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 snakevalley.blogspot.com (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 tony@setanta.com. 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.