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.