Wednesday, May 31, 2006

"Typical Radge blog"

Even by my exalted standards, this last week was a gargleful affair. I lost the run of myself completely in a deluge of lager beer and stout and whiskey and, yes, even a shot or two of something unpronouncable.

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.

I danced.

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:

1) Sobriety.
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

Do you speak Gaylick?

Well look who it is. Radge. In all his winter glory.

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!

What else...

Has anyone seen our cat?

Tuesday, May 09, 2006

Fly, 5X, fly (ya thunderin' bollox)!

So 5X is abandoning us. And in particular Setanta Central. And more particularly me.

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.

What else?

Oh yeah, who the fuck is Terry Dixon?