Tuesday, March 28, 2006

A kinda funny lookin' blog

Been suffering sleep deprivation. It's not like me, normally a herd of stampeding John Fitzpatricks wouldn't raise me from my coma, but the last couple of nights have seen me quarrelling and ruminating and judging and meditating on and with myself. No, not meddling, meditating.

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

"Put it away, Kev..."

...and so went Germany.

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

Blog entry no.96

So there you have it, out of Europe. Shame really, though it was hard to get too worked up about it. Anyone else think that Peter Crouch is a League One journeyman masquerading as a Premiership striker? Meh.

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.