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.