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.'

Quality.

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

Shook

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.
Soy.
One pear tree.
A partridge.

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