How To Make A Hit Pop Song, The Jason Derulo Way

After many minutes of deep intensive research (I listened to the song online) I’ve worked out the way to make my fortune. Jason Derulo knows a thing or two about making wads and wads of dirty sweaty cash-money. So, for anyone who’s looking for that get rich quick solution to solve your financial problems, worry no more. I’ve got it sorted for you. Courtesy of that class act, Jason Derulo, here are the fool-proof steps to get the money AND the girls. So many girls, apparently. Here we go:

Watch the master at work by clicking here.

1. Find a lovely girl you’ve never met before and focus on her looks and body, telling her you know what ‘De girl dem need’.

2. Imply that your lap is the best chair in the world and she should sit on it. If she’s not weak with longing by now, you’re doing it wrong.

3. Tell her that her arse is so awesome, she doesn’t need to use her words to explain anything.

4. Shout out various airport departure destinations intermittently, in case she gets notions to start ruining the mood by, you know, letting her personality get in the way.

5. Only allow her to talk if it’s pure durrty.

6. Be stupid enough to think that lipstick stamps all over your passport won’t raise any questions at Passport Control.

7. Record with Middle Eastern-type exotic music sample and thumping beat, release and fly up the charts.

8. Now forever sleep on a bed of money. It’s uncomfortable, but that’s the life you’ve chosen as an international ladies’ man.

9. Seriously, can’t stress enough how much you have to randomly shout out capital cities, otherwise the poor girl won’t know you’re well-travelled. Roaring “Athlone to Mullingar” just doesn’t have the same effect. Believe me, I’ve tried.

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Jason Derulo: The Hodor of the song-writing world.

Trigger Warning: My Opinion on Why We Still Need Feminism In The West

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Look, I’m a humour-based writer by trade and by choice (At least I hope people find humour in most of it) but there are some things that never fail to make my soul burn with rage, like people who think feminism is not really needed in the West as much any more. OH PLEASE. All you need to do is follow the likes of @EverydaySexism to see we still have a long way to go.

But here’s a bit of a story from me. I’ve many more, but this one sticks in my mind above all else.

In addition to writing, I’m also a singer/songwriter who’s travelled around Europe and gigged a lot. When I’m not threatened with rape because I reject some gobshite’s advances IN THE MIDDLE OF ME SINGING A SONG (i.e doing my fucking job) in a Greek bar while the bar manager looks over and shrugs his shoulders and leaves me to defend myself (I’m 4ft 9), THEN maybe I’ll start to believe more in the changing global attitudes towards women.

This was in Europe guys, and not a million years ago either (Summer of ’99). I was lucky enough to be playing with a friend (also female) to a lovely mannerly bunch of Marines, who stepped up when I started screaming like a knacker at the man who threatened and intimidate me and threw that fuckmuppet out of the pub.

I just wanted to sing and entertain with my friend who was my music partner and my best friend, and we always felt safer gigging together. All I got in return from a punter was a lot of inappropriate touching and after repeated requests from me to either stop or ‘fuck the fuck off’ (I AM from Limerick after all), I then received a whispered genuine threat of sexual assault in my ear as I was singing a song.

The bar manager’s response? Get him more drink, it’ll calm him down. It didn’t. A bunch of Marines who didn’t like would-be rapists and a swift few kicks outside calmed him and did the job instead. God bless the Marines.

Nowadays, I gig in Ireland all the time, where it’s safe and the men are gents. I play alone and have never felt safer and theres a community of musicians that mind each other like family, and the bars are the safest and most fun places to be. I love gigging in Limerick. But if anyone goes on about feminism in a sneery way like we don’t need some sort of consciousness like the movement dictates to be raised in this side of the world, it just makes me sad. They’ve no fucking idea.

You don’t need live in the Middle East or Darkest Africa to experience fear just because of your gender. As long as there is some sort of mistreatment of somebody simply based on the fact that they’re a woman, I’m going to call myself a feminist, because that stuff is something I’m not okay with.

I’m also very lucky to know a lot of men around me who consider themselves feminists too. You’re all fantastic men, and I wish more would join your ranks and stop subscribing the old adage that being a feminist meant hating men. How is that helpful in the movement towards wanting respect for all human beings regardless of ANY difference between us??

Let’s take back the word Feminism and equate it with the words Equality and Love, and there you have it. A movement every decent human being can get behind.

That’s my two cents anyway.

Thanks for reading, everybody.

#yestoallwomen #YesToEquality #YesToUnity #YesToLove #MenAreFeministsTooYouKnow #MarinesRule

When Great Trees Fall

In the six months that have passed since my mom left this world, I’ve experienced some of the most drastic changes in my own life that I’ve ever witnessed, not least because I lived with her for six years beforehand. Once the rug is pulled from under you in every way, you realise you’re on your own. Your one true anchor in this world has cast off, and your only options are to sink or swim and find ways to cope and survive. You pick yourself up and try to move forward with this great big gaping hole in your chest that threatens to suffocate you and make you feel like you’ll never know happiness in any form ever again. But you have no choice, you’re still here. Wherever she is, she’s okay now. I’m left here without her, trying to make sense of this whole new dimension where part of me is forever absent, and a blank page entitled ‘Jen’s Life’ that I’m expected to fill in without her helping me or nagging me to get going.

So onwards I go, head up, marching on, saying yes to new things and really starting to enjoy the future I appear to be carving out for myself. Most nights while I’m sleeping, she pops in for a visit. She’s standing there, exactly as I knew her; she’s smiling, giving out to me and nagging me the way she used to, demanding ice-cream because I had eaten some that day and thought ‘Mam would have LOVED some of this.’ She can hear me, her deafness is gone, and we have great chats about what in the name of God I’m up to THIS week. At one point I was getting married (only in the dream, I can assure you) and I was standing there on the morning of it dressed in my gown and all that jazz. She stood there in front of the mirror with me and said “It’s not you, though, is it?” and I said “No, you’re right. I don’t want this at all.” Her reply was vintage Mammy Ronan. “Well, you know what to do then. Go make the calls.” Which I did. Metaphorically and physically. Life kicked off in many weird and wonderful ways after that. I had made a promise to her the night before we buried her, (well, one of many promises, but they’re between me and her) and it was that I would do my best to live an awesome happy life, and embrace any chances that came along which would make me happy. The act of making that promise alone kicked off something in the cosmos which I can’t explain – all I know is I haven’t had a minute’s peace in the last six months because I’ve been doing so many things and seeing so many people. I’m truly grateful. I don’t know where Mam is in general, but I know where she is most of the time where I’m concerned. Looking over my shoulder, making sure I keep my promise.

I found this poem by Maya Angelou, hence the title of this blog post. It’s about the significant loss the death of a parent leaves behind, and it hits home more than any words that I use ever could.

I love you Mom.

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Partners in crime until the very end.

When Great Trees Fall

When great trees fall,
rocks on distant hills shudder,
lions hunker down
in tall grasses,
and even elephants
lumber after safety.

When great trees fall
in forests,
small things recoil into silence,
their senses
eroded beyond fear.

When great souls die,
the air around us becomes
light, rare, sterile.
We breathe, briefly.
Our eyes, briefly,
see with
a hurtful clarity.
Our memory, suddenly sharpened,
examines,
gnaws on kind words
unsaid,
promised walks
never taken.

Great souls die and
our reality, bound to
them, takes leave of us.
Our souls,
dependent upon their
nurture,
now shrink, wizened.
Our minds, formed
and informed by their
radiance,
fall away.
We are not so much maddened
as reduced to the unutterable ignorance
of dark, cold
caves.

And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
“They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.”

                                                               Maya Angelou

 

Women Trapped In Baths Surrounded By Burning Candles

There’s something very sinister going on within the internet, and I’m here to expose it. It’s time for us to fight back. First, it gives the impression that women who are on the brink of giving birth to a child should be strapped into dungarees and made paint an entire house by themselves (and flippin’ well smile while doing it). NOW it appears that no pretty young lady in any stock photo of a bathroom is safe.

I’m talking, of course, about the fact that women are apparently not allowed sit in baths without being flanked by as many open flames as possible. It’s hardly HER idea – I mean, think of the logistics. You don’t fool me, Internet. SO MANY QUESTIONS…..

1: Are they lit before she gets in?

Why would she do that to herself?? She’ll be trying not to burn her fanny off while getting a naked leg over these open flames and the rim of a bath, stepping barefoot into what is essentially a home-made hot skating rink.

2: How the fuck does she get out afterwards?

I have no answer to this. I find it hard enough, what with being on the petite side. It’s like trying to scale The Wall from Game of Thrones.

3: Does she sit in the bath and try with all her might to blow out a few hundred candles all around her?

Not at all. Sure, she’s only a woman. She’d be all dizzy and faint from all the relaxing pretty smelly things she douses herself in after a hard day trying to drink water without spilling it all over her face or while trying to eat a salad alone without laughing. Also, and this is the most important thing:

4: WHO THE FUCK IS TAKING THE PICTURES AND WHY AREN’T THEY SAVING THESE POOR DAMP GIRLS??

So many victims; unnamed, unsaved, their skin wrinkling like raisins while they sit stewing in their own filth waiting for those bastard candles to burn themselves out. Rumour has it they survive on a diet of suds, face flannels and the slimy skins from those old Musk bath beads lying around the edge of the bath behind the taps from gift baskets that their granny gave them when they got all those points in their Leaving Cert in 1997.

This is a gallery dedicated to all those poor souls, fates unknown, whose suffering is now emblazoned across the realm of the cyber-world for all eternity. Vaya Con Dios, pretty ladies.

She's not far away, she's up close, and she's shrinking.

She’s not far away, she’s up close, and she’s shrinking.

Havin' a mad laugh, so she is. IT'S BEHIND YOU...

Havin’ a mad laugh, so she is. IT’S BEHIND YOU…

That better be a rescue manual.

That better be a rescue manual.

Somebody tell this eejit that she has a fighting chance. DON'T GET IN YOU FOOL...

Somebody tell this eejit that she has a fighting chance. DON’T GET IN YOU FOOL…

Sticking your knee out won't save you love, you're basically potential lady-stew...

Sticking your knee out won’t save you love, you’re basically potential lady-stew…

First known pic of The Bath Arsonist. WHO ARE YOU AND WHO DO YOU WORK FOR??

First known pic of The Bath Arsonist. WHO ARE YOU AND WHO DO YOU WORK FOR??

There was a woman in this bath, but she was boiled into oblivion...God rest her...

There was a woman in this bath, but she was boiled into oblivion…God rest her…

This is not romance, this is a murder-suicide pact. She's not laughing, she's trying to get out...

This is not romance, this is a murder-suicide pact. She’s not laughing, she’s trying to get out…

Her hair is just kindling at this point. Seriously.

Her hair is just kindling at this point. Seriously.

Silly bitch. Alcohol and an open flame? Asking for it, so she is...

Silly bitch. Alcohol and an open flame? Asking for it, so she is…

She's not sleeping. She's catatonic with fright.

She’s not sleeping. She’s catatonic with fright.

"Oh my, what a romantic death trap you have created..."

“Oh my, what a romantic death trap you have created…”

She's fainted with the fear. SOMEBODY, PLEASE SAVE HER...

She’s fainted with the fear. SOMEBODY, PLEASE SAVE HER…

She's awake but hasn't seen the ring of fire around her. Poor pet.

She’s awake but hasn’t seen the ring of fire around her. Poor pet.

Looks like somebody remembered where the fire exit is...

Looks like somebody remembered where the fire exit is…

That poor one guy met a grisly end, lavender-style.

That poor one guy met a grisly end, lavender-style.

See? It's only the good looking young wans that get into these scrapes. Not a candle in sight. Gowl.

See? It’s only the good looking young wans that get into these scrapes. Not a candle in sight. Gowl.

No candles, but I find this image disturbing as fuck. It's like somebody gave the girl from The Grudge a voucher for a Spa break.

No candles, but I find this image disturbing as fuck. It’s like somebody gave the girl from The Grudge a voucher for a Spa break.

Pregnant Women Painting in Dungarees

Ladies! Up the duff? Bun in the oven? About to pop a sprog?? Then here’s what you should be doing to pass the time during those boring last couple of weeks when you’re in the fullness of health and not feeling in any way like there’s a football team jumping on your bladder or kicking you in the small of your back. Get up off that couch and start painting. Pick a room of your choice, the internet isn’t too fussy about that. But just make with the brush and emulsions and get cracking.

Don’t get anyone in to help, because that’s not the done thing. That makes you a failure. Most importantly, you will not gain maximum Internet points unless you do this thing in dungarees. ALL OF THE 90’S DENIM AROUND YOUR BELLY. It’s not essential, but it is preferred. And always wear a smile. Or you will fail. Fact.

Look, I don’t make the rules. I’m just showing you how it is. It’s now why I throw water on my face while smiling like Denver The Guilty Dog; or eat salads alone while laughing maniacally to myself. And I’m a better woman for it.

 

See below? That’s what happens when you send one of those silly menfolk out to get you pots of paint. How are you supposed to get the whole house done with those little things?? Honestly. No sense. Don’t forget to smile at him endearingly though. Nobody likes a moany non-painting pregnant lady on the internet.

“Dude, do you see any yellow in those charts?? I’M TRYING TO PAINT THE GODDAMN HOUSE HERE. What will the internet think??”

Don’t freak out now, you’re entitled to the odd break. But don’t get too comfy, trying to get away with sitting down and resting your weary heavily pregnant self in between some light house painting. NEVER LET GO OF THE TOOLS. What would the neighbours think if they caught you sitting down like the lazy wagon in this pic below?? For shame.

Now you’re just messing around. You’re on the verge of Pregnant Painting Lady Failure, you know…

Don’t go thinking it’s just stock photos that are showing you the right way to live your happy fulfilled pregnant life. Stock cartoons are getting in on it too. So you know shit’s gettin’ real. So start stocking up on the Dulux.

Baby Brain got you confused about how many paint brushes to use at the one time? Go with one first, more advanced Pregnant Painting Ladies are ambidextrous. See below…

For the love of God, don’t even think of getting your Baby-Daddy to help. He’ll just make a tit of himself by drawing stupid pictures on your belly, or do pretend graffiti like these muppets. But if he does, you better SMILE AND SHOW THE WORLD YOUR HAPPY FULFILLED LIFE….

…and when you’re done, ladies – don’t forget to clean up after yourselves. Nobody likes a lazy Painting Pregnant Lady. Now you have the knowledge. Go forth and ignore the fumes and the physical exertion, for you are doing the Internet’s bidding once more. DON’T FORGET TO SMILE WITH YOUR HAPPY FULFILLED LIVES…

New Year? New Sneer…

"What you mean, many HAPPY returns?? "

“What you mean, many HAPPY returns?? “

Here we go again. Another twelve months down the drain, another twelve months waiting to take their place. Like the old retired cop, jaded from realising you can’t beat The System, 2012 has slunk away into the corner with its gold-plated clock and now defunct police badge stained with cheap whiskey and tears of regret for a thankless job now finally over.

The next morning he is already forgotten; for in his place, fresh from the academy, bounds a young fresh-faced young cop, ready to take on the world and save it from The Bad Guys. His haircut is all business, his uniform pristine, his badge gleaming, his voice just that little too high pitched and excited for the rest of the die-hard desk jockeys. He is 2013, and he is here to kick ass and take names. And God, I hate him already.

I’ve never been a fan of New Year’s hype. I’ve tried. Heaven knows, I’ve tried. I rang in the Millennium up in Belfast with a bunch of amazing people and had mad laughs while the fireworks went off – I even allowed myself a little frisson of dread during the countdown to midnight, and said a quick prayer for forgiveness just in case our world ended in a searing ball of white heat and crunching tectonic plates. I’ve made all the resolutions in the world, and kept none. Apart from writing more. As you can see, it’s done much for me so far. Here I sit, typing away, on an armchair made entirely of foldy money, drinking hot chocolate topped with gold-flake shavings while Frank Sinatra’s hologram croons ‘Seventeen’ and Wes Anderson films my every move for a documentary because my life is so awesome. SWEAR T’GOD.

Being the cynical soul that I am, I watched in amusement last night as my Facebook news feed filled up with New Year greetings fused with all sorts of corny generic ‘go-get-‘em tiger!’ type ravings. It was as if my entire friends list turned into Tony Robbins, Dr Phil, Oprah or – in some unfortunate cases – Shane MacGowan. If I had cringed any more, I would have become the first living Inside-Out Human. Imagine the fun I’d have had with that on Instagram.

So why am I spewing venom and hatred at something as light-hearted and whimsical as New Year’s Eve, you ask? The answer is simple: I see it for what it is. It doesn’t fool me for a second. It’s like Ben Stiller’s guest character in the episode of Friends when Ross is the only one who notices he’s a completely psychotic asshole while everyone else loves him because he’s so nice to them.  I AM ROSS GELLER. (In many more ways than this, but that’s a whole other blog post.)

New Year’s Eve has never been nice to me. It’s only ever been a disappointing non-event full of massive expectations, holding a magnifying glass up to all the previous unrealised hopes and dreams you had for the year before. Mind you, back when I was a teenager, I only had myself to blame for that. It’s hard to get the facilities together to resurrect Brandon Lee, keep him in his Crow character AND convince him to live with you in Limerick while living happily ever after, dancing to The Cure in Termights night club of a Saturday. So to be fair, most of the time my disappointment with my New Year’s failures have been my own fault.

However, nowadays my resolutions have become so mundane and depressing that frankly, I’m ashamed. When did it come to this? Once, I dreamed of worldwide fame & fortune; visualising best-selling modern classic literature and marrying the love of my life while at the same time being linked in the press to affairs with assorted Hollywood hunks, all while touring a Grammy-winning indie album and adopting a child from each country I visit.

This year, my wish is simple: To get glasses that stay on my head.

You may well laugh. The consequences for breaking this resolution will be tragic. For as sure as I will never see five foot in height, the following will happen:

Scene: A crowded pub. Me standing next to the potential love of my life. I turn to say the perfect thing to make him fall in love with me. Camera pans out to witness the crowd’s reaction when my glasses fall right into his pint as I trip up when running away, trying to suppress a snart. 

And wouldn’t you know, there’s Wes Anderson filming it.

Happy New Year, folks.

 

 

 

 

 

J-Ro Vs Brain, Pt 13

Brain: “Oh. My. God.”

Me: “What?? What is it??”

Brain: “For a split second there I had this glimpse of a thought that was so revolutionary and life-changing, it would have brought us a lifetime supply of unforgettable moments of pure ecstasy.

It is summed up thus: the true meaning of life is d-“

Me: “YUSS! ROMANCING THE STONE IS ON TV RIGHT NOW!”

Brain: *thought evaporates*

“Shit just got real.”

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