Making perfume, one last road trip and Mamma Mia!
Liam Maloney on the festive week like no other and how watching Mamma Mia! is almost lethal
WEDNESDAY: DECEMBER 23
HOW stressed was I today? I’ll tell you. I was ‘17 uses of aluminium foil to make your life easier’ stressed, having plenty of time to idly browse online.
After the early deadline was reached, given the week that was in it, I thought about how I might fritter away the 50 bob note that I found early this morning on the way to work.
If someone is reading this diary that lost said amount – tough titty. Finders keepers, losers weepers.
With 50 euros I could embark on a truncated pub crawl, taking in Thomas Connolly (three pints), Shoot The Crows (three pints), McLaughlin’s (three pints) and Harry’s Bar (one pint).
Indeed, there would be some change left over for a ‘recession special’ from Roberto’s for the walk home. This is a portion of chicken nuggets (with a handful of chips thrown in). Gavin came up with the term ‘recession special’.
But ‘wet’ pubs remain closed and the aforementioned series of pints (creamy Guinness, dark and mysterious) are only a daydream. Knowing that this found money was burning a hole in my pocket, herself took it and put it on our Electric Ireland bill. Real life stuff.
Before watching United get over Everton (Edinson Cavani scored brilliantly in this solid 2-0 win), there was an enjoyable programme about Clannad on RTÉ One. The late Leo Brennan, father of four of the original Clannad line-up (a group that also include two of his brothers-in-law), played the music at my parents’ wedding in the 1960s.
THURSDAY: DECEMBER 24
CHRISTMAS Eve. Not a CE as we usually know it, due to Covid-19 restrictions, but I kept up one proud tradition – scrambling for last-minute gifts. My dislike of the festive period is trumped only by the fear of herself’s wrath should I have forgotten to get her some kind of present.
She hinted that perfume would be nice. I would have been much happier had herself asked me to list some very good sports people from the late 1980s/early 1990s – consider the likes of Nicola Berti, Nicky English, John Kent, Enzo Scifo, Joe Cooney, Tommy Deignan, Pierre Littbarski and Fintan Feeney.
Still, The Press Box has dealt with angry managers/players/administrators in the past so picking out perfume shouldn’t be that difficult. A brand or bottle size wasn’t specified so, thinking cap firmly on, I went to as many Sligo town pharmacies as I could, in the time window I had, collecting different perfume samples and dodging the glares of the staff. Having gathered the ingredients, I fled to the makeshift laboratory in the turret of our abode. There I assembled a PPP (not PPE, which was one of this year’s buzzwords). PPP stands for ‘Perfume Pot Pourri’.
I hope herself is impressed. While the PPP cost almost nothing, building the turret and the emergency science lab cost more than a few euro. It might have been easier – and cheaper – just to go to, say, the Sligo branch of Lloyds Pharmacy and pick out a proper bottle of scent.
FRIDAY: DECEMBER 25
THAT day has finally arrived. Before the spin to Easkey, we settled on a scenic walk in Strandhill at an area called Killaspugbrone (which may or may not translate as ‘broth made from the bones of pugs’).
During the ramble Macy met some horses, who were friendly towards her, and we saw something terrifying – a group of 20-25 gathered on the shore, disregarding social distancing. Maybe they were all part of the same household. Maybe they’ve all got the Pfizer-BioNTech jab because, well, they are very important Sligo people. I was outraged. Herself, not as infuriated, asked what was the health risk difference between what we had witnessed and a GAA fixture.
Back at the car, I found the Skoda boxed in by a blue Toyota Corolla (Dublin reg, 2005). Following multiple twists and turns of the steering wheel, along with careful manoeuvring, we got free.
My mood lightened at reaching the home place, although the absence of one person was felt.
Pandemic or no pandemic, there is still nothing worthwhile to watch on television during Christmas Day (admittedly my mother has but half a dozen channels) and another thing that never changes is the absolute misery for the inhabitants of Albert Square on Eastenders.
I recall one Christmas where our television gave up the ghost. I had planned to watch a Star Trek movie (the one where they are in a space craft, Charlie Haughey is still running and ruining Ireland and natives still used phone boxes). No telly meant no film – I convinced myself that televisions all over the country were similarly out of order so nobody got to watch The Wrath of Khan.
SATURDAY: DECEMBER 26
THE last GAA road trip of 2020. On the way to the office to collect items needed for the journey, I spotted crushed Brussels sprouts on the pavement. I know this vegetable isn’t to everyone’s taste but this seemed a little OTT.
After collecting the usual suspects (Alan and Gavin), Storm Bella came along too. The weather was so fierce en route that the sound of the rain pounding the moving car was similar to the wrapping paper of 3,012 presents being torn simultaneously. United’s failure to overcome Leicester, twice giving up a lead, put me in a foul mood. At the Connacht GAA Centre, with the weather signalling the end of the world, I realised that the only way to avoid the rain was to remain in the car. Which made watching the game a little difficult. A compromise was to take shelter in the stand. Sligo lost. We tried not to talk about it on the way home as the rain continued to fall fiercely.
SUNDAY: DECEMBER 27
LEVEL 5, welcome back. For the walk at Culleenamore, there were dozens of walkers and dozens of dogs. Eddie stayed out of trouble, mainly due to him chasing (in vain) birds along the shore.
We watched part of an episode of Fair City which, after the credits rolled, gave a helpline suggestion if we had “been affected by” issues mentioned in the programme. Actually I have been affected by Fair City in general – it is sh**e. That part of the TV licence goes into its production makes my blood boil.
Tired, I fled upstairs to consume some Netflix. Then the sounds came from downstairs, from the television. I felt a foreboding. Something just wasn’t quite right. Oh no. Herself was immersed in her 24th viewing of Mama Mia!, a film that should never have been made.
Feeling as if I’ve been exposed to a large, lethal dose of carbon monoxide, I fall asleep to the sounds of Mamma Mia!, fearing that I won’t wake up.
MONDAY: DECEMBER 28
I WOKE up, so Mamma Mia! being in the house last night wasn’t as bad as I first thought. Perhaps it is the watching and not the hearing of this movie that provokes a septic reaction (in some folk).
There was work to be done but the office was quiet so I was afforded the chance to listen to music out loud. First there was New Jersey by Bon Jovi (an album that my sister, the Yank, bought for me on cassette back in the early 1990s) and then I listened to various remixes of songs by the Pet Shop Boys.
Herself watched Shirley Valentine this evening. I have nothing against this 1980s film, with Pauline Collins superb in the title role, but it did interrupt the dinner roster – we always have waffles and beans on a Monday. Is herself trying to tell me something?
In other, sobering news, today brought 765 new confirmed cases of Covid-19. When will the penny drop?
TUESDAY: DECEMBER 29
CHECKING that herself hasn’t booked a holiday to Greece – or even Bunninadden – I head to the Sligo Weekender coalface.
The town is restless but obviously not as busy as pre-Level 5. Kate’s Kitchen isn’t open again until next week. Pity. I will miss its fine coffee and also the socially distanced queue that is just one adventurously reckless person away from becoming a conga dance.
I left the office earlier than usual in order to sit in a room, with the light switched off, awaiting goal updates from United’s home game against Wolves. But it stayed 0-0. I had given up, returned downstairs to where herself and the dupers were not moping in the dark. Then my phone pinged. Rasher, you beauty!
For the moment I’ve run out of episodes of Inspector Morse and A Touch of Frost. First world problems, eh?