Memoirs of a Daysha

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Mesmerized in a cloud of Dolce & Gabbana aftershave, she let his lips graze on her graceful neck, his hands straying towards her perfectly formed arse, and then Shakira moaned… “bodling….show me your Y fronts”

Oops, different type of article slipped in there, sorry.

Ladies and Gentlemen, Reverend Father, Your Holiness, the King of Norway and other guests.

It is with unadvisable glee, I preach to you all here today in my latest travelogue, Memoirs of a Deise.

Since my last trip to the speed bump, I, (along with the other voices in my head), have had loads of adventures, so it is incumbent upon me now to regale you with tales of woe, passion, broken hearts, dangerous journeys and the rescue of a fair maiden from the jaws of a slick, stinking, monstrous evil. Yes, another day, working in the Bank.

I began my journey, by sitting in a sunny spot and drinking a bottle of Enn Zee wine.

Gazing into the perfectly wisp like cotton clouds, I pondered on life, love, the Universe, the theory of relativity and why cornflakes are the greatest food in the world. Nodding at the wisdom of my Zen like meditation, I once again thanked the most powerful words, that inspired my inner tranquility, provided in the year 784, from a 14 foot high floating lily by the great guru Boddha, high in the hills of Lhasa………..or Mayfield, I cant remember which.

Tired from this deep thinking, I sat in a stunning sunny spot and had a bottle of wine.

It was time to get some transport and leave this suburb for a while, I sought to stretch my horizons, to immerse myself in some culture and set some endurance trials for my body by visiting………….CROSSHAVEN.

Hiring a vehicle was quite tricky but I found a battered hiace, I was told it had only been used by other Travelers, so chuckling merrily, I named it Cornea and off we set!

For some reason I had always imagined Crosshaven to be a southern hemisphere Carrigaline. Lots of interesting roads, some gorgeous road kill and miles upon miles of rich organic tidal mud flats.

Crosshaven, honestly seemed to have more boats than people. Which would raise the question, who had built all the boats, if there were less people? And if there were that many boats, why wasn’t the breached laws of supply and demand wrecking the local economy? Was the wanton boat building treatable by counselling? And why would one person would have two boats, which means there could be 11 boats per family, so what was the goddamn obsession with boats!!! But I digress.

The poignancy of the moment (and the wine) cast my mind back to my dear friend, Deise Dave. Although he was from Waterford, we all loved him. In a way. Some less platonically than others (Donal) but it was a bet and we were all liberal minded people. Daysha Dave had tried to go to Japan to become an apprentice in Food Origami, where he would like naked except for a smearing of Kerrygold and a light smattering of Sam Spudz and Japanese businessmen would eat lunch off of him, stuffing their bla’s with crisps. A salt and vinegar tear rolled down my face when I remembered how Dave had planned to use his knowledge to open up his own Naked Lunchbox store on the docks in Waterford, once his Japanese training was over.

Little did we know that with the power of her spell, in the land of the Lord of the Ring, Marie would turn our beloved Dave into a totem pole! Although he did look better now in that photo.

Arriving in Crosshaven, I pulled up in Cornea and sat in a stunning sunny spot and had a bottle of wine.

Emerging from my van like the last squeeze of toothpaste from a tube, I spotted an indigenous female of the Langer tribe and endeavored to speak to her. I asked her about the Treaty with the Western settler and failing to get through to her, I performed through the medium of dance, the main thrust of the treaty. Staring blankly at me, as is their manner, I began to show her my friendliness, whirling and gyrating furiously, I pulled off most of the moves from the guidebook, the delicate movements known as Ma-kah-rayna. I clapped in vivid excitement when she said “Ehra feck off ye tool”. Sweet success!!

In honour of the moment, I sat in a sweet stunning spot and had a bottle of wine.

Hammered and stumbling blindly to the nearest ocean point, I made it to the very tip of the historic steps which I counted breathlessly as 4. Here was the point where the Cork Harbour and Chemical Plant seas met. Sitting on top of a hill, gazing out at the 2 seas meeting and creating huge waves of untreated sodium chloride while Cork Clownty Council allowed the companies to do so, half a mile off the coast was mightily impressive.

While there, what really surprised us me was the positive attitude by all the Kiwis. The pineapples were also, quite enthusiastic and the apples golden and wondrous. The Lemons were however, a bit sour.

Again, I was reminded of dear bookill Dave, who prior to his demise as a totem pole, had one last happy sexual encounter. He told us while in New Zealand “Any time we took out a map on our travels they were clambering over each other to help!!” Again, we are all liberal minded people and while not understanding the sexual attraction of watching many people making love in a van with nothing but maps, we could only hope, he had a good time at the last.

I took a trip between the north and south mud flat and gasped in religious awe at the architecture in the little town of Pic-knose. It is the only fjord outside of Scandinavia and was quietly stolen from Norway one night while they all slept.

If the north mud flat had impressed me then I was blown away by the south island. Thats because a hurricane and an earthquake happened at exactly the same time and the whole mud flat lifted into the air and blew me away.

The whole experience was so stunning, I immediately ran back to Cornea the van, to have lunch, have some wine and soak up the scenery.

Just then the night rolled in, and I was surprised as I had never seen someone dressed as Sir Lancelot on a skateboard before.

Feeling a mite peckish, I hankered for some local fish and chips and there in a small wood cabin (not unlike a small cabin made from wood) down by the harbour there was a guy who asked me about the texture of the fish I most enjoyed. I asked for ribbed with strawberry flavour and he duly served it right up, with the minimum of fuss and the maximum of calm. It may have come on a plastic plate (and damn him, for I eat from nothing but the finest China, made in China, by women from China, who are named China) but it tasted beautiful.

Finishing my chips, I moved on in the van, found a stunning spot, and drank my 204th bottle of wine. I was peeing scenery at this stage I had so much of it soaked up.

Next destination - the bright lights of THIGH-LAND

BOD

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