Something has come along to replace the word 'awesome' in my disaffections.
I woke up angry from it.
"She came in rocking a pair of custom designed mudflaps and an umbrella coat."
Rocking. Fuck off. Rocking.
What's wrong with wearing clothes? When did that become a less than awesome way of, like, OMG, describing a person's bearing?
I don't know who to blame. Is it Exposé? Who's that arch presentrix they hired who could have got married to Leinster? Gina G? I blame her.
It extends to walking, honest to God ambulation, as my good friend Dr. Fell just pointed out to me in a text message.
He writes: "And as for people 'rocking up' to the pub/gig etc., unless they arrive thrashing their hair and playing guitars, I don't buy it."
My goat is in a constant state of being got at.
Wednesday, May 09, 2012
Friday, April 27, 2012
I may just need a dialling wand
Do I go to the dark side?
I've maintained that one iPhone in a household, in this household, is enough.
I've left her to consult the walking internet to find out what we've seen 'yer man offof Criminal Minds in before,' while I tilt my head sideways to see if the blue light on my Nokia is flashing. It almost never is.
I like keys. I like the predictiveness and the fact that my little piece of Finnish artistry won't spell out 'fuck' the first time around. Neither 'wanker,' 'shitbags' nor 'onomatepaeia.' It's manual for the swears.
I make this my fourth Nokia. The wallpaper is of Amsterdam and it's on the right side of grainy. It makes calls, but has started to cut out. The volume stays at the same level. I don't change my ringtone. I usually keep it on silent. It has WAP. Honest to jaysus WAP. It lives in my left breast pocket when I go out to play or, moreso nowadays, to the shop for something I forgot to get last time.
It's Ready to Go, assuming Vodafone still call it that.
It is quaint, and I like it for its ease and fiddliness.
Lately, though, I've become preoccupied by what it doesn't do.
It doesn't take photos that you can see without visual aid. It doesn't tell me whether or not my friends (or is it followers?) have had their Weetabix, or what they'd say to the Troika. It doesn't work the Twitter machine. It doesn't tag me in bed watching Frasier, or sitting on the jacks, or staring at my staring wall. It doesn't tell me what Richard Dean Anderson's doing right around now, or whether he has a Twitter machine, or if he can work the touchpad. It doesn't convert money to other monies or pay bills or make toast or anything.
It doesn't compute.
Afraid of phone bills ever since I spent my entire 21st birthday present fixing payment for a Panasonic that couldn't switch off, then couldn't switch on, I'm reluctant to swap the €50 a month I spend in credit for something more addictive than crack itself, a device so all consuming that I'll spend most of my time looking down instead of sideways.
Reluctant too because my fingers turn to clunk when presented with a touchscreen, the fear of sending typos out into the world greater than contracting the Ebola virus. Remember that? I could look that up too.
How much do they cost anyway?
I've maintained that one iPhone in a household, in this household, is enough.
I've left her to consult the walking internet to find out what we've seen 'yer man offof Criminal Minds in before,' while I tilt my head sideways to see if the blue light on my Nokia is flashing. It almost never is.
I like keys. I like the predictiveness and the fact that my little piece of Finnish artistry won't spell out 'fuck' the first time around. Neither 'wanker,' 'shitbags' nor 'onomatepaeia.' It's manual for the swears.
I make this my fourth Nokia. The wallpaper is of Amsterdam and it's on the right side of grainy. It makes calls, but has started to cut out. The volume stays at the same level. I don't change my ringtone. I usually keep it on silent. It has WAP. Honest to jaysus WAP. It lives in my left breast pocket when I go out to play or, moreso nowadays, to the shop for something I forgot to get last time.
It's Ready to Go, assuming Vodafone still call it that.
It is quaint, and I like it for its ease and fiddliness.
Lately, though, I've become preoccupied by what it doesn't do.
It doesn't take photos that you can see without visual aid. It doesn't tell me whether or not my friends (or is it followers?) have had their Weetabix, or what they'd say to the Troika. It doesn't work the Twitter machine. It doesn't tag me in bed watching Frasier, or sitting on the jacks, or staring at my staring wall. It doesn't tell me what Richard Dean Anderson's doing right around now, or whether he has a Twitter machine, or if he can work the touchpad. It doesn't convert money to other monies or pay bills or make toast or anything.
It doesn't compute.
Afraid of phone bills ever since I spent my entire 21st birthday present fixing payment for a Panasonic that couldn't switch off, then couldn't switch on, I'm reluctant to swap the €50 a month I spend in credit for something more addictive than crack itself, a device so all consuming that I'll spend most of my time looking down instead of sideways.
Reluctant too because my fingers turn to clunk when presented with a touchscreen, the fear of sending typos out into the world greater than contracting the Ebola virus. Remember that? I could look that up too.
How much do they cost anyway?
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Amsterdam
Seeing Liam Brady in Terminal 2 on the way over, he carrying his suit from the previous night's broadcast and looking efficient with the world.
Chatting with her da about the Irish Times iPad application, while she and her mam went off in search of airport things, after a breakfast of rashers that were crispy enough.
Landing at Schiphol, led this way and that.
The bikes. Jesus Christ, the bikes. I would learn later there are nearly as many as there are people, and figured it would be ironic if one ran me over in Dublin.
The cheese. Jesus Christ, the cheese. Everywhere in free chunks with cocktail sticks and sometimes wine too.
Having no interest in the coffee shops, though I wanted to go in and just order a coffee.
Counting tulips in Keukenhof. There were seven million and six. I was tired afterwards.
The Movenpick Hotel, where they'd run out of ice cream.
The big wheel in Dam Square, my nausea, and her hand.
The tram driver who told us not to forget to beep off. "If you forget, your card will explode in your pocket."
The lobby of the Victoria Hotel, where we pretended to be paying guests, just to have somewhere to sit.
Our actual hotel, seven different themes going on at once, and walking from the lobby straight into the bathroom.
"For a €4 entrance fee, how good can the sex museum actually be?"
The Anne Frank house, steep stairs, and that picture of Otto returning to the attic.
The shout of baseball hats in the Van Gogh museum.
Being a tourist, getting annoyed at tourists.
Croissants with Nutella.
So many Porsches doing a circuit on Friday night that she lost count. She loved the noise of them, and was a little bit drunk.
Two bottles of Duvel before an awards show, and very rude women who wouldn't shut up.
Looking to my left, seeing the red lights.
Waffles with chocolate sauce.
The cloying nature of Ron and Nel, fictitious canal trip guides.
Sharing the front of the cabin with Jedward on the way home. They bought perfume, presumably for their mam, and were none too pleased when the Sky Clown shortchanged them.
Chatting with her da about the Irish Times iPad application, while she and her mam went off in search of airport things, after a breakfast of rashers that were crispy enough.
Landing at Schiphol, led this way and that.
The bikes. Jesus Christ, the bikes. I would learn later there are nearly as many as there are people, and figured it would be ironic if one ran me over in Dublin.
The cheese. Jesus Christ, the cheese. Everywhere in free chunks with cocktail sticks and sometimes wine too.
Having no interest in the coffee shops, though I wanted to go in and just order a coffee.
Counting tulips in Keukenhof. There were seven million and six. I was tired afterwards.
The Movenpick Hotel, where they'd run out of ice cream.
The big wheel in Dam Square, my nausea, and her hand.
The tram driver who told us not to forget to beep off. "If you forget, your card will explode in your pocket."
The lobby of the Victoria Hotel, where we pretended to be paying guests, just to have somewhere to sit.
Our actual hotel, seven different themes going on at once, and walking from the lobby straight into the bathroom.
"For a €4 entrance fee, how good can the sex museum actually be?"
The Anne Frank house, steep stairs, and that picture of Otto returning to the attic.
The shout of baseball hats in the Van Gogh museum.
Being a tourist, getting annoyed at tourists.
Croissants with Nutella.
So many Porsches doing a circuit on Friday night that she lost count. She loved the noise of them, and was a little bit drunk.
Two bottles of Duvel before an awards show, and very rude women who wouldn't shut up.
Looking to my left, seeing the red lights.
Waffles with chocolate sauce.
The cloying nature of Ron and Nel, fictitious canal trip guides.
Sharing the front of the cabin with Jedward on the way home. They bought perfume, presumably for their mam, and were none too pleased when the Sky Clown shortchanged them.
Friday, April 13, 2012
From the drafts: Trust Fund Baby
Daddy was a property man, a gazillionaire.
Daddy shoehorned him into the company so he could spend his days sucking our senses dry, twiddling the cord on his Nortel phone and talking to his mate Henry, while we tried our best to ignore him by putting one finger in front of the other, in some vain attempt to spell out work ethic.
He held no truck with that, real work was so like for losers like, so he'd loudly break our spirits with stroppings, stormings off and rages against the clock. Trust Fund Baby, a cock of a man.
Work became a better place for his absence, a lighter existence, and I had forgotten all the things about him until Monday night when I headed for the local supermarker in the pissings of rain.
Having picked up my box of tea-bags and two Icebergers I queued up, my brain switching to that age old 'Jaffa: Biscuit or cake?' debate when I heard my name being called.
My ten-year-old raincoat and paint-stained tracksuit bottoms, invited to a stand off with Trust Fund Baby's perfectly appointed Louis Copeland suit.
There was some guff about how life is and then the revelation that he lives in the next block up, intermingling some part-time work on Daddy's dime with daytime shots of vodka and Jeremy Kyle.
I made as nice as I could before spitting my way back home, unleafing my ice cream treat while cursing and blustering to Fitzbollix. As ever, there came a sympathetic ear from a man who probably just wanted me to shut up complaining and switch on the kettle.
Daddy shoehorned him into the company so he could spend his days sucking our senses dry, twiddling the cord on his Nortel phone and talking to his mate Henry, while we tried our best to ignore him by putting one finger in front of the other, in some vain attempt to spell out work ethic.
He held no truck with that, real work was so like for losers like, so he'd loudly break our spirits with stroppings, stormings off and rages against the clock. Trust Fund Baby, a cock of a man.
Work became a better place for his absence, a lighter existence, and I had forgotten all the things about him until Monday night when I headed for the local supermarker in the pissings of rain.
Having picked up my box of tea-bags and two Icebergers I queued up, my brain switching to that age old 'Jaffa: Biscuit or cake?' debate when I heard my name being called.
My ten-year-old raincoat and paint-stained tracksuit bottoms, invited to a stand off with Trust Fund Baby's perfectly appointed Louis Copeland suit.
There was some guff about how life is and then the revelation that he lives in the next block up, intermingling some part-time work on Daddy's dime with daytime shots of vodka and Jeremy Kyle.
I made as nice as I could before spitting my way back home, unleafing my ice cream treat while cursing and blustering to Fitzbollix. As ever, there came a sympathetic ear from a man who probably just wanted me to shut up complaining and switch on the kettle.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
A crushed velvet suit from Harlequin
These good pants are getting ridiculous.
I call them good pants because they're anything but, simply a pair of Umbro tracksuit bottoms with a rip trailing from the right-hand pocket down to the knee, exposing the inner lining for nobody in the outside world to see.
The fucking state of me, unshaven and ragged, using a cancelled Thursday appointment to watch an old episode of Criminal Minds, racing on BBC2 and the promise of a coffee that I'm too lazy to make.
I should be writing, or I should be drinking, or I should be reading the book that I asked the man about in Dubray last week. I only realised when he picked it from the nearest shelf that it won the Man Booker Prize and, yes, indeed, he had heard of it.
I'm an idiot.
I should be shopping for new good pants, for shoes, for the things that I keep putting off for reasons financial even though work has been kind to me for the last couple of months.
I look at other jobs knowing that my cup runneth fine and I don't operate too well out of comfort. All zeal and nowhere to put it, or too many places to put it, so I keep looking for stories about people who only started success at 35 for some small comfort.
It used to be 30. It used to be 25.
At the very least, the first five words of something brilliant have been known to me for the longest time, but the problem is the next five, and the next five, and the 99, 985 after that, but even as I write this paragraph another imperative jumps into my brain.
'Just fucking write the thing.'
Or, being kinder,
'Give yourself a break.'
I call them good pants because they're anything but, simply a pair of Umbro tracksuit bottoms with a rip trailing from the right-hand pocket down to the knee, exposing the inner lining for nobody in the outside world to see.
The fucking state of me, unshaven and ragged, using a cancelled Thursday appointment to watch an old episode of Criminal Minds, racing on BBC2 and the promise of a coffee that I'm too lazy to make.
I should be writing, or I should be drinking, or I should be reading the book that I asked the man about in Dubray last week. I only realised when he picked it from the nearest shelf that it won the Man Booker Prize and, yes, indeed, he had heard of it.
I'm an idiot.
I should be shopping for new good pants, for shoes, for the things that I keep putting off for reasons financial even though work has been kind to me for the last couple of months.
I look at other jobs knowing that my cup runneth fine and I don't operate too well out of comfort. All zeal and nowhere to put it, or too many places to put it, so I keep looking for stories about people who only started success at 35 for some small comfort.
It used to be 30. It used to be 25.
At the very least, the first five words of something brilliant have been known to me for the longest time, but the problem is the next five, and the next five, and the 99, 985 after that, but even as I write this paragraph another imperative jumps into my brain.
'Just fucking write the thing.'
Or, being kinder,
'Give yourself a break.'
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
50 Good Things: 2012
1. Wine sales.
2. Powerful drying.
3. Sun Kil Moon.
4. Regina's transplant.
5. Guinness' own brand dark chocolate.
6. Nespresso.
7. Upcoming trip to Amsterdam.
8. The Forgotten Waltz.
9. Recent good news from the cranky neurosurgeon.
10. Goldmaster's recovery.
11. Criminal Minds.
12. The new sheets.
13. Garlic bread.
14. The warm weather, before people start giving out about the warm weather, before the wet weather.
15. The reopening of the Irish Times short story competition.
16. Staropramen.
17. Jeff Stelling.
18. Increased hours in the good workplace.
19. Hope.
20. Windy Arbour.
21. My first attempt at a lasagne from scratch.
22. Golf.
23. The Luas.
24. Breaking Bad.
25. Parmesan.
26. Avoca village.
27. Lionel Messi.
28. My recent 50 Bad Things entry, which was a fuckload easier to write.
29. Sweeney's of Dame Street, with herself.
30. Moroccan chicken/rack of lamb, cous cous, hummus, pitta breads.
31. A particular type of bread you can only get in the AM:PM shop on Harold's Cross bridge.
32. This morning, waking at 10am, with nowhere to be.
33. Tomorrow morning, waking at 10am, for a walk around town.
34. Sandwiches that include mustard, American or wholegrain.
35. Dún Laoghaire.
36. The ice cream shop on Grafton Street that stays open past pub time.
37. Peristalsis above 70%.
38. Triple chocolate Mars Bars.
39. Dylan Moran.
40. My accession to the boss of everything, and my immediate veto of the word (anything)gate.
41. Lisbon.
42. The fish and chips shop beside O'Flaherty's pub, Dingle Town.
43. The music of Burial.
44. Family Guy.
45. Jack Wilshere.
46. Hotch.
47. Empire, before reading it and discovering it's mostly Channing Tatum-based.
48. The Fiver.
49. Being inside when you absolutely, like, HAVE to be outside enjoying the weather.
50. The Screen cinema, College Green.
2. Powerful drying.
3. Sun Kil Moon.
4. Regina's transplant.
5. Guinness' own brand dark chocolate.
6. Nespresso.
7. Upcoming trip to Amsterdam.
8. The Forgotten Waltz.
9. Recent good news from the cranky neurosurgeon.
10. Goldmaster's recovery.
11. Criminal Minds.
12. The new sheets.
13. Garlic bread.
14. The warm weather, before people start giving out about the warm weather, before the wet weather.
15. The reopening of the Irish Times short story competition.
16. Staropramen.
17. Jeff Stelling.
18. Increased hours in the good workplace.
19. Hope.
20. Windy Arbour.
21. My first attempt at a lasagne from scratch.
22. Golf.
23. The Luas.
24. Breaking Bad.
25. Parmesan.
26. Avoca village.
27. Lionel Messi.
28. My recent 50 Bad Things entry, which was a fuckload easier to write.
29. Sweeney's of Dame Street, with herself.
30. Moroccan chicken/rack of lamb, cous cous, hummus, pitta breads.
31. A particular type of bread you can only get in the AM:PM shop on Harold's Cross bridge.
32. This morning, waking at 10am, with nowhere to be.
33. Tomorrow morning, waking at 10am, for a walk around town.
34. Sandwiches that include mustard, American or wholegrain.
35. Dún Laoghaire.
36. The ice cream shop on Grafton Street that stays open past pub time.
37. Peristalsis above 70%.
38. Triple chocolate Mars Bars.
39. Dylan Moran.
40. My accession to the boss of everything, and my immediate veto of the word (anything)gate.
41. Lisbon.
42. The fish and chips shop beside O'Flaherty's pub, Dingle Town.
43. The music of Burial.
44. Family Guy.
45. Jack Wilshere.
46. Hotch.
47. Empire, before reading it and discovering it's mostly Channing Tatum-based.
48. The Fiver.
49. Being inside when you absolutely, like, HAVE to be outside enjoying the weather.
50. The Screen cinema, College Green.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Roundabouts
This is what happens when you try to write a blog about the weekend, from the worried 8am start in work on Friday to the getting home on Sunday, shattered, full of Supermacs and residual anxiety.
Everything comes back jumbled.
From walking down the hospital corridor and the alcoholic hand gunk, to the old men wheezing on their backs. A hotel mattress so soft that we couldn't help but meet in its middle, and tiny squabbles that never turned septic.
From my Dad's finest Brendan O'Connor impersonation, to the fact that he needed a shave, a hug, a kiss and some fresh pyjamas.
From my colleague, my friend in work, who took on my shift at a moment's notice and offered me one of his in return, when he didn't have to. A man who fakes his own parsimony.
The roundabouts, the incessant roundabouts between Castletroy and the Regional, and her willingness to go wherever I needed, whenever I needed, giving me whatever it was that I could use of hers.
The hotel bar that we were too tired to drink in and the chronic sameness of the towel racks on the wall.
The mushroom soup from Avoca, for my Mam, so she wouldn't have a packet of Tayto for her lunch again, and my Dad telling me about the man that recognised him in the hospital corridor, the man that went to school with him in Vincent's and hadn't seen him since 1965.
The Chinese takeaway eaten hungrily and the absence of any drink at all, talk of who'd been in to see him and how Ger had hurt her eye.
A clicker going click every time the words 'I'm fine' were uttered and nobody falling for any of that craic.
The distraction of American guests and handed out toffee cake, hoovered out rooms and dusted down shelves, eyes giving people away, and kisses on the head for each of my family.
Everything comes back jumbled.
From walking down the hospital corridor and the alcoholic hand gunk, to the old men wheezing on their backs. A hotel mattress so soft that we couldn't help but meet in its middle, and tiny squabbles that never turned septic.
From my Dad's finest Brendan O'Connor impersonation, to the fact that he needed a shave, a hug, a kiss and some fresh pyjamas.
From my colleague, my friend in work, who took on my shift at a moment's notice and offered me one of his in return, when he didn't have to. A man who fakes his own parsimony.
The roundabouts, the incessant roundabouts between Castletroy and the Regional, and her willingness to go wherever I needed, whenever I needed, giving me whatever it was that I could use of hers.
The hotel bar that we were too tired to drink in and the chronic sameness of the towel racks on the wall.
The mushroom soup from Avoca, for my Mam, so she wouldn't have a packet of Tayto for her lunch again, and my Dad telling me about the man that recognised him in the hospital corridor, the man that went to school with him in Vincent's and hadn't seen him since 1965.
The Chinese takeaway eaten hungrily and the absence of any drink at all, talk of who'd been in to see him and how Ger had hurt her eye.
A clicker going click every time the words 'I'm fine' were uttered and nobody falling for any of that craic.
The distraction of American guests and handed out toffee cake, hoovered out rooms and dusted down shelves, eyes giving people away, and kisses on the head for each of my family.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
When you think about it, she has a very valid point
Her: "So, was it an important thing they won?"
Me: "Well, it was the League Cup."
Her: "THEY WON THE LEAGUE???"
Me: "No, they won the League Cup, as opposed to the League or the Cup."
Her: "And do they not win a Cup if they win the League."
Me: "Well it's more of a trophy, but don't even get me started on the FA Trophy."
Her: "So, let me get this straight. There's the League, the Cup, and then the League Cup?"
Me (proudly): "That's exactly right."
Her: "And how important was the one they won today?"
Me: "Well, pretty much the least important of the three."
Her: "You'd think it'd be most important, what with it being called the LEAGUE CUP."
At which point I exited the room to write this blog.
Me: "Well, it was the League Cup."
Her: "THEY WON THE LEAGUE???"
Me: "No, they won the League Cup, as opposed to the League or the Cup."
Her: "And do they not win a Cup if they win the League."
Me: "Well it's more of a trophy, but don't even get me started on the FA Trophy."
Her: "So, let me get this straight. There's the League, the Cup, and then the League Cup?"
Me (proudly): "That's exactly right."
Her: "And how important was the one they won today?"
Me: "Well, pretty much the least important of the three."
Her: "You'd think it'd be most important, what with it being called the LEAGUE CUP."
At which point I exited the room to write this blog.
Friday, February 17, 2012
The Tenner
1) I ate in McDonald's on Wednesday, fully sober, and didn't feel doggedly disgusting until about five hours afterwards. I'm not sure if this is progress, regress or ungress. I should have got a McFlurry to make it somewhat worth it.
2) Gotye. You horrible, catchy, 'get the fuck out of my head at 3.14am of a Tuesday morning' bastard.
3) I'm going to Amsterdam in April. What delights lie over there? Well, we know all about what delights lie over there. I'm going to come back with that aul' smack cocaine coming out my ears, apparently.
4) There are different kinds of cross. The middlenight, "you just woke me up for no good reason, now feck off and go back to sleep" kind of cross means fuck all in the grand scheme of things.
5) I'll probably never write anything as witty as a single episode of Frasier.
6) I'll probably never write anything again, if my current profligacy continues. I started this post, for instance, on Thursday morning.
7) I don't remember the last new person to start calling me Radge.
8) Twitter eats your life up and is probably fairly pointless if you're stuck in the world of Nokia, circa 2008.
9) I don't remember writing this...
2002. I saw him coming in, nodded in his direction, nothing back. Him and his mates, ordering cocktails and taking the piss. Ordering cocktails ("does this look like the kind of place you can get a fucking cocktail?"). Him and his mates, their scarves and pints of Heineken. Taking the piss out of everybody and everything, making big plans.
...but I did. Some time.
10) I wish I was still nicknamed The Shadow. That was a good nickname.
2) Gotye. You horrible, catchy, 'get the fuck out of my head at 3.14am of a Tuesday morning' bastard.
3) I'm going to Amsterdam in April. What delights lie over there? Well, we know all about what delights lie over there. I'm going to come back with that aul' smack cocaine coming out my ears, apparently.
4) There are different kinds of cross. The middlenight, "you just woke me up for no good reason, now feck off and go back to sleep" kind of cross means fuck all in the grand scheme of things.
5) I'll probably never write anything as witty as a single episode of Frasier.
6) I'll probably never write anything again, if my current profligacy continues. I started this post, for instance, on Thursday morning.
7) I don't remember the last new person to start calling me Radge.
8) Twitter eats your life up and is probably fairly pointless if you're stuck in the world of Nokia, circa 2008.
9) I don't remember writing this...
2002. I saw him coming in, nodded in his direction, nothing back. Him and his mates, ordering cocktails and taking the piss. Ordering cocktails ("does this look like the kind of place you can get a fucking cocktail?"). Him and his mates, their scarves and pints of Heineken. Taking the piss out of everybody and everything, making big plans.
...but I did. Some time.
10) I wish I was still nicknamed The Shadow. That was a good nickname.
Friday, January 27, 2012
50 bad things (the 2012 Burial remix)
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.
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.
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