Friday, December 31, 2004


It's a headache is all it is, a headache. New Year's Eve, that most overrated of evenings, the perennial anti-climax.

I never build it up, last year I stayed at home in Limerick with the folks and tomorrow night it's County Lucan and a few cans for me. Nought mad. I won't have it. Too damned expensive and shit. Fuck it, I'm not in any humour for bloggery, NO humour at all.

I'm going home to take the weight off the ground. Proper entry anon.


Monday, December 20, 2004

Man gets hit by football


I'm over the cold, a sniffly hoor of an affair with a daggered throat to boot. Deeply unpleasant, glad to get it out of the way in time for Christmas.

Didn't let it spoil my enjoyment of the Setanta Party though, mercy no. Have to hand it to the company, they had us well oiled. Champagne getting on the train (which had couches and balloons aplenty), free hooch all the way, dinner and then breakfast the next morning.

The person I found funniest was 5X, who literally collapsed giggling when he saw the opulence of the room we were sharing. Classic. He was rolling around the ground like a man who'd been hit by a football.

In the groin.

I've kept it going in the meantime. Thursday was early to bed, while Friday took myself and Julianne and John to Billy's gig in Toner's as part of the Ballroom Of Romance. What the show lacked in lust it made up for in the thump jingle thump of Bill's drumming and Patrick's cultured delivery. It was a fucking class show by the Factro boys.

The weekend just passed was blurry. Saturday morning took myself, Johnny and Pike shopping for grub, then to the Off Licence where we bought beer and drank that beer on the couch all weekend. It didn't stop for a jot.

Superb. You've got to love the aul Christmas. Kenny's back from Germania tomorrow, staying in ours, so it'll be Limerick before rest is offered to me. I don't mind really, I'm up for it.

To Denise and Maire and Gill and Julie, cheers for the Christmas cards, I know I said I'd reciprocate but I'm too lazy and haven't even done my Christmas shopping. Sorry ladies. Ye'll soon be over it though.

Tuesday, December 14, 2004

You go first. No, you go...

...and so I'm concentrating on keeping myself well for the Christmas party. Have a cold you see. Not even a bad one. It's just bubbling under, tickling my throat and yet to hit the nose.

I figure if I keep taking the pre-emptive Lemsips (headcold variety, mentholly) I'll be alright. I'll suffer my ills on Thursday with the best of grace.

Speaking of (dis)grace, what state will I be found in on Wednesday evening in the Something Hotel in Kilkenny? I dread to think. We start boozing in the Oslo Bar in Connolly at three. Then onto a specially chartered train to Kilkenny and consumption ad nauseam...

It's ambitious, plus I'm rooming with 5X and I quoth: "Fuck it, I'm not working on Thursday. I won't sleep..." You get the gist.

I've been warned by Denise: "Don't be bringing back any Kilkenny girls - them cats are only trouble."

Well, it's trouble I seek.

Tuesday, December 07, 2004

Concern for a life partner

5X just showed me his scarred foot from the latest clash with the 'sadist gamine'. He can't be having that. Says I to him, "honest to God." He may need rode, but he needs shot twice as fast. There.

Not in the fit of me health myself, the stomach's constantly in knots and I'm having weird chest sensations. To the doctor with me, I'm sure it's just a dose of hypocrisy. Note to Cowzer - might go beerless for tomorrow night's game. This week calls for some serious min. Try to understand.

The weekend just gone was a dinger. Friday in The Duke was the most restrained birthday in memory, but merry was still made (and how! Very). Kudos to Mark Doyle and his name dropping skit, I'm having that. "Here, here, I know Brian Kerr. Honestly, Brian and I go way back." "How do you know him?" "Well I've never actually MET him as such..."

We've all met one of those boys. Classic.

On to The Village then and...well...if you're reading this you were probably there at some point in proceedings.

Took her easy on Saturday, tore through the Liffey Valley throng and that was all I could manage...

Sunday was the long-planned 'Goodbye To The Villager,' the finest boozer there is (in Chapelizod). The usual where Skehan's concerned, stout and strong whiskey. Somehow ended up in Lucan Village, got the wrong bus on purpose to prolong the session, so we visited Courtney's before Johnny picked us up, aled us some more and sent us to our respective slumbers.

A lorra laughs, head was fucked on Monday but. Anyway, this week will be min. Definitely.

Though all offers will be considered.

More to follow...

The air quality in this place is particularly bad today. Jesus. It was a good weekend, more of which anon, but for now I gotta get outta this place...

Friday, December 03, 2004

Talking about passion...

'A perfect circle of,
'Acquaintances and friends,
'Drink another,
'Coin a phrase...'

So, what's to transpire before I next take to the bed? Anyone's guess. We're mixing it up tonight in The Duke, going to see what comes out in the wash.


1. Please don't buy me a drink.
2. If you see me doing shots, stop me.
3. If I make a pass at you, let me pretend it was the beer.
4. Stay beautiful.

Bring her on. There from 5.30.

Thursday, December 02, 2004

Don't listen to him kids...

...5X, that is.

Doyle's is the venue tonight for Fell's birthday pints. Not my own. Mine is The Duke on Friday. But I've been over this before. 5X won't be told.

Says he: "I have people in my life other than you, Cuddihy. IMPORTANT people."

Says I: "Like who?"

Says he: "People."

Says I: "Tell me!"

Says he: "No."

Says I: "Oh."

It wasn't a classic exchange.

Tuesday, November 30, 2004

Phase two? You're barred

Phase one is complete.

Began with a casual few on Thursday, dipping the toes in, while it was a full somersault into the pool of disgracefulness on Friday in The Village. It got ridiculous for a brief time but marbles were recovered by 4am, and made stupid until 7 bells with John Boy and Michelle, home from Geneva.

Saturday was the Tom Baxter gig. Write this boy off at your peril. As Skehan remarked, "this is what it must have been like to see Jeff Buckley for the first time." Paddy Casey tried to spoil it all by saying something stupid like 'Purple Rain,' but the show was an absolute winner.

Didn't linger long, went home tired and emotional.

Sunday was a day of rest, did myself a damage by lamping my head off the sink in the bathroom, spent the rest of the day in the recovery position (spreadeagled on the couch, Stella in palm and Liverpool beating the shit of Arsenal on the telly. Quality.).

Last night took myself and the bould Julianne to the Elephant And Castle and then The Temple Bar. We both agreed it could have resulted in inebriation, but we steelied ourselves and took to our homes. Plenty of time on Friday for that sort of thing.

Come one, come all.

Friday, November 26, 2004

Drink 'em down...


It's all about to kick off. The Village x2 this weekend and then a bite to eat followed by pints on Sunday...Dinner dates and old flames...

Next week? Fell celebrates his birthday on Thursday and myself and Raf do likewise on Friday. Taking that one long into the weekend and I should finish up on Sunday cursing my fellow man and the day I took a drink. I'll endeavour to make it all worth it, however.

It's been building up to this for a while, I've been on the one-a-week diet for weeks now. WEEKS. 5X doesn't look at me like he used to.

Anyway, I forecast plenty of blogging in this time. I'll try to take you through my revelry on a day to day basis.

CRINGE as Radge tells tales of taxi soiling. MARVEL as he stays vertical after the third shot. CHEER him as he proves that the Kurt Russell within him lives yet. CRY as he pieces the nights together the next day, embarrassing detail by embarrassing detail.


Tuesday, November 23, 2004


Grand soft day.

And what of Radge this last aeon? Little. Weekend was spent in Limerick watching films (about death) and reading a biography (that culminated in death). I wasn't at my most cheered getting back to Lucan manor on Monday evening, the foul stench of my own immortality hanging heavy in the air.

Friday night saw revelry. A hastily arranged meeting with Julianne in the Stag's Head turned shindiggish and saw me well gargled by the bussing hour, so I taxi'd home and did all I could not to regurgitate ale all over the driver's leather finish.

To the best of my recollection, the car spat me forth at the roundabout. The grass verge and I are no longer on nodding terms. Oh well, does a lad good once in a while.

Woke up fine on Saturday morning, but piece by piece the night returned to me. Some amount of eejitry, I really have to stop 'being Kurt Russell.'

Unrelated topic: Why can't some people eat with their FUCKING MOUTHS CLOSED???

Tuesday, November 16, 2004

Near full fitness.

I appear to be back.

There were a few hairy weeks there: Trips to Limerick, last buses home, PLAYS being watched. I readily admit I was a shadow of myself.

This past week, however, has seen a change in direction, the reallignment of me with the stars of shindiggery. Wednesday saw a few swifts halves with Denise, with old times and possibilities chewed over in equal and enjoyable measure.

Thursday came the work night out, the parting of Julie, Louise and Cian with Setanta Media. A purposeful night was had, Market Bar and The Village. Scratch that, a drunken night was had. I found out that all that glittered was bold.

Saturday and attention turned to Dakota. Cowzer has detailed the night already, but I'll add that, a patchy ten or fifteen minutes aside, the night appeared to be a success. Good to catch up with some of the old 32A girls too, each the source of temptation to my tortured adolescent 'back in the day.'

And to this week. I've nothing planned, I'll just see where these winds of change blow me.


Sunday, November 14, 2004

Very 'Fever Pitch'

Dues to 5X.

His latest blog at (Terror, terroir, tear her) simultaneously made me want to, a) exalt in the English language expressed through the fingers of a man attuned to the fruitlessness of life and, b) kill myself.

As an ironic call to arms, his 'down with ambition, because there's no ultimate moment of achievement' mantra did exactly what it said on the title. It terrified me. Because I felt that he was right. In life, there's no great pay-off, just the endless chase for something that's just barely out of reach.

As trying to pick up mercury with a fork-shaped object.

If only life was like football.

Lying on the bed, listening to the Fulham v Chelsea game on Today FM, waiting for constant updates from Liverpool v Palace. 1-0 to the 'Pool. Baros penalty, early in the game. Nice, we'll have this at a canter.

Then they equalise, the fuckers. Kolkka. Who the fuck is Kolkka? He's the bloke that equalised. Made it 1-1. Just before half-time. The fucker.

Next, when it was even more 'just before half-time,' Baros again from open play. 2-1 at the break at Anfield and to my mind it's game over. We'll never let it slip now.

Then we let things slip.

Michael Hughes (aged Nordie) brings Palace back into it and it's time to fret. It's not long into the second half and, while anxious, I feel sure that we'll take the lead again. "Surely Harry Kewell," I told myself "will stop being shit one of these weeks."

Nothing, all I have is Chelsea pissing on Fulham and nothing of the Liverpool game, save for the odd mention that it remains a stalemate.

Clock ticks down. I know that thoughts of "ah well, a point against Palace isn't that bad. They're an emerging force" are utter bollox but I have to deal with it. I have done for 14 years. Final whistles are sounding around the grounds and I reach to turn off the radio.


Hang on.

(Pauses again)

What did yer man say? Bit of interference on the dial.


"We've a penalty at Anfield..." (Don't be Palace don't be Palace don't be Palace) "Baros..." (YES!!!!) "...has been tripped again. This could very well be the last kick of the game..." (O please Jesus) "He's taking it himself. For the hat-trick. IT'S LIVERPOOL 3-2 CRYSTAL PALACE. Dramatic finish here at Anfield, Benitez' team have taken the three points. The ref has blown for full-time."

(I run around the room, arms aloft, fall over and don't care).

As doubtless 5X will point out, however, life just isn't like dramatic injury time winners. Still, sixth in the table and climbing.

How very 'Fever Pitch.'

Wednesday, November 10, 2004

Which way is North?

I'm disorientated.

Lost track of what day it was, had to seek confirmation that it's Wednesday. Days off, you see, have been all over the place of late.

Was freed from work yesterday though, and took a trip to Liffey Valley. Bought myself the Goodfellas special edition, a Fourtet compilation album and another CD that I'm not revealing for fear of reprisal.

Some fine purchasing, however.

Looking ahead, Thursday should see my return to shindiggery proper. I've been dipping my toes in over the last week, but it's time for some utter disgracefulness. The excuse? Julie left work six months hence and we're finally getting around to seeing her off.

Venue? The Market Bar. There have been some dissenting voices, as ever, but I've always found it airy and agreeable, if a little wanky.

Then, the weekend off. I'm staying up this time, my manifesto to be left in the lap of the Gods.


Sunday, November 07, 2004


(For my latest entry, I had constructed a list of woes, an ode to my inertia. Then I read it back to myself, bored myself to oblivion and hit the delete button. I'm just not that sort of blogger.)

Thursday, November 04, 2004

Four autobiographies.

I feel pretty good. I've just had one of those moments where I realise, "hang on, I feel pretty good. Healthy even. I might start swimming at last, stay off the gargle. Start a course. Write the book. Make some serious bank."

What then?

"Tour the book. See the world. Call Pat Kenny an automaton on the Late Late Show. Write the difficult second novel. It's gonna be about difficult second novels. See it adapted for the screen by Charlie Kaufman. Start dabbling in substances.

"Squander my cash. Start giving V signs to photographers. Write a third novel and get panned. Enter rehab. Escape. Go back to rehab. Write a short story about rehab. See it hailed as a return to form. Write third novel. Stay clean. Stay sober. Marry a lap dancer called Crystal. Attempt concept album. Divorce Crystal (who has changed her name to Celine to gain credit in her burgeoning pop career)...

"Concept album tops concept album charts. Write first autobiography. Marry for a second time. Move to the South Of France. Celebrate 40th birthday. Fall off the wagon. Get back on the wagon. Fall off the wagon. Get back on the wagon.

"Write second autobiography.

"Do the talk show circuit. Have pellets placed in my stomach that make me vomit blood every time I drink. Become a patron for a younger writer, telling him not to make the same mistakes I did. Watch my charge make the same mistakes I did.

"Do a compilation album of my favourite artists and see it hit top spot. Buy a small Greek island. Write third (and penultimate) autobiography - 'The Bitterness Years' - Have first child at the age of 49. Return to fiction writing. Get panned. Lose a fortune on the stock market. Notice how my accountant (a lifelong friend by the name of **** ******) has bled me dry.

"Sell Greek island. Divorce second wife. She gets the kid. Write final autobiography - 'Is there no end to the bitterness years?' - Get panned. Die in mysterious circumstances. Hailed as legend."

Yeah, that would do me. I feel pretty good.

Tuesday, November 02, 2004

V sign!

These are crazy, crazy, crazy, CRAZY nights!

Or not. Don't know why I wrote that.

Spent the weekend at home, watching football and 'Angels In America' on DVD. Picked it up for a fair price, but what a strange film it is.

Basically, it's a six-hour dreamscape, a philosophical look at death (specifically AIDS-related deaths in mid 1980s New York) and the afterlife. Al Pacino annoyed me in it, again shouting his way through his role as the personification of all evil and megalomania. Can the man not do subtle anymore?

The rest is superb, if often incomprehensible. I won't get too much into it, chances are if you're reading this you know me quite well and I'll lend it to you. Judge for yourself.

The rest is academic, it's Anne's birthday today so dinner will be had in her honour. Fell's looking for pints for the City game so might indulge him. Then again might not. I've fallen out with drink and can't quite find my way back in.

Note to Cowzer: Good work on the BA in Recreational Studies manifesto, anybody who requires a prospectus contact me at Your life will change.

Note to 5X: Studies indicate that Johnson And Johnson's 'No More Tears' formula is a shampoo, and not an antidote to the devastating blows dealt us everyday by Lady Life.

Now weep freely, you'll feel better.

Wednesday, October 27, 2004

No such thing as a quiet life.

I have decided to break my self-imposed 'don't talk about work' mandate. I am moved to a rant against the speaker phone.

Now, there are a couple of culprits. Basically, instead of lifting the receiver and checking their messages in the privacy of their own headspace, they press the loud speaker button and let the messages just blare out across the office.

I know I'm a "crotchety old fucker" (thank you Lord Brady) but why are we subjected to this noise pollution? Are they trying to impress us? Are they just disinclined to lift a receiver? Are they that stuck for time? Or perhaps it's carpal tunnel syndrome and their wrists can't stand the strain...

And don't get me started on conference calls.

In other news, there's a storm abrewing. Short odds on the Liffey to burst its banks...

Sunday, October 24, 2004

The demise of 5X?

I thought it had all caught up with him. 5X, that is.

In work, half time in the Saturday football, I went to the jacks and noticed the gents was occupied. Didn't pay it a second thought as I rambled into the ladies - they have an electric hand-dryer in there and no crud on the wall, far more amenable. So far, so average pissy weekend working day.

The next bit got my juices a-flowing.

Leaving the washroom I met Nick Royle. Nick pointed out that the gents had been locked for at least an hour. It then struck us that 5X had left his desk and hadn't been spied for some time.

"Get the security guard, and waste no time," commanded Nick. "I think Derek's keeled over from exhaustion of some sort. Hurry do!"

So I meandered downstairs, figuring all the while that 5X had had a good innings and that he would've wanted it this way, this faux '60s rock star demise. Still, for the sake of decency I alerted the security guard, Tony, and we hit the third floor.

At this stage I became nervous, I don't mind telling you.

I mean, dead or merely collapsed from the shindig, I knew I'd be the first in and that I would definitely see 5X's cock.

There was no way around it. It was a sight I'd avoided through seven years of life partnerdom, but everything passes. I held my breath.

We broke in.

Nobody there. Somebody had managed to lock the toilet from the outside, the cubicle unoccupied.

Next thing, the lift pops open and out steps 5X, seeming fitter than a fiddle and very much cogent.

"Alright boys..."

Nick hugged him, thankful that the colour was very much in his cheeks and that he was comfortable and vertical.

I hugged him too, relieved, o so relieved, that again I had avoided meeting le tigre. May my well of fortune never run dry...

Friday, October 22, 2004

Keeping it indoors

5X is a terrible man.

I think he shirks fidelity with glee, I'm not having any more of his "maybe...just maybe...I could be...Jesus it's hard to say....'faithful' this one..." I'm simply never buying that one again, d'ya hear me sire? Still, he's yanging it to the full and I can only admire it.

Gotta get me some of that.

Me? I'm still infuriatingly High Fidelity. If not to the extent of Cowzer, I've found myself dividing up my time between the arts, the shindig dormant. Went on a little spree last night to celebrate the long-delayed aqcuisition of funds.

Three CDS - John Frusciante's 'The Will To Death' ("You'll love it" quoth 5X), American Music Club's 'Love Songs For Patriots' (a Skehan recommendation, seems a bit clever on first listen) and, hang on, what was it, oh yeah, The Coldspoon Conspiracy's 'Plays Well With Others.' Haven't spun that one yet.

Also got 'Gridlock'd' on DVD. It's on account of my Thandie Newton obsession. Not a bad film either but I don't think a lot of Tim Roth's Noo Yawk accent.

The Gods and my underling conspired against my weekend off so I write to you from 30 Foxborough Court. The cat's mewing like 90 downstairs, he's been in queer aul form since he got the snip last week. Still, we couldn't have the horny little devil siring up the neighbourhood now, could we?

I have an itch for radgery and my resolve to keep it indoors is waning by the minute. Might just scout around for some like minded souls later on...

I might just do that.

Tuesday, October 12, 2004

'So and so' cuts a dash...

I've been having my most prolific day in work in the history of days in work. With 11 stories written by midday I turned to 5x and says I, "what feature should I do?"

Says he, "write about the Super Hunks."

So I did.

"Edward Norton: Powerhouse performance in American History X put him up there, and is considered the finest young actor in Hollywood. Lack of poster-boy looks may count against him, but he’s a good bet for the top of the tree. Most likely rating? 8/10."

Frankly, I'm a little perturbed at how readily I took to the article - I felt like that odious Joan Rivers at a Hollywood red carpet function, and, to a lesser extent, her daughter and co-host, Melissa Rivers. The 400 words wrote themselves in under 20 minutes.

"Matt Damon: Thank God for Bourne. Matt’s career was heading distinctly swanny-wards when he offered the part of Robert Ludlum’s Average Joe super-spy. Pay-dirt! Talent in abundance and chiselled looks, he’s up there. Most likely rating? 8.5/10."

I must be a benny.

Anyway, it's 2.16pm and I'm free in less than two hours. I could learn to love this early morning jazz. Lift in with Johnny and Pike, no buses and liberty in the late afternoon. It's handy, as I can catch Avoca before it closes and go for a quick stand-up top-up. You know what I'm talking about.

A benny.

Sunday, October 10, 2004

I have blogged...

"The lads done superb. They hassled and harried the French and, though the pay-off's not come, they can be proud of a lion-hearted performance." Johnny Football Pundit.

Yeah it was good stuff alright, we beat the French 0-0 and Germany, for me, beckons. Not to hyperbolise, but with the likes of John O'Shea and Steven Finnan in our team I can't see us getting beat. Or even beaten.

I watched the match in the cosy surrounds of Owen and Emma's Phibsborough flat. We resisted the temptation to watch it with the baying hordes and instead let the mini-fridge master us for the afternoon. Twas cheap and sweet. Oh, and let me recommend Domino's new Indonesian skewers. Mui bueno.

Friday was more of the more. Was spreadeagled on the couch circa 2.30 in the pm, lamenting the demise of Kilroy, when in burst a thirst-riddled John Boy.

"We need to get drunk immediately!"

I sensed the urgency in his voice and decided not to quibble. One quick spray-spray later and we were in The Penny Hill, setting the world to rights and letting lady liquor work her majesty. WMDs, the plight of Palestine, economic disparities and oil...Absolutely all of the above were decidedly off the agenda.

One journey through the by-roads and leafy lanes of West Dublin later and we were back on the couch, setting the world to rights and letting lady liquor work her majesty...

You know that kind of way?

Wednesday, October 06, 2004

My design.

I have a bigger room. It's the strangest thing, for six months now I've been back in box room surroundings, a compact snug with a single bed, a wardrobe, telly, video and a semi-lurid picture on the wall.

Cut to now and, with Edel in Noo Yawk, I have a spacious double boudoir with loads of storage space and a floor you can pace about on. And I like to pace.

Now, the wall behind me is, well, pink, so a lick of paint will be needed. The other walls are cream, and I was thinking of going for a nice...

Wait one moment, nearly caught 'the gay' there. I'll most likely hear what Aisling has to say and nod along politely, ask Johnny to paint it in exchange for lager beer and we'll drink as it dries.

"Everything that transpires does so according to my design..."

Matters of interior decoration aside, it's been a laid back time for me. Stayed in at the weekend with just a couple of cans each night, worked (this is my seventh day of nine in a row) and slept. The changing of the seasons pleases me - I'm a winter soul - while I'm hotly anticipating Friday and Saturday off.

Claire showed me pictures of Barcelona and my resolve to get there has been reinforced, but things are tight financially so I'll bide my time. And then swoop!

Thursday, September 30, 2004

The Bianconeri beckons...

5X is back, which means I'd better start blogging again. He's been explaining how EVERYTHING in Italy, including the carbonated beverages, is better than in Ireland.

So that's it, I'm going.

Just a case of learning the language, saving some cash and taking it from there. I'm even prepared to school myself in the ways of the vendetta.

And so to reality.

I've been rather quiet lately, blog-wise. It was brought to my attention that all I write about is boozing and what not. This troubled me until one of the lads, Cowzer or Ollie, pointed out that all Brendan Behan wrote about was revelry.

So, here goes...

Got locked last night!

Tuesday, September 21, 2004


As Fin said, it's that mixture of fear and excitement that greets any Liverpool - Man Utd game. I like our chances, even without Danny Murphy, so often the scourge of the scum.

Heading home soon to watch it, no boozing for me tonight.

Last night I had my first ever pint in Dublin's best pub. Ryan's of Parkgate Street. You walk in and it's the '20s. You can just imagine Stephen Rea drinking there, clad in the fashion of the times. Bar-keeps were especially kindly - one even stood to attention when I addressed him as 'bar-keep,' a sackable offence in some inns - while the pints were squoze by the Gods themselves.

They even let the lads smoke in there! In this prohibitory day and age, it was a breath of stale air...

We tumbled doorwards at 12.30am, an hour and a half after closing hour and with the lads behind the bar still happy to serve us. However, myself, Ollie, Kev and Austin could take no more, we had had enough.

Monday, September 20, 2004

That great Irish conflict...

I did it! I did it! An entire weekend spent away from the pub, a touch of min to counter the max. Now Skehan's pestering me for pints but I'm staying strong. He's using The Villager - a favourite pub - as bait, but......must.....stay.....away......from......the......shindig.

Now it's Ryan's ("the finest pint in Dublin, according to one of the lads who knows one of the lads...") he's employing. Sure fuck it, I'll have the one and then hit the road. Yeah.

In my sobriety, and isolation, last night I got to thinking about alternatives to boozing.

(Tumbleweed sashays through my mind...)

No, really, aside from being at the mercy of the picture house, what else is there for us but the pub? The gym? Please. Stage plays? Once every six and a half years maybe, but that still leaves..........dum de dum de dum......2372 evenings to avoid staying in. The great outdoors? Where? Bray? Have a word with yourself...

My train of thought went further than this, but I'm stuck for time and it's time for a jar...

I'll get back to it later.

Friday, September 17, 2004

For medicinal purposes...

I have that feeling in my throat. It's not sore, it's just a heaviness that could signal the arrival of a cold. Drat.

Was talking to the girls about this at lunch. I'm crap at being sick.

You will have never seen a more pathetic, self-important, obnoxious creature than me with a headcold. Frankly, I use it as an excuse to make everyone as miserable as me, while explaining my compunction to drink whiskey (hot and cold) at 11am as 'medicinal.' Of course, that's a crock of crud.

Cowzer wants a pub review section added to this blog. I happen to agree. I like pubs, I frequent them, yes, all the time and I even prefer some over others. They're subconsciously rated already, just a case of chroniclisation. Or some such.

May I ask Sir Cowzer what the criteria may be? Atmosphere, quality of pints/bar snacks, ladies and (strictly) their personalities, music. Anything to add?

Over to you Sirrah...

Oh, and may I take this opportunity to wish Denise all the best on her venture, and 5X a happy holiday. He makes me want to be a better blogger.

Saturday, September 11, 2004

Today I will mostly be dying on my arse...

More on The Globe. The place is awash with fairly fair members of the fairer sex. Found it hard to concentrate on my lager beer last night, such was my ardour.

Stayed on my (nearly) best behaviour, left Ollie, 5X and Richie to it after only two or three. Previous night - table quiz - did for me and I went home.

More of it tonight with Johnny and his uncle Billy. It could get messy, let's just say that John Boy didn't lick it off the ground.

Pop: Geri lashes former lovers in song. X Factor contestants forced to sign contracts. George Michael: Madonna tried to seduce me. See WAP.

Tuesday, September 07, 2004

Yin time...

It was a good weekend.

In the Palace, some Temple Bar wastage hole and finally The Globe with the lads on Friday.

Cocktail of stupidity:
1) Eight-ish pints of Guinness.
2) Jameson (mixer optional, Coca Cola in my case)
3) Slippery nipple(s)
4) No food, bar a fistful of Pringles.

My own worst enemy, as 5X put it to me on Saturday.

Saturday: Just 'the two' in The Long Stone with said 5X. The man's a machine - one sup from his first ale and he's "takin' it to the max tonight." Granted, there was some wist in his voice, but I refuse to believe he felt THAT bad about it. I left him to it on George's Street and got the last bus, the residue from the previous night's alement still pulsing in me.

Sunday? To Dakota. Happily Kev rescued me after scant Stella, otherwise it would have become raucous. Made merry at home.

It's Monday now, I'm not long back from town. I bought Pearl Jam 'Live At Benaroya Hall,' Fargo for a tenner, biography of Marlon Brando for four beans - you can't go wrong - Vanilla Sky soundtrack (featuring Peter Gabriel's Solsbury Hill!) and the new Frames single, which is a bit of a dirge, truth told.

I'm due a bit of yin, I'll take it to the yang on Thursday at a table quiz on Baggot Street. No shots this time.

Sunday, September 05, 2004

The twain...

Not good for anything today. Back in The Globe last night, Skehan made me do it. "XXXXX is up to something," says he. "Let's go and cause some mischief."

And so onwards with us. XXXXX, it turns out, was in a very tight spot. Two recent conquests, we'll call them 'the twain,' were about to meet. What does XXXXX do? Says "fuck 'em, this scene's getting tired maaaaaan, I'm gonna hook me up outside of the twain. The twain can kiss my rosy red..."

Or words to that effect.

Meanwhile, I'm at the bar doing slippery nipples, throwing cogency and an entire bed-spread to the wind. I eventually mumble my way home. Work has been slow today, I'm in rare aul form though and gaggin' for the shindig.

There's doins a transpirin'..

Wednesday, September 01, 2004

No comment!

I saw Gus Van Sant's 'Elephant' last night.

It's a strange one. The film, based on the Columbine massacre, spends a third of its duration following kids around the school, where all you see are the backs of heads, and all you hear are snatches of dialogue.

Character development? Not a bit of it. Sense of foreboding? Ironically yes, given that the film is largely soundtrack free and the camera meanders through the school hallways for minutes on end. I'd recommend it, if only for its randomness and ambiguity. As with Columbine itself, no motive is explained, and no answers as to why the two young gunmen shot down their schoolmates given.

It's a strange one.

And so to me. I haven't blogged for a few days, and I haven't boozed for a few days. That's a bit Irish, is it not? Also, Billy has assisted me in adding links to his and Cowzer's blogs. Check them out, they make for much less mundane reading.

I'm in Limerick again, second week in a row. It'll be pints for me tonight, I tells ya. Had some good news today, and XXXXX wants me to go into detail. Well, no dice! Suffice to say the boys are happy...

Saturday, August 28, 2004

Shall we?

One of the boys on an encounter of a not unsexual nature:

"She was talking away and I noted - "I note you aren't wearing a bra under that top." She - "I notice that it's arousing you." Me - "Well observed. Shall we?""

Isn't that just super?

With enemies like these...

"While my own musical career crashed and burned, Bono's star swelled to such a magnitude that somewhere in the darkest recesses of my psyche, I felt as if I were being eclipsed."

This guy, Neil McCormick, was a classmate of Bono's in Mount Temple and has spent the intervening period clinging to the U2 singer's coat-tails, getting to fly first class and attend all the best parties. In today's 'The Ticket,' McCormick bemoans the fact that he was intended for stardom, but his schoolfriend stole his thunder.

It's an infuriating article. McCormick has even written a book about living in the shadow of Paul Hewson, about being a mere doppelganger for the world's most celebrated frontman. Self-pity, insecurity and pettiness, I'm not having any of this. So your friend went and did it while you got cropped out of the picture. Deal with it.

Who will prove himself the McCormick to my Bono???

Round one to Radge!

Thursday, August 26, 2004

Foosball revelry

I wonder if Brian McFadden looks at himself in the mirror, or in the papers, and says mournfully, "Jesus, I'm such a penis!" The red tops today show him giving the finger to the cameraman, his trousers drenched in his own piss.

A true rebel.

In The Globe last night. I like the place. I agree with Emma, it's like a genuine European bar, as opposed to an Irish bar that tries to be cosmopolitan (Cocoon, Zanzibar, Q Bar). Plus, the 'hotties are manifluous, roysh!' Hadn't been there since yore, I'll be going back and merry making in the sooner rather than the later.

After The Globe, to Ri Ra with us. Spent scant time therein, Richie and Fennell were engaged in battle on the foosball table, so myself and Austin travelled to the Mercantile. As usual, we were ushered from pillar to pillar ("can't drink here, bud, closin' up") before trotting off into the night.

Place is a dump anyway.

In pop news: Jamelia signed up by top Hollywood agency. Robbie takes up boxing to lose the flab. Emma Bunton moving to US to revive career. See WAP.

Baby Spice always was my favourite. God speed, Ms Bunton.

Wednesday, August 25, 2004

For the clean up...

"Man, I've had a few, but they wouldn't quite blow me like you."

I'm a sucker for the old romance, me, and when sung through the dulcet tones of Nina Persson from The Cardigans...Well, pass the baseball glove.

Back to the office tomorrow. I'll be frank, looking forward to it. Sitting around ain't what it used to be, boredom sets in quicker than before.

Speaking of yesteryear (like yore, but more verbose), found some photos - mainly Anne's - from the 'broke but don't give a toss, just pass the hooch' student years. Shaved heads, waifish McCadden, Skehan and, yes, me. Johnny's afro, Fennell before Wonderland. Tear to the eye, more innocent times.

Having said that, doubtless when I'm 33 I'll hearken back to these halcyon days, the era of 'The Avalanche' and the 'gypsy's dog.' Oh, I'm gonna have fun with that...

Tuesday, August 24, 2004

My, what nice EYES you have...

Too much time on my hands down here in Limerick. thoughts turn to the (much) fairer sex, to booze, pubs, the shindig in general.

At what point in the evening does confidence turn to assholery, does silliness take hold? Is it a four drink minimum? A specific witching hour? A twist of circumstance?

Whatever. Getting the balance right is the key. Nothing wrong with a bit of Dutch Gold courage and it starts off well. You hold court, do your best Kurt Russell impression and things appear to be 'on'.

However, soon it's "djjje know whaaa? Youuuu're souuunnd! No, no, sirrriously, you're up therrrre wi', ye know, yer one! Yer one that's....just....souuund. YouknowtheoneI'monabou'..."

At this stage she's off talking to, I dunno, Gordon D'Arcy, while you've become the village idiot doing your best to get a taxi home with the bird on the beermat.

And then there's that morning after feeling.

Solutions on a postcard...

Sunday, August 22, 2004

Off the wagon...

Six days, it's a long time off the booze. For me, as I say.

Friday nights are hard to avoid. I began with the best of intentions - meet Greaney for a pint, then head home for one or two bottles. Max.

Instead, I got destroyed. The Corner Stone is a dangerous place, I don't think I've ever left remembering my own name, with last night no exception.

Cocktails. Check. Shots. Check. Beer. Check. Taxi. Check. Sick? Fucked!

Today I've been a mess, with the distraction of the football and my own throbbing head. At least I'm off now for a few days, home to Limerick for some inactivity...

Thursday, August 19, 2004

Karen, Richard, over to you...

'Talkin' to myself and feelin' old
Sometimes I'd like to quit
Nothing ever seems to fit
Hangin' around Nothing to do but frown Rainy Days and Mondays always get me down.

What I've got they used to call the blues
Nothin' is really wrong
Feelin' like I don't belong
Walkin' around Some kind of lonely clown Rainy Days and Mondays always get me down.

Funny but it seems I always wind up here with you
Nice to know somebody loves me
Funny but it seems that it's the only thing to do
Run and find the one who loves me.

What I feel has come and gone before
No need to talk it out
We know what it's all about
Hangin' around Nothing to do but frown Rainy Days and Mondays always get me down.'


Brandy, you say?

Apparently I drank brandy the other night (for the first time in my life). Maybe that's to blame for my inertia this past four days. That, the weather or the 22 pints that preceded it.

Back in work, which is no bad thing. I've been off since Friday, and there's only so much time you can spend playing with the cat.

Not that I'm knocking the kitten (Mr. Kitty/Trevor), he's a compliant wee fecker (once you spray him!). He likes me too, and doesn't mind if I blame him when I fart. Which is nice.

Otherwise, it's back to writing about Britney, Justin and some other celebrity non-entity. I'll get to the good stuff later. Off home next weekend, with the dual objectives of refusing the booze and seeing the quack. Hope he doesn't prescribe a Hennessy or two...

Monday, August 16, 2004


Monday morning, nothing manic about me. Strange dreams last night, the sweats, maybe the DTs. Probably not.

The day termed Brain Day was a weekend event.

Palace (Friday evening), non existent party in Harold’s Cross (late Friday night), back to Cowzer and Emma’s (early hours Saturday), scotch for breakfast (Saturday morning), to McGeoughs for the football (Saturday day), on to the Porter House (Saturday night).

Such should not be the plight of man.

Normally I have the constitution of a bull - even the 19 pubs of Dingle presented no serious challenge to me - but Jaysus this malaise just won’t shift. Details of actual conversations, drinks and remedies are patchy, coming back to me at irregular interludes via my own brain and text messages.

The TV is on but I’m not watching, the kitten’s meowing but he’s not getting in. My stomach is heaving and I’m barely keeping it together.

Next year it falls on a Saturday.

Sunday, August 15, 2004

Brain Day itself!

It just came to me that this is the first Friday in an age where I don't have to worry about poxy Big Brother.

The show that glorified the mundane and made celebrities of its imbecilic charges has passed for another year. Sing it!

Onwards to Brain Day, the two-year anniversary of my brush with the scalpel. I know it seems a creepy premise for a party to some, but I am the 'man don't give a fuck.' Worth celebrating, the surgeons restoreth my brain, and tonight I taketh away.

Let it roll on...

Friday, August 13, 2004

The queerest thing

"You scratch your balls a lot, Johnny, you know that..." "Yeah Pike? Never noticed..." Domesticity rules. Anyway, it's blog time, and my first foray. Class this, easy to set up.

Not long back from work, sweating like Gary Glitter in a creche - shower - food in the oven - packaged as usual.

Had a look through the Waga Mama cookbook, seems complicated this cooking lark.

You will need:

Soba (NOT udan, I'm told) noodles.
Sweet Potato.
Pickled ginger (what the fuck?).
One small onion (half mooned, no less).
Hoi sin sauce.
One pear tree.
A partridge.

And that's before you start cooking the bastard thing.