1. Flaxseed, but I persist for reasons peristalsic.
2. One fucking two fucking three dot ie.
3. Football agents.
4. Rachel Allen's accent.
5. Jeremy Clarkson.
6. RTE's business correspondent David Murphy, and his rape of the letter 'T'.
7. Ryle Nugent.
8. Strep throat.
9. Tallafornia, for its name alone. I'd never infect my senses with it.
10. The Afternoon Show.
11. The Lotto letdown.
12. Outnumbered.
13. Damp.
14. Cucumbers.
15. Ohmigod ohmigod ohmigod.
16. Teenagers from Terenure affecting tough Dublin accents.
17. Jason Byrne.
18. The word Twitterati.
19. 'Fail.'
20. No Sky Sports.
21. Andrew Carroll.
22. Absent bloggers such as Gimme and Annie and Therese and those that keep me away from myself.
23. Fibrous Dysplasiae.
24. The sheer number of 'transformative' programmes on television.
25. Rihanna
26. Male pattern baldness.
27. Dublin Bus fare hikes.
28. Internships.
29. Accidentally pressing the wrong button and ending up on the UPC info channel. Repeatedly.
30. The film 'The Guard.' A huge disappointment.
31. Two And A Half Gobshites.
32. No chocolate in the house.
33. Private blogs. What's the point?
34. HSE leader Brendan Grace.
35. George Hook.
36. Night shifts.
37. Liquorice.
38. Forced short termism due to occupational uncertainty.
39. Rick Santorum.
40. Seán Sherlock.
41. Eamon Gilmore.
42. Everything becoming social. Everything.
43. The Academy Awards.
44. HD. 3D. All that bollocks.
45. Smartphone snobbery.
46. That Ladbrokes ad with the Italian fella shouting his head off. Jesus Christ.
47. Drunkenness.
48. The need to wee in the middle of a cosy night's sleep.
49. Fads.
50. Troikas, Anglo, waste, despair, bad news, David McWilliams, foreboding, hospital trollies, price fixing, bondholders, gaffes, kill me.
Friday, January 27, 2012
Thursday, January 26, 2012
You may recognise me from the following...
Radge got his big break playing the wife of Tim Robbins in The Shawshank Redemption. While only seen in profile at the start of the film while necking with a golf pro, the long, luscious curls and pouty lips clearly gave him away.
He went on to star as Matt LeBlanc's arse double in an episode of Friends where Matt LeBlanc plays Al Pacino's arse double, an exposure that brought him to the attention of one Martin Scorsese.
Scorsese cast Radge for seven roles in his film 'Kundun,' with the budding actor showing his versatility in parts such as Lama of Sera, The Messenger, Nobleman #2 and Mother.
Also adroit at voice work, Radge hit the talkshow circuit for playing the voice of Ronnie Drew in the hit play 'The Voice of Ronnie Drew,' and several stints as Old Mr. Brennan (unseen and unheard, merely referred to by 'man with gravelly voiced Dublin brogue') in the 1990s and early 2000s.
While his career has seen a number of setbacks - he was much derided for his attempt to take over as the voice of The Simpsons' attorney-at-law Lionel Hutz, following the sad demise of Phil Hartman - he enjoyed success in the role of Teasy McDaid in the stage adaptation of popular Irish soap opera 'Glenroe,' earning six Tony award nominations in the process, and one win for 'Best Performance By A 23-Year-Old Male Playing An 84-Year-Old Transsexual Playing A 68-Year-Old Barmaid.'
Minor roles in Steven Spielberg's 'Minority Report' and Steven Seagal's 'Under Siege 7' followed, before Radge retired from showbusiness to concentrate on his first love, namely modern dance.
Radge currently resides in Newtwopothouse in County Cork, and is frequently mistaken for fellow actor, and one time yoga instructor, F. Murray Abraham.
He went on to star as Matt LeBlanc's arse double in an episode of Friends where Matt LeBlanc plays Al Pacino's arse double, an exposure that brought him to the attention of one Martin Scorsese.
Scorsese cast Radge for seven roles in his film 'Kundun,' with the budding actor showing his versatility in parts such as Lama of Sera, The Messenger, Nobleman #2 and Mother.
Also adroit at voice work, Radge hit the talkshow circuit for playing the voice of Ronnie Drew in the hit play 'The Voice of Ronnie Drew,' and several stints as Old Mr. Brennan (unseen and unheard, merely referred to by 'man with gravelly voiced Dublin brogue') in the 1990s and early 2000s.
While his career has seen a number of setbacks - he was much derided for his attempt to take over as the voice of The Simpsons' attorney-at-law Lionel Hutz, following the sad demise of Phil Hartman - he enjoyed success in the role of Teasy McDaid in the stage adaptation of popular Irish soap opera 'Glenroe,' earning six Tony award nominations in the process, and one win for 'Best Performance By A 23-Year-Old Male Playing An 84-Year-Old Transsexual Playing A 68-Year-Old Barmaid.'
Minor roles in Steven Spielberg's 'Minority Report' and Steven Seagal's 'Under Siege 7' followed, before Radge retired from showbusiness to concentrate on his first love, namely modern dance.
Radge currently resides in Newtwopothouse in County Cork, and is frequently mistaken for fellow actor, and one time yoga instructor, F. Murray Abraham.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Should is a pointless thing
Apparently, you should never confuse streptococcus with staphylococcus.
Once again, I fail one of life's little tests.
I've had a knackering case of throat ouch, the likes of which I've only suffered once before.
I remember it well because of the sheer bastardry of the thing, and it cleared up on the day that the Branch Davidians ran afoul of the US government.
Sitting in my parents' room in 32A, lying on their bed when the sickness broke and my wellness was greeted in a torrent of FBI hellfire. Strange the things we recall.
If I had school to miss, I'd be missing it now. Fucking strep throat. Any pox that sunders a man's ability to enjoy his food is not alright by me, it isn't welcome when all I can do is yearn for the Stag's Head, or Neary's, or McDaid's pub on Harry Street.
I want to go out and play, but I make do with the World Indoor Bowls Championship on BBC2, and the book that never ends.
Last Saturday night, in O'Neill's on Pearse Street, aroused a hunger in me for stories and ale that never bedded down, thanks to this malignance, but dammit if it didn't go into retreat an hour ago.
Porridge and flaxseed, if you please, and the first razor-free ingestion in days. Let it not be a ruse, let it be a turning and I swear to jaysus I won't waste another moment lamenting things I should be doing.
Should is a pointless thing.
Once again, I fail one of life's little tests.
I've had a knackering case of throat ouch, the likes of which I've only suffered once before.
I remember it well because of the sheer bastardry of the thing, and it cleared up on the day that the Branch Davidians ran afoul of the US government.
Sitting in my parents' room in 32A, lying on their bed when the sickness broke and my wellness was greeted in a torrent of FBI hellfire. Strange the things we recall.
If I had school to miss, I'd be missing it now. Fucking strep throat. Any pox that sunders a man's ability to enjoy his food is not alright by me, it isn't welcome when all I can do is yearn for the Stag's Head, or Neary's, or McDaid's pub on Harry Street.
I want to go out and play, but I make do with the World Indoor Bowls Championship on BBC2, and the book that never ends.
Last Saturday night, in O'Neill's on Pearse Street, aroused a hunger in me for stories and ale that never bedded down, thanks to this malignance, but dammit if it didn't go into retreat an hour ago.
Porridge and flaxseed, if you please, and the first razor-free ingestion in days. Let it not be a ruse, let it be a turning and I swear to jaysus I won't waste another moment lamenting things I should be doing.
Should is a pointless thing.
Friday, January 13, 2012
Good news
'Fun-loving non-smoker, social drinker (29), looking for necessary new lease of life. WLTM healthy kidney who shares her interest in travel without Peritoneal Dialysis machine and her fetish for midriffs without tubes attached. GSOH in bad times essential. Only kidneys interested in long-term relationship need apply.'
This morning, a call came. A match. Send happy thoughts and I'm sure the good lady herself will tell the full story soon...
This morning, a call came. A match. Send happy thoughts and I'm sure the good lady herself will tell the full story soon...
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Second sleep
"Would you go to work tomorrow, if you won it?"
She told me she would. Then she wouldn't. Then she'd ring in sick. But she'd want to hand in her notice. But who would she tell? And what would she say? And then there's the obligatory Facebook cull of those you don't need knowing your business. Not this business, anyway.
"Would you rather buy an island or a yacht?" I asked her.
She wanted neither. What use an island? And who'd sail the yacht? I told her 'not that kind of yacht, the posh Roman Abramovich kind,' and she still wasn't interested.
I told her that I'd quite like a yacht, for seeing places, but she'd rather a helicopter. I disagreed, said I'd fall out, and all of a sudden she was commanding her phone to look up the prices of private jets. Anywhere from $6m to $45m, apparently. Then the upkeep is $100,000 a year on top of that.
Fuck that. Fuck private jets.
But who would we tell? Who could we tell? Who could we help and who would we just be enabling?
This went on, and on, and around our heads while Family Guy played in the background. It's the greatest tease of a conversation and plays around bigger and smaller beds than ours, the country over, the continent over, one year to another...
The changed lives. The invasions of privacy. The electric gates for the really big money. The stuff begetting stuff. The 'never forgetting where or what we came from.'
Anyway, she won a fiver and privately cussed me this morning, rolling over for my second sleep.
She told me she would. Then she wouldn't. Then she'd ring in sick. But she'd want to hand in her notice. But who would she tell? And what would she say? And then there's the obligatory Facebook cull of those you don't need knowing your business. Not this business, anyway.
"Would you rather buy an island or a yacht?" I asked her.
She wanted neither. What use an island? And who'd sail the yacht? I told her 'not that kind of yacht, the posh Roman Abramovich kind,' and she still wasn't interested.
I told her that I'd quite like a yacht, for seeing places, but she'd rather a helicopter. I disagreed, said I'd fall out, and all of a sudden she was commanding her phone to look up the prices of private jets. Anywhere from $6m to $45m, apparently. Then the upkeep is $100,000 a year on top of that.
Fuck that. Fuck private jets.
But who would we tell? Who could we tell? Who could we help and who would we just be enabling?
This went on, and on, and around our heads while Family Guy played in the background. It's the greatest tease of a conversation and plays around bigger and smaller beds than ours, the country over, the continent over, one year to another...
The changed lives. The invasions of privacy. The electric gates for the really big money. The stuff begetting stuff. The 'never forgetting where or what we came from.'
Anyway, she won a fiver and privately cussed me this morning, rolling over for my second sleep.
Tuesday, January 03, 2012
You're a good boy, Tin Tin, and I love you
2004. A house party in Lucan. Myself, Fitzbollix, the Crazy Cat Girl and all manner of other revellers drinking all manner of lovely potions to the point of inebriation. This here weblog was just a whelp.
I did a New Year's Eve countback the other night and reckoned that night, seven years ago, to have been the last time I counted down among a crowd as the year became another.
2005 - 5X came over. We watched Eddie Murphy's 'Raw.'
2006 - I got drunk the night before and failed to make a trip to, ehm, somewhere near Ballybunion.
2007 - On own. Charleville Road. Six Feet Under.
2008 - On own. Charleville Road. The Wire.
2009 - A couple of pints in Downey's and then on own, Charleville Road.
2010 - My first New Year's Eve with herself, on us own, on the quays.
To 2011, to the Horseshoe Bar with Johnny and Glenda (friends again), to Odessa, to partying into the small hours with the Xposé girls to the not having the energy to continue this charade.
We stayed in, we paused The Snapper while we ate a tea of fine cheeses, meats and wine, we watched The Snapper until the magic telly acted the bollix and then... crestfallen (we lost it at the bit where Dessie and the wife are about to have the ride)... we were left with Miriam O'Callaghan fellating her drunken colleagues on live RTE.
This fucking country and its state broadcaster, interviewing itself to within an inch of its life, Des Cahill looking like the inebriated first cousin of John Kenny in Father Ted, and more woe besides. Brendan fucking Grace. Some Afternoon Show bint. Glasses of champers on the table. A mild case of depression.
I can't really say why we stayed up, especially as Facebook now negates the need for anyone to phone each other or even send a text, but we did in a car crash sort of way. We were, at least, a force of two griping at the telly, a force of two wishing each other a happy new year in the home we now share, a salve to the forced enjoyment of another night of bombast.
I did a New Year's Eve countback the other night and reckoned that night, seven years ago, to have been the last time I counted down among a crowd as the year became another.
2005 - 5X came over. We watched Eddie Murphy's 'Raw.'
2006 - I got drunk the night before and failed to make a trip to, ehm, somewhere near Ballybunion.
2007 - On own. Charleville Road. Six Feet Under.
2008 - On own. Charleville Road. The Wire.
2009 - A couple of pints in Downey's and then on own, Charleville Road.
2010 - My first New Year's Eve with herself, on us own, on the quays.
To 2011, to the Horseshoe Bar with Johnny and Glenda (friends again), to Odessa, to partying into the small hours with the Xposé girls to the not having the energy to continue this charade.
We stayed in, we paused The Snapper while we ate a tea of fine cheeses, meats and wine, we watched The Snapper until the magic telly acted the bollix and then... crestfallen (we lost it at the bit where Dessie and the wife are about to have the ride)... we were left with Miriam O'Callaghan fellating her drunken colleagues on live RTE.
This fucking country and its state broadcaster, interviewing itself to within an inch of its life, Des Cahill looking like the inebriated first cousin of John Kenny in Father Ted, and more woe besides. Brendan fucking Grace. Some Afternoon Show bint. Glasses of champers on the table. A mild case of depression.
I can't really say why we stayed up, especially as Facebook now negates the need for anyone to phone each other or even send a text, but we did in a car crash sort of way. We were, at least, a force of two griping at the telly, a force of two wishing each other a happy new year in the home we now share, a salve to the forced enjoyment of another night of bombast.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Shudder
You can't have one without the other...
Joan Burton in a recording studio. The Government are clearly, clearly not thinking of the children.
Joan Burton in a recording studio. The Government are clearly, clearly not thinking of the children.
Thursday, December 08, 2011
16:04
Things from the last few weeks...
1) I made a conscious decision to quit blogging, and to just leave that last nothing of an entry as my parting gift to nobody in particular. Then, much like snooker gobshite Ronnie O'Sullivan, I unquit by writing several entries that will stay in the drafts and decided to go the opposite way entirely. More Radgery, all the time, wittier and witherier than ever!*
*Not a guarantee.
2) I discovered the wondrous world of the smoothie. Foolishly, I believed that banana - a fruit that would cause me to die or just explode a little bit - was a crucial ingredient but this is not the case. This is not the case and I'm happy about it, and my strawberry something from Zumo in the Jervis Centre made me quiet and happy for 12 glorious minutes last Tuesday.
3) I turned the age of Jebus and got spoiled for the feat by herself.
4) I worked highly irregular hours, at shorter and shorter notice, making me crave some job security and the life of a man on daily nodding terms with the same faces, at the same minute past 8am, on some office clad city centre street. Then I accepted my lot and gloried in recorded Masterchef at 2pm of a Thursday.
5) I slowly muddled, and keep muddling, my way through The Given Day by Dennis Lehane. Why am I so easily distracted from literature?
6) I got a little bit very fucked up over the death of Gary Speed.
1) I made a conscious decision to quit blogging, and to just leave that last nothing of an entry as my parting gift to nobody in particular. Then, much like snooker gobshite Ronnie O'Sullivan, I unquit by writing several entries that will stay in the drafts and decided to go the opposite way entirely. More Radgery, all the time, wittier and witherier than ever!*
*Not a guarantee.
2) I discovered the wondrous world of the smoothie. Foolishly, I believed that banana - a fruit that would cause me to die or just explode a little bit - was a crucial ingredient but this is not the case. This is not the case and I'm happy about it, and my strawberry something from Zumo in the Jervis Centre made me quiet and happy for 12 glorious minutes last Tuesday.
3) I turned the age of Jebus and got spoiled for the feat by herself.
4) I worked highly irregular hours, at shorter and shorter notice, making me crave some job security and the life of a man on daily nodding terms with the same faces, at the same minute past 8am, on some office clad city centre street. Then I accepted my lot and gloried in recorded Masterchef at 2pm of a Thursday.
5) I slowly muddled, and keep muddling, my way through The Given Day by Dennis Lehane. Why am I so easily distracted from literature?
6) I got a little bit very fucked up over the death of Gary Speed.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
The spot on my nose
Total cholesterol is 6.3... this should not exceed 5.0... LDL cholesterol is 4.2... this should not exceed 3.0... HDL cholesterol, which is the good cholesterol, is at 0.9... ideally this should be between 1 and 2...
I get it. Stop with the cheese and the Twixes and the roast beef breakfasts. Make nice with the walnuts and the sardines and the myriad salad leaves that hide from you in the chilled food section.
What a bunch of old bollocks, this spreading of I Can't Believe This Tastes So Bland on my toast and the accession to exercise that I'd rather not do. My body, my doctor, my fasting bloods don't take into account a need for taxi driver stories to kickstart this ailing weblog.
Like the other day and the man that told me he had decided at 18 to never worry a day in his life.
"That was 31 years ago and I just figured, if I spend today worrying and I don't wake up tomorrow, I'll have spent my last day on earth tying myself up in knots for no reason."
I liked that. I told him I liked that and I'd never heard that before, and he said it was his own and that I could use it away. A nice man. A clean car. Fiver for the fare and some gratis life coaching. I can't give that up. I won't give that up.
Time for some porridge.
I get it. Stop with the cheese and the Twixes and the roast beef breakfasts. Make nice with the walnuts and the sardines and the myriad salad leaves that hide from you in the chilled food section.
What a bunch of old bollocks, this spreading of I Can't Believe This Tastes So Bland on my toast and the accession to exercise that I'd rather not do. My body, my doctor, my fasting bloods don't take into account a need for taxi driver stories to kickstart this ailing weblog.
Like the other day and the man that told me he had decided at 18 to never worry a day in his life.
"That was 31 years ago and I just figured, if I spend today worrying and I don't wake up tomorrow, I'll have spent my last day on earth tying myself up in knots for no reason."
I liked that. I told him I liked that and I'd never heard that before, and he said it was his own and that I could use it away. A nice man. A clean car. Fiver for the fare and some gratis life coaching. I can't give that up. I won't give that up.
Time for some porridge.
Tuesday, November 01, 2011
A nonsense of a film
It's done. I've moved. It's over and there was nothing a deluge, an early call to exit the old place, two unplanned shifts in The Journal and the bastard Dublin traffic could do to stop me.
It feels good now that there's a decent shape on the place and my stuff is mixing with hers. Looking around the sitting room it remains a case of my stereo and her everything else, but she'll tell me what's mine is hers anyway.
The house avoided the flood like it knew somebody was moving in the next day - every other residence on the road is still dealing with the fallout but she guarded her place well, wringing out towels and handing out cups of tea to the neighbours. No damage done save for the affliction of boy where all sorts of nice things used to be. Ha.
Other things this week?
-Frequented Darwin's restaurant on Aungier Street by way of celebration. I don't recall a better meal.
-Watched 'Hanna' - a nonsense of a film.
-Drank fine wines on Sunday night, amid stories.
-Cursed my way through a rugby shift while others were being social and warm.
-Watched 'Big' in bed until the hour got ridiculous.
-Found it odd that certain people, in town on Saturday night, were not dressed as warlocks or Bosco.
It feels good now that there's a decent shape on the place and my stuff is mixing with hers. Looking around the sitting room it remains a case of my stereo and her everything else, but she'll tell me what's mine is hers anyway.
The house avoided the flood like it knew somebody was moving in the next day - every other residence on the road is still dealing with the fallout but she guarded her place well, wringing out towels and handing out cups of tea to the neighbours. No damage done save for the affliction of boy where all sorts of nice things used to be. Ha.
Other things this week?
-Frequented Darwin's restaurant on Aungier Street by way of celebration. I don't recall a better meal.
-Watched 'Hanna' - a nonsense of a film.
-Drank fine wines on Sunday night, amid stories.
-Cursed my way through a rugby shift while others were being social and warm.
-Watched 'Big' in bed until the hour got ridiculous.
-Found it odd that certain people, in town on Saturday night, were not dressed as warlocks or Bosco.
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