I needed to do was REINVENT myself. (Sound familiar? Yeah we all know what happened last time I decided to do that.) After trying on things 'that I would have never worn before' (with very good reason) and putting on 'trendy' make up and 'different' hair I was now ready to hit the town, looking like Peggy Mitchell 2.0. To my dismay, sitting in the bar I was not fighting for space from all my adoring suitors as I had predicted. Word must not have spread that I was back on the market yet.

As I saw it, I had two options now. I could either sit patiently and try and meet someone nice and form a steady new stable relationship from that point onwards. Or! I could get reallly really drunk and go down the Kate Moss road and HOPE FOR THE BEST! I could clearly see which one was the right option.

As I downed my fourth jagerbomb, my hazy eyes locked on my first victim. 'Hee, I'm going to kiss you later!' I wittily thought to myself and started to giggle. He caught me and gave a very questionable, very drunk smile back. I stopped DEAD. I knew what was going to happen next. Apparently my common sense knew EXACTLY what was going to happen next and fecked off for itself. So nonsensical drunken giddiness took the reins and started feeding ridiculous notions into my mind.

'SO!' I thought as I smiled creepily back at the boy, for way too long 'So this is what it's like to be irresistible.'

Even if one of my friends had been practical enough to try and send me home at this point, no one, bar NO ONE could stop me from 'seducing' this lucky, lucky boy. Me and the boy exchanged a few looks, described by me as 'sultry'. Probably described by him as 'awkward at best'. With the benefit of hindsight I now understand that most of his returned glimpses were because I was giving off the impression that I was squinting at him in a 'do I know you...?' kinda way. This was what happened when I tried to do my really sexy eyes-half-closed smoldering peeks. My 'flirting' continued throughout the night. I even managed to obtain his name. We'll call him Harold, because despite my best wishes I have never met a Harold. I won't bore you with the details of my calculated and clever efforts to make Harold mine. I'm sure at this point you're more than capable of imagining how it went.

At the end of the night, when he was at his weakest I locked eyes on Harold in the smoking room, sitting by a table. I sauntered over in a fashion that could best be described as a waddle. I was about four feet away when ABSOLUTE SHIT-THE-BED CRAZY PANIC kicked in. Even my inebriated mind could comprehend the problem I was now facing.

'What am I doing?! I don't know how to TALK to a boy, from scratch! I haven't been single in years. Oh Jesus. He's seen me now. I have to commit. If I walk away I'll look mental...' (Not as mental as I ended up looking, mind.)

I was just going to have to fake it till I made it. I would consciously try to appear as single as possible and fool him into thinking I was a flirting marvel. Think think think Saucy, you have lots of single friends, what would they do?

And so with that, I walked over to where he was sitting and with much kicking of legs and awkward grunts, I lay myself across the table. Yeah, as if to say 'where dya want me, baby?' Now, what possessed me to think that this was the done thing in the single world, I will never know. When had I ever walked into a nightclub and seen bodies strewn left right and centre across tables and couches? Never. Neither had he obviously, from his surprise, which I chose to misinterpret as arousal.

After engaging in conversation (Herculean task, might I add) I finally clocked that the awkward silence which I had misconstrued for romantic reflection, was actually that awful 'we're going to kiss in a second but first let's prolong it for another few awkward moments of staring at each other' thing. With my Mission: Single at the forefront of my mind, I began to panic. There would be NOTHING unpredictable about this situation. Even my own drunken narrative could recognise that me falling off the table trying to smooch him (likely) wouldn't be at all surprising. After some quick thinking, and hearty motivation from seeing the distance between the table and the concrete floor, I surprised even myself by suggesting we 'go outside.' 

Harold looked confused.

‘Brilliant. My sexiness has him dumbfounded!’

Harold led me by the hand through the crowded nightclub, which seemed to be extra full that night of people we both knew. Not one to miss an opportunity to mortify myself, I decided that this was the opportune moment to ask every single person I passed for some chewing gum. No time for subtlety! Having minty fresh breath for Harold was paramount.

Led by Harold’s hand, I was pulled stumbling outside the nightclub.

Oh.

From the confines of the sweaty smoking room walls, ‘outside’ had appeared much more exotic and romantic. The only thing exotic about this situation, I could now see, was the way the cold sea breeze smacking me at the left side of my face was contrasting the stench of salt and vinegar from the chip van on the right.

Harold looked at me for guidance.

Obviously I was being the passionate stronghold in this relationship.

‘Let’s…go over here’ I whispered in my sultriest husk.

‘WHAT? I CAN’T HEAR YOU OVER THE WIND?’

‘I SAID…’

‘YOU HAVE A SHED?!’

‘NO.’

‘YOU WANNA GO?’

For fuck’s sake. This never happened in Casablanca. After some awkward hand gestures and nodding towards the desired location, I pulled Harold into what I had assumed was an alley. Actually, it was someone’s garden. I quashed my sudden paranoia about trespassing laws and tried to reassure myself that there was no place in romance for law and order.

I don’t know if any of you have ever tried to make conversation with someone while standing in a complete stranger’s garden in the dead of night, but you can imagine chat between us wasn’t blossoming. After going to extreme lengths to avoid it, there was literally nothing left to do but kiss Harold. Do not judge me.

I soon realised that trying to be sexy was as exhausting as maintaining a drug habit. I thought achieving what I thought was a fairly unusual first kiss would settle me, but no. I wanted bigger and better hits. Soon I started to panic again that this was getting too boring. A lesser woman would have sacrificed her morals and gone home with him. Not me. And that’s because I have morals ladies and gentlemen, and NOT because I was wearing spanx that night.

Being out of touch with single reality for so long, I started to wonder if not going home with him would make me look like a 1950’s housewife. Do single people all go home with each other these days? Is he going to think I’m some sort of freak that he must court for several years before he finally gets his hands on my drawers or my dowry? There was nothing for it. I had to make this THE BEST KISS EVER.

I’m a modest girl. I had not done a FÁS course in shifting. I had to think outside the box. As with every aspect of my romantic life, I immediately went to the back catalogue of romantic comedies in my head for inspiration. What would make this really cinematic and memorable? Think laterally. Laterally…. I’m in a garden… that’s it. Suddenly I recalled a sequence of characters falling onto a pruned English lawn in romantic embrace, from Bridget Jones’ Diary to Notting Hill. That’s it. I’ll carelessly toss him onto the lawn and tumble after him. Oh Harold, you are going to love this!

And so, as craftily as I could I rose one heeled foot. I arched it around the back of Harold’s leg, estimating where the back of his knee was. In one swift motion I planted my foot straight into the back of his knee, knocking him off balance. In all my meticulous foot positioning, I neglected the most basic physical aspects of the situation. Harold and I were still kissing. His arms were around my waist so I was his next port of call for balance. He leant on top of me instinctively, his weight over powering me. Bear in mind I was still on one foot and in heels like some obstinate experimental dodo bird. I never stood a chance. As my remaining foot started to slip I noticed the texture of the lawn beneath me was kind of unusual. Harold was leaning on top of me now and the two of us were now joint together, and tumbling comically slowly towards the ground. Just before I hit earth, something caught sight in my vision which was adjusting to the dark ground flying rapidly towards me. That didn’t look like grass….

KRRRRRCCSSSSHHHHHHHH!

…The unmistakable sound from my childhood of skin skidding across razor sharp gravel. I had stumbled off the grass, and onto the thousands of pointed stones littering the ground. I lay with each of them digging into my back, groaning. I looked to my right. Lit dramatically by my phone which had tumbled out of my bag, I could see Harold’s bleeding face, nose down in the stones. He had intuitively rolled sideways after I impacted the ground, essentially tearing off half his face.

He lifted his face from the earth, spitting out stones, some falling from the pools of blood quickly pouring from his cheeks.

‘Are you alright, Saucy?’

‘Oh shit.’

He misread my shock at the state of his face for injury and helped me up.  

‘Whoa, what happened? We must both be pretty drunk eh!’

‘Haaahaa yeah…..drunk’

I hoped against hope that Harold had no mirrors in his house.

Sometimes when I see Harold around, still with little scratches on his face I wonder will he ever understand that he was but another tragic victim of me, trying to be sexy.

The Saucy Cow

xxx

How To Get Unfriended By A Guy In Ten Days

Facebook. Suits me down to the ground usually. Communicating with people without having to conform to the social norms of speaking to their face? YES PLEASE.
However, like all good things in my life (Jersey Shore, potato salad & alcohol) it is not without its fundamental flaws.
After the initial buzz of setting up my profile I went on a rampage of accepting friend requests willy nilly. And now I find myself in a vortex of online etiquette. I don't want to be FRIENDS with these eejits anymore. But deleting people off Facebook these days is like the equivalent of setting their dog on fire. What's a girl to do?

Why, take the completely cowardly route of course, and be the most annoying Facebook friend there ever was until all the excess friends delete me and I'm left with only my true amigos.
And here's how I plan on doing it:

The Saucy Cow's Guide to Being the Worst Facebook Friend There Ever Was

1. In a relationship? EXCELLENT. You are now equipped with the necessary ammunition to make everyone want to instantly delete you. Don't worry about the validity or significance of your relationship, that's irrelevant. The most important thing to you now is to ensure that EVERYONE is acutely aware of not only the fact that you're together, but also every morsel of your sex and private life. 

Why bother phoning, texting, or god forbid spending physical time with one another when you can share trivial exchanges over everyones newsfeed? Why not enrich your friends with H-I-L-A-R-I-O-U-S tête-à-tête between the two of you where you both make fun of each other for seemingly hours on end. Not only is this not one bit funny, it's extremely irritating on the grounds that it makes the two of you seem like you're different  to other couples, because you have the amazing capacity to make fun of each other. HOW QUIRKY ARE YOU! Don't forget the over-use of nicknames. Using normal birth names isn't going to annoy anyone. Some classics include referring to each other as ''the boyf/girlf'', ''the wifey'', ''the babe'' etc.The best nicknames however, are the ones which are thinly veiled references to the both of your antics in the bedroom. Anything that forces the mental image of you two having sex into the unsuspecting minds of your friends is a surefire success in the quest to get deleted. To best ensure everyone knows exactly who you're referring to, (your boyf, that is) why not take some disturbing pictures of the two of you getting off with one another and post them under the disconcerting caption of 'awww :)'. For maximum mental scarring, why not have a willing friend take them, so that you can use both arms? Don't forget plenty of smilies, x's and mega vomit-inducing hearts. For best results, just post one, solitary pointless heart to each other every few hours.

2. Not in a relationship? Don't worry. There are many singletons out there who manage to be just as infuriating as self obsessed couples. Use Facebook as your own person Match.com. Firstly, advertise yourself. Go into the bathroom in your underwear and take loads of pictures of yourself. Act like having a camera in the bathroom at all times is totally normal and not creepy at all. Photoshop the shit out of them until you look like your own very distant attractive cousin. Then post all over Facebook and complain about how you look. The key with these is quantity, not quality so make sure you have dozens of almost identical pictures. There are a lot of these on FB at the moment so try and mix it up. Pose with the family pet or your gran, while in a bikini. Now, make them your profile picture and comment on the profiles of lots and lots of men who already have girlfriends/wifes. If confronted by the respective other halves, simply advise them not to hate you cos they aint you.  

3. As Shakespeare said, 'all the world is a stage.' This includes Facebook, so DRAMA DRAMA DRAMA. Try generic whinging statuses, like 'Life is so tough 2day' 'Jst wish I cud turn bac d clock :'(' 'Y is it dat u dnt realise what u got till its gone?'. For inspiration, reference a Westlife songbook. When someone expresses concern just reply with a :( to really aggravate everyone. 

4. Join every group on facebook.

5. Post virals 5 months too late on your wall with the comment LMFAOOO!!!

6. Update your whereabouts with a vigorousness that would rival MI5. This includes checking into the bedroom, the toilet, and most importantly, NANDOS.

7. Become a raging alcoholic so you're never short of material for your post night-out self glorifying status. Never underestimate the power of taking things out of context and referencing things at random. Eg 'What a nite!!!!...wild! 3 randomers showin up & a horse! spent d nite in a shed too lol'. This will make it seem like you had a wild time, who's to know you're talking about the nativity play you went to see your little sister in? Don't forget to post a status before you go out, during, and after. Each pre status must say ''things are gonna get messyy!!!!'' or something to that effect, each status during must include lots of spelling mistakes and each one after must mention how you will never consume alcohol again, UNTIL TONIGHT LOLZ. Over use punctuation.

8. Bring a camera absolutely everywhere and ensure that you only upload and tag the pictures where you look amazing and your friends look like the back of a horse's arse. Tag these at a time like 6am, when they will have the maximum time online before your mortified friends can hurriedly untag themselves. If they do this, make sure you make one your profile picture.

9. Keep participating in games where you use a fruit as your status to describe what a slut you are (The Saucy Cow...is a pineapple ;) ) under the ridiculous guise of it somehow generating funds for cancer research.

10. Like your own status. 

Bad hair phase

''FLOOOOOOBBBAAAADAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

''AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH. AAAAAAAAAAAH.''

I dropped to my knees shaking in agony, various toiletries and hygiene products showering down on top of me. Holy sweet merciful christ almighty. In a miscalculated attempt to swish hair out of my face,  I had shaken my hair absent mindedly and with just my amazing luck, a strand of peroxide coated hair had flicked into my eye and been squished there by the delayed reaction of my eyelids shutting together. I used to think I knew what pain was but this was a completely new sensory experience. Desperately ripping off my little plastic gloves and crawling around on the floor blindly like a gasping goop coloured cockroach, I prayed and prayed to come into contact with a towel. Even crawling into door frames and toilets couldn't distract from my mission. I still believe that had I found a spoon there on the bathroom floor at that moment I would have scooped out my own eye...
2 minutes, (or in pain time: several eons) later I managed to climb up the sink, towel in hand, and hung there with my bare eye under the cold tap, whimpering. The searing pain didn't seem to bothered with subsiding and I started to have a life altering moment of thinking about all the things I would never see again, now that I had been blinded by a home hair dye kit. Uninspired, all I could think of was how I'd recorded last nights Skins and my now never get a chance to see it. Eventually my sight came back just as I began to panic about how I'd even find the remote control, and I after three excruciating blinks, I could peer at my reflection: Red faced and panting. One eye practically useless, bloodshot and swiveling around it's socket in a mad panic, the other one tearing up from my near blinding experience. As I straightened up, I watched the pus coloured goopy dye drip onto my shoulders after coming undone from the excitement. I was a sight for sore eye. The shiny black box laying on the floor, in all the aftermath caught my impaired sight. I squinted in fury at the blonde gorgeous model absolutely shit-a-brick happy beaming up at my from the hair dye box. That was how I was supposed to turn out. Sigh. Putting myself through all of this hardly seems worth it just for the sake of fixing a few pesky roots. But it's definitely better than putting myself through the trauma of going to the hairdressers.

I want my hairdresser to be my friend. I always have, and I always will. I always sit there lemon mouthed and smiling awkwardly every time I catch my stylists eye contact in the mirror. Meanwhile, in the chair next to me, another client seems to be having the funniest conversation there ever was with what appears to be their bff 4 eva + alwayz who is standing behind them holding the scissors. I try and I try and I try, but I've never met the right person. I did once have a brief relationship with a hairdresser. It did not end well. Since then I've been careful with my heart...y split ends.

 The year: 2005. My hair: brown. The boys in my town had really been testing my patience. I don't know if they'd been paying attention during any romcoms, like I had, but they had yet to realise that the bookish, unattractive brunette in the corner of the library was actually the girl of their dreams. I had to try another method before I could helpfully point it out to them that they were in love with me. Being me though, there was no happy middle. Learning how to use a comb or apply make up may have sufficed. I don't know if you all remember, but 15 year old boys are not exactly tricky to seduce. But no, as far as I was concerned, I had exhausted all avenues with the awkward nerdy girl attempt. With me, I was either one end of the spectrum, or the other. I was either radio waves, or gamma rays. I was never infrared. (My library phase featured a heavy interest in physics. The sexiest of the soul destroying sciences.)
  And lo, it was decided, I would REINVENT MYSELF. Being 15, I had only been 'myself' for about 4 days. Nevertheless, it was time to get a ridiculously cool haircut. This haircut, ladies and gents, was so ridiculously cool that it's 2011 now and it STILL hasn't come into fashion. I was that ahead of the game.

    I wanted a spikey punky little creation, with of course the obligatory pink streaks. I've seen the pictures, the only thing I can say is where was my mother when this idea went down. 

    And after going into my local salon one day for a trim, I found the man for the job. His name was Andy and we got on really well. I was over the moon. 'This was it!', I thought, 'my big chance.' 

   As I was paying for my trim, I proposed the idea to Andy. His face lit up like a stolen car in the corner of a field behind Dungarvan GAA pitch. At the time I saw his enthusiasm in a kind of creative 'I shall make you my masterpiece' kinda way. I see now all to clearly that it was obviously a ''SOMEONE HAS GIVEN THE MOST HYPERACTIVE CHILD IN THE PLAYGROUND A PAIR OF SCISSORS'' kinda way. I booked the appointment and strutted out of the hairdressers. Already I had the montage in my head of the day I would walk into school: renewed. I would be wearing sunglasses for no particular reason, and I would take them off in slow mo and shake my head and everyone would go ''oooh!''.

      I know what you're thinking. 'Oh Saucy! Another stupid mistake you've made in your life and have inadvertently used as blogging material. We can all clearly see at this point in the story that this haircut is going to end up looking horrific''. Sorry if I've spoiled the ending for any of you who were in extreme tension at this point, but yes obviously the haircut came out terrible. The shocker is that the actual haircut I chose isn't even the worst thing that happened me that day. Yeah, you're gonna keep reading now, aren't ya. 

     I arrived and nestled myself snug in the chair. I think I intentionally ignored the manic look in Andy's eyes as he eyed up a range of scissors and took his sweet time in selecting which one he was going to use to hack away at my locks. Cos me and Andy were so tight, we sat and chatted for a while about how we were going to do this. Together. He and I. I and he. 

     Andy explained to me that with the drastic change I wanted to do, he would have to do the job in three steps. (You would think the word ''drastic'' and the fact that I had to have a consultation and sign a permission slip before getting it done would have deterred me but no.) First he was going to cut my hair into a chunky Tetris blocky pyramid type shape. Then he was going to bleach where appropriate and apply the pink dye. Then he was going to snip away into my chunky lego layers and make me one funky chicken. Sound good?

 No. Of course it doesn't. It sounds like the stupidest haircut there ever was. But on with the narrative. Andy began to methodically cut into my hair so that it was in four very unattractive symmetrical blocky steps on either side of my face. If you can imagine, it looked for all the world like I was wearing a brown lego hat. But no matter. I stopped focusing on the haircut because OMG YOU GUYS, ANDY AND I WERE GETTING ON SO FREAKIN' WELL!

     I was beyond excited at this point. I couldn't wait for Andy and I to start having a really cosmo relationship and possibly creating our own secret high five, involving a finger click or three. We sat there exchanging hiiii-larious stories from our ker-azy lifes. Obviously he being a male hairdresser in a small Irish town (MAD!!!) and I being the kind of person who dyed my hair pink, we were both two kooky and off the wall for this one shaded horse town. If it weren't for the pure peroxide burning straight into my scalp, I wouldn't have known we were already on Phase 2: bleaching. Andy and I were having such a jovial time, we lost the run of ourselves. That peroxide was a little bit close to things like my ears and face. Andy was listening so intently to the interesting things that I was saying that he was smiling and nodding at me in the mirror, stroking the peroxide loaded brush over the same part of hair over and over again. Yeah, it was careless hairdressing, AND WHAT OF IT? We were having a whale of a time. Bonding. It got to the stage where even when we were silent I'd look up from my copy of OK! from 1999 and he'd look up from...my hair, and our eyes would meet in the mirror. Usually, this is moment is so painfully awkward with any other hairdresser I'd choke myself with the nearest GHD cord. With Andy, we could just smile at each other and go back to what we were doing. We were like that. 

   And then it happened. I was nattering away about whatever laborious incident was overshadowing my stressful 15 year old life, and Andy flicked back his wrist in a gesture of sympathy to my tale of woe. So lost in my anecdote was he, that he momentarily forgot he was holding an extremely dangerous bottle of 100% pure peroxide in that hand, and it slipped from his grip. 

     What are the odds, would you think, dear reader, of that bottle falling from Andy's grip and his arm being the perfect distance from the floor at that point & the peroxide bottle being at the perfect weight that it would allow the bottle to spin so many times on it's descent to the floor that it would land at a precise angle. An angle so precise, say, that it striking the floor at such a force would cause an ejection of peroxide from the tip of the bottle and it would go directly (because it was at this perfect angle) into Andy's eye? If you were a betting man, how much money would you put on that ACTUALLY happening? Before you answer, pause, and think who's blog are you reading. Yeah, now reassess: What are the odds of this happening to me?

That's right. Extremely likely. 

Back to the innocuous 15 year old me sitting in the salon chair. All I saw was Andy drop something and then seemingly try to really enthusiastically pick it up on the floor by collapsing onto the ground after it, disappearing from view completely. I sat there for a few awkward seconds blinking at my reflection thinking, 'Oh Andy, you clown! Probably trying to initiate a really hilarious game of peek-a-boo in a minute by staying on the ground so long.' I was then more than a little irked when some of the salon staff came running over, ruining the game entirely.

'Andy, ANDY? Are you ok?'

I best turn around and see whats happening.

Andy was lying on the floor shaking in a way I had only seen performed by an upside down crab at the beach once. His mouth kept opening and closing until eventually what was (I'm sorry Andy) a very feminine scream came out. Everyone was very confused. No one more than me. 

What was this, Andy? Was it one of our private jokes which we'd talked about during Phase 1? If it was, I'm sorry but the reference was not very clear at all. Maybe it was some sort of installation art piece. If so I was going to like Andy very much indeed. He was quite clearly the coolest person ever. 

Eventually Andy managed to tear his hands away from his inflamed face and point at the bottle of peroxide lying beside him. It quickly transpired to everyone what had happened. Everyone except me of course. 

It wasn't until I was standing outside the salon with the rest of the staff (and even some other curious clients,) wearing scraps of tinfoil in my hair and my black cape looking like the worlds shittest supervillian, as they loaded up the ambulance, that they explained the situation to me. 

Andy had in fact managed to squirt pure peroxide into his left eye and was now being rushed to hospital in an attempt to save his eyesight. This Andy was the same man whom I'd sat and listened to for 40 minutes as he discussed how hairdressing was his only calling in life. How his life would be so mind-numbingly soul destroyingly void and meaningless if he didn't wake up to a scissors and comb every day. And I had potentially taken this away from him. I had visions of Andy in a dark room wearing two dramatic eye patches and sobbing aloud, now that he can't cry anymore, blowing a hairdryer into his own face just to FEEL like a stylist again. 

       This scenario is bad enough as is, you're probably forgetting that at this point me and Andy are BFF's so I was extra upset. Also I was 15 and a clusterfuck of emotions at the best of times, so I may have had a little lip wibble. Hairdressers being hairdressers they flocked around me and herded me into the salon with lots of ''ooh''s and ''aah''s and tongue clicking and ''aw hun!''. 

     A cup of tea later and to be honest I was sure Andy was going to be right as rain. One of the hairdressers, or Miss Lovelies as I called them from that point on, then brought my attention back to the other pressing matter at hand.

'Now Saucy, how are we going to sort your hair...'

'Oh yes well I guess you can just pick up there where Andy left off with the peroxide there...'

I caught the look on Miss Lovely #1's face as she let her eyes dart to the offending bottle of chemicals, a few feet away still lying at the scene of the crime. It was obvious she was going nowhere near THAT. She then composed herself

'Well um, Saucy, the thing is....before Andy was taken off in the ambulance...'

My face winced at the reminder of what I had already told myself would definitely be a repressed memory from now on

'...WHERE I'M SURE HE'LL BE FINE!!! Well, he said that am, he didn't want any of us to finish your hair...'

Very funny Andy! 

The look on my face must have said it all.

'Well the thing is...it's such a big job and he was going to be so proud of it, he uh, wanted to finish it himself. When he gets out of A&E...'

I frowned. That's disappointing at best. I had a disco tonight and my reinvention was going to be put off. There was something niggling at me though, something I was forgetting....

The lovelies flocked around me and took me to the sink where they washed out all of the demon peroxide and sat me back in the chair for a blow dry. Well, at the very least my hair was going to be nice and glossy and straight for the night.

The penny didn't drop until the lovelies had completely finished drying my hair.

Lego hair.

ANDY NEVER GOT TO PHASE THREE. He didn't even get to the middle of phase two. I looked like the Sphinx. 

Half a haircut. I left the hairdressers with half a haircut. Certainly the worst half. And on the eve of a teenage disco. I was a Jacqueline Wilson novel waiting to happen. For the evening I sat with tears flooding down my face and 10,000,000 hairclips by my side trying to clip back the clumps of brillo pads which were my tresses. I would pull at strands and attempt to force them into a clip before realizing they had been cut unexpectedly and then screaming 'THERE'S NOTHING TO CLIP! I HAVE NO HAIR! I HAVE NO HAAAAAAIR!'

And that was the last time I tried to be friends with my hair dresser.

And so staring back in the mirror at my present day self, I kind of felt bad for Andy. If homedye hurts when you get it in your eye, I can only imagine what industrial strength chemicals were like. Also because I can see now that Andy had hoped I would be his little protegé. I don't have to describe to you how bad that haircut turned out when Andy was finally allowed to take off his eyepatch. And so with a deep breath and gritted teeth, I pulled back on my little plastic gloves and set to work on those damn roots. Yes I am trusting my hair with the biggest idiot I know, but no matter how much I fuck it up it will never be as bad as that particular 'do was....*shudder* .

The Saucy Cow

xxx

And to my 17 year old self I say...NA NA NA NA NAAAA

I was under my bed, just staring at the underside of my mattress as you do, and I came across my essay notebook from school. There are some serious works of cringe in there from when I went through my ''TIME TO BE A POIGNANT WRITER AND USE LOTS OF SIMILES'' phase. Those will of course never see the light of day and I will be ceremoniously burning them later tonight. However, I found a TRUE story which I'd written when I was 17 which my 20 year old self took a lot of joy in reading. The fact that I know I'll never have to go through this shit again makes me want to share it with you all. ENJOY!

*******

'My Greatest Fear'

Have you ever felt your whole body stiffen, and then sink and soften as though it were fudge in a furnace? Felt the deep searing pain as you swallow hard and wipe the stinging beads of sweat from your brow? Ever felt your stomach flop about like a fish just swiped from a river and discarded on a marshy bank?
        Ever been uncomfortably conscious of every hair on your head, every step that you take? Every eyelash and fingernail? Awkward and aware, like a deluded closet transvestite going for a smear test. Have you ever wanted so badly for this moment to end; to get it all over with; to give anything to know what will happen next? Just to be able to CONTROL the situation. The frustration! It's pot luck here, and you know it. The odds are against you but your hoping against hope that it will go your way this time. It could just as easily be you. Do you want it to be you? You don't even have time to consider that. In a mere second, it's over. Just. Like. That.
     Every feeling you felt before has been discarded like an annoyingly un-recyclable styrofoam burger box, and each one replaced by one much worse than before. A sick, sticky feeling takes over you. You deflate and collapse, the back of your eyes are stinging with tears of frustration which you blink away quickly with agitated pride. Your fists clench and you dig your nails into your palm. You bite your lip and hang your head. Your shoulders slump, defeated. Eventually, you turn around and walk away. If you've ever felt like this, you'll know what I mean. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Saucy's greatest fear: being turned away from a nightclub because you are underage.
        Is there anything more degrading in the world? It may possibly steam from my fear of mortification of any description. This is a whole other level though. There's no denying that walk of shame. All that effort, all those notions you had of being glamorous and trendy, dancing the night away with all these glamorous and trendy people. You just know it's like a Smirnoff ad in there*. And now what? Davitts**? I'd rather have terminal diarrhea, thanks. Sit outside the chipper sulking in a pit of self loathing? What about your friends? Psh. There seems to be an un-official code of 'every girl for herself'. Although you can't say much, you'd sell your nan to get into that club. Either way, you can understand my despair. 

       One night though, possibly after too many illicit blue WKD's, I decided I make my own luck. 'I am getting into this club no matter what'. I'd seen people chat their way in before, laughing jovially with the bouncers as they shove their cleavage in their faces before swanning past. I didn't really feel like profiting on the bouncers obvious dis-regard for state licencing laws in preference of some juvenile sexual assault charges. I wasn't cool enough to be jailbait. I'd find some other way in. I'd just staggered out of a pub, proud as punch. I saw gaining entry to this particular bar as the benchmark for how old I must be looking. In hindsight business was obviously very slow that weekend so an influx of over excited teens bursting with pocket money was clearly needed. Propelled on by some dutch courage and the laws of physics in my stilettos which were quickly gaining velocity, I strutted towards what were, at this late stage in the evening, the multiplying lights of my local nightclub. 'I.D?!?', I thought to myself. (At this stage I'm yelling drunkenly in my own head.) 'PUH-LEASE! As if a sexy little city slicker like myself needs I.D. I've just come from a BAR. Where they serve ALCOHOL. To PEOPLE. PEOPLE LIKE ME.' Tonight, I have armed myself with the do's and don'ts from past mistakes. I have my sensible 'I am a working girl' trench coat on, the standard issue for any desperate under-ager worth her salt. The big lapels of which are pulled up of course to conceal my ridiculous extensions and create the illusion of a 'I am leading a hectic over the age of 21 life' style bob. My cheeks are sucked inside my mouth, in the vacant area where wisdom teeth have yet to grow. This is to create the aged and chic expression, far too voguish for any baby faced 17 year old. I have my best bored expression stuck to my face to give the impression that I'm very blasé about this whole 'going-out' scene. I obviously had to be dragged out tonight by my less cool friends. The only reason I'm going out in this tiny Irish seaside town is in a completely ironic and hipster way. I'm even frowning for optimum wrinklage. I also have a handbag and a watch, alien items which I'm trying desperately to act natural with and not fiddle.
            200 yards to go. It's showtime, baby! Whoops. With that thought I let out a delighted and involuntary ''woot!''. Control. Shoulders BACK. Confident now, sophisticated. Step left right clicky click  heels left right frowny frown. Look directly at the bouncers. You, yeah you baldy. I'm comin' at ya. And you're gonna let me in. Not only are you gonna let me in, you're gonna let me in FOR FREE. No. Bit much. But I'M GONNA GET IN. Stop staring at bouncer so much. Look at shoes. Nice shoes. Back up. Flick out phone and oh so casually check the time. Fuck. YOU'RE WEARING A WATCH WOMAN! Never-mind. Utilize this moment to ensure phone is on silent to avoid embarrassing Chris Brown*** ringtone situation. Step left right fake flicky flick of hair. Not too much. You'll ruin your disguise. I can see the door! Shoulders back as far as they will possibly go. Fixate dramatic 'I am meeting someone poignant in here' look on face. Quicken the pace a tad and....YOU'RE IN! Don't act happy...DO NOT SMILE. Ohmygodohmygodohmygiddygoodygod. On foot forward and............
                 WHOOSH! My goodness they have big arms.
'I.D there love, please'
Alright.
Chill.
I look up at him in my best surprised, 'who, me?' face. Although he doesn't seem to have his arm pinned around anyone else.
His expression remains unchanged.
Alright then.
'Oh you musn't be serious...ah....' no name badge, feck.'I'm QUITE the regular!'
My voice comes out a hell of a lot higher than I imagined in sounding in my head. In fact my mouth seems to have run out of water and a few raspy swallows are required before I can properly string the words together. Man, it's bright in here. I squint up at him hopefully.
Emotionless and bored he instantly replies:
'No I.D, no entry.'
Well I'm not having that. I falter for an absolute split second before I remember a key element and jump back into operation age 11 months in the next 3 seconds. I might not have been telling a complete truth when I said I didn't exactly NEED I.D earlier on. In my ugly handbag, (old people have ugly bags) I begin to fish around for the agecard which is a friend of a friend of a friends. But she has brown hair too so I reckon we should be grand. I smile in what I hope is a sexy and sophisticated way, but from Mr. Bouncer's grimace I guess it was just watery and sideways. I flash him the I.D as quick as possible concealing most of it with my hand while striding forward mumbling ''yeahwellgreat ok sooo thanksyeahcyaaa!!!'' but he cuts in front of me with the skill and swiftness of a Russian ballerina. To my absolute horror he whips the I.D out of my hand and holds it up IN THE LIGHT.
'You're telling me this is you?'
'Yes.'
The lie is almost laughable. He looks at me.
'I've am....lost some weight recently.'
And also had complete facial re-constructive surgery by the looks of it. This is preposterous. I mentally prepare myself for the inevitable shame.
The bouncers eyebrows arch in disbelief as he glances from me to the I.D and back again, and then frowns gormlessly.
'Hmmmm' he says
My mouth hangs open. Clearly this man is an absolute idiot. Anyone who could ever even momentarily entertain the idea that I could BE this picture of a random stranger is obviously a moron. I get so wrapped up in concentrating on how striking the resemblance between this man and a monkey is I barely catch the end of the next thing he says:
''mumble mumble mumble....your name on it''
Oh. Jesus.My eyes widen to what I imagine is the berth of my had. Oh holy sweet mother of Christ. Abort abort abort. In all my meticulous staring at the I.D, trying to fashion my hair in the same style, I forgot to address a very important detail.

        I have NO IDEA of not only the date of birth on the agecard, I don't even know the name. Ok Saucy calm now. Oh jesus he must be able to SEE me sweating. If not smell it. I wobble from side to side a little. Were these shoes always this unstable? You have to salvage this or you will never ever get in again. He knows your face. HE'S STILL LOOKING AT YOUR FACE. My stomach churns, I'm not really sure why. You're past the point of no return but your legs are instinctively itching for the door. He's big, but he's bulky. Could you outrun him? Maybe you could run away and start a new life, in a new town, where you are actually 56 but have a chronic disease that makes you look 16 at best.....YOU'RE TAKING WAY TOO LONG TO THINK! HE'S LOOKING AT YOU STILL. Recover.
I smile sweetly. It takes a second for the words to fall outta my mouth.
''Sssshorry, what?''
Genuis.
'I said.' He is not a patient man, that's for sure. 'Do you have anything ELSE with your NAME ON IT?'
Have you ever wet yourself when you were younger, after bursting for a wee for ages? And something warm spreads through you, but you still have this awful feeling you're in trouble? That's how I felt right there.
'Ooooh alrighty. Am well....BEAR WITH ME NOW! You see what happened was...I must just ring my friend. She am...funny story! hahahaha...I gave her my wallet. With my atm card, and library card.'
Not only have I never owned I library card, I don't even have a bank account at this ploint in time. So to make this story more authentic, I look at him in a 'imagine that! Crrraaazy me! A yo-yo dieter who entrusts friends with large amounts of cash and I.D on a whim.' After four attempts, I punch in my best friends number. She answers and it is quite obvious from the bass drilling from my phone that she is on the dancefloor several feet away.
'Hello Michelle darling....''
'' *DUNCEDUNCEDUNCE* WELL SAUCY! DID YA MANAGE TO GET IN IN THE EN.....''
''BLAAAAAA MICHELLE! Michelle....Ahem. Michelle....could you pop out with my wallet there love hahaha yes yes I know, haha no no, not letting me in! Think I'm underage! hahaha yes imagine. Hahaha...''
''SAUCY WHAT THE FECK ARE YOU ON ABOUT? I CAN'T UNDE-''
I slam myself against a wall and slump there with my back to the bouncer.
'Michelle listen to me. I have no idea what the name or age on the agecard you gave me is....'
'Did ya loose it?'
'No....the bouncer has it'
'And where's he?'
'....beside me.'
'.....'
'Michelle? hell....'
'BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!'
I sit there seething silently as I listen to Michelle not only get a good laugh out of the situation, but listen to her re-tell the story to all around her before they collectively gather whatever information they knew about the fraudulent identification. I eventually understand that my name is Sarah Welsh and my date of birth is the 12th of June 1985. 1985?! I couldn't even name a song from that year, never mind a person.
I turn back to face the bouncer. I can tell he and I have not hit it off.
''Well! It seems she's run off with my wallet! hahahahahaha''
I laugh, but he doesn't.
He sighs. He must be getting sick of this now, I know I am.
'FINE. What's your date of birth?'
''12th of June 1985''
He pauses. I doubt he believes me but I know I'm slowly tearing down his spirit.
'What's the year again there?''
'...1985' it sounds even more ridiculous the second time. I hesitated. Did he notice? I better seal the deal. I take a stab in the dark....
'I'm a Pisces!'
Just as I begin to panic and hope he's not an astrology fan, or worse, a Pisces, a voice interjects:
'Ah sorry there?'
Me and the bouncer whip around. It's a lad from town I know called Joe. I notice the recognition on the bouncers face. This dude knows people. My heart flutters and I actually release an audible yelp of hope. I hope no one noticed.
'Ah yeah. You know me, and this girl.... is older than I am'
Between me and the bouncer, I can't tell which of us is more shocked. Bouncer-ape scratches his head in confusion. YESSS!!! I look back at Joe, awestruck. He's casually leaning against the door of the club with his arms folded and he gives me a reassuring wink and I almost explode with delight. All he needs is a matchstick in his mouth and he'd look like Fonzie. The bouncer stares at Joe.
'....really?'
Joe nods. The bouncer falters. Oh my god.
I had never had feelings for Joe that went beyond the realms of friendship, but at this moment, as I painted a halo over his head I could see us having kids together. And I was but a child myself at this stage. THAT HAPPY.
'Right. Fine. You, once again, what's your date of birth?'
I reply at the speed of light.
Joe nods to confirm my ridiculously over the top age. The bouncer frowns, and finally, in the most beautiful movement I have ever seen, steps aside to let me pass!  
Oh my goodness. It's so beautiful. The holy grail of hormones and over-priced alco-pops. I stumble forward in a trance...already putting a twist on the story in my head to make me sound cool when I re-tell it to everyone inside. Ooh they're going to think I'm so....
'Hold on'
I turn around and face the bouncer, BEAMING.
'Yes?'
The bouncer squints at me and then turns to Joe and says,
'What's her name?'
Oh no. Oh nooooo. The sweat drops from my neck to my tail bone so fast I feel like I've wet myself through my arse. Time slows down to an impossibly slow pace. I widen my eyes at Joe but he grins at me in what he probably thinks is a really reassuring, 'I got this' kinda way. I can feel everything crashing down around me. I feel dizzy. For a second I concentrate really really hard on Joe's face, desperately hoping that this will be the moment my telepathic powers kick in and I can somehow communicate with him that my name, is in fact, Sarah Welsh. Aka the name on my fake I.D. If I had managed telepathically communicate with Joe...he did a really really good job of acting as if nothing had happened.
Oh god. I look from the bouncer to Joe about 6 times anticipating what's going to happen next, and how I NEED TO STOP THIS. But my stilettos seem to be super-glued to the floor.
Joe opens his mouth, and drawls:
'Saucy, her name is Saucy Cow.'
For a blissful second nothing happens. Then unfortunately, a second later, everything seems to happen.
Time speeds up again and the bouncer catches me by the elbow and drags me outside, past a very confused looking Joe.
I stand back outside in my rightful place, where it is now raining as Monkey-Bouncer and two of his amigos who have appeared out of nowhere surround me. They stand there, arms folded like something out of The Sopranos, positively glaring at me in a, 'SO! You think you can withdraw our right to humiliate you and kick you out of a club eh? Well, WE'LL SHOW YOU HUMILIATION.''
Questions questions questions fired at me left right and centre.
'Do you know what you just tried to do was illegal?'
'AND WHAT WAS YOUR INTENTION IN TRYING TO ENTER THIS PREMISES?'
'We could have lost our licence....I could have lost my JOB....'
'....it's little brats like you who should be home studying for the leaving cert.....'
'...CANNOT BELIEVE YOU THOUGHT THAT WOULD WORK....'
'.....AND WHAT WILL YOUR PARENTS SAY?...'
'......are you even OLD ENOUGH to sit the leaving cert?....'
'WELL WE'LL FIND OUT SOON ENOUGH WHEN WE CALL THEM....'
'IDENTITY FRAUD!'
'PULLING YOUR POOR PARENTS OUT OF BED AT THIS HOUR OF THE NIGHT!'
''AND WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY FOR YOURSELF?!''


Each statement feels like its smacking me across the face like a wet fish. I don't feel good. I can't focus on one answer. Oh god. I feel the shame and truth building up inside me. Wow, I really do feel terrible. No like, really terrible....which question should I answer? Oh god how will I get home. Ugh they're still yelling! The air tastes really stale out here...what if I....
'WHY DID YOU DO IT?'
I literally feel the answer exploding from inside me.... before a voice from SOMEWHERE screams:
'BECAUSE! I'M UNDERAGE, OK?!'
My outburst felt like a liberating explosion. It wasn't until I opened my eyes to find myself bent over and remarking that someone had just been sick on Mr. Bouncers shoes that it hit home that it had been a literal explosion...as the undeniable smell of Smirnoff ice wafted into the air and I tasted vomit from my own lips. I peered up at Bouncerzilla. Unimpressed was not the word.

As the door closed on the Garda car and my head lolled in shame and drunkeness onto my chest, the jolly rotund garda tried to reassure me that 'this happens all the time', and something about 'stories of your youth' and 'appreciate the days of being a teenager'. The small section of my brain that still operated sensibly recognised that he was right. I should be in no rush to grow up. And this will probably be a hilarious anecdote to share with trendy people in nightclubs at a later date. However, the other, more overpowering side of me was screaming: ''I cannot wait to be 18....''

The Saucy Cow
xxx

*****

* Let me assure you I've since realised the nightclub in question is NOTHING like this.
** That place is still a hole
*** Well if I knew then what I knew now, having that ringtone would have been a HELL of a lot more embarrassing anyway.....

Things I Have Learnt About Myself Since Moving Away From Ireland

They say that travel broadens the mind. Makes you see things in a different light, from a different culture. A different point of view.

For years I had classed this as something those pricks who go on ‘ah-MAWH-zing’ J1 holidays- while the rest of us were working part time in the corner shop- say to make us all mad jealous when they get back. Feckers.

But now I too will be classed as one of those pricks. I left Ireland 4 months ago, seeing as the government had classed it as Officially Fecked. The intrepid voyager that I was, I dramatically packed up and set sail, to the farthest, most remote and desolate corners……of the Irish Sea.

I went to Wales. And I can now confirm without reservation that it’s true lads. You LEARN stuff about yourself when you go away. Things which I would have never had the insight to have seen myself. Things about Ireland which I had never even known myself. Things which, to be honest I was still not 100% about, even as people said them to me. But the people of Wales set me straight. And Now I Know. I used to think I had a fair idea of what Being Irish was. I did, after all, have twenty years of experience under my belt. But my new found international and diverse group of friends, (mainly from around the general area of Wales) have shattered those naïve and ridiculous illusions. And now I sit before you. Telling you what I know now. What it really means to be Irish.



The Saucy Cow’s Guide to Being Irish- as explained by the Welsh and English

1. The Irish abroad are lonely folk. After years of sitting around enjoy Chef Ketchup and a nice bottle of Club Orange, we go to other places. Places which don’t have those things. So naturally, we have a bit of a tendency to get homesick. Luckily for us, the people of the UK know this. So when we meet the natives on our travels, being the considerate people of the United Kingdom that they are, they take this into account.



‘Hello’

‘How are ya’

‘Ooh, are you Irish?’

‘I am’

- -and at this point, you, you little Irish coffee, will gaze up at this person with your watery little shamrock eyes, pleading with them, to do, what we really want them to do. And they will look back at you, smiling at you, in a knowing way. As if to say, ‘I know, little immigrant. I know exactly what will make your day’

And with that, they will open their mouth and launch into the most excellent and exact impression of an Irish accent anyone the world over has ever heard.

‘OH SHER JAYYYY-SUS ISN’T SOME WAN AFTER SCCHTEEEALIN’ ME LUCKY CHARRRRRMS bahahahaha’

An accent so good it makes us even wonder for a moment, are we really even Irish? This person has got it so exact. That’s EXACTLY what we sound like. They know us so well. If you pay attention, you’ll even notice us squint at them suspiciously for a fraction of a second, as if to say ‘Are you even Welsh? With an accent that good, surely you must be just some undercover Wexford man on some bizarre mission for the Irish government? Surely??’

Often we get quite upset when this happens. Because the accent is so spot on it brings all the memories of home flooding back. It’s like being hit with a bag of Taytos in the face. This is why, the people of Britain have explained to me, people often think that the Irish don’t actually like people imitating their accent. But they’ve assured me over here that we actually love it to bits, whether or not we know it. And the boiling rage I used to feel when everyone I met here did it to me at first was simply homesickness. If you’re reading this as an Irish person about to head off on a journey of your own to some foreign soil, and this piece of news has both excited you and made you nervous, never fear. I know what you’re thinking.

‘That’s all well and good Saucy, but how will I know where to find people so considerate to my plight, that they would ever so kindly do something as thoughtful as that for me?’

Well, little Irish person. That’s the beauty of it. They ALL do it.

Every. Single. Time.

2. Although the rest of the world is progressing through the 21st century, it’s actually still 1985 in Ireland. We may think it’s 2010 back home but that’s simply because like all other good things in our life, our calendars are imported from the UK. Sensitive to this as they are, when visiting a cultured civilisation like Britain, you will often be asked compassionately:

‘Do you have this at home?’

It’s the quaint little way they have over here of trying to wade us into modern life. Heart-warming and all as the sight of an Irish person desperately trying to call home on one of those cellular devices is, it’s quite awkward to watch. That’s why people will constantly keep asking you if you have things like that at home, to spare you the embarrassment of trying to cope with this new-fangled contraption on your own. Some Irish people might feel too embarrassed and lie. This is easy to spot. They may be standing on the high street about to walk into a shop, and the English comrade beside them might remember themselves at the last second and ask them sympathetically if they have any idea what they’re about to walk into. The Irish person, alone and scared, may tsk sarcastically and look up at the sign above the shop and scoff:

‘Of course we do! God do you think we live in the stone age?’ The English person may then look at them dubiously but decide to take their word for it, as the Irish person looks back at the store and wonder what in the name of god ‘M&S’ stands for.



3.We’ve all, at some point, been a member of the IRA. I know, I was dubious at first too. You see, it’s a well-known fact over here that Ireland has a population of 200 people. The official figure of 4 million is a farce dreamt up by the Irish government. Well, do YOU know 4 million people? No. What really happened was the government didn’t want everyone to freak out when we had to defend ourselves from the English. (We’ll get into that in a minute)



Irish government: Lads, we’re in a spot of bother here.

Assembled crowd of the entire Irish population: what’s up?

I.G: Well, it would seem the English want to eh, take over the country…

A.C.E.I.P: What?! Why? Sher what would they want with us? Don’t they know that we don’t even have M&S over here?

I.G: Well it would seem some of us have been going over there and lying about that…

A.C.E.I.P: *disgusted mumbling*

I.G: But that’s another story. Anyway lads. We need a favour off ye. Yer all gonna have to pull together and try and fight the English.

A.C.E.I.P: Jaysus! What! Are ya stone mad?! How would we ever... Holy Christ we’re all gonna be killed. For fecks…Sher there’s only… *looking around*…around two hundred of us?

I.G: Em, no. No. There’s loads more of ye than that! LOADS!

A.C.E.I.P: Really? Cos by the looks of it, it only looks like about….

I.G: NO REALLY. There’s way more of ye than that.

A.C.E.I.P: Well, how many is there?

I.G: Oh jaysus, there must be….ammm

A.C.E.I.P: Well?

I.G: Oh god it’s eh….the official figure must be around….eh…

A.C.E.I.P: *suspicious mumblings*

I.G: WAIT! It’s FOUR……MILLION!

A.C.E.I.P: WHAT?! FOUR MILLION? Sher that’s loads!

I.G: *very pleased with itself* Yep. I told ye so.

A.C.E.I.P: Jaysus. We could manage that lads…. Wait, I hope this isn’t like that time we counted all the potatoes we had left for the year and you told us there was seventy trillion…

I.G: No, no, nothing like that at all.

A.C.E.I.P: Cos ye know how that ended….

I.G: We’re the Irish Government lads, would we lie to ye?

A.C.E.I.P: *content*



And so the seeds of deceit were sewn. There were never actually more than 250 people in Ireland at a time, except for when we hosted the Eurovision. So ignited with confidence with the fact that ‘there was loads of us’ we banded together and decided to take on the English. We’ll talk about how that panned out later on.

Years later, nobody cleared up the whole 4 million lie. That is because we had to focus on the IRA. As successful as the war on terrorism in the north may seem to you, Ireland, north south east and west, is rife with IRA lunacy. And ye were all enlisted at some point. We had to be, simply because we’d run out of people to be in it. Some of ye were probably in it twice. But to let ye know that would be mental. So, as everyone knows, the IRA have those handy little do-dads that wipe your memory, the very ones which were used in Men In Black. Luckily, the people of Wales & England have a deadly sense of humour about the whole thing and love to have a laugh about how we’re all mad little terrorists.

‘Whoa, better not aggravate the paddy. She’ll blow us all up. Hahahahahahaha’

‘Over here for Uni is it? Or a ‘secret mission’. Hahahahahahaha’

They really are very funny people.

Also, this true count of our actual population, (around 182 after 18 of us emigrated after we ran out of petty cash) explains why British people always ask you if you know so-and-so from Offaly, or such and such a person who was Irish that they met on holiday. Chances are you almost certainly definitely do. It doesn’t matter how vague their description is. Sher how many Mary’s who went to Costa Del Sol could there really be at home? If you, the Irish person, don’t know who they’re on about, it’s perfectly acceptable for them to look shocked and disappointed. How could you not know them? Sometimes, awkwardly, an Irish person – clearly driven mental with culture shock – may have a little outburst similar to:

‘JAYSUS. THE COUNTRY ISN’T THAT SMALL YOU KNOW? I DON’T KNOW SOME FUCKING ARSE THAT LENT YOU A TOWEL AT GLASTONBURY. THERE ARE OVER FOUR MILLION OF US YOU KNOW?’

This is usually followed by a sombre moment between all British people present. ‘Oooh, shall you tell him, or shall I?’

4. Louis Walsh is a national hero. That’s why, when in a group of people watching X Factor, and someone mentions that they really think ‘that Louis Walsh is an absolute twat’ a tense hush will fall on the room as everyone turns their gaze towards you, the Irish person. Clearly this is massively offensive to you because naturally you love adore and praise the Walsh-meister. Don’t they know that the man is a genius? Sher hasn’t he made it onto the big show on the telly? And because he is the only Irish person in the history of forever to achieve anything like that, you, of course, love him to bits.



5. You are not here to ENJOY yourself, or START A NEW LIFE, or MAKE FRIENDS. You are here to represent your country. That means that every time you do anything mildly out of the ordinary it is classed as a characteristic of Irish people as a whole. Taken to hospital with abdominal pains? Must be an Irish thing. Expect lots of ‘Oh you mad Irish, always with your appendixes bursting and the like!’. You are not an individual. You are The Irish One In The Group. This means god forbid, should you ever refuse a drink, to stand dancing on a table during the instrumental in ‘C’est la vie’, or try to contest the existence of leprechauns, expect immediate cat calls of ‘CALL YOURSELF IRISH!’ This isn’t racism. It’s just the way all Irish people are, so now they’re just checking whether you’re an imposter or not.



The Saucy Cow xxx