"Craic", Irish umbrella term defined by the Urban Dictionary as anything resembling fun or general banter.
Craic is visually represented by the people in the video below:
It is highly recommended that all human beings should try it at least once a week; it's good for the blood pressure. Engineering stalwarts need not apply, for the enjoyment of craic is not mutually complementary to things like calculations or equations. 2+2= potato.
Observe the specimens in the video above throwing peculiar shapes for no overriding purpose, and in particular utilising unusual centres of gravity in tandem with the beat.
I will say one thing. I don’t have the measuring instruments but the music in my bedroom has reached environmentally dangerous levels. Any minute now and we shall breach the sound barrier and break on through to that mythical other side. So let’s pretend I’m in a decommissioned Concorde plane and the terrorists are in the cargo section, and Indiana Jones who's driving a ford fiesta is firing harpoons at the back of the plane. It’s all systems go and I’ve put the accelerating fiddly-device full speed ahead. The engine is roaring and the back of our heads are pasted against the seats as we make headway for the moon.
WHAT IS LOVE? Baby don’t hurt me. . .
The neighbour who has been banging on my front door tells me some anonymous baby is trying to sleep. I presume he claims ownership to this miniature human; but if he thinks that his fertility and natural ability to get someone up the spout gives him added leverage or credibility in this situation, then he is very much mistaken. I’m going into involuntary spasms with my hands spiking in opposite directions, head fluidly bopping back and forth like an oul clucking rave-hen at Creamfields. And after a while a sheen of sweat develops on my chest which makes my T-shirt stick to my body, and my hair clump to my head. I have two drinks in my hands full of ice cubes which have stayed intact despite the upheaval that is predictably caused by the human body metamorphosing into shapes it’s not supposed to.
MAMA TOLD ME NOT TO COME
I don’t really care about the thumps on the door because I’m...how you say...“lost in the moment.” A lot of preparation has gone into this one-man party. There’s the light system, okay, that’s the first thing, and it beams strobes everywhere in fluctuating frequencies like schizoid black and white buzz-bombs. Then there’s the graphics, all right, that’s number two, on my meticulously-prepared Powerpoint presentation which depicts all sorts of absurd montages of swiveling eyes, menacing mouths which open and close, and shape-shifting birds of craziness into crocodiles, like a twisted evolution of animals, and I’m head-butting the air as if I’m trying to knock all the oxygen away so I suffocate.
You need to be logged in to comment