Thursday, June 29, 2006

It's a cuboid.

Ah here, suppose I'd better blog. How are you all keeping? Tell me. I care, I really do.

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.

So now.

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

A most irregular entry. And it's raining.

As if from nowhere, a weekend blog. Currently sat in work with JW and JP and Orla and Eoin and we've been rendered impotent by the non-serving server.

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 know."

"Fix them."

"I can't."


"I don't know how to."


"Bye now."

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

Care to dance?

My friends.

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.
2) Cocktails.
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.
7) Shaving.

Plan is to take it handy this weekend, so let's get destroyed.

I'm signing off for once,


Thursday, June 08, 2006


Finally made it up to the Iveagh Gardens off Harcourt Street today. I'd only heard of them recently and became intrigued. I was led to believe they were an oasis of calm in the middle of this vast and broken building site of a city.

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."

Good fun.

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.
5) Pigeons.
6) Nosy next door neighbours.
7) People who wear visors (Americans).
8) Frocks.

Special mention (shameless plug): Alright 5X! Hope Paris is ticking over nicely... Readers, check out