Tuesday, December 26, 2006
We had all manner of nights out and confustications, including the Christmas Party in Galway (exactly the same as last year, substituting Raf for 5X), the return of 5X and ensuing madness, random nights in The Long Stone and The Palace Bar and the usual this and that.
I could get into the wheres and what have yous of the various nights, but just look back at last December's postings. It has been exactly the same.
Oh, but something quite different. The impending marriage of Emma Cuddihy and Owen Cowzer. Mark it down. The fourth engagement of the year and the one that has everyone in the Cuddihy household talking hotels and receptions and dresses and what not. And Cowzer as a brother-in-law? Mercy. That'll be something. At least I'll have someone to watch football with at Christmas.
(Anyone fancy meeting me in Synott's for the Liverpool game at three?)
The honours list:
Night out of the year:
Some dingers in '06, not least Brain Day and Paddy's Night in Germany and my birthday pints and Anne's 30th and Emma's birthday too, but the night out of the year has to go to the random evening back in March with the girls and Dr. Fell where we went to Thomas Reads and I ended up sleeping on the couch of the owner of Setanta in Princes Street. They may take the rent out of my wages.
Person of the year:
This has to go to 'Twenty Quid,' a legend in her own time.
Beer of the year:
It's Stella for the third year running.
Botched sentence of the year:
"So... eh... what did the... eh... d'ya... eh... fancy... eh... SHUT UP... no, go on... wha?" Me. To Dave.
Unmitigated bastard of the year:
5X. How DARE he move to Paris?!? And THRIVE, no less! Still, I did enjoy our reunion last week, when I summed up the six months for old Radge while he's been suckling wine on the Champs Elysses - "Since your defection my life has changed utterly. Or at least it did until last week, when everything went back to exactly the way it was when you left."
Pub of the year:
This one goes to the Stag's Head, seeing as it housed three splendid nights in Brain Day, our Anne's 30th and Melissa's birthday the following week. All successes. A mention at this point must go to the brothers Skehan, and the...
...few days away of the year:
Dingle. July. Sweet Jesus but it was a dinger. Gillian, hopefully reading this in China while sipping her Irish coffee, will attest that it was a drunken affair, given the reams of text messages that floated their way to the County Cork from Dick Macks and Murphys and O'Flahertys and McCarthys and all the pubs of the best town in Kerry. If not Ireland.
Newcomers of the year:
Joining the world of Radgery this year were.... Gillian, Val, Dockers, Richie's mate Dave, the American lad in the pub that night that looked a bit like Jack Black. Oh. And 'Twenty Quid.'
Welcome to ye...
Thursday, December 07, 2006
O to be 15 again. The glorious self-indulgence of it all!
So here I am, 28 of all things. Have to say Radge Lash '06 was capital. An exceptional night of whirring and wooing and what-the-fuck-is-going-on-ing and wondering what the hell happened to my jacket. Ing.
Twas O'Reilly's there by Tara St station, and a heartfelt thanks to all who came bearing gifts and/or just themselves. The hat that Julie got me must have done the round of the entire female populace of the pub, odd given the manliness of it. Also, the irony of having long ago thrown my hat at women was not lost on me.
Don't think it was, McKeigue!
And as for the Conaghy lad? He'll be done proud, I vow that.
Doubtless to say that was the evening's crowning moment, if you were there you'll know what it was. If not? Pay the full subscription. I've eaten only beans lately.
Sorry, that was my mad aunt, saying how I looked like some psychiatrist off the tellyvision or something.
Where was I? Oh yeah. Trying to extort you, my pretties! Imagine the drudge and drang I could avoid if Radgery was a paying service. No more scheduling, for a start. It's not where I dreamed to be.
Next week is the Setanta Christmas Party, for which my own birthday last week was merely the preamble. Sadly, no 5X this year, but I'll try and make up for his absence in other ways. It occurs to me that 5X, the aul hoor, is getting a lot of coverage on old Radgery these days. Probably because I love him gayly, but not in a queer way, you understand?
There are rumours of suits this time around. Be God and I'll do it! I'll play dress up and no mistake. I know it'll all end up in a drunken heap on the floor, but I'll bring the camera anyway and show the aul one.
She still thinks I'm an investment banker.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Sunday, November 26, 2006
What? Blogging, of course. If you don't know the link by now, you're not important enough. He's raised the bar to another level with a 'day in the life' expose of Parisien existence. The inveterate bastard.
Let me just say that his cup of Earl Grey runneth over. Not long now until he's thrust back into this ugly little quagmire of a country for the Christmas break, however. I forecast the following conversation:
"My life is great Cuddihy. Everything has fallen into place. EVERYTHING Cuddihy!"
"Shut up and drink your pint. You swan in here with your Gallic flair and your monocle and you expect me to be gracious. Bollocks to that. My life's a mess.
"But it's good to see you."
Then we'll probably crack our holes laughing and he'll be arch and I'll make plans and actually get it done this time.
I'm in the form for getting it done, you see. Everything to do with the fact that tomorrow night will see my first night Chez Forbes Quay, my new dwelling located 13 short minutes down the water from Setanta Central. Oh mercy yes, no more buses and aul lads spluttering 'bread and dripping' on the back of my next.
I spy happier times.
All I need now is somewhere to buy coffee in the morning and presto!
Otherwise, it's full steam ahead for the birthday. I spy the usual japes, drunkenments and wandering hands by candle light. These are disgraceful times, they really are.
What else? Casino Royale is good. Not great, but good. Worth the fee.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Meeting Denise and Lynn tonight, you see, and can't be seen to be letting the standards slip.
Congratulations at this point go to Ms Greene and Mr Andrew Conaghy. Engaged! My word. Couldn't smile wide enough when I heard the news. There'll be talk of wedding bands and dresses aplenty tonight but it's a small price to pay.
Andrew, if you're reading this, get your ass into town and save me.
There are rumours of snow. Honest to God. Wintry front or something.
How come on the telly, when someone picks up a phone they manage to hear how "Sonny's in the hospital with a broken leg after hitting a horse who'd escaped the stable down on Emmerdale Farm" quicker than you or I could say, "Well, what's the story?"???
It's fuckin' ridiculous. Take a pause. Jesus!
Divil a plan I have for the weekend, work aside. Might keep it that way*.
5X on 'Last Of The Summer Wine': "I can't watch the ones with the new Compo."
Dylan Moran is a very funny man.
Afternoon television is tat.
Thanks to Julianne for a stellar meal on Tuesday night. Steak. Top notch.
Friday, November 10, 2006
And so they deem it now.
I woke up this morning without a scratched throat and/or belly ache for the first time in an age. I'm renewedly vigorous. Actually, it was 12.40 when I eventually got out of the scratcher, I tend towards lazy bastardness when I'm down here in Castletroy.
Nights to report:
Last Saturday was a dinger. To the Stags once again for our Anne's birthday. Jesus if she didn't have 50 or 60 show up to pay homage. Of course it skipped by in a drunken heartbeat, each conversation more disremembered than the last thanks to copious pints and bottles of brew.
Stayed on a not-too-uncomfortable blow-up bed in Skehan's mammoth apartment that evening. A fine place, and fine hosts are the brothers Skehan too. So fine, in fact, that Ollie and I freewheeled down the hill to The Villager after lunch and got destroyed all over again.
Monday I was back at work for the latest era in Radge's Setanta-dom. Yep, back to the sport coverage with me. They decided to ease me in gently on the Soccer shift, much enjoyable, before the hell of Wednesday and scheduling. Oh Jesus. Made me yearn for 'I'm A Celebrity...'
Speaking of 'I'm A P-lister, Get Me Some Publicity,' Julianne informs me I'll be privy to it next week when she hostesses me for food. Small price to pay for what will be an enjoyable occasion, but I sincerely hope there are snakes aplenty. She's cripplingly phobic.
Does that make me a bit of a fucker? Probably.
What else? It's very much November, which means obligatory Tuesday pints and generally getting rightly Mulliganed while the wind screeches and the rain batters.
Finally, keep those lovely ladies coming, Terence, and 5X and Dogger - get yisser acts together. I want to hear more about how 5X gets paid to drink in some Parisien pub called the James Joyce while quizzing the locals. Regale us.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
A thousand worries cloud the mind of radgery. Why are Vodafone such unmitigated bastards? When o when will I be happily shacked up under my own steam? How do I get rid of this poxy cold???
Moan moan and fucking moan.
Still, it's not all grumbles and groans. Liverpool have won a few on the go and I've a few days away from the the uncertain coalface that is Setanta Central, so there's that.
What else? Sorry to Denise on this, but 'A Good Year' is not worthy filmmaking.
Eh, Julie, where the hell are you? Oh yeah, Budapest.
Em, Anne's 30 tomorrow. We'll see it pass drunkenly, no doubt.
Um, are Strepsils just a placebo?
Eek, is that the time?!?
Friday, October 20, 2006
Anyway, on with it...
A = 'Alligator'. By The National. Best album ever bought, containing such classics as 'City Middle' and 'Daughters Of The Soho Riots.' Ask Dave. He'll confirm.
B = Beer. Need I elaborate? Current favourite is Spaten Munchen Booooy!, as they call it in Waterford (well, Johnny doing a Waterford accent, anyway).
C = Cinema. Favourite extra-curricular activity, save for pub-going-to (see 'S')
D = Dingle. Arse to Fungi, ignore the foreign tourists (as opposed to those from other parts of Ireland) and you'll find many, MANY delights within. Especially O'Flahertys.
E = Endgame, the REM instrumental from the 'Out Of Time' album, is very beautiful. Endgame, the Beckett play I had to sit through a few months ago, is bollocks. Sorry Fennell. And Gersende.
F = Fish. Great brain food, and so very tasty. Whether it's fresh sole or in sushi form, it's the best of the food stuffs. Along with cheese. Don't like plaice though.
G = Germany. Or Heidelberg to be more precise, as it's the only part of Germany I've properly seen. The most idyllic city I've been to. And O'Reillys is a Mecca.
H = Heidelberg (see 'G').
I = Ireland. It gets a hard time but it's, eh, y'know, grand. Suppose.
J = Jelly and ice cream. Not just hospital food. Lemon jelly and vanilla, to be more specific.
K = Kisses. You can tell a lot.
L = Liverpool. Stevie. Robbie. Carra. European Cups. FA Cups. Kop. That oh so elusive search for the title. Love it. But it kills me.
M = Music. Just got me through four hours on a bus to Limerick. For which I am grateful.
N = National (The). Gave me 'Alligator' (see 'A'), 'Cherry Tree' and 'Sad Songs For Dirty Lovers.' Phenomenal all.
O = Olives. Recently got into these. Green ones stuffed with feta are the business.
P = Personal hygiene. Wash, rinse and repeat. ALWAYS repeat.
Q = Questions. Quite possibly the most important factor in building a relationship. Says Ronan Clerkin to me once, "Always ask questions. That's the trick." Lad was right.
R = Reindeer Section. Gary Lightbody side-project with members from practically every top Scottish act. Their 'Son Of Evil Reindeer's a classic to my mind.
S = Stags. The snug on a Tuesday afternoon. Cowzer knows. And no, it's not like THAT.
T = Ten (Pearl Jam). Seminal.
U = Undeniable chemistry. When you know, you know. You just do.
V = Veneer. I like the word, and what it signifies. Scratch the surface...
W = Walls (for staring). Had my own staring wall in 32A. I'd turn around and stared at it for, well, minutes! Haven't found a good one since though. Help me find a staring wall.
X = X-Factor (not the programme, but that indescribable thing that draws you to a person). See Undeniable chemistry ('U').
Y = Youth. I've still got it. Not the bawdy recklessness of the 'pre-24' years. More the drunken desperation of the 'pre-mortgage/marriage/babies' years.
Z = Zanzibar (the country, not the pub). I was told something quite disturbing about it recently so it was the first 'Z' to spring to mind.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Let me say that Richie 'Dr Fell' Roche is an awful man. Johnny just rang me in a broken state, said he'd been wooed by the great man himself (no not like that - "don't... fuckin'... like 'em mate") and kept out making merry until the small hours. That's the way to have it of a schoolnight, as opposed to my own slinking off early in search of my bed.
Happy enough with the result last night, but if you want my less than cogent thoughts on the fitba you'll have to seek out my blog on the Setanta site, he plugged shamelessly.
What else? Saw Maynooth campus yesterday. An impressive place. Val held back on her promise to make me pay for my 'Offaly natives' jibe in the previous entry, so I can't help but feel she's plotting my demise and won't be rushed into it. All quite chilling, really.
Saw The Departed and Little Miss Sunshine on Friday last in Limerick. Two decent films, though I was wowed by neither.
Off today and tomorrow, reckon I've finally to get arse in gear and find my way out of Anne's hair. To town with me!
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
An outbreak of banter threatened to disrupt work at Setanta Media’s new offices on
The opprobrium started when Eoin Toolan made a valiant attempt to change the channel on the all-too-complicated new LG televisions in the corner.
Stand-in GAA correspondent Pat Nolan, sensing mirth, confronted the manically coiffeured Toolan with a healthy disdain known only to Offaly natives and Welsh butchers.
Never one to be out-insulted, Toolan swung back with a jibe about Mr. Nolan’s choice of attire which, again, would only be known to Offaly natives and Welsh butchers.
Cue an outbreak of laughter hitherto unknown to the new building, and which certainly runs contrary to the company’s strict guidelines against all office mirth and spontaneous banter.
It is expected that a full inquiry will be launched, with the two men at the centre of the controversy expected to fulfill ‘lunch run’ duties for a time to be determined by company CEO Frank Cronin.
“I’ve never witnessed such joviality. Next thing they’ll all be standing around the water cooler in the kitchen cracking jokes and drinking semi-skimmed lattes. General hilarity in Setanta Media is very much frowned upon,” frowned Mr. Cronin.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
It's happening more and more to me. If I could channel this shit I'd make millions.
There's something out there, more than just science and trees.
Away from the strange world of the coincidence inexplicable, I'm taken up still by late nights (both in the pub and out), homelessness and general upintheairedness.
It's fun and frustrating in equal measure.
The last few days. A rundown. Thursday and Greaney in Neary's after dinner with Julianne and her troup. Greaney's an awful man. Moving to Spain he is. I wish him luck.
Friday was Emma's art exhibition on Stephen's Green, and then pint and pint again with Etaoin and Johnny in O'Donoghues. Pissedo drunko lockedo fuckedo. To Saturday and Quinns where we watched the Liverpool match, was spent by the evening and passed out at 7.30. For twelve hours.
This is all very humdrum, I know, but I've been on the lash a good bit so need to keep myself updated.
What else? It's Wednesday now. And I'm hungover.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Lots and lots of things have been happening to old Radge this last while. Full disclosure is not possible, but what I can allude to is tumult, a new office, still being in Anne's, gargle, a beard, confusion, love, hate, the film 'Network' and suits.
Things ain't what they used to be.
I'd like to welcome Val, the newest invitee to my little world, and pay mention to Una who can no longer access the Radgery in work.
If you want to comment on this, you can, but I now moderate them first. That'll learn the spammers and OneNiteSues of this world.
Right, I'm away again. I can't think of anything else to say.
Apart from 'alright Mirabilis'!
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Have been down in Limerick for the week, came down with a pure bastard of a virus that levelled me for, I don't know, three days or so. Would have done worse to others but my reserves are strong. Like oak. Beats chest.
Had taken the aul boy to Dingle for his birthday on Monday. It's not a town to disappoint, as many of you know. I had oysters for the first time in my life. They taste like the sea smells. That's my best description. Nice, but I'm more of a mussel man.
Anyway, the usual after that. Dick Macks, O'Flahertys, Fergus, visiting old friends of the aul lad, stayed with Patrick and Helena. Here, if you haven't been get yisser arses down and quick trot...
So, Monday aside I've not had a drop. This Tuesday is a month since Brain Day Eve and I have been out on the lash twice since.
Once with Skehan and Noel. Once with my Da.
In a month.
I'm slightly leaner, that's for certain, but my life has lacked a certain spunk of late. Too many nights in watching The West Wing over again on DVD, not enough nights springing my verbal dexterity and snappish wit on a suspecting yet strangely compliant audience.
Well that stops soon. Fitzbollix is back today, Skehan seems to have abandoned (once again) all pretensions to sobriety, and Cowzer is bound to be interested in an afternoon in the Stag's Head sooner rather than later.
And that's just the lads.
Friday, September 01, 2006
Films don't get a lot better for me, a sucker as I am for the word unspoken and the long and lingering look of a thousand different dancing thoughts all at once. It's 'show don't tell,' all about the internal and letting the watcher do the work. The wonder in the ambiguity.
A phrase that always rankled with me, as I know it did 5X too, was the whole 'leave your brain at the door' thing. Why? Can someone explain it? Isn't art meant to provoke the senses, inspire thought away from the suits and banality of work and everyday life? Since when is white noise something to be cherished? How is it funny when Seann William Scott eats shit masquerading as chocolate?
Would ya g'way...
I like my humour a little more spontaneous. And, dare I say it, original.
Anyway, where I am at the moment is Anne's. She's down in Limerick and letting me run amok as I please in her magnificently appointed abode in Grange Lodge Avenue. Had some trouble earlier locating the tin foil but, thankfully, crisis averted.
Events of the week gone by have been notable by their sobriety. A couple of well deserved and thoroughly enjoyable gargles with Denise last evening have been the height of it. An hour is not enough in the company of the quare one from Clonmel though...
Next week I'm in Limerick again, inflicting myself on the folks while those scurvy builders scratch their arses instead of finishing off the new place... Sakes...
"Fuckin' construction workers, man..."
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Moving house is no fun, and I've escaped the worst of it. Topmost kudos to Johnny and Aisling for taking my stuff and housing it in Drumcondra, this week saw a festival of packing and binding and breaking and throwing out of stuff. A headwrecker, I've escaped to Limerick city for a few days.
There was drink taken the other night. Hadn't seen the inside of a boozer since Brain Day, so come Friday I was dangerously sober and toying with a clarity of thought that, frankly, I'm not comfortable with.
Ergo headed to Neary's with the brothers Skehan and then on to O'Donoghues of Baggot St. Some lad playing a tin whistle, stouts lowered, left under a drunken cloud of my own making but hopefully the air is clear and bright and breezy once more.
5X is home next weekend, but sadly I'll not set eyes on him as it's a brief Electric interlude for the man and then back to Paris. Which I hear is 'gay' in the true sense of the word.
What else? Cowzer's started up another new blog at www.carparkdog.blogspot.com, he says he'll stick with it this time. Me, I never saw the point of moving on from Radgery.
So the next couple of weeks will see me alternate between this place and Anne's in Baldoyle. She has a plush little place for herself there so it'll be a few weeks nicely spent. AND we're moving from Prince's St into our new offices in George's Quay. Such upheaval!
One month, though, and I'll be skipping down the Quays to work. No, wait, make that strutting.
Friday, August 25, 2006
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
It's Tuesday now, I'm right as rain (what's so right about rain, though?).
However, I lament the passing of the co-greatest Brain Day ever. What it lacked in the longevity of Brain Day '04, it more than made up for in spunk.
Thanks to all who attended, glad to see that the annual cutting-open-of-my-head festival just gets more and more popular. You're all a pack of like-minded ne'erdowells, and my affection is with you always.
Where was it? Oh yeah, The Stag's Head. Who was it? Oh yeah, myself and the vast majority of my cohorts. What was it? Oh yeah, fucking top notch.
Now I realise that come my 11th or 12th lager beer of the evening I may have become a little, shall we say, cheeky, but I'd ask any transgressee to overlook my busy words on account of the occasion.
And what since? Sunday I woke up with an iresome headache, transparent irony notwithstanding, so I dampened it again with lager beer and Johnny on the couch watching 'Anchorman' (meh, I don't care too much for that whole Vince Vaughn, Ben Stiller, Will Ferrell cosy little coterie) and then Liverpool de-grin Mourinho with a 2-1 win at the Millennium Stadium.
That was nice.
After that, the beering stopped. I fell into a coma and awoke a shadow of a man. A decent night's kip was all that was for it and a day of utmost nothingness yesterday. Upshot? I'm full of beans. You can probably sense the sprightliness in my penmanship.
You can, can't you? O say you can.
I need validation.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
How are yis? First of all to address the onenitesue issue once and for all. I'm open to comments being left on the blog, that's a given, but that sort of shit has no place here. I'll ask whoever it is to slink back into the woodwork from whence they came. I have my suspicions but don't wish to point the finger...
Anyway, enough of that.
It's reported that the main UK airports have been closed due to a serious terrorist threat. Lads, that's not sound. You can't be smuggling liquid explosives onto planes, willy nilly...
Elsewhere, I've calmed down my excessive pub going for the last, eh, couple of days anyway. The fiesta of non-stop boozing that is Brain Day is almost upon us, so want to make sure I still have a life to live come Sunday.
Was thinking about tactics (no, Gillian, not THOSE kinds of tactics)...
Plan is to hit the pub early. Emma, Skehan, the belle, Johnny, Cowzer, Noel... I'm guessing they'll be the hardcore drinkists around whom I'll take a couple of early scoops. Then I might relax her down to Lucozade or, day I say it, water, for a couple of hours while the later crowd drifts in.
Or I could just get destroyed.
In other news, off until next Wednesday. I figure by then I'll be back to some level of normalcy. The prospect of going to work straight after a Brain Day is not one I relish.
And what of my poor brain?
Well that's a secondary consideration.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
"I remember I took the wheelchair from the workshop one day....daddy was in the front room with a customer and in I wheel....she was all 'oh you poor thing' and daddy was all 'poor what, she can walk fine, Emma get out of that wheelchair!'"
How I laughed.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
The Fear has been prevalent again. That instant regret on waking, that moment you knew you said the wrong thing, that feeling of one pint too far. It is as a result of my unstoppable drinking this past week.
Very briefly, for my own memory if nothing else:
Tuesday – Ollie, Neary’s, Grogan’s, dropped home by the belle.
Wednesday – Austin, Mark Sheehan, MacTurcaills. Relatively quiet.
Thursday – You know yourselves, then Ollie, the belle and Noel in the Villager.Friday – Hairy Lemon, Nigel, Ollie.
Saturday – Reclined in the back garden in Co. Lucan with lager beer and steak.
Tonight – Meeting Cowzer, who has started a new blog at www.h8radge.blogspot.com .
Can't say I’m massively fond of the name, but we’ll let the boy get his kicks as he wishes. He’s writing well if nothing else.
What else? The move to town eludes us yet, but hopefully three or four short weeks and we’ll be in.
What else? Miami Vice isn’t bad. It isn’t great, but it’s not as bad as reported. Check it out for yourselves.
What else? Seven days to the Community Shield, three to
I’ll blog properly in the week. I’ve a pub to get to.
Friday, August 04, 2006
Thursday, July 27, 2006
This has proved particularly galling to me as it was to mark the engagement of Denise and Adrian, confirmed last week to a chorus of oohs and aahs. Suffice to say I'll make amends to all concerned, and then some.
So, it appears that after months and months of unrivalled health, unruly nights and unnerving experiences, my body has shut down and said 'give it up ta fuck'. These things happen, but I wish it had come at a more opportune time. Loss of appetite, sleeping to beat the band, shakes... I don't know. It all started with the Uniflu, poison if you ask me.
I'm a man of strong constitution, though, and rest assured I'll shake this one off in a day or two. Can't wait to want to eat again.
And what else? Was shown the sights of Cork City and Kinsale on Wednesday. It was a capital time in the pseudo capital, though my unwellnesses saw an earlier departure than I'd have liked. Twists of fate have seldom been so cruel.
Finally, all appointments are cancelled until later dates. Gonna let Mother Nature restore me to myself, and then we'll see..." he added tantalisingly.
Sunday, July 23, 2006
'Glenda Gilsen: The Real Me'...
'I cloned my pet llama'...
'Mourinho says Chelsea are victims of their own success'...
'Goat torments owner'...
'Man spotted haranguing Tim Henman'...
'Ironing: A beginner's guide'...
'Frowning doesn't affect fertility, doctors insist'...
'Bertie's roasting shame'...
Not enough people shout 'Read all about it' anymore.
How come you never hear 'all aboard!' in train stations?
Dave has never ironed anything in his life.
Text messages should be free.
Caffe di Napoli on Westland Row does great pasta at low, low prices.
My headache is gone.
Julie likes Kerry.
The Onion is the best website in the world. You Tube is good too.
Insuperior is my word of the day.
I've been drinking Coke again lately.
I once had a fire extinguisher set off near my face. Far from pleasant.
I'm trying to bring back the 'funny'.
Saturday, July 22, 2006
My mind keeps escaping me. Sat here at the desk, this perpetual screeching alarm from outside breaking the sound of GAA and Golf commentary, a rattling in my skull to rival the Bull McCabe himself.
I can only think of the beach. It’s not even particularly sunny, and I get nervous near water, but I’ve got me a want for Inch Strand late at night, drinking bottled beer and listening to birds and waves and all that useless beauty...
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Think it's actually been a while since my last entry. Been kept going so I've been, wheeling and dealing and rocking and rolling as per usual.
Just got torrentially pissed upon here in Limerick, coming back from town. In fairness, it's drab at the best of times. While the rest of the country is swathed in pulchritudinous sunshine, applying the Factor 15 and hitting beer gardens from Dublin 2 to Dublin 6, Limerick is laid low with humidity and damp and dreariness.
Twas always thus.
As City Centres go, it's a dump. Boarded up shop windows, betting emporiums, places where everything on display costs two euro and your usual high street monstrosities like Next and Boots and HMV. I also notice that people tend to appear angrier down here.
Lazy 'Stab City' jibes aside, most Limerick City dwellers have the appearance that they owe money to a loan shark, all shifty and restless. It's terribly depressing.
On to other matters, and this is one I probably should have addressed a long time ago. Last week I was confronted about the contents of this blog. A reader, who I won't name, told me with drink taken that they find it self-serving and immodest, among other things.
Maybe this person has a point, but what grated with me afterwards was that I felt I had to justify what I'm doing with this. The majority of people have been hugely supportive since I started Radgery, and fellow bloggers such as Cowzer, 5X, Vicky Pollard et al have helped me immeasurably to keep it going, knowing as I did that I wasn't ploughing a lone furrow.
It's just that one or two people have made the assumption that their opinion matters to me. Believe me, I think they and not I are the immodest fools, that they think that the sound of their own voice is that of an authority on such matters. It really isn't.
I won't justify what I write on this anymore. I have never used this as a forum for attacking specific people, despite what some may think. I only name names if it's in a friendly context, and if anyone feels I've failed at this, or if I've inadvertently hurt anyone's feelings, then my apologies.
If you like what I have to say, great, stay with me and we'll have the craic. But if you don't, quite frankly, fuck off.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
I'm always in the last place you left me. Yep. Well anyway, what about yis?
Good to see 5X doing so well in Paris. The right lad. And I quoth: 'Suffice it to say that Dublin sucks sweaty balls while Paris downs the Eiswein when it comes to putting on free shit for the gens to enjoy.'
He's making the most of it out there. How long before I pay Aer Lingus to help me keep an eye on the man for a weekend? Not long I'd say, and I'm willing to bet that Dr. Fell himself might be a willing accomplice. I put it to you, Richard Roche, that John Giles made a very interesting point earlier on...
What else? Had a reasonably quiet weekend of it is what. Granted, went to the pub John Mulligan for one (six) on Friday night. Hurriedly drunk down with my Dingle associates Noel, Oliver, Mel the belle and the bould Donna. Sorry for leaving in a hurry lads, was Arthur'd up to the eyeballs.
Took her handy on Saturday and merely had a few ales at home watching the fitba on Sunday. Isn't Materazzi some scumbag? Latest news, and this is from some lip-reader employed by the BBC, that he told Zizou he was the "son of a terrorist whore."
Ye can't be saying that lads.
Elsewhere, I'm in dire straits financially. Those hours of mischief in pubs from here to the County Kerry come at a price, with the result that a work night out with free booze this Thursday will be the height of my rabbling for the foreseeable. Mark it down and don't come near me for a jar until pay-day.
Finally, the keys to the new apartment are in the possession of Pike and Fitzbollix. Should be moving ourselves in in roughly two weeks. Probably more like three. Either way, new lifestyle here I come.
No more listening to other people's 80s techno on the 25A, no more turning and frowning at the worthless piece of effluent munching Meanies in the seat behind me. No more Centra-tinker-central, and gone the nosiest neighbour this side of Mrs Mangle.
And she was notorious for her interference.
Things I don't give a shit about this week:
1) Soft furnishings. They CAN be a flashpoint.
2) Celebrity Love Island.
3) Where the smell in the fridge is coming from.
5) Bakewell tarts.
7) The film screening of 'The Break-Up'. I'll leave that to Kathy. Bless her.
8) Where my next meal will come from.
Cheese of the week: Buffalo Mozzarella.
And as an addendum - May Juliannus Mirabilis enjoy her week off. If you meet Julie Feeney, look the other way. You're a bad liar.
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
That's it. That's absolutely it. Staying off the gargle for a good long spell. I'm not right, my entire constitution feels like the inside of a pint of stout. Black. Slightly acidic. Alchoholic as all hell.
Joining the lads at Limerick Junction, I knew it was going to be messy from the start. Ollie had that crazed look, the appearance of a man who knew what was in store. That ever-so-cheeky slight raising of the eyebrow that said, "we are going to be in a heap."
And so it proved. Friday and we started in Murphy's, as all good sessions in that town must. I think it was the Marina Inn then for the game, wedged in between fans of Germany and the Argies, and at that stage I must have been already fairly drunk because the rest of the night comes to me only in patches. John Benny Moriarty's for a feed of mashed potatoes and some bog standard cod dish, into O'Flaherty's where Fergus was doing serious justice to the 'Cliffs Of Dooneen', stout, (scenes missing), bed.
Saturday we took a boat journey to see Fungi. Frankly, after the first twenty minutes I was bored to the bone, I just wanted to be back on dry land and wetting my lips.
So we did.
There was Dick Mack's, Murphy's again, up to McCarthy's, down to Ashe's, back to the B+B for some kip, back out again to Adams's, breaking a shot glass off the pub sink, getting thrown out with Ollie singin', (scene missing), Mel the belle and her patented dolphin noise, promising to go to the Hill Grove 'dishhco', (scene missing), bed.
On Sunday we'd planned to go our separate ways, but foolishly we decided to stop into O'Flaherty's again and the whole day disappeared in a haze of hat buying, lots more supping, some aul fella called Ned, the demise of Paddy Dowd, meeting some friend of Noel Skehan's while the rest of them faded out, back to Adams's (or was it Ashe's)... Either way, fucking destroyed.
Now I've probably lost most of you at this point, but this really is aimed more towards my own remembration of events than anything else. I'd say 43% of it is lost to me.
Finally, it got Monday and we thwarted Ollie's attempts to stay down. A six-hour journey back to Dublin culminated in a couple of topping off pints in Ryan's of Parkgate Street (great food). We staved off another session, though. As I put down my pint glass for the last time I even gave it a little wave goodbye.
I won't be seeing it for a while.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
I'm dandy. "This heavyweight boxer is something to see!" Back on top form after being poisoned by my Wednesday lunch. Be wary of the grub in Robert Reade's pub near Bus Aras, it could very well destroy you as it nearly did me.
Then, after leaving work in the throes of illness yesterday, some prick of a taxi driver thought he was bein' smaaaart when he told me to get a nice chicken curry inside when I went home. When I told him I wouldn't pay for puking all over his dingy tobacco infected motor vehicle he quickly shut the fuck up.
Sorry for the language, people just vex me sometimes.
Moving away from matters gastric, things have been, well, very quiet for once. I've not seen the inside of an aleing tavern for nigh on a week. Needless to say Davros did his best to coax me out on a couple of occasions, but I opted to disobey the boy Maher to keep the finances and the liver in check for this weekend to come.
This time, it's a drinkin'. Ollie's birthday on Sunday, you see, so never being a man to do things by halves, he's connived to get ten stalwarts down to Dick Mack's and to Foxy John's and to John Benny Moriarty's et al for serious inebriance.
What else? What I did see of the pub last week was maxful. King Kenny was home at the weekend so we spent a languorous evening downing pints in the Stag's Head. Unfortunately, we got infiltrated by some ne'erdowells from the North, but we gave them short shrift and did our own thing. Cowzer saw to that.
Speaking of Cowzer, get back blogging my son. I've seen the form you're in lately, get it down on blogspot. You've too many tales for them to live solely in your brain. Myself and 5X have been ploughing this furrow alone for too long. Same goes for Julianne, while I'm at it, three entries does not a worthwhile blogger make, and I want to hear no guff about forgotten passwords.
I'll be back next week.
Things I don't give a shit about this week:
1) Cretinous taxi drivers.
2) Miss Cilla Blaaaack.
3) Game players. Ask yourself what the point is.
4) Chocolate bars that change their names for no reason. Moro Peanut me hole. It's a Star Bar.
5) Aisleyne from Big Brother.
6) Pete from Big Brother.
7) Susie from Big Brother.
8) Big Brother.
9) Francesco Totti.
10) Graham Poll.
Cheese of the week: (Not applicable this week. I'm truly sorry.)
I love you all. Except you. And I don't even KNOW you.
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Cian, if you're reading this, arise from your doubtless drink induced slumber and help us help Setanta. The frustration of it all.
I wouldn't mind but I was brought in via the chariot of Johnny Fitzbollix this morning at 9 bells, ready for the fray, psyched up to input those Big Brother stories when I was tackled on the blower by Fionafone.
"All yer sites are down."
"I don't know how to."
This hasn't been a classic blog by any stretch of the imagination, just needed to write something and see it published.
P.S. Didn't get destroyed last night.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
I'm stuck somewhere between my morning bowl of Crunchy Nut Corn Flakes and my afternoon cup of tea accompanied by chocolate Polo biscuit. Coconutty. Just thought I'd bring to the fore events from my life of this last week.
The weekend was raucous, yet again. In fact it was raucouser than most. I'm turning distinctly 5X, in that I tend to only go out when I have work the next day. It's a lethal idea. We were in the Long Stone, or 'at home' as it's becoming known to me, on Friday night for Emma Quinn's birthday.
She's a popular lass, and we drunk deep into our pockets and said things we probably shouldn't have long into the night. Got to meet the rest of the Quinn clan too, down for the occasion from above in Belfast. Apologies must go most formally to Emma's sister Cara, for Dropsy McSpillpint was out in force again. I'm one clumsy oaf.
Johnny came in to spread some love and show Dave his plums, before spiriting me back to County Lucan on the Nitelink for toasted cheese and jalapeno sandwiches.
Saturday was messy. Met Davros in Mulligans and then on to Thomas Reads for one or two with my sister Anne and Martina. The plan was for the Hairy Lemon. Dave played wingman to me as I chatted up two 24-year-old teenagers before I saw the error of my ways and went back to those I knew best. Gill's birthday, you see, so there was plenty of value away from the stress and tribulations of seduction. As I got steadily drunker I became more and more disinclined towards 'doing the dance'.
Sunday was a low key affair, just a couple of pints and a pizza with Ollie and Melissa, most enjoyable. The Long Hall has much going for it, though on the night in question the place was moribund. Just four or five old splutterers counting their winnings from the nags. And us.
This week has been all about the World Cup. I'm all over it as Julianne might, and indeed does, say. Good hustle.
What else? I've discovered the...
Cheese of the century: Milleens. Holy Jaysus. I can't even get into the sheer majesty of it.
Things I don't give a shit about this week:
1) Cloaks and daggers.
3) People who use text language. Just. Fucking. Stop it.
4) Ronaldo's weight. Leave the chap alone. He's scored more goals than you.
5) Ronan Collins.
6) Noisy ice-cream vans.
Plan is to take it handy this weekend, so let's get destroyed.
I'm signing off for once,
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Disappointingly, all I encountered was Stephen's Green's little sister, all business suits slurping their coffee-to-go with identity necklaces lolling in the slightest of breezes.
What it lacks in solemnity it makes up for in prettiness, though, and its waterfall is the best I've seen in dear old dirty Dublin. I'd say it's perfect in the early morning. Worth a second look but I'll choose my timing carefully, when the suits are carefully stacked away in their quadrants, shouting "SELL! SELL! MERGE! DESTROY!"
Anyway, it's Thursday afternoon and I make it exactly half way through my three days off. Dave and Emma will describe how I gave them 'the look' leaving work on Tuesday. Before we knew it we were languishing nicely in the Harbour Master, three happy heads of booze and me going "wwwWWWHA?" and Dave going "what are ya TALKIN abou'" and Emma, incredulous, with her "ewe toor maaaad."
Meanwhile (away from my burgeoning dipsomania), cryptically, can anyone decipher this line for me...
'i dont no y i remember that or y ud want to no.'
...??? I don't speak idiot.
What else? Julianne informs me she got Togo in the World Cup draw in work. The only way it could've been worse is if the Trinidadians had come out of the pot. Hard luck Ms McKeigue.
Anyway, that's about it from me. Birthdays ahoy this weekend, starting in the Long Stone tomorrow where we'll toast the 25th birthday of the aforementioned Ms Quinn. Then on to the Hairy Lemon on Saturday, where it's the turn of Gill.
I'll probably get drunk and blog about it, such is the circle of life.
Cheese of the week: Camembert.
Things I don't give a shit about this week:
1) Still Wayne Rooney's foot.
2) Spilling Yop on my t-shirt.
3) Keeping quiet.
4) The Coronation Street SMS.
6) Nosy next door neighbours.
7) People who wear visors (Americans).
Special mention (shameless plug): Alright 5X! Hope Paris is ticking over nicely... Readers, check out Snakevalley.blogspot.com.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
And I may just have found my smile.
It began last week, when I returned from my two weeks away from Setanta Central. The break itself was intended for other things than boozing, so upon my return I had a thirst.
Started last Thursday when I met Kevin Murphy abroad in Neary's for a pint or two to unwind after a tough day plagiarising soap previews. Well, if we didn't end up trekking down to The Bankers (commendable place for a quiet pint) and then The Bank (I disremember what occurred therein) to take our tally up to eight or ten for the evening. Golly.
Friday and work. Met Skehan in the Palace (how many times have I said that exact sentence on Radgery???). I made the error of taking Stella on tap. Sakes. That stuff'll kill ya. Even when I got home at a reasonable hour it didn't stop, Johnny and Pike forcing me to stay up with them and drink and drink some more.
Saturday was the clincher. A classic of a night, as bespoke by both myself and Richie in correspondence on Monday. Mercy me. The contestants: David Maher, Tadhg/Tim, Our Anne, Our Emma, said Dr Roche, Anne's fella Dave and the lovely Martina.
Now those that know me will be aware that I'm no fleet-footed prince of the tiles. The young ladies of Thomas Read's now know it too, as evidenced by my vain attempts to snare some poor young one. Fucked if I can remember most of it though.
On Sunday I felt my heart had stopped on at least seven occasions in work, so I made it home to rest that night. I'd planned the same for Monday but something in me cried alcohol and next thing I knew I was downing pints of stout with Johnny and Ms Michelle Downey in Courtney's.
I think I finally have come to realise that complete dipsomania is not far from me at any point, and I'd like to issue sincere apologies to those I stood up last night. As you can see it had to stop - go easy on me, I'm ever so fragile.
Things I didn't give a shit about this week:
2) House prices.
3) Maintaining public decorum.
4) Big Bother.
5) Going to the press screening of 'Poseidon'.
6) Trying to make the world a better place.
7) Peter Crouch's dancing.
8) Spilled beer. Plenty more where that came from.
Cheese of the week (it's back): Dubliner.
Objective for the week ahead: Laundry.
Monday, May 22, 2006
It is still winter you see. Mother Nature's on some sort of massive acid binge, mistaking summery willowyness for undeserved inclemency. It's not fucking on. Just got myself drenched travelling back to Foxborough Central.
Anyway, I'm back. Back blogging, back in Dublin, back waiting for the cat to shuffle his way back after his own little holiday. Two weeks he's been away now, just like myself.
To catch up, started my holidays there the week before last. The first couple of days were glorious, and I celebrated that and my freedom by drinking in alehouses from Chapelizod to, well, the city centre.
5X (we drank to the man in Neary's on Thursday week last, many larfs as he'd say himself) has left the country, rumour has it he's starting in the Wall Street Institute today after basking in beautiful Chartres - French countryside - for the weekend. He says there's a fair degree in inter-male kissing, and not being a lover of interracial homoeroticism I expect him to steer well clear of that particular chestnut.
Hopefully he'll see his way past the Parisien bureaucrats to a dwelling well suited to him and Gersende.
Me? I've been in Dingle. Three nights last week to eat and drink and sleep and wander as I wished. If you get past the American tourists and souvenir shops (thankfully very few thereof) then it's the perfect place to, well, be.
I won't go into too many details of my stay (saving those for other purposes), but what I will say is that O'Flaherty's serves THE best pint of Guinness known to man. It's settled. Pun intended.
They even gave me a FREE stout. Beat that.
Things that I don't give a shit about:
1) Ireland beating France in the Heineken Cup.
2) Munster qualifying for next year's Eurovision.
3) Wayne Rooney's foot.
4) Joe Duffy's beard.
5) The Home Office in London (though I have enjoyed a mild titter at their expense).
6) The price of petrol (petroleum is murder, people).
7) Whether 'The Da Vinci Code' is any good.
I'd also like to voice my disapproval of that AIB ad with the kid running through his hometown spouting some second rate spiel about being United or being City or belonging or whatever. Community spirit me hole!
Has anyone seen our cat?
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
He's taking up a post in Paris in the Wall Street Institute.
Ridiculous it is. Weekends without the back and forth of the funniest damn electronic mails this side of Microsoft, nights spent on own, ON OWN, in the snug in the Long Stone, nobody to drag me to Beckett plays about nothing at all, no cackling at my latest tales of making a complete tossbag of myself, nobody to tell me to grow that beard...
What is a Radge to do?
Get on with it, I suppose, safe in the knowledge that there's a stellar man fulfilling a life's dream. Happier times ahead for 5X, the thorough bastard. Just glad those Ryanair flights are cheap.
Anyhoo, it's not all doom and defections, as today I start two weeks away from the Towers. What to do? What to do? I'll spend the first couple of days in decompression. That's a given. Then come Friday, I dunno, I might just surprise myself by taking my leave of this slovenly cesspit we call a city.
Dingle, and firstly Tralee (a nudge and a wink to those in the know), awaits. Through a chink too wide...
There's the Cup Final on Saturday and all. That could be a drinkin'. Oh the trauma.
And the drama.
Oh yeah, who the fuck is Terry Dixon?
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Anyway, Setanta will never be dull again.
In the world of Radge there's little tumult but still tales to tell. Painted my bedroom carpet the other night, not one bit fucking pleasant.
That'll have been the stout, as myself and Johnny and Skehan and Aaron cheered on Liverpool Football Club past the Blue-shite (Chelsea? Everton? It's all the one. To a degree) and into the FA Cup Final.
I could reportedly be heard for miles and miles around threatening Owen Cowzer sexually, but he may rest soundly in the knowledge that I'd rather stick Cassius a vat of sulphuric acid. Emphatic enough?
Speaking of Cowzer: I was taking an amble through the town yesterday when, much to my surprise and all of a sudden, I was drinking pints of lager beer in the Stags Head. There's no gargling like an afternoon gargling.
Then today I strolled into a meeting that never happened in Setanta Central, hopped on a DART to see the sea, back into town surrounded by chickenheads ("d'ya see Home And Away? It was deadly it was. Kim got takin teh hospitil") and then forth to get me some new brogues.
They're nice enough. Dark green. Like my bedroom carpet.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
'Just reading the Independent. Ever look at Angela Phelan's column? It's everything that's wrong with Ireland today.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
That scene where the coalition are having the meeting and Jude Law admits to being the proud driver of an SUV and Mark Wahlberg... I won't spoil it. Rent it or buy it from all good stockists now. It's fucking great.
The director David O Russell reminds me of someone but I can't think who...
Being in Limerick and lazing around as I was, I also got out 'A History Of Violence' and 'The Constant Gardener' for myself. Top entertainment I had for my 15 beans.
While I'm on the subject, what better pursuit is there than the visual arts when they're as splendidly rendered as in those three films? None. Let me be emphatic about that.
Other events in my life are random and impossible to decipher.
Cheese of the week: Cambozola.
Monday, April 10, 2006
Doing a spot of housesitting myself. The folks are taking a Spanish interlude so I said I'd come down and man the phones and keep the place ticking over in Limerick for a couple of days.
They only left half an hour ago and I'm already beside myself with the boredom. All the football sites have been perused, the first cup of tea drunk, the television scanned and there's nothing on, the work email clicked and reclicked. Only thing to do was blog.
I'd great intentions of such inactivity one week ago, come to think of it. Went for a feed of Thai in Tiger Bec's on Dawson Street with Lynn on Monday. Mercy me that grub was good. And cheap. Go for the early bird menu folks, between 6 and 8. Twenty quid for two courses that will fill you up nicely. Top work.
Anyway, it had been my intention that that would be my sole foray outwards for the week, money being painfully tight as it is. O were it so. The very next night I found myself with 5X and Niamho and Davros and Emma and Ann in John Mulligan. Had Wednesday and Thursday off, you see, so I was content to drink and talk and get things wrong.
Friday, and it was the turn of Finbar Brady's unofficial leaving pints in the Long Stone. Went down a treat they did. Something I noticed - you never JUST go for two. Ever. One is possible. Two is not. You develop a taste.
Saturday, and I was positively going straight home after work. Only I wasn't. Met up with Etaoin in Mulligan's again and we liked the way the drink was slipping down, so we went back to Lucan - where we found Kev and his lady love Valerie playing Buzz with Johnny and Pike - for more ale. I have little memory of the night's progression, save for a heated argument on the continued merits of Snow Patrol.
Something for you to mull - does a band or artist's commercial success immediately render them shit? I don't think so. What is so unattractive about mass appeal?
Anyway, that took me to yesterday and work and then the bus down here to the Newtown Road. Think I'm going to raid the DVD press. That's me for the day.
Later in the week sees me at Beckett's 'Endgame' with 5X and Gersende (led me to research absurdism on Wikipedia, not getting caught ignorant on this one), and on Thursday it's out with the work crowd again to properly celebrate Fin's defection.
Cheese of the week: Wensleydale with cranberries.
Other things I like: The new Massive Attack single, Robbie Fowler winners v stubborn opposition, sausage rolls, Extreme Blast Billiards on Mousebreaker.com, wind chimes, our couch in Lucan, fillet steak fajitas, eye contact, petty squabbles, far-away fields.
Things I dislike: Golf, old shoes, penury.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
It's strange for me. After a weekend of gargle and the grind I spent a strange night without slumber of a Sunday night. Turns out that early morning TV (pre-6am) isn't that bad at all. RTE always push their best films back to the red-eye hours, while I caught an excellent documentary on BBC2 on writers struggling to be published.
Turns out that with the correct turn of phrase and a fine line in self promotion, people might just pay good money to read one's work. Eureka! I never even realised, I thought all writers were noble and penniless.
Interestingly, one of the scribes featured (his name was Jake Arnott) was given a fuck load of cash for some gangster tale set in the 60s. The publishers admitted that the fact he was a good lookin' lad helped the size of his pay packet. Said they could market him better or something.
Pity the poor writer who pens the work of unparalleled genius only to see his sum weakened by the fact that he looks like Steve Buscemi. Y'know - kinda funny lookin'...
Anyway, it's not all dollars and cents. Or Euro and cent.
Staying with Buscemi, the man has a minor role in Barton Fink. Now that's a bamboozling tale. Saw it years ago, but I failed to catch its resonance. As with most Coen Brothers movies it takes a second look before ensnaring you, and the fact that I almost felt drunk through lack of slumber only aided my enjoyment.
I've discussed the ambiguous ending with 5X. He reckons it was all in Fink's mind, that Charlie and the cops and the bird and Frasier's da's character called Mayhew didn't really exist, that they were just tools to feed his screenplay. This seems to be on the money, though what would I know? I saw it more as a cautionary tale against selling out and cashing in.
Anyway, that's it for this entry. Anyone notice how I didn't mention....
....you're not gonna catch me out that easily!
Monday, March 20, 2006
Kev's all too loose fitting boxers aside, it was a raucous few days in Heidelberg. Myself, Johnny and Pike roused ourselves at some ridiculous hour on Friday morning, and went to pick Kev up from Glasnevin. Still sodden with sleep, the Murphy lad only went and forgot his passport, so the other three hightailed it back out the road and back to the airport again in 22 minutes. An impressive feat.
I maintained watch over the bags in the airport, trying for all I was worth to convince myself I wasn't dreaming.
Anyway, a couple of beers, a plane delay, another couple of beers, a flight and a perilous car journey later Johnny, Kev and I hit Heidelberg with Corporal Kenny.
It never stopped.
As with last year, O'Reillys was our base and we paid a couple of sleeping/eating/watching Alan Partridge visits to the Kenny-Lenner homestead. Much gratitude must again go out to Stef for putting up with three perma-farting, semi-naked Irishmen from the planet of neanderthal. God love her, she put up with it all with no little class...
Friday, of course, was Paddy's Day, and the Yanks took over the pub. Thankfully, Ann the owner had opened up early for us so we were happily shoehorned into a corner wherefrom we barely stirred.
I proceeded to chat up some Kerry lass who did or didn't or something have a boyfriend. By the end I was too blinded by Pils to really give a damn, but Kev insists I didn't get crap so who am I to argue?
What else? Johnny with the Guinness hat dancing on chairs, me telling Kenny's boss to do one after he smacked me playfully on the head (a no-go for anyone that knows me), the beer journal - a must on these trips and soon to be serialised in some gutterous magazine or other, the other Johnny from Skibbereen, Stef's mate Joanne, nearly puking by the river, a mess of Eye-talians and Scots and Scotch Whiskey and lights and spinning and waking up to Kev's boxers...
Saturday was an amble through the town and then back home to O'Reillys to watch the rugby. Even I, rugby-phobe incarnate, enjoyed it somewhat. It was the beer, believe me. Stef took pity on me and brought me home, and I was woken a short time later by the trickling of beer from Kev's bottle.
Scratch that, it was a fucking stream of the stuff. Anyway, I promptly moved to the couch and talked shite with Johnny in the sitting room for a while, before we both dozed off into the swinish sleep.
Sunday - Liverpool match in O'Reillys and then to the beautiful Ladenberg (Kenny, if you're reading this, did I spell it right?). What a town, quaint but never touristy, small streets, and they have that wood effect running the whitewashed buildings, the name for which I can't recall...
I wanted to ride that town. Sexually.
Anyway, we had these great steaks where they cook on this marble stone plate in front of you...
Ah, feck it, I'm drifting into the mundane.
We got wrecked. That will suffice.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
It'll take Robbie to dig us out of this one. We'll still have second in the league and the FA Cup.
It's progress. Of sorts. I'm an optimist.
Anyway, watched it in O'Neills, if you're reading this you were probably there. Special mention goes to the Hungarian barman, surely the worst this blogger has ever come across. How hard is it to understand "two pints of Heineken, please."??? He cut a gormless figure, the goon.
A bit out of practice with this old blogging lark. Was about to head into town to see 'Good Night, And Good Luck' but there was rain in the air and I did an about turn. Decided to go the DVD route. It occurred to me that on my next day off I'll be in Germany. Paddy's day. Bring it on.
You wouldn't catch me dead going out in Dublin on the day in question. As Cowzer puts it: "Too many part time drinkers and kids puking on the street." Bollocks to that. Heidelberg will be a different proposition though. Gonna get brau'd up like I've never brau'd before.
What else? Stony broke is what. I'm heading for financial meltdown. It should curtail my drinking until I hit Dublin Airport with Messrs Murphy and Fitzbollocks tomorrow week.
That is all. Stay beautiful.
Monday, February 13, 2006
Saturday, February 11, 2006
Not much to write home about, really. Taking it to the min this week after a mammoth five-day-in-a-rower over last weekend. What pubs? Sugar Club - O'Reillys - The Globe - The Villager - The Hut - Foggy Dew. None of my usual haunts in there. Yeah it was all good. No silliness.
Half tempted towards the boozer tonight, as I veered away from Limerick at the last minute and stayed in The Pale. Then again no. Place to myself. Washing to be done. Cat to be fed. How gay am I?
No! Must be strong. Though the lads ARE in the Stags... Maybe just for one... NO!!! Keep it indoors.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Living in a Fowler wonderland these past few days. Finbar Brady broke the news to me on Friday, and as he uttered the name 'Robert Bernard Fowler' down the phone line from Setanta Central he'll have become aware of the most pregnant silence this side of... well... to be honest I've no idea how to finish that sentence.
Stunning stuff though. I'm predicting six goals between now and the end of the season, and a new contract to follow. Mark it down.
Otherwise, more of the same from me really. Very quiet this last week. Went to Limerick to nurse myself back to myself last week, and took her handy at the weekend. Saw North Country with Julianne on Monday, adequate if unspectacular fare, before joining Messrs Fell and Lowenbrau (Richie and 5X to ye lads) in Grand Central on O'Connell Street.
I'm not one for the shiny pubs, but that's not a bad place at all. Had three fine pints of stout with the boys before making off into the night. It was foggy. And cold. Anyway, if you're heading that way I recommend you pop your head in the door and stay there and relax and get drunk. A fine pub.
What else? Hard to say really. Off again today, I'm pottering around the house to beat the band. All I'm thinking of now is tea and the football tonight. Oh. And Germany. Corporal Kenny's having myself and Johnny over in March for Paddy's Day. Y'know yourselves, multiple destroyedness will be at hand.
Heidelberg eh? Yeah I'll be having that. Apparently, the proprietress in O'Reillys will open up for us especially at 12 noon, feed us and then let the general public in around 3 bells. I predict stoic and fervent consumption of ales German, Czech and whiskey Scotch. Bury me near make-out creek.
What else? Julie will agree with me on this point - what's with The View? John Kelly's arts review show. Such utter, UTTER pretentious arse-wipes. "I was jost waishing for something to hoppen and then, y'know, the film jost loike peters out. Also I found the comera work to be both benoigne and roodimentary. I expect sooo moch besher from a director (no, wait) FILMMAKER of his standing."
"Yah. Yah. Couldn't agree more. Yah."
I've no problem with Kelly himself, you understand, but who are these people?
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
He's taking the Radge approach and celebrating it maxfully. Friday was the big one, as we MacTurcailled it to the nines. Actually, can't say 'we' exactly as I took it reasonably handy, skulking back to Foxborough shortly after midnight with scarcely four pints to my name.
Still, the headlines the next day of 'Dave's party enjoyed by ALL' hardly tell a lie. He's hitting the Palace later, bless him, but I miss out due to a dinger of an illness that sees me confined to home. Ah well. These are the breaks. I'm in high spirits despite the fact that the physical act of eating food is beyond me currently.
And what else? That was a gas weekend just gone, so it was. Saturday took myself and Ollie and Julianne and Colleen and Shane and Regina to The Chameleon in Temple Bar. The headlines of 'Meal enjoyed by all' hardly tell a lie. It's a becushioned bazaar of a brilliant eaterie, and the food!! A stellar performance.
Afterwards we ventured to Richard Roche in Thomas Reads, and the headlines of... OK, you get the picture. Enjoyable fare.
Now you would have thought that Sunday would have been some serious min, what with the high booze intake of the previous two nights. Not at all.
Says I to 5X leaving work "you walking towards town or going home."
Says he back "nah, I'm off to the Long Stone with you and Roche."
"Oh right," says I, and seven pints later (watched the end of the snooker in Doyles with Skehan and Noel) I hit the leaba.
FINALLY managed to head home last night gargle-less, in the bed and everything by ten bells, looking forward to what Tuesday may bring when BAM!! - a bastard in the throat and stomach. I initially figured it was strep, but I don't have the exact symptoms. Either way, I'm disease ridden as I type, hoping and praying it'll be short lived.
What else? Pissed off that United beat us, but what you gonna do? We were probably due some ill will from the Gods after months of supremacy.
Heading to Limerick tomorrow, gonna take her handy for the foreseeable while I return to rude health. There's only so much revelry one Radge can take.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
This was billed as an update of the true story that led to the making of the film 'The Graduate'. If you haven't seen it, 'The Graduate' is one of the great films, Dustin Hoffman's finest moment and doesn't Katharine Ross look purty? Anyway, 'Rumour Has It'.
Jennifer Aniston reckons her granny's the real Mrs Robinson, and that her late mother was the Katharine Ross figure. She tracks down Kevin Costner's Beau Burroughs (Dustin Hoffman's Ben Braddock) to see if he's really her da or something, and then they sleep together.
These not-so-subtle nods towards incest notwithstanding (it later transpires that he's not her aul fella - so that's OK then!), this truly is a horrible little film. Julie thought I was asleep half way through, but the truth of it is that the film was so bad I was wide awake and transfixed. Mark Ruffalo should know better.
Much more to my taste is 'Munich', my happy side of the media screenings coin. It's a little gratuitous at times, but it's still a fine document of something I knew very little about - the massacre of 11 Israelis at the 1972 Munich Olympics by a group of Palestinians from the militant Black September group - so is well worth catching. Spielberg should have ended it sooner, but that's a minor quibble.
So here I am anyway, at the tail end of my two days off for the week and feeling the better for it. Bit of raucousness to come this weekend. Tomorrow sees me hook up with Gill and Una, not before time, while Friday takes me to MacTurcaills for Davros' birthday. Expect nudity, excitement and not a little lager beer.
Then Saturday is an Ethiopian banquet. I think. Can Julie confirm this? Ethiopian banquet. There's a paradox in there somewhere. I think it's Ethiopian anyway. Whatever happened to bacon and cabbage?
Meh. Never liked bacon much anyway. Too salty. Bring on the banquet.
Thursday, January 12, 2006
And there was me thinking it was love. True love. Like in the films. Starring Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan. Wait. You hate Billy Crystal. I'm a mess. A romantically befuddled and bebothered mess of a man. What is to become of me, Denise?
Saturday, January 07, 2006
D'ya know what's a horrible little film? Match Point is a horrible little film. Full of quiet malevolence, each character more unlovable than the next.
Myself and Julianne and Ollie went as part of a pub diversion ploy on Friday night (after we'd had a couple of pints, of course). Jonathan Rhys Meyers, Emily Mortimer, Scarlett Johansson - we figured we couldn't go wrong. What awaited was a cynical little bastard of a movie, two hours of dignity shredding odiousness capped by Meyers' blank and brooding West Brit.
As I explained to 5X earlier on, I couldn't feel one shred of empathy for any of the protagonists, while Woody Allen's dialogue was so stilted it could have headbutted Peter Crouch.
While myself and Julie saw it for the cynical monster that it was, Ollie quite enjoyed it. Clearly lacking in moral fibre, that boy.
Wasn't the Liverpool match a dinger? Just coming down from it now. 5-3 against Luton Town in the Cup. Quite the achievement. This time last year we would have taken a hammering. Progress indeed.
There was me. Quite a sober one is this January. I'm trading in big ideas as opposed to drunken befuddlement lately so I don't want to fall through the cellar door that leads to inebriation. Just not having it for the sake of my soul.
Thoughts turn to down the line, where will I be in a week's time, a month's time, a year's time? In recent months I've been all for the here and now. Perhaps time for something new? I'll let that one fester awhile.
There's no hurry.
On a lighter note, my mam rings me earlier and tells me to do the Lotto. She dreamt last night that I won 400,000 notes. She told me to pick 1, 7 and 9 but couldn't recall the last three numbers. Anyway, I did it, and I'm waiting for the numbers to appear online.
Couple of grand would even be nice.
I'll tell you all one thing though, if I won the jackpot....
....I'd tell not one of you! OK, maybe one or two. Ah fuck it, we'd be off to the Bahamas. All of us. Renew those passports!
Thursday, January 05, 2006
Dubliner Dave Maher is joining the Celebrity Big Brother house, it has been confirmed.
Dave, inventor of the inverted pint glass, has amassed huge publicity both in
The Raheny native is said to hibernate for the eight months immediately following Easter in an isolation chamber. He has admitted before that his private stash of Creme Eggs normally runs out around November.
“My private stash of Creme Eggs normally runs out around November,” he confirmed.
‘Dave’s Inverted Pint Glass,’ the idea of which came to Mr Maher during one of periods of long isolation, gives consumers the ability to drink from both ends of the vessel. How Maher came up with this is still subject to scrutiny, as it goes against all laws of gravity and physics.
Maher is expected to provide the freak show element of the popular, annual Channel 4 show, what with his exceptionally large middle finger.
Other celebrities mooted to appear include Queen Elizabeth, Rod Stewart and Lecy Goranson, who played Becky in Roseanne before the role was given to yer woman from Scrubs.