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.