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 radgery.blogspot.com 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.
"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.