Why God hates Irish Women, and why God is Irish too.

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I am literally just in from what can only be described as the single most infuriating run I’ve ever had. I spent the final half of it constructing this post in my head, whilst cursing everything in sight, and have come to the conclusion that God hates the Irish. Female Irish particularly. Why? Well let me tell you why. The Irish are white. Transparent, ghostly, ethereal lumps of pasty thin skin; freckles are an optional extra depending on sunlight exposure. Like a mandarin yogurt perhaps. Now, if you’re a really lucky Irish person, you may also be blessed with ginger hair. This is the one saving grace about being Irish – obviously it’s fantastic – but where there’s ginge there’s singe. I’m surprised I can rhyme when this angry. Here’s me earlier, thinking “Oh look, it’s raining! I’ll take myself out for a wee run in the rain, so what if I get wet? It’ll keep me nice and cool and it’ll be fun!” So I dressed appropriately, a vest to hold my flab in and a waterproof gilet to ensure my run didn’t turn into a wet t shirt event. Happy days. Out I go, all set for a 10k. Then what happens? The fucking sun comes out. I figured it was just a brief interlude between showers. As I hauled my fat ginger Irish arse up Convent Hill, I could feel the freckles popping up all over my face; which instantly turned into what looks like a Royal Mail postbox as soon as the sun came out. This was no interlude.

We are not designed for extreme weather like this. Ginger is the most extreme form of white. We are bleached.

With sunshine comes heat, and my outfit was not helping this at all. The gilet felt like a lagging jacket, and I in turn felt like a hot water tank. But I couldn’t take it off! Why? Because of my womanly chest! The last thing I needed on this runnus horribilis was to cause a stir around the very Protestant village of Bessbrook by whapping them out for the lads. See? God hates women. He gave us boobs, and they get in the way of everything. So I as I jogged along (badly), I could feel my thick, ignorant, red-headed Irish temper starting to rise…. Between the heat and my headphone cable bouncing about and irritating me, I was ready to explode into a typhoon of fucks – but because I was in this little God fearing village, I had to keep my fucks to myself. I paused the workout and started to rearrange my iPod, zipping the cable underneath the gilet so it wouldn’t bounce about and enrage me further. If it wasn’t for the bloody iPod, I would have ditched the shitty gilet in a ditch (ironically) and let my puppies bark on for all to see – I was unconcerned about modesty at this stage.

Past the the halfway point, I was seriously beginning to huff. I stopped jogging altogether and trudged along silently swearing to myself, like a scolded child. I knew my time for the run was going to be shite, and so started cursing myself for A: not making progress and B: for being so hung up on times and being so negative. Gah. I turned the corner for the home straight and broke into some kind of jog again. At this point I thought, “I hate running. I better get some serious sponsorship for this shitty marathon”. I’d say if it wasn’t for the fact I’ve committed to myself that I’ll raise money for the local hospice, I’d have quietly given up on this endeavour by now. I’m not saying I’m Mother Theresa by the way, but this fitness thing is not me. I’m having a midlife, post-obesity crisis. I don’t want all these shitty, infuriating runs to be in vain. I hope I raise a respectable amount for The Hospice. At least then, even if I spend the whole 26.2 miles running around New York pulling my keks out of my ass, blowing my nose into my hat, and hating every step I take – at least there’ll be tangible success at the end of it. So fecking donate something! Please! You’re not paying for me to go on holiday, the full amount goes to Southern Area Hospice Service.

Anyway, I have cooled down now. But I still maintain that God hates me, as an Irish female. And I also maintain that God too is Irish. Who else would be awkward and contrary enough to give us schizophrenic weather, religious fundamentalists who don’t appreciate sweary lesbians, pale skin, cumbersome boobs, and the distinct lack of brains that could have told me to just turn back and go out again later? Plus, in a splendid show of irony, as I write this I’m looking out at a blissfully cloudy, damp and breezy afternoon. Only an Irish God would find this amusing.

I’m off now to eat a plate of spuds. I’m not even joking.

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