Isn’t it Ironic?

August 2, 2010


Irony is a complicated and oft misunderstood thing. I have deliberately quoted Alanis Morissette, a woman to whom I was musically introduced during one of my Dad’s ‘ I Am Only Listening To Angry Women’ musical phases (Hole are AWFUL. I quite like the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Pink I can take or leave. And Shakira isn’t angry at all and sounds a little like a sheep. Perhaps she is an ANGRY sheep, which is how she made it into the list ), and her song about irony is one of the best examples of irony EVER, insomuch as nothing she lists is, in fact, an example of irony, thus making the whole thing ironic. Clever, no? The only place you could, in fact, find yourself amongst ten thousand spoons when you need a knife is in some kind of Absurdist play.  In any case, she’s Canadian, so she deserves a mention.

Whilst I’m talking about Canadian music, which I am, kind of, let me mention this: Justin Beiber. And then let me ask this: why?

Here is a bone fide example of irony:

“Do you think we’ve done the right thing, moving?” says The Mushroom, as they begin Month 2 of Post-Prairie living.

“I don’t know.” replies my Dad, diplomatically not mentioning the fact that she pretty much threatened to leave him if they didn’t.

I have no problem with having left the Prairies. Lovely Brian, Enthusiastic Teacher and his Lovely Fiancée, amusing Seagulls and general friendliness aside, the Prairies were a little bit rubbish (note to Prairie readers: before you bristle and think, ‘Cheeky English cat! Slating our lovely Prairies! What does he know?’, let me ask you this: Do you have a truck the size of Slovakia? Do you live in a big lovely house with a big roaring fire? Do you get to go to Mexico or Hawaii in the winter? I bet the answer to all three of these is ‘yes’. I lived in a basement and didn’t go out for seven months. Ergo, to me, the Prairies are rubbish ). Moving into a house next door to Mallet Cat is, however, beginning to PISS ME RIGHT OFF.

Picture the scene;

Me, basking on a rock by the stream at the end of the garden, languidly.

‘Tweet tweet tweets’ go the birds. I can’t even be naffed to chase them, I am that content. Any Moose? Nope. Any cougars? Not one. Any hawks/eagles/big flappy flying things? No no no. No hybrid dogs, no Volvo Cats, no massive blizzard or anything to temper my relaxation.

But what’s this? A fly in the ointment? Yes, in the shape of a FRIGGING MALLET with BIG TEETH sinking them INTO MY BACK for, like, TOTALLY NO REASON, then running off with a sizeable piece of my fur in his MALLET SHAPED MOUTH.

‘Oh!’ says his clearly myopic owner, ‘Have you caught a mouse, Baby?’

If you are a black cat, the thing you have above all things, in theory, is beauty and grace. We’re gorgeous. So he obviously has such huge issues about being such an ugly little bastard that he wants to defile my coat. I get it. I could even feel sorry for him, if I didn’t look like an extra from ‘Jaws’ at the moment.

So there, my friends, is irony. Ten months in the land of the cougar, the moose, birds the size of a boat, hybrid dogs and Volvo cats – not a scratch. People were literally wandering around with shot guns during the spring and absolutely nobody tried to shoot me.  Five weeks in Ontario and I have a jaw shaped wound from a domestic cat.

I nearly let next door’s cat in this morning!” says The Cave Troll. “He looks almost exactly like Zee, doesn’t he? ”

Frigg OFF.

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