Saturday, December 31, 2005

Me Vs 5X

Having informed 5X of my new obsession, he decided to take the wind out of my sails thus...

"The brutal facts are :
You possess none of these qualities that this ***** would require -
The fancy apartment.
The high performance car.
The position of power.
The high salary.
The sense of competiveness.
The kids from a previous relationship.
The life seeming to be together.
Athletic history that can be proved with trophys.
Combination skin.
I'm sorry to break it to you."

So I responded with...

"You speak the truth, but I do possess...
One tear stained pillow.
A sizeable gut.
A bleak sense of my own place in this universe, stuck somewhere between Milhouse and Paul Giamatti in his more hopeless and hapless roles.
A Creative Zen Sleek with 18 gig capacity.
Unconventional handwriting.
No ties.
No mortgage.
No babies.
A free travel card.
A notable scar on my skull.
A fine line in self deprecation.
Good teeth.
The ability to banter.
However, none of the above, I have discovered, is attractive to the opposite sex.
I'm a whizz in the pub but."

And he finished with...

"In an act of bastardry and maleness, I've decided to measure myself up against you -
You speak the truth, but I do possess...
Four deeply impacted and experienced pillows. Oh if they could talk, what tales they would tell...
A well defined and tone stomach.
Also, admittedly, a bleak sense of my own place in the universe, stuck somewhere between David Spade and Jason Shwartzman, in his only role.
A laptop filled with wonderful, zesty, original work that won't benefit from my lack of ambition and drive.
Unreadable handwriting.
No ties.
No mortgage.
No babies, I maintain.
No murderous petroleum-based transport . (End petroleum now!)
A interesting mystery scar on my leg.
A Cuddihy.
A rather nice cock, all told.
A taste for the cruder things in life.
Some of these things have helped me to get my end away.
Except for the Cuddihy."

My world, everybody...

Monday, December 26, 2005

Better the Radge you know...

Stephens Day, down in Limerick. Supposed to be Thurles bound, but a whoresome throat infection coupled with Skehan's own ailment has put paid to that.

Anyway, it's time for the Radgery honours list. Don't even think I did one of these last year.

Expect it to be ramshackle.

Departures of the year:
1. Skehan around the world. He managed it in three months. Phileas Fogg did it in 80 days. Skehan drank more though. And caroused by all accounts. Nearly fell in love too, despite my warnings.
2. Me to Heidelberg. Oh sweet divine but that was a hell of a weekend. Myself, Kev and Johnny over to Corporal Kenny. To be repeated in March, all going well.
3. Salif Diao to Portsmouth.
4. The boy Raf to London. No doubt he'll be disappointed to come behind Salif Diao in the departure stakes. He'll have to get over it. Numpty!
5. Julianne to Oz. And New York. And Amsterdam. There's tinker blood in her!

Arrivals of the year:

1. Got to say the year was divided up into pre-Davros and post-Davros. That's right, the boy Maher returned from Australia in June and things have seldom been sober since.
2. The bould Ann and the even boulder Emma Q (as she is in my phone) to the floor that is the third in Broadcasting House. Many, MANY cries of "come on, we'll just go for the ONE!"...
3. Pepe Reina.
4. Fernando Morientes.
5. Bolo Zenden (crocked or not).
6. The animal, as I will no doubt rename him. Figure that one out Cowzer, shouldn't take much.

Disappointments of the year:

1. The Setanta Christmas party. Faultless organisation, but too much politics. I won't elaborate.
2. The last three days of Lanzarote. Beware the Cuddihy clan, or certain members thereof! Nah, great holiday, just people stepping on toes at close quarters. To be expected.
3. The first half in Istanbul, May 25th.
4. The 25A bus stop on Wellington Quay. THAT night. See earlier blog 'The One Where Radge Thought "Fuck It!"...

Nights out of the year:

1. Radge Lash 2005. A good one, and didn't get crap. Long Stone. Shots. Still. Didn't get crap. The right lads.
2. Raf's leaving drinks (nice hat). Long Stone.
3. Dave returns. Eh. Long Stone again.
4. Random visits to Nearys, The Stag's Head, John Mulligan, Doyles, Grogans, Doran's, Kehoe's of course and as ever, Ryans and The Villager. Oh, and how could I forget The Palace Bar.

Sexual exploits of the year:

(The administrator has deemed this content too lewd and/or lascivious to post. Either that, or Radge has had a pretty quiet year in the veni vidi vici stakes and has nothing to say on the subject).

Year highlights:

1. The second half, extra time and penalties, Istanbul's Ataturk Stadium, May 25th.
2. Dave's return from out foreign.
3. Been a great year for meeting new people and befriending same.
4. Getting drunk of an afternoon recently in Nearys and Kehoes. It was a Tuesday, random as you like. Brought me back to myself and kicked off six weeks of revelry (ongoing at time of writing).
5. Seven game winning streak in Premiership, no goals conceded at time of writing. Fingers crossed we'll kill the Toon in, oh, 39 minutes.


1. The whole Manu Chao thing. Palace Bar. Trying to be Jools Holland. Fucked up.
2. Four pints. MacTurcaills. First week of December. There they were, in my hands - gone!
3. The aftermath of Wednesday night just gone. I fucked up again. Not saying how or who with. All's calm again.
4. Sick on Paddy's week.
5. Vodafone shenanigans.

So that's your lot, Happy New Year. Keep your heads about ye. Normal blogging service has been resumed.

He signs off,


Sunday, December 18, 2005

A rod for my back?

It’s growing ever clearer to me that people are bastards. The little things. Just went down to the kitchen in work, and there’s a lad at the sink washing his cup or something. I greet him warmly, “how’s it goin?” - the way you do.

Fucker just scowls at me and looks back to the sink.

Such things bother me. After the vulgarity of the Christmas Party and subsequent fall-out, I’m typing up a code of conduct.

I’m just fucking disgusted by the behaviour of certain people.

Lads, look after the young ones. Don’t go making them cry. In fact, don’t go getting them drunk and then making them cry. If you do that, you are pond life. Make no mistake about it.

Is there no chivalry in the world? Is there no sense of decency? Jesus, is there no respect?

I’d rather see a drunk girl safely home of a night than try to capitalise. Maybe it’s just me, and fuck knows I’ve had the nice guy tag thrown at me forever, but I don’t care. In a selfish way, it’s all about feeling right in my own head.

How lads can brag about picking up this girl or that when she’s totally incapacitated with drink is beyond my ken. Where’s the gratification in that?

Who are you trying to impress?

And don't be a cheat. And don't be a coward. And you know who you are. And you're a fucking disgrace.

There are ways to treat people, and I’m beginning to doubt that anyone else gets it.

Monday, December 12, 2005

December, everybody...

Une Starkos: Pint?
tonycuddihy: You serious?
Une Starkos: Maybe...
tonycuddihy: I'd manage one.
Une Starkos: Dare we?
tonycuddihy: We dare. In Dundrum in the morning but, so definitely just having the two.
Une Starkos: Longstone, Doyles and then on...
Une Starkos: Or maybe a quiet one in Mulligans?
tonycuddihy: Yeah. Into John Mulligan with us. Fuck it.
Une Starkos: Fuck it yeah

Sunday, December 11, 2005

Chickenhead telling a joke, by 5X

...'Ok, I have one!! Ok.. em.. Right. There's this guy who wants to buy, well no, his wife asks him to, anyway, he goes into a it a shop?... no, yeah it is! So in he goes anyway and says to the guy...what is it he says?..Oh yeah, he says..'Do you have..(Other girl interrupts - 'No he doesn't say that yet Suzie!) 'Does he not? Oh yeah you're right! Hang on, actually, Louise tells it better, don't you lou? You tell it. Louise changes the subject -'Is John meeting us here? Did you text him?' The joke is forgotten as the girls pursue that other conversation. The man is left in despair....

Thursday, December 08, 2005

Months of the year.

Jarred January

Fucked February

Mangled March

Arseholed April

Messy May

Jolly June

Jovial July

Alcoholic August

Sloshed September

Oiled-up October

Nasty November

Drunken December

Wednesday, December 07, 2005

Salute to Harold Pinter



I'm back with you. Just been on Cowzer's blog and he says he's quitting international blogging to concentrate on his club career. Of course, I can't accept a retirement. There's too much juice in the man's blogging loins for that. Denied.

As for 5X, well over a month since HIS last entry. The world at large, I feel, needs to know more about his latest tussles with the tiger, the yoga mat and that mysterious orange liquid he's resorted to after just two pints. That's right people. 5X is hitting the Tropicana heavy, and is looking all the healthier of hue for it.

What else? Had my first pints in the Bachelor Inn the other night. It reminded me of Clarkes in Glasnevin when it was still Clarkes. The lads from home will recall. Used to serve 14-year-olds did old Jim Clarke, until he was bought out and they got the late license and a classier class of clientele. Had to go to Fibbers for my libations then.

Ah Fibbers. It was the era of Soundgarden and Superunknown and what not. Ah Fibbers. And McGraths. And Quinns in Drumcondra. All housed me in my youth.

But enough of that. Was in the Bachelor with the aul lad and his mates Dave and Harry and Barry and Des and Vinny. Skehan was with me. The older gents waxed on about old haunts like Bartley Dunne's and Rice's and God knows where. Fascinating to listen to. Got the impression that my Da's mates had some right rum tales about the man, but they weren't for my ears.

Anyway, they all went off to get fed and myself and Skehan went to the Palace. Couple of jars there and it was back to mine with Johnny and more ale. Then myself and Skehan toiled away in Neary's and Kehoe's all day Tuesday, just like the old college days - especially when his ex Vanessa showed up. Left them to it around six and came back out home to watch the fitba.

Today's been all about nothing. Sitting on my arse watching Primary Colors on DVD and crap TV subsequently. In a short while we have United and Benfica. Could be a cracker.

Anyway, that's enough from me. Feel like I've rambled on long enough. Next week a Christmas Party in Galway and genuine rambunctiousness.

More of which anon.

Tuesday, November 29, 2005

RIP Mr Miyagi.

That Sudoku's a tough bastard, no? Johnny's been tackling it for the last hour or so on the couch, and no nearer a solution. Passed it over to me eventually. I couldn't figure the thing out, so threw down the paper in disgust and said I was coming upstairs to blog.

First off, well done Karen on Vicky Pollard Is A Style Icon dot blogspot dot com. May all your tales of disrepute spill forth.

Anyway, here I am.

Funny day in work today as we waxed on and off about the weekend. Radge Lash 2005, as Fennell dubbed it, was a hum of a dinger. Shots were a bad idea I felt, and the Long Stone staff can testify to same after seeing me scarper with my ass between my cheeks at 2am, Saturday morning.

I couldn't face Doyle's and the pictures explain why. There I am, drink clasped in hand and grinning like an idiot. 5X insists I didn't get crap though, and I trust him due to his own sobriety.

Saturday took Trousers over to ours for the fitba. Davros Sterlingfields was meant to be joining us, but his own travails the night before did for him. Divil a County Lucan he was heading for, still stuck to the bed at 2pm he was, by all accounts. That drink's a killer.

Anyway, for me the day was a blur. I know there was football and about twelve bottles of Stella and pizza and the lads having the craic, but I'm only aware of this because of the stash of empty vessels already collecting in the back garden. It's as if the day never happened.

The funniest thing happens to me.

I can never sit around in the house for more than a day. Johnny has often remarked on my cabin fever, the fact that eventually the walls close in on me after more than 24 hours at home. And so it was on Sunday - I had planned to take a day to myself, go to see Factotum in the Screen, maybe go on the train to Killiney or some such seaside place.

Film killed me though. It was a bleak ride, watching Matt Dillon's Hank Chinaski drink himself from one job to the next, encountering one slimeball bint after another, getting more and more broken down by the minute. By the time the credits rolled I surmised that either a) I would never drink again or b) man oh man I needed a jar.

In this state of confusion I hopped on the bus and said I'd let fate take its course. Sure enough I'd only reached Westmoreland Street when Davros called up and told me the Harbour Master was looking for us. So we went and 5X came too and we had stout plenty of and it was fun.

Which brings me back to today. It's 9.05 in the pm as I write and I tire. I've Denise's table quiz tomorrow night, will try to ale to the minimum. Then Wednesday I'll keep a low profile, maybe head home to see the folks or, y'know...

...get destroyed.

Am I wrong?

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

Ta-ra Julianne

Bring me back of stick of rock and a box of Australian gone-off crackers. And some Marmite.

They're mad into the Marmite, the aul Aussies. It's a terrifying food stuff, the taste of which I cannot describe in these pages. Myself and Lynn were forced to partake on a trip up the Victorian coast all those years ago. Four to be exact. My, how the passage of time hurtles on apace.

Anyway, Ms McKeigue begins her journey this Friday at some ridiculous hour of the morning. Quite how I'll cope without my usual dose of mock disappointed "Ah TONY!!!" is another matter entirely. Unchecked, my ego could run amok. I hope she's happy to have THAT on her conscience.

Anyway, what am I up to?

Well, I'm off today again, sat at the computer and doing anything on God's Earth to avoid writing this poxy Vodafone proposal. If anyone has any ideas on how to best cater for a TV/Movie portal on both 2.5G and 3G, incorporating video, quizzes, polls and stellar yet snappy journalistic interludes, please pass them on.

I'm rather stuck.

Still, when all this has come to pass and we're toasting our achievement, you'll see a happy Radge.

Took her easy last week, didn't visit the pub once. Had a few on Sunday night in John Mulligan with Messrs Maher, 5X, Ding Dong and Roche, closely followed by the bauld Fred, encamped again in Mother Ireland after his own travels.

Then Monday was a dinger, the Long Stone-Doyles combo doing for me, and causing the mother and father of all hangovers yesterday. I'm still not right. That Kev is a divil once he gets them in.

I won't harp on about the gargle, after all ye all KNOW I drink (thanks for that 5X).

What else? I've been mulling over an article in Saturday's Indo just gone. David McWilliams - a man I respect due to his intolerance of hyperbole - has written a book about how Ireland has become the great imbiber. No news there. But we're also eating more than ever, "obsessing about food", having sex more than the hornier than thou Japanese (unfortunately I seem to be bringing the national average down on that score, if you'll excuse the pun), taking more drugs than the Aussies (who love their aul E tabs) and gambling more - due in no small part to Johnny Ward and Tommy the cleaner, doubtless.

Interestingly, however, we're also working harder than we've ever done before. More and more people are taking their work home. They'll probably hit the books after a night on the tiles, coked up to the nines. Not only that, but we've become obsessed by our health. The gyms and swimming pools are overrun by the same hedonistic drunkards as the night before.

"We will feed our hangovers with carbohydrates but then, when fully rehydrated and sober, regard mashed potatoes as the Devil's spawn."

What a thing it is to be Irish. We're burning the candle at both ends and loving it. Sounds about right. Ireland's decadence is alive and well. Now all we have to do is overtake the Greeks in terms of shagging and we will truly be living the new ancient Rome, paradoxically.

Loving it I say.

Sunday, October 30, 2005

No comments allowed.

I'll tell you, it's been a tough week. Candles being burnt at both ends to form me, a waxy mass of messiness on the floor of a room in Foxborough.

I'll begin last Tuesday, when a fresher faced version of me left Setanta Central for the Screen cinema. Myself and Julianne were to see Broken Flowers. The one thing I can grant this film is watchability, and Bill Murray could be cast as a showgirl in a third rate Broadway musical and I'd still relish every raised eyebrow.

The film itself was a bore, however. Murray looks forlorn - girlfriend leaves him - he may have a son from a previous relationship - he takes a nondescript trip through Americana (none of the lushness of Sideways on this jaunt, just complete blandness) to meet some ex-girlfriends and discern if one of them is the mother - looks forlorn - does the bold thing with one of them - gets beaten up - looks forlorn - ends. I wouldn't mind, but there's no sense of conclusion about the film at all. Disappointing.

Anyway, to Pizza Stop with us then and that was finest, minimum intake of alkihawl and home to the bed.

Wednesday: Work (nondescript) and then Emma's birthday in Glasnevin/Phibsboro. I had fully intended not to drink, or to have only one or two and then onto the dry, but my defences crumbled at the presence of PP, stander upper of a few weeks hence. Managed to keep decorum to the max, though, despite many Temple Braus, and last I remember was propping up the bar in Clarkes with John O'Brien, a pal of yore and capital man.

Even managed a few words with the little wench, it would have been below me to get thick. Good job.

Thursday: Woke up with six heads. Not like me to get hangovers, but the thought of work and lager beer married together to such a hedonistic degree turned my stomach, especially knowing I'd have to do it all again tonight. So I headed as far as Sheehans to meet Denise and Lynn. David Maher caught wind of this and it was all over. Add JJ Raftery and Julianne to the mix and revelry was the result.

Got pretty shit-faced.

Queer end to the night as myself, John and Dave found ourselves advanced upon by the drunkest young one I've ever seen in my life. The other girls had all skidaddled at this stage, so it was left to us boys to discern the young lush's address, with Dave nobly putting her in a taxi and sending her wherever... The boys went on to Doyles, I just went home.

Friday: Raf's leaving to work in England, so we had to send him off with a degree of style. One sexy cowgirl combo later and we're in the Long Stone. Good aul turn out for everybody's number one numpty! Come 12.30 or so, however, and I was feeling the weight of a week of waywardness, decided to switch to water and by 1am I was homeward bound.

Saturday: Got up and endeavoured to charm the culottes off Edel's sister Karen, a spirited young one if ever there was one. I was in rare hungover form as we picked up Trousers and decided to re-drunken to the tune of Liverpool's 2-0 win over the Hammers. Eventually I had to shout "NO MORE!" as I staggered to bed around ten bells.

So that's what I've been up to.

Monday, October 10, 2005

What did we do to deserve this?

Gavin Lambe Murphy. Now there's an odious little scut. He's there in the Tribune magazine gurning up at me, so I decide to read the article.

Poor Gavin.

"Name-dropping like nobody's business, he's clad in black designer jeans and a tight, black polo neck and with his shock of blonde hair; his trademark glasses and his 'man' bag (designer of course) placed firmly on the seat beside him..."

It goes on: "You have to hand it to him; articulate, self-deprecating and unashamedly irreverent, he's great company."

I don't know what's worse about this article. Lambe Murphy himself? He lizards on about his battles with drug addiction, scoring with loike the most beautiful women in Ireland and the fact that he's a changed man now that he's given up the portying (sic) scene and is opening up a hip new Dublin eaterie.

Or is it Erin McCafferty? The sycophantic scribbler who has deemed this epitome of shittiness worthy of a cover article, and has clearly spent hours crawling around the innards of his ass.

I don't recall it myself, but I'm pretty sure there was a time when celebrity was attained through more than getting some black-rimmed glasses, bleaching your hair, talking louder than most, using 'man' bags as accessories and adopting a faux-Dublin 4 brogue that belies utterly your upbringing by decent and hard-working parents.

I've been here before, as has 5X, but I'm finding it harder and harder to enjoy a society that looks up to twats like the self-styled GLM.

Oh, and he's a steamer.

Monday, October 03, 2005

An Daingean

No talk of Liverpool. No talk of getting destroyed. No talk of celebrities. No talk of a rat race. No talk of film premieres. No talk of grand schemes. No talk of James fucking Blunt. No talk of Q Bar.

It's still my week off, let me see it through undistracted by inanities. Plenty of time for that craic come Wednesday.

Have spent the last few days 'away from it all,' a concept which is surely to become the copyright of Time Warner before the year is complete. There I go again. Pretty fucked off with corporate husbandry if you hadn't guessed. Why?

Because I've been in Dingle, a Mecca for those left spiritually bereft by the goings-on of Noughties Ireland. 5X asked me for a full report. Well, when the air is clear, save for rainwater spray and waftings from the many fish purveyors, and there isn't a luminous yellow raincoat for miles around (affixed to some gormless American tourist looking for some bird called Anne Dangen) you're in a happy place.

Myself and the matriarch took ourselves down on Saturday afternoon.

She rested on arrival, I went off wandering the by-ways and in-roads of my ancestors. No.6, Grey's Lane, to any future biographers.

It was into Hannie Agnes' for a swift stout and then likewise to the unfortunately named Dingle Pub. Black gold indeed.

The food in Lord Baker's pub and restaurent was pricey but better than any I've tested on this isle bar one, Blair's Cove in West Cork. I had steaming crab claws followed by the loin of lamb if you please. Delicious. I can say the same about the sole. Bring plenty of cash though.

Then to O'Flaherty's, a disarming place if a little diddly-aye on the night. I went there in the hope that Fergus, the proprietor, would sing, but it was later divulged that it was instrumental and low-key due to a "sad funeral". I liked that.

Back then to Benner's Hotel and slumber, well oiled. We drove around Slea Head on Sunday morning, reinvigorated by a sturdy breakfast in the hotel dining room interrupted only by some rugby tosser called Lorcan with golf balls in his mouth, going on about how he was "so gonna take out the trash with 'torf next weekend". Tossbag.

I wanted to take more time but there was stuff that needed attention back here in Limerick, so our stay ended before it had truly begun. Really it was a reconnaisance mission, before I hand pick some willing associates for my next jaunt.

Did I mention there's a pub every second step? Oh. I forgot. No talk of getting destroyed.

Post scriptum: I fully expect to hear "yeah, your latest entry was ok, but once again I didn't get a mention. I only like the ones where I'm mentioned." You know who you are, but I refuse to say. I'm a fucker like that.

Friday, September 23, 2005

The one where Radge thought: "Fuck it."

August 13th 2004. The date of my first ever blog entry. Well over 14 months of seeing the inner workings of the mind of Radge, aka Abraham Thunderwolff. O were it so.

In truth, it's tough to condense the events of one's life into the odd 300-word passage written at week-long intervals, and often longer.

Still, I feel I've nailed a couple. When I look back on on its 30th anniversary (yes I plan to live that long) I think that both 'The Demise Of 5x' and 'Four Autobiographies' will still stand to scrutiny.

The rest is all topical nonsense, though I hope entertaining nonsense. Having read Snakevalley recently, particularly the following passage...

"So to that end I made sure that I stayed up getting destroyed till 5am on pink, red and white wine followed by a whole bottle of Bailey’s. I’ll stop right there as this is starting to sound like a Radge blog, chock full of ale tales and hangover synopses."

...I felt my tales of rumness and ridiculousness were wearing thin and I should follow a new path. My list of gripes that followed were cathartic, yes, but I feel it lacked the spunk of my 'How Radge Fucked Up This Weekend' output. The lukewarm response confirmed it, and I'm a people pleaser so I'll keep giving the kids what they want.

Anyway, to stay true to myself let me tell you a tale.

6.30. Beep beep. "Can we make it 7.30 instead?" Sakes. "Yeah fine, see you then." Hour to kill now, and doc told me not to drink coffee. What to do? Potter is what. To HMV. To that Insomnia for a sandwich. Back to Trinity front gate. 7.30....7.35....7.40....All that's going through my head is the Brendan O'Carroll sketch where the mot turns up (Shorry I'm layyy - had a foigh' with de bus conductaw)....7.45...She's taking the piss...

Three generations of people have arrived by now, met whoever they're meeting and drunk off into the night...

Maybe I'll head. No. Wait. Here she is. A cursory apology later and we're in the Stags. She insists on getting them in. I fidget, thinking second dates are much more awkward than first ones. We settle. We chat about stuff (is this beginning to sound like a Streets song? The one about ITV. 'She's playing with her hair regularly so I reckon I could well be in'...) though I forget most of it instantly.

It's going well, though there's a little too much distance between us in the seat, and she's got her bag and coat in the middle. This one might not be for turning.

Anyway my brain is saying forget about that, look interested. Laugh in all the right places. Make disarming jokes, that's your thing that you do.

The Stags becomes wedged with American tourists - all cameras and big gums - so we head to Thomas Reads. Very quiet, much more conducive to conversation. Food comes up, she's not afraid to try new things which is good, and she doesn't seem to argue when I suggest a fourth drink.

At this point I must say she has an advantage over me. She's been on the cranberry juice all night and I'm clouding with lady lager. Not too much, just enough to make me start thinking about tactics.

Do I go for the Diamond Formation, and try to wow her with erudition, sensitivity and flattery. Or is it to be the no frills 4-4-2, get straight in there, tight up front, into a taxi and bam.

She appears to make the decision for me. "I'll walk you down to your bus stop," says she. Happy days. We amble down to Wellington Quay, which is right around the corner from where she lives, and we chat for a few more minutes. No sign of my bus (of course I made sure we'd have plenty of time before it came along - the 25A is the one route that runs to a timetable) so I'm thinking 'here we go'.

I make intimations of an intimate nature, thinking to myself that it was a slow start but things have ended up nicely, you haven't fucked up once as per 5x's instructions, and I reckon I can't fail.

I fail.

"Look, you're a,"...don't fucking say it..."really"....oh bollix here it comes..."REALLY"....SAKES...."nice guy but"....

In fairness to me, I maintain some veneer of dignity, all the while praying for the advent of a bus that only moments earlier I'd hoped had broken down on the way.

"Is this your bus?" she asks. I notice a 67 - Maynooth-bound or something - pulling up to the stop. "Eh....yeah sure" says I. Next thing I know I'm on this bus to the wilds of God-knows-where, wondering if I really did hear her say "we should do this again some time" as I scuttled on to pay my fare.

How very Adrian Mole.

Thursday, September 15, 2005

Gripes of me.

Things that piss me off, lot 173.

People that eat crisps on buses: What's that repetitive, annoying, crunching, munching fucking sound behind me on the 25A? It's the sound of some howaya gorging on a packet of Monster Munch whilst simultaneously snapping her Hubba Bubba right in my fucking ear. Please stop it, they won't go stale if you just wait the half an hour it takes to get back to your shack.

KFC ads: Singing in an operatic style about the vagaries of popcorn chicken. What regurgitated phlegm of a suit came up with this? It's worse than the First Aternative ad with Michael Winner. And that was infuriating.

Insurance ads: Do I care how much some old fart's car insurance is in Norwich Union as opposed to, I dunno, First Alternative? No. I really don't. And in most cases being quoted less by one company than another doesn't make one dance around one's sitting room doing the cha cha and gurning like Shirley Temple Bar on ecstacy. Not in my experience anyway.

Queues: I'd rather be in the pub.

Q Bar: Went in there last Sunday to see how the pond life live when they're not out buying shiny belts and having children at 14. Turns out they sit around comparing facial fluff and counting out coppers for their next pint of Bud. And don't get me started on Cork supporters.

That 'Langer' song: It's not clever.

MTV: Pimp My Ride? I'm sorry? And surely a Crib is something you take down from the attic every Christmas if you're of a pious persuasion, and not a dwelling with two swimming pools, a video room, a studio, four living rooms, a brothel, a dildo-shaped couched and a garage with 13 vehicles, all of which have no doubt been 'pimped'. Just fuck off.

Jordan: Not the country, to which I'm benignly indifferent. No, I refer to the blow-up doll that got paid a million quid by OK! Magazine to marry some voidoid in a pink Barbie dress. They got a 27-page spread. Everything that's wrong with the world in two grotesquely oversized breasts.

Eddie Hobbs: I don't 'loike' the way he says 'Oiiirish'. Apart from that he's probably a sound man, if a little bookish.

Ladies who lunch: The kind that sit around in some made up brasserie called, I dunno, L'enchante and talk about who had the more expensive wedding, how that Seoige girl from Sky News Ireland (sorry Eddie, Oireland) SO shouldn't wear her hair that way and why they'd love to do charity work but couldn't possibly find the time.

Or am I just cranky?

Saturday, September 03, 2005

76% and rising

OK, I know, I know, I've been pathetic in the blogging stakes. Very, very much.

Too much going on, all tomorrow's parties seemed to come at once, all the frustrations, highs, asides and lows of the last three weeks stiffening the two fingers I use to type. Left thumb for caps.

So what's up? My mood, considerably. Kitten conflicts and chest palpitations rendered me a grumpy bastard for a week or thereabouts. That all got sorted thanks to a) a very nice lady from Maynooth and b) the jettisoning of coffee from my diet. Presto. Not a bother.

Played a very brilliant game with 5X yesterday - office lookalikes. We'd throw out a colleague and do our best to find a celebrity to best match that person. Highlights included the actor Giovanni Ribisi as Dave and David Hasselhoff as Mark Sheehan on a good day.

Some of the others are a little rum to mention. Raf - you proved the toughest, though now that I think of it Mark LaMarr would've done the job just fine. Never mind.

So the last week in words. Friday - work, home. Saturday - work, home, Apolcalypse Now. Sunday - work, then to Limerick. Monday - Limerick and inactivity.

Tuesday - Headed back from Limerick and to meet Fin, Dave and (briefly) 5X in Mulligans. The right night was had, with things taking a turn for the messy when I got back from the bar to find our Dave holding court with a semi-cute Aussie lass and her, frankly, less than attractive friend with a voice like George Hook and a face like, well, Captain Hook to be honest.

I bolted, figgering Dave'd be in like Flynn with the Australasian and I'd be forced to walk the plank.

Wednesday - To Dalkey with me for Owen's granny's removal and then home. At least that was the plan. No no, Lynn Greene had other ideas and it was into O'Reillys for Stella pints and many yarns with herself and Andrew. My word I was ill that very night.

Note to drinkists: Stella on draught is a far different proposition to its bottled equivalent.

Thursday - Yet more work interfering with my social engagements. Never fear, though, still subdued by my Stella experience I fixed my attentions on soft drinks in Kehoes with David and Julianne. Well, that was never going to last with those two sniping at me and, following a break of months, I was back stout a-drinking. Went down VERY well. Raf came in, and Emma and Trousers, and to the best of my recollection there were larfs aplenty.

Note to drinkists: Don't follow a feed of Guinness with a feed of Eddie Vomits' Chicken Burger with extra blue cheese dressing. What went down well at the time inevitably led to queasiness long into Friday afternoon.

Friday - Finally managed to take it to the min. Had a few beers at home with John and Pike and watched Rain Man. Domestically blissful. And tonight?


He'll want aleing, and I've already had other parties on at me for pints after work.

Do me a favour, don't come near me for a jar next week.

A) I can't afford it.
B) My body will die. No more Radge.

Post scriptum: Sadly finished Kitchen Confidential this week. One of the great books.

Thursday, August 11, 2005

Cats. Everywhere cats.


First things first, after the disgustingness, medical trials and various tribulations of last year's Brain Day celebrations (they were magnificent, granted) I've decided this year will see it on hiatus. Maybe I'll resurrect it next year, maybe it's gone forever. I just can't shake the feeling that Brain Day is, like, soooo 2004.

Or something. Of course, I couldn't dispose of it altogether, so Cowzer's coming over to Lucan to check out the Liverpool game. Middlesbrough. Hmmmm. As I announced to the office last week, "it's potentially a slippery banana skin there Eamonn Dunphy, ha? Live."

Oh, but apparantly my Bill O'Herlihy impression is crap. You know who you are!

Anyway, what doing? Looking after 5X's kitten is what while he's off Gauling it to the nines.

Smelly. Little. Bastard.

I had company over on Monday night and damn if I wasn't embarrassed at how such a small creature could create such a foul odour. Jesus. So I'm there traipsing around town haemorrhaging sweat carrying 500 fucking pounds of cat litter in my bag this morning. It's no picnic - 5X, I salute your endurance skills and you owe me one. Scratch that, you owe me six.

What else? Quiet enough weekend planned, tomorrow night will find me in the company of my tormentor-in-chief, our sparring keeps me going through the tough times. Friday? Who knows. Saturday? Welcome back Premiership. Sunday? Laundry. Monday? Something about porcelain...

Over to Cowzer.

Wednesday, July 27, 2005

Holy cow

Can I face it? Can I tackle another pummelling from the pint glass? I can't. It's been an insane week.

As Thursday crept into Friday I knew there was a storm a-coming. Kenny with his American pal Will, over to savour Croke Park on a frenetic Sunday. As a preamble there was drinking to be done, and how.

Lads got in on Friday for a few quiet ones in the house. Or so I thought. They arrived with Kev and duly bludgeoned me into town. I tried to fight it but proved the softest touch to the machine that is Kenny.


Got into work Saturday with a head like a chewed tomato, all mush and juices intertwined with the pull and the push of my dullest thoughts. Somehow produced some alright articles but.

Saturday was the Long Stone. A strangely soporific and sober affair, for me anyway. While the lads were getting hammered the drink was not connecting to my recepticons. Remained cogent and fully aware of myself. Didnae fuck up once.

As a result Sunday in work was a relatively hangover-free affair, and I thought I may even get away with not drinking that night. Wrong again. To Pravda and to the Market Bar and to The Village with us. It was another night where the lads were leagues ahead of me in the drinking stakes, and I decided I'd had enough when fire was introduced into the equation.

Headed home about 11.30, with my slumber predictably interrupted by the returning masses at 2am for a couple of night-caps. Cut to the here and now, it's Tuesday night and I haven't even had the respite of a day off this past week. I'm coming across slightly jaded and I apologise for that.

One things for definite: This weekend coming I'm closed for business.

Monday, July 25, 2005

The Radge Party

I'm getting together the new world order. The reason I'm doing this is to rid the world of stupidity, laziness of thought and Amanda Brunker*.

So without any further ado, the honours list.

Owen Cowzer - Minister For Drink:

A very important brief. I've admired Cowzer over the years for his increasing tolerance of liquor. The man can, I admit it, out-drink me and his position on the cabinet is very much tied in with his ability to keep the libations coming to his imperial conqueror - me.

John Fitzpatrick - Minister For Dog's Abuse:

Let's admit it, nobody hands down justice like Johnny. I will call on him to perform the "frowning of a lifetime" when the chickenheads try to rule the roost. He'll also run down a chav for no added charge.

Kevin Murphy - Minister For Groping:

No better man for this particular office. CRINGE as Kev makes yet another drunken fumble for the nearest piece of action. WINCE as his advances are met by a stern slap to the face. SYMPATHISE as he asks "where did it all go wrong, Radge? WHERE?"

Julianne McKeigue - Minister For Laughter:

Julianne has performed admirably in the laughter stakes for some time now. Belly laughs, sarcastic laughs, nervous laughs - the girl can run the whole gamut of mirth.

David Maher - Minister For Games:

Whether it's games of the heart, games of chance or games of Bumperball, David is king at trickery. Like trying to pick up mercury with a fork, David is a tough man to second guess. A political bulldog who, ironically, doesn't play games when it comes to the truth.

Finbar Brady - Minister For Smithwicks With A Guinness Head:

Tipple of the stars, there's no better man to dispense the aul black and tan than Finbar, an experienced ale drinkist.

Brian Kenny - Minister For Foreign Affairs:

Brian will be heading up our German office, scouring the fields of Frankfurt town to bring the ideals of the Radge Party to the Rhineland.

5X - Consiglieri:

Derek '5X' Fennell will be my right-hand man as I endeavour to rid this land of depression, disappointment and dismay. A seasoned thinker who's been pitching for a chomp at the big banana for some time now. A man whose time is imminent, he'll be head honcho one day.

More appointments will come as I see fit.


Saturday, July 23, 2005

5X on The Godfather

The Godfather.

This movie is so gay! I was completely bored all the way thru. WTF was up with the way that fat gansta talked? You could hardly understand him, and what relevance to the plot did he have anyway? The Michael character was stupid too. You couldn't emphatise with him. He has no morals, but sometimes he does. That's inconsistent characterisation. The pace and direction are all wrong in this movie. And the CGI was terrible, you could SO tell that it wasn't really New York in the background. And who was the Godfather anyway? How could God have a Father He IS the father. It's ridiculous.
The Director clearly used too many broad brushstrokes. The film is an inchoherent mess. And what was with Colin Farrell's dyed-blonde hair OMG!!!

0 out 10.

Tuesday, July 12, 2005

Come fly with me...

"We're gonna move to Nashville, and we'll make a career
Out of writing sad songs and getting paid by the tear."

Silver Jews 'Tennessee', Bright Flight, 2001.

The boys are releasing their new album in October. The 18th to be specific. Eagerly awaited. Top lyricist that David Berman lad.

What news? Fucque all now to be honest. A quiet weekend bookended by pints in the Long Stone and Doyle's with Raf and Dave on Thursday and pints in the Long Stone and Doyle's with Raf and Dave on Sunday. Last night was good craic, was journeying home when the bould Denise Farrell intervened and next thing it was pints being lowered and plentiful merry being made.

Apologies to 5X at this point for my abrupt and effete departure, flouncing away like a dandy as I did...

I'm on for a week long session now, interrupted only fleetingly by Setanta and its Media. I'll chance getting the lads together tonight and we'll take it to the mid. Tomorrow night? A dinner date no less. Wednesday? Liverpool. Thursday? The bould Ms Greene. Friday? Just tell me where to be. Saturday? Joseph's return from out foreign.

I'm on a mission to see Dublin renamed as Nothingtown. Discuss.

Thursday, July 07, 2005

Dave Maher, everybody...

Radge has won the right to host the 2016 Olympics, after fighting off competition from major capital cities.
Venues for many of the sports have yet to be fully, or at all, constructed on parts of and close to Radge, but the leader of the Radge bid, Radge, is confident all be done in time for the Games.
"Firstly, I'd like to thank my team for helping Radge to secure this great honour," said Radge. "Radge is the perfect place for this event and all of the venues will be completed with time to spare."
The swimming events will be held in Radge himself, while Radge will be the javelin and shot-put for the field events. A running track is to be completed around Radge, while a football pitch will be made on Radge's head.

Tuesday, July 05, 2005

Sky rockets in flight...

Came back last Friday from two weeks in Lanzarote.

Capital villa, scenic surrounds, San Miguel, a crock, the folks, the girls, swimming pool, Factor 15 down to 8 in week two and I still don't care about tans, a bar/restaurant called Lagomar carved from the side of a hill, trips to your bog standard resort (Puerto del Carmen) with bog standard Irish bars frequented by bog standard birds from Shannon (thought through the haze of liquor to be high in the pulchritude stakes, but actually not), seafood starters, lilos and every building in white.

That last one's a strange sight. No building can be anything but radiant white. They make the very exceptional leaning towards cream - the bawdy bastards - but otherwise it looks exactly like an extended version of the Eldorado set. I even dressed in white most of the time for fear of Hispanic reprisals.

And the natives don't speak a word of English, but I hate those who complain about people in foreign countries ONLY speaking their own language. It's linguistic snobbery so I'll leave it alone.

On Thursday we were an hour delayed leaving Arrecife airport. No problem, thunk we, because we had hours to kill before our connecting flight from Stansted. The baggage handlers plainly did not like our complacency, however, and they took two hours to unload our bags from the first flight.

Upshot? Missed connecting flight but Emma and I got to stay at the Radisson on Swissport's dime. How bad like? Top notch place but it did seem like I'd walked onto the Lost In Translation set, right down to the snap-clean sheets and half chewed stogies left in the ashtrays.

6.30 flight on Friday morning. Sakes.

It's all been a blur since then. Friday night saw me blab the night away with Jill's fella Aaron on all sorts of musical/football related guff, Saturday was back in Setanta, Saturday night got destroyed by the usual Long Stone/Doyle's route and, well, it brings me to the here and the now as I rise out of my two-day torpor.

And you?

Wednesday, June 08, 2005

Big Bother

Big Brother's back.

What's the story with the gays? At my last count there were three straight lads in there - all caveman-esque with ne'er a brain cell betwixt them and the collective attention spans of a half-eaten doughnut - two heterosexual females and a flooter of gays, trannies, lesbians and freaks.

Is this representative of society? No. It isn't. It's merely fodder for those that, as 5X has just put it to me, "crave stupidity."

Here, try this. Instead of 'turning your brain off' in the evening, kill your television. Have a conversation. Ask the person with whom you talk to name five places they've never been to that they'd like to go to. Let it build from there. Discuss books, cinema, music, clothes, idiots, politicians, who you'd like to kill with impunity, dog leashes, pubs, food. Get drunk. Go out on a schoolnight. Break stuff. Put yourself in an impossible situation and then try to talk your way out of it.

Just leave the freaks in Big Brother to it. They'll eventually have to cancel it. If you're addicted, ask yourself: "What does it add to my life?"

Same goes for Celebrity Love Island. It can only be a desert island if the viewing public actually deserts them. Sacks.

(I know I'm preachy today. If you don't like it do one).

Sunday, May 29, 2005

Victory and crap musicals

Rafa should tell Milan Baros to do one. Seriously. I mean what's all this 'Valencia want me and I want to go there but I also want to stay at Liverpool' bollocks? Fuck off out of that Baros, you're nought but an inconsistent whinger.

And what of Wednesday gone? Went to McGeoughs is what. 15 or 20 of us comfortably perched on high in Phibsboro, dealt liquor by Alan McGeough and making merry. Then, the fuckers go 3-0 up and it's all over. At this stage we were a miserable bunch, apart from 5X who took glee in our utter shitness.

I switched seats, sat beside the Clerkin lad and BAM! 3-3 before you could say "crikey, Radge looks like Rafa Benitez. So he does."

Anyway, we won. You definitely know that already. It was a great game, though I'll go out on a limb here and say it wasn't the best game of football ever played, as has been reported. The result, however, was delivered from the Gods themselves and I woke on Thursday with my head throbbing, my throat cut up to shit but my soul dancing the Mersey beat. Nearly went over for the victory parade with Johnny and all, but prior engagements prohibited it.

Everything else this week has been superfluous. Went to 'I, Keano' last night with John Boy and glory be it was appalling. We upped and left after half an hour, realising our lives were short and drinking lager beer next door in Brogans would be far preferable to seeing some camp 'song and dance' act with bad acting, woeful set pieces and a script so lazy it could have been written by...well...I dunno...someone know yourselves...

And tonight myself and 5X are off to the boozer for a couple of ales. Come do.

Saturday, May 14, 2005

Light my Arcade Fire

Cough, splutter and splash. Hello.

Mighty fine weather we're having this weather. Took myself off to Killiney on Thursday just gone, then Dalkey and back to the hubbub. It was class, I lapped up the sea and the sound of silence and sight of affluence and it was nice. Sun was splitting the stones too, even the chickenheads were made bearable by my sunny state.

Anyway, it's Saturday and I'm sat at my work desk. Why? Happenstance. I don't care. I'm full of excessive energy now that I'm ten days gargleless. Best I've felt in an age. Still, wouldn't mind a cider, it being the nice weather and all.

What else? The head is shaved. I've the look of a psychopath about me - until the glasses go on, that is.

What else? I'm having The Arcade Fire. 'Power Out' is one of the best things I've heard since I managed a nascent John Cash. They are Talking Heads. They are Bowie. They are The Cure. They are the business.

What else? I'm off.

Friday, May 06, 2005

Rub her soul...

Sweet mother of all that is holy, it's been an aeon since I entered. In all senses. I actually tried to blog last week, but all I managed was pap and I never posted. At least this will be cheery pap.

Off work today, you see, left 5X to man the traps. Asked him to write a feature on JJ72, he refused and with good cause. He said that, had I forced his hand to up the feature, he'd destroy them through the medium of new media. Seeing as Andrew Greaney, brother of lead singer Mark, sent me the following glorying message this morn...

"It's great! Tony is back! Where are the pacifists and their placards now? Ah? Ah? Ah? Go Tony!"

...I thought it'd be a little insensitive to rag on his brother. So 5X will be doing something else, slavving to some degree no doubt.

Followed up a weekend of utmost non-activeness with merry, merry pissedyness on Tuesday night. The 25th is gonna be a dinger, we'll take Milan and rip 'em a new panino. For sure. Wednesday was more boozishness by way of Grogans - it's built out of spit, I'm sure of it - so last night saw me eschew the possibility of pints with rogue trader Nick Leeson. I would've been there, but I felt my brain and soul had gone numb, and my leg was wicked sore.

It was Fell's doing, wonder if Leeson showed??? Only Fell can tell...

What else? Nought really. There's a pall of insurrection in the air but I have to remain vague on that one. Is that vague? Can't really tell anymore.

Staying up this weekend, fuck all money and my head's still a far cry from clarity so I'll take her handy, gonna buy me Badlands on DVD. It was on the other night but I couldn't keep the eyes open. Sissy Spacek in her younger days, would you?

You would, you know.

Wednesday, April 20, 2005




Monday, April 18, 2005

Out from my rock

So, where was I? Oh yeah, not blogging is where. Poor performance by me, I'll try to pick it up.

Still, a poor performance is what we didn't get from Liverpool in the week. For those of you living under a rock in Thurles, Champion's League semi-final!!! Bring on those lousy Russians, we'll kick 'em back to Rooskie-land and tell them to shut that Iron Curtain on the way back in.

Or maybe not, if our Premiership form is anything to go by. We were unlucky against Spurs on Saturday, should have taken their scalp. Still, we possess the best midfielder in England (John Giles' words, not mine), so optimism remains.

Of course I refer to Xabi Alonso. The other lad, Gerrard, is a good player but I'd be hard pressed to find a Liverpool fan in the last eight weeks who isn't tempted by the prospect of Stg35million. Sell him to fuck, and Kewell (waste of space) and Morientes (tackle shirker) and Pellegrino (disaster) and Smicer. I'll leave those particular brackets to you.

So, away from the field of play I've been playing away in Bantry and Limerick over these two weekends. The first with Johnny, Pike and the aul fella was drunken and pretty and, yes, pretty drunken again. The latter sees me sitting on my hole watching football and reading up on the exploits of former Mirror editor Piers Morgan.

Typos aside in the book (I just can't let the pedantry go) it's a riveting read. Morgan himself couldn't be more of a self-serving snake if he tried, devoid of morality as you might imagine any tabloid editor to be. However, by the same token he weaves one extraordinary tale after another. I'm no politiphile, as you know, but his tales of the Blairs, Mandelson, Gordon Brown and Murdoch make it all fascinating stuff.

Kinda makes me want to be a journalist.

Friday, April 08, 2005

Sits. Grins. Exits.

As if from nowhere, I'm back.

Yeah, I know, I've been lazy as sin with the bloggery this past aeon, but, y'know, I just didn't want to. It's as good an excuse as any.

Actually, there's a point. 'Not wanting to' is the best reason for ever getting out of doing something you don't want to do.

"Come on to fuck, come to this play with me. It's got great reviews and will enhance your life no end."


"Give me one good reason why you can't come."

"Because I don't want to."

An end to it.

So, I've been up to stuff. It's been a well of refreshment ever since I got over my ills. Last night was Neary's and I wager tonight may be just the same. I'm loving the shindig, Skehan or no Skehan. And there was me thinking his absence would lend me a healthier hue. N'at all...

It's Bantry this weekend with John and Pike and the aul lad. What happens? The wilds of Cork tend to bring out the brazen in me, must be the Murphy's.

On a similar theme, I've given up Guinness. She wasn't helping.

All very random this. Safe to say I'm in the best form of the year so far, quite content with my lot. Can't smile wide enough, me...

Wednesday, March 23, 2005

Put it away Igor...

Scant are my tales to tell.

Was in a bad way last week, right through the weekend in a jock with the spluttering, the sneezing and the what not...Over it now, restored to the fittest of health and taking it handy in Co. Lucan on a day off. You can't go wrong.

I think it was the resurrection of Monday night pints that saved me. Raf, Fennell and myself hit the Long Stone for a few sociables and some banter. As sessions go, it was only dipping toes in the water but it was sorely needed. Those barmaids are ganting on it too, just you wait and see...

Expect to see me in Crawdaddy of a Thursday evening lending my ear to Factro, Bill's band, and then hitting the homestead again of a Friday. What's Good about it though? Ne'er a lick of liquor to be got...

Johnny just sent me on a still of Igor Biscan's member snapped during last weekend's Merseyside derby. Really didn't need to see that. However, Igor's a bit of a legend, no? It used to be that his name would be uttered with the trepidation of a Smicer or Traore. NO MORE! The Croatian Platini is all of a sudden a galloping delight of a playmaker, with inch perfect passes and aggression to match.

When Hamann inevitably fucks off in the summer we have the perfect foil for Stevie's replacement!


Wednesday, March 16, 2005


Yes sirree Bob, a bad aul knock out here.

Can't take much more of this ailment, sat since Monday with the mother of all unwellnesses. Still, when it's time to blog, it's time to blog...

Took off for Germany on Friday morning last, and dammit if we weren't boozing in Dublin Airport at 5.46am in the morning. I checked. Hit Heidelberg after a poxy delay and met up with the Kenny lad, who had sportingly taken the day off to get myself and Johnny and Kev very fucked up indeed.

German beer is great. Ein Pils bitte! See? Fluent after a stein. Lightweight that I am I had to take a nap after a few crafty ones in the apartment, but Brian had left directions most accurate and it wasn't long before the cloudy me met the lads in the Mecca of O'Reilly's for an evening of even cloudier merry-making.

The photos tell the tale, the reddening of my facial features testament to our imbibance. Mention must go to Kev for overcoming the hurdle of lesbianism, while myself and John indulged in the finest of scotches - Oben to its takers - at EUR8.00 a pop.


Saturday took us back to our spiritual home for the rugby (I still couldn't give a rat's ass, by the way) and myself and Stef went searching for the muzak of David Hasselhoff. No joy. He's not as popular over there as various websites, press releases, TV shows and promotional stickers would suggest.

On then to the sightseeing part. We took a long walk down the river and caught the beauteous sights on the other side. Kev, meanwhile, busted up his leg while trying to mount a tree but he was inebriated so didn't care. Brian accompanied me as I bought a couple of novelty steins from a midget with fine Americanised English, and we then proceeded to Sean Og's and then The Dubliner.

At this point you're probably wondering why we didn't sample some proper Germanic hostelries. I don't really have an answer for this, save that we went where we were told and had a damn fine time being compliant.

I bowed out early enough and got myself into a taxi, beered back in the apartment some more and was soon joined by the boys, themselves the worse for the tear.

So, Sunday was the Blackburn game (cheers for putting us through that Kev) and goodbye to O'Reillys. Special mention at this point must go to the barmaids Anne and Niamh, both of whom filled out my journal with relish. More of that anon when I fish it out, but a part of me dreads to see our drunken scribblings.

Then the plane home, more delays, Pikey picked us up and listened to our drunken meanderings with patience and good humour before putting her boys to bed.

Monday - work - beginnings of all the 'symptoms of cold and flu' - Tuesday - written off with all the 'symptoms of cold and flu' - today much the same but at least I've blogged.

And I'm agasp at how much of it I remember.

Thursday, March 10, 2005

Car Chase Terror

Listen to 'Car Chase Terror' by M83. My word.

It's a spoken word account of a (possibly) schizophrenic woman in the midst of psychosis, chased by a faceless demon, set to the most amazing whirring techno background this side of My Bloody Valentine. Really extraordinary.

One thing's for sure, though, I'm putting it away in time for Germany. One listen to that and there's no way I'm flying.

Thursday, March 03, 2005

I like the word shimmy

I've been musing on the greater evil: Brian McFadden or Paddy Casey?

Anyway, here we are, together again waltzing through my thoughts on the cybercomic plane. How the devil are you?

I'm stuttering, finding my true form only in bursts but spending increasing time stuck inside my own headspace. Doesn't make any sense? Tell me about it. I'm Joe Cole - short spates of creativity, put-downs and pick-ups before lapsing back into the shadows of the great football game in my skull.

I blame it on last Saturday night. There's something about the Hell that is Flannerys that makes me lose part of my soul for days after frequenting it. It's an uncomfortable meat market with lousy access and all sorts of posers in shirts. Even I wore a shirt. I gave up temporarily and to what end?

It's a pox is what it is.

Still, yesterday was Wednesday and restored some consistency to my swagger. Watched The Godfather you see. My own favourite scene has to be when Sonny finds Connie all beaten to shit at the hands of her husband Carlo Rizzi. He seeks Carlo out and unleashes unholy hell on his person, culminating in the patented 'bin-top to the skull' move. Now I'm not the most bloodlustful of men, but that scene's a dinger...

Speaking of bloodlust: This is a long shot, but if any of the builders working on our office at 3A Sth Princes Street are reading, please shut the fuck up with the drilling and the banging and the...

Just do one, lads.

Wednesday, February 23, 2005

Top fives...


Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to cludge we go...

What's the story folks? You catch me in mean spirits, I feel so good that I even believe Liverpool can progress in the League of Champions. We'll take on all these comers and put the Germanic hordes to the sword. Even Gerrard-less...

Here are my top five 'top fives'...

5. Top five terms of abuse.
4. Top five top fives.
3. Top five films with 'Z' in the last word of the title.
2. Top five songs to be played at one's funeral (cheers Raf, good one).
1. Top five Liverpool players.

Regarding number (1): John Aldridge, Steve Staunton, Sami Hyypia, Steven Gerrard and Robbie Fowler.

Now, go forth and about your business.

Saturday, February 19, 2005

I want to sleep with Natalie Portman

Oh mercy mercy me.

Come on lads, bring back the prolific bloggery. Hopefully if I set the pace the others will fall into line. I was disgusted to find the 5X's last blog was the excellent 'Hi Mum' from many moons hence. As for Cowzer, copying and pasting the lyrics from some cheesy 80s hit does not an interesting entry make. Correct me if I'm wrong.


I've fallen out of the comfort zone that was January. How so? By getting destroyed. Went for a friendly 'one' in Sheehans last night and I really 'shouldda known better, than to lie...' (fuck ya Cowzer!).

We made most merry, Skehan was bang on form, and it was good to catch up with Ronan and Kev. Our ranks were swelled by the right honourable Julianne, but her housemates were displeased that she had favoured rat-arsedness over the EastEnders hour-long special, so she had to leg it...Shame...

In a gin and tonic sky, gin and tonic skyyyyy...

And my arm is still a-hurtin from falling over a "bike tied to a lamppost" on Wednesday night on Pearse Street. We were bringing back the midweek pints, and it worked out nicely.

To speak plainly, I feel like myself again. I wasn't built for bed at 9.30 in the pm. That shit's not good for the soul.

So, here I am, up and about before 10 bells of a Saturday morning. That seems odd to me, given last night's chicanery... Later I'm off to see 'The Woodsman' with Kev in the IFI. It will be my first time seeing a film there. It's after getting good reviews, but I'm not sure watching films about a reformed paedophile will go down to well on my ale-washed stomach. Still. It's free, so...

On the purchases front, bought Josh Rouse's 'Nashville' in the week. To sum up, it's bollox. So your marriage has ended - bring that shit to therapy Rouse! I also saw the magnificent Garden State last week. This is a great film, if you don't fall in love with Natalie Portman off the bat you're a travesty of a human being and get out of my sight.

It's out in a couple of weeks, doubtless I'll take it in again...

So that's me. As I said, there's gonna be a whole lot of bloggin' goin on...

Saturday, February 12, 2005

My declaration.

Spent a VERY uncomfortable night....Scratch that....Not getting into it, save to say Thursday was spent in the most exquisite pain. Infected kidneys are the affliction of the Devil himself.

Otherwise, things are looking up. It's gonna be a quiet weekend in an otherwise unoccupied house watching Johnny '24' on DVD. Third series.

Well, that's the plan, but don't be surprised if tall tales of drunken chicanery are widespread come Monday. I'm a feeble man who makes plans in order to break them.

Got plenty of new music to track down. The first and second M83 albums, Jeffrey Foucault, Josh Rouse. Keeping me busy and broke.

What became of me recently? Limerick at the weekend, up drinking whiskey until the small hours on Saturday...Back to Lucan Sunday...Nought Monday...Julianne's for pancakes on Tuesday (nice with the aul Nutella)...Watched match at home Wednesday followed by said night of hell...Thursday? Recovery and tonight brings shopping and...

We'll see.

Next weekend I'm after a dinger. All modesty and temperance shall be shot to shit as I rampage through my own gullet with sweetest lady liquor. Do come.

Tuesday, February 08, 2005

Call me Paul. Hey Paul.

Did you know that the actor Paul Giamatti (Sideways) played a human in charge of talking orangutans in Doctor Doolittle, while he played a talking orangutan in charge of humans in Planet Of The Apes?

Now, if that's not the best piece of movie trivia you've ever heard, I don't know what is...

Go on then, better me if you think you're smart enough!

I'll check back in with stories from my life and such at a later date. Probably tomorrow, given time and space to gather my thoughts...

Thursday, February 03, 2005

Hey, are you awake? Yeah I'm right here...

Well Holy God, 'tis yourselves.

Sorry about yesterday's non-blog, it was a jape against Cowzer that I've duly deleted. He insisted that I blog so I blogged saying I was too busy to blog.

See. Hilarious.

My head reels, there are seventeen thoughts jostling for pole position in my skull. It's been a hell of a busy week, early mornings, late nights, stresses, strains and near strangulations. I'm Limericking it this weekend, and excuse me this but good golly gosh if I don't need a bit of kip. 6.30am starts all week for various reasons and tasks.

I've taken on two new CDs. The National's 'Cherry Tree' is a beguiling treasure, Sun Kil Moon's 'Ghosts Of The Great Highway' less so. Is it just me, or do the vocals of Mark Kozelek tend to grate on, ooooh, I dunno, the third listen? You don't know who Mark Kozelek is?

Fuck ya.

If anybody has any suggestions for a box social of some sort, send them my way. I'm all up for a 'scotch night,' with the principle that everybody gets drunk on Scotch Whiskey neat.

Nah, you're right, leaning towards tumult that.

What I'd really like is...

Sunday, January 23, 2005

'Jesus Christ Cuddihy'

The towel is in my grasp and I may as well throw it down. If Blog Wars was anything but a fleeting pub semi-concept followed by inertia absolute, I'd have been KO'd by 5X's latest entry at (sorry lads and ladies, should've caught it while it was flyin') ... That would've been the end of old Radge.

If King Lear, Game Cubes and marionettes are your thing (as they are mine) then this is the blog to beat all blogs. May his swell never run dry, may his cup always overflow, cos when he's empty-headed the results are treeeeemendous.

Enough sycophantasisation.

I'm in Limerick, tending to the broken ship that is the Cuddihy-Devane clan. I won't go into it, save that my head is melted and not in the good way. Families ha? Dublin has never seemed so sane.

And then there's Dublin. Had to get me out of there and all, that land of confusion and tumult. I'm being deliberately non-specific here. All I can offer is that discretion has been the mother of fuck-up after fuck-up lately. Depressing you yet?

Still, it's a time to look forward. Hopefully getting paid this week and Sober Janaury will soon morph into a frenetic February. I've let the side down on the gargling front, tightening my belt and clearing the head you see. Now, all that's clear is that being foggy of skull and dizzied with the drink is clearly the way forward, you clear on that?

Someone get me bolloxed.

As for Liverpool, 5X said it all in a text message after we got rogered by Southampton: Jesus Christ Cuddihy.


Monday, January 17, 2005

The Pat Kenny fanclub...

Suggestions from Julianne on the fine art of chatting up women:

You can talk about...

"...your love of dogs, Pat Kenny, how you've never been to Donegal, why Italian is a beautiful language, why hockey is a strange sport, Pat Kenny, how you've always underappreciated what a good programme the Liffey Laughs is, your secret love of ballroom dancing, Sean Og O'hAilpin, your fascination with snow globes, Pat Kenny, red wine, how you wish your were born in the Victorian age so you could wear nice dresses, London, jigsaws, Pat Kenny, why you hate the gardai, Gordon D'Arcy, Kate Hudson, the fact that people eat liver freaks you out, The Violent Femmes, small feet, the fact that Laura on RTE 2's ID really fancies Shane the sports guy, Pat Kenny, Sabrina the Teenage Witch, Ryan Tubridy, Soccer AM, Galway, how you wish you were in a musical."

Take it down lads, you'll never go barren again.

Monday, January 10, 2005

They've broken the Kop...

I don't think much of the latest FA Cup draw, which pits us against the mighty AFC Bournemouth if we can triumph over Burnley. Of course, it's now primed for one of these lads to do us up the arse before they themselves are shot down by Yeovil in the Fifth Round.

Supporting Liverpool isn't easy.

Throughout the last week or so, I've been looking forward to a seeing the papers and the football websites, hoping we've finally taken on either Morientes or Anelka. What do I get today? We're linked with Darren Huckerby.

Darren fucking Huckerby.

This boy couldn't get his game in successive Coventry, Leeds and Manchester City teams. Is this how far we've fallen??? Damn you Gerard Houllier, damn you David Moores. You've broken Liverpool.

OK, I'm overreacting. There's no way they'd even think about the likes of Huckerby, a third rate, overweight David Connolly-alike. But it says a lot that it's even conceivable to some bored hack in the office.

Away from transfew windows and unrealised potential, I've very belatedly fallen for the last Pearl Jam studio album, 'Riot Act.' Really close listening delivers subtlety and a darker tone than they've managed in the past. Trousers has a point, 'You Are' is a hidden gem. 'Bushleaguer' is bollocks though.

They're a band, no, THE band of my youth, thrown away in the last couple of years for more sophisticated sounds. Fuck it though, you always go back to the ones you love. I'm also having Nick Cave's 'The Lyre Of Orpheus,' if not so much 'Abattoir Blues.'

In news of my life, I'm broke. Off to Limerick this weekend and hoping to keep out of the spotlight. I'll make my temporary exit from public life at the Olympia on Thursday. Paying to go and see 'Alone It Stands,' which I could have seen for free last week.

Life's a lot like that lately.

Wednesday, January 05, 2005

Here we are. Gone.

Oh by crikey I'm shockin' tired so I am. Serves me right, says 5X to me leaving work last night, "pints so" and so to the pints we went. And went. And went again.

Nah, I took myself off only after a few, but it was the culmination of quite the New Years. It was spent in Lucan and stellar craic was had with the Trousers and Emma and Aaron and Jill and sundries. We put a fair dint in over 130 bottles of Miller, Warsteiner and Stella, not to mention some green or blue cack. And champagne.

There were plenty of sore heads around, I don’t mind tellin’ ye, but we drowned them out on New Year’s Day as Chelsea trumped us. Again. Through Joe Cole. Again. What a nippy little bastard that lad is.

Christmas itself was Christmas, plenty of food and family and fights. Can't go wrong. Honourable mention to the matriarch, who I recently found out has been reading up on my misdemeanours. Don't worry mother, I, ahem, make most of it up.

And so to follow the lads' respective leads and give my best of the year 2004.

Best hootenanny: The 27 pubs of Dingle, July.
Honourable mention: Brain Day. August 13th/14th.

Hero of the year: 5X, for surviving the flat they called Wonderland.
Honourable mention: Dave Maher, for flying the coup and loving it.

Villain of the year: M*****a W****e. The worst person I have ever met.
Honourable mention: The cat.

Film of the year: Before Sunset.
Honourable mention: The Bourne Supremacy.

Best football moments: Liverpool 3-1 Olympiakos, Stevie stays in the summer.
Worst football moment: Though I didn't know it at the time, signing Josemi.

And the year was notable for: Deaths, break-ups, more break-ups, Stella, Ryans, Villager, Dingle, the train to Kerry, only puking once, scotch for breakfast, Dave's exit, 5X joins Setanta, Cowzer's use of textbook and, of course, 30 Foxborough Court (despite Johnny's best efforts).