Saturday, December 29, 2007

The magic.

I've been musing on the magic. Not your garden variety rabbit from a hat nonsense. No no. The kind possessed by some, that thing more than charisma, more than charm, more than looks. That zing. Orla got me thinking of this, she's a believer in the magic.

Some people have themselves the magic, an elan that can't be bought or earned or sought or cultivated, it's there or it is not. Call it a natural magnetism. I'm waffling but what's the point in trying to pin it down?

I even know some with it. I won't name them in the here and now but there are those that demand attention by the simple wink of an eye or raising of a brow.

As for little old me, I can't claim to such things myself. I'm a potterer with his plus and minus points, but I do believe I can intuit the magic in those around me. The few.

I am sober, in case you were wondering.

Christmas has passed. Went to Limerick for the family dealie, all passed without menace or malice and I'm back now in Radge Central, supping tea and preparing for another day in work tomorrow. Plod plod.

New Year's Eve approaches, and I reckon I'll do as I've done for two years now and ignore it utterly. I promise myself not to plummet to the depths of 'Celebrity Jigs And Reels' as I did last year. I'll simply pick a good film from the ever expanding collection behind my head here, buy in a couple of beverages (just a couple mind) and play ignorant to the destroyment around me. Enjoyment, you see, should be voluntary and not compulsory.

2008, the year of the weddings, awaits. By this time next year I'll probably be married by osmosis, it will simply have seeped into my veins from over-exposure to vows and cake.

I'd like certain things from the year, but I'll keep them private for now. Learning how to smoke a pipe is low down the list of priorities as things stand, but if the opportunity arises... Always good to have a skill.

Apart from that I want a year of ambition, of inspiration and yes, of realisation.

Sunday, December 16, 2007

Radge's Review Of The Year

And I've got to get myself, back to the gaaaaar-den....

I'm having Joni Mitchell this year, or more to the point the song that is either called 'Stardust' or 'The Garden,' not sure. As I sit in Radge Towers set to compose my review of the year, I'm in musical form. Currently playing is 'White Chalk' by PJ Harvey's album of the same name. Jesus. YouTube it. It's a lesson in ethereal majesty or some such nonsense.

Anyway, on to business at hand.

Album of the year: Close call this, my CD purchasement has taken a serious downturn this year, but unsurprisingly The National's 'Boxer' takes it from Radiohead's 'In Rainbows,' just about. Every time I hear 'Green Gloves' I wish it was the first time again, when JW gave me a listen in the office back in the summer. Got no work done that day. Come to think of it, got no work done most days.

Film of the year: As opposed to my musical profligacy, my DVD collection is getting out of hand. I've narrowed it down to a dead heat between 'Once' and 'Into The Wild.' The former restored my faith in Outspan, aka Glen Hansard, in a little gem of a film with great songs and an all too fleeting loveliness. Also could swear I saw 5X's old place on Mountjoy Square in one scene. The latter is Sean Penn's best creation, about Alexander Supertramp's travails as he tries to get to Alaska and leave disgusting material decadence behind. The bear scene at the end is hard to shake.

Worst film of the year: PS I Want A Lobotomy.

On to the personal...

Surprise of the year: Radge? An educator? Surely not. Yes though. This I year I returned to the South Circular Road to teach Sports Journalism, and realised an unknown ambition. Finished now, bar these pesky corrections, it was a hell of an eye-opener.

Weekend of the year: Westport for Ollie's birthday is up there, but I have to hand it to three weeks when myself and Johnny got drunk as LORDS between Friday afternoon and the early hours of Sunday morning. Cowzer and Kenny put in stellar appearances too, but it was myself and Titface that stuck to the cause and got immoderately bluttered. See the 'Lech' entry for details.

Night out of the year: January 2nd, when myself and Richie decided on a quiet few in the Long Stone. What started out as a discussion on an unnamed project ended up in Q Bar with Chinese Chris and his mates ("ah stop it Chris, you're always at this lark") and the most unfettered dancing this side of 5X in his souped up heyday. Lord. The birthday deserves a mention too, but for sheer abandon it was Chris Night '07.

Newcomer of the year: Many, MANY this year, including Mad Mandy who told me she loved me after one date, Apparently Too Tall Elaine, Brian and Mark May and Darren who joined the Setanta throng and not to be forgetting Angel, Faela and the Bob Dylan poster which seems oh so long ago now, Kenny's bird 'Ken,' Aisling Eile and her troupe of Corkonian lovelies, and Dorte with her little blue one and whiskey rocks and general goodwill towards little old me. However. 'Newcomer of the year' goes to Dave Delany for the third year running, though Dockers came dangerously close this year.

Kev Murphy of the year: Well, there are two... Work Kev and El Tolteca Kev. If they meet the universe will most likely collapse unto itself. There's no separating the two in terms of champness though.

Drunken falling over of the year: Outside of my flat after phase one of my weekend of the year.

Dickhead of the year: Yer man in work who ignores me every time I say hello, probably because I don't wear a suit. I just really dislike that lad.

Satan of the year: F**** C*o***. Do the maths.

Belle of the year: Belle.

Pike of the year: Pike.

Nar of the year: Nar.

Wedding of the year: The only one, which was Vik's in Galway. It was another cracker of a weekend, and I've just the 17 or 18 to contend with next year. Between myself and Mirabilis, we could start up a consultancy on wedding attendance. Suppose we're just at that age though.

Lunch of the year: Myself and Dave and the aforementioned Mirabilis in Burger King there last week. For no particular reason at all really, I just enjoyed my Angus Burger. Also the hot water bottle lunch with Aisling in Limerick. Thankfully she laughed.

Fernando Torres of the year: Fernando Torres.

Book of the year: 'This Book Will Save Your Life,' by AM Holmes, loaned to me by our Denise.

Embarrassment of the year: The Austrian I met in McDonalds, Catarina was her name, circa Hallowe'en. It was in the bag and I fucked it up royally in a style known only to me over my lovelorn years of nothingness. Made a great story for the lads though.

Fadings of the year: Too many to mention, I'm an absolute hoor for heading off before midnight these days, and have been known to go whole weeks without boozing. Only one thing for it, I'm off to Johnny's to get destroyed.

What else? Moved in on my own this year, ending ten years of Johnny's own brand of utter distaste on a daily basis. Happily his campaign of hatred remains and I seat myself regularly at his side and take the abuse like a man. Verbals only, by the way. I've always said we're not interesting enough to be gay. Meanwhile, Anne and Emma have done nothing to separate themselves in the 'Sister of the year' stakes for the 25th year running, Nancy's with the folks and watching Discovery Channel into the small hours every night, I'm missing this year's Christmas Party (hence the early review) and 2008 will be a dinger. Finally....

Champ of the year: Radge. Self praise is great praise.

Monday, December 10, 2007

Katy French

Katy French died last week. She was well turned out, your average sparkled blonde that you'd see wetting themselves at the windows of Brown Thomas, and no doubt had some degree of savvy to so successfully court the media since, well, February or something when she broke up with that chef whose name I couldn't be bothered remembering. Marcus Foxington-Toast I think it was.

French's was the lowest common denominator form of celebrity, though, spawned as it was by looking all pretty in little or no clothes and exacerbated by the toilet paper that is the Sunday Independent. She was photographed a lot, went to meet the kids in Calcutta, embraced the (hopefully) dying embers of reality television for RTE, celebrated her 24th birthday and died after doing, in all likelihood, a fuck load of coke.

Now, to each their own, and you can't really blame the girl for getting caught up in drugs and champagne and Lilies and Barry Egan and whatever goes with the bottom feeding world of Irish celebrity, but I have been appalled by the aftermath of the powder sniffing model's demise.

Front page spreads with blackgrounds (sic) bearing Katy French, 1983-2006, a martyr for the Celtic Tigresses, 'goodbye Ireland's rose', a tribute on the Assets website, a weepy Rosanna Davison, the end of the world as we know it.

I'll rewind a bit.

'Goodbye Ireland's rose.' Our Diana, they're calling it.

Jesus Christ. Is it not a sad indictment of our materialistic little isle that 'our Diana' was a dolled up cokehead that courted celebrity from her first toot in the morning to whatever she got up to at bedtime? I'm probably being naive here, harsh even, in assuming that she did little other than snort the devil's dandruff in between winks at the camera, but I'm reaching for perspective.

Diana, publicity seeker extraordinaire that she was, deserved her iconic status on account of spending countless years in the company of those execrable royal bastards, for her AIDS work, landmine crusading (she was against, not pro, I should clear that up), etcetera. Yes, she bled the media dry and used their fawning to her benefit, but the public display of lamentation after her death was acceptable, justified even.

On the other hand we get Katy French. A young one who, along with Glenda Gilson and Davison and whoever presents The Afternoon Show, kept the disgusting 'Sindo' in rotation and got destroyed with that wretched Gavin Lambe Murphy. For me, the thing worth lamenting is the fact that it was she, and not that odious little scrote (who couldn't wait to tell all about his drug exploits with the doomed model) that snuffed it. And then snuffed it.

Wednesday, December 05, 2007

Play us Aslan, will yeh??

Just saw Once. A little cracker of a film, it is. I was sceptical approaching it, what with Glen Hansard's recent missteps in terms of, well, coming very close to disappearing up his own hole. However, he makes this work nicely, very natural like and the songs with Marketa Irglova by and large stand to scrutiny. Yeah. Well worth your time.


Even 5X thought it praiseworthy, irony of ironies given the caricature he did of me recently, replete with Frames t-shirt. Doesn't he know I've long since moved on to stalking Matt Berninger and company? Plainly not. He lives in Paris after all.


Last week came the advent of Radge Lash '07, or Radge'n'Richie lash as this was. Bowe's was more than a hospitable venue though they could have thrown in an aul platter for our 100 euro, but that's a minor quibble. Myself, Richie and Niamho started things off before dribs became drabs became a throng of willing drinkers such as ourselves.

I'll say it for Dr. Fell, he's in league with some serious beauties there. Me? I was content to drink a Jameson and a Powers and a JD and Jagebomb courtesy of Aisling and become a silhouette of my normally soberous self. We hit Doyle's afterwards. Apparently. I'm cloudier for the recollection.

Not quite restored to myself yet, was really some session, and been on the dry since and watching earnest Irish musicians make really very good films indeed. There's no 'P' in 'Once'.

Thursday, November 29, 2007

Half and half.


Well I dusted myself down after the trauma of my PS I Love You experience, slept a little later the next morning, and lay in wait for the weekend. It wasn't long in arriving, with the call coming from Johnny at 3pm on Friday to drop down to him for a couple of sociables.

It was the first great lost weekend of the year.

And it November.

We saw out Friday in Forbes Quay, later to be joined by Owen. Must have been hammered because by the time I got back to my place it 1.30am, and I fell outside the flat doing a damage to my shoulder. I bear the scars still.

Woke up the next day in a rotten heap, and swore I wasn't going to make a return visit to Johnny's place to watch the Liverpool game. The mountain would come to Mohammed, as he and Cowzer showed up at Radge Central bearing armfuls of Stella.

I'd recovered at this stage sufficiently to down one or two. Then I got a taste for it. Newcastle vanquished, Cowzer headed off and myself and Johnny decided to be 20 again. Over to Spar for bottles of Lech (4/10), Tyskie (6/10) and Praszky (N/A - drunk by then) and more Stella or Heineken or something. Jesus.

Then Kenny arrived around 8 bells - more gargle. He did one at 11 so myself and Johnny headed for Downeys for pints and whiskey. All I remember is baulking at the spartan nature of the seating arrangement and swaying manfully on my crooked stool.

Midnight or so we found a party next door to me so, takeaway beer in tow, we headed inside to a nicely decorated slightly-older-than-student house with festive cheer and bellies full to the brim with the day's destroyment.

I don't remember much about that party, save for wandering into various dormitories searching for God only knows what. And God knows what was unfortunately not got.

Aftermath: I woke in the middle of the night, around 4am, to discover an empty flat. I'll admit to loneliness at that point, I'd come used to the company again, but these things happen. The days after saw me become more and more, not less and less, wretched as I realised the poisoning I'd done unto myself.

Worth every last drop of sweet, sweet Lech though.

Thursday, November 22, 2007

My slow death.

Tonight I saw 'PS I Love You.' I just thought I'd say it. Get it out there. No pink elephant in the room. Judge me, hate me, disparage me, I deserve it. While there's clearly no hope for me, by writing about my experiences now I can protect you, my dear, dear readership, from a cinematic fate worse than having your balls needled by syringes of nitric acid. Or Rumour Has It.

Denise coaxed me to the premiere, and seeing as I've been laying around Radge Central picking my nose and watching Keeping Up Appearances all week I thought it'd be a good idea to get out for a few hours.

As we finished our dinner and taxi'd up to Parnell Street I'd little idea of the horror in store. I figured I could handle a chick flick, I'd just daydream throughout about nice boy things like football and model airplane maintenance.

The film had started when we arrived. We settled down to Hilary Swank and Gerard Butler having an anaemic little squabble that only married couples in Hollywood films can have. It was an interminable scene in which all I gauged was the worst Irish accent in celluloid history (his) and a cutesy little pointy pixie face spouting inanities about how all he wanted was wild sex (hers). It only got worse.

I won't go through it scene by scene, as memory tends to black out such irreversible trauma, but one sequence really had me reaching for the suicide pill tucked safely between the old receipts in my wallet.

Yer man has died and is leaving posthumous notes to herself telling her how to move on in her life. One of these malignant little epistles leads Swank and her two mates to the fictional land of Oireland, where a trip from Connemara to Dublin takes no more than a donkey trek across a couple of hills. Herself goes to Whelans with her mates and spies a ruggedly handsome singer. At this point, she's ganting on a bit of the old in-out, so she chats him up and he dedicates a song to her.

For reasons too preposterous to waste time on here, she leaves the venue sexless and crying for Butler, still popping in and out of the film from the grave with an accent part Terry Griffiths, part Terry Wogan, part Bob Marley and fully fucking annoying.

Next scene and she's fishing with her friends and mourning the fact that she never got her end away with Shane McGowan or whatever his name was. Circumstances lead to the three dull bints getting stuck on a lake for a few hours, and just when I hope against hope that they'll succumb to the scurvy and this terror will end, along comes the coastguard. Yep. It's the singer from Whelans who has a nixer as a boatman on the very lake that....

(Vomits)..

Not ONLY that, but he also turns out to be the former best friend of yer one's dead husband.

Christ almighty. I won't even get into the script, which would make an episode of 'The Young And The Restless' look like 'The Sopranos'.

Swank is a very competent actress, but times must be hard for her to take on this shite. Even Kathy Bates, in a fart of a role as Swank's mother, can't redeem this muck one single iota.

Nul points.

Thursday, November 15, 2007

Soup dreams

It's coming, and soon! Tomorrow's my last day in Setanta Central until the week after next, and mercy me but I'm an excited man. Have been in remarkably chipper form the last couple of days, annoying the heads of my colleagues with my exaltations and hyper-activity.

They hate me. I can tell.

Hitting Bantry anyway, myself and the aul boy heading down to Sean and Kathy's glorious abode by the bay. Oh brilliant. It's the most remote place I know, when the lights go out at night not a shape can be made out in the dark, and total silence. The smell of burnt wood greets upon entering, as the house opens into what surely must be one of the finest cottages in West Cork. Hopefully I'll remember to bring the camera this time and I'll post pictures that people will pretend to be interested in.

We'll be hitting the Crazy Horse Saloon no doubt, as I put on my drinking shoes once more with Murphy's and Jameson in mind. Ten days off the gargle now. Remarkable how such a small feat on a global scale is greeted by wonder here in our drunken little country.

I mean, ten days, a week and a half, and I feel a medal of some sort should come my way. At least a bronze.

It took all my willpower not to sup last night though. Left work with the intention of getting on intimate terms with my new d*d*y box. I use asterisks because you never know what trouble those hoors at Google will get me into. All the channels under the sun for the price of 28 pints. 140euro in old money.

Anyway, I eschewed the couch to head to Bowe's with Juliannus Mirabilis. We'd intended on one, and I was on the non-alcoholic shite anyway, but bless her we got yapping and the clock struck half ten before I cried no more and sent her on the way to meet James.

Birthday plans are finalised and there'll be a mail going out shortly. What else? Keep away from yourselves.

Gonzo.

Friday, November 09, 2007

Terms and conditions need not apply.

I had an interesting conversation with one of the boys last week. A very close friend of mine who I hadn't seen in a while dropped into Chez Radge for tea and a purple snack. He'd just returned from a boating trip with some of the other lads, a regular enough jaunt they've taken over the years for boozing and carousing and this and that.

He was telling me this particular trip was quiet by comparison to previous times. A more sedate venture up the Shannon, with the ravages of time quelling the beer intake. Don't get me wrong, a good time was had, but one comment struck me.

In years gone by, money would have been tight, but that would be forgotten as caution went to the wind and each town was assaulted with abandon by these hordes of horny and drink-lusty Dublin boyos. This time, he said, was different because while everyone now had money to throw away on such debauchery, life had happened, engagements had been made, houses and apartments bought and stresses previously absent brought to the fore. He said that they had the money but the spark had gone, or words to that effect.

People do have money now, and capital, but the spontaneity that so marked out previous years - "let's rob this tractor, crash a gate and run" - has been lost to a tedium borne of impending domesticity. It troubled me when he said it.

I'm 28, 29 in a few weeks. I still get regularly gargled, end up with egg on my face after encountering mysterious Austrian women, wake up completely fucked and forgetful, chide my more settled friends, eat noodles from a pot and hold grandiose ideas of future writerly success and renown. I may moan about work, about being stuck in a Groundhog existence (see recent post) and give out about not having much money. But ultimately I'm happy with my lot, and the idea of still being able to sit in a pub on a random Monday afternoon and drink the day away and laugh out loud and long. It's a balance that fits me.

Yet I'm still subjected to the fear of other people that I'll never own my own property, buy a car, get a pension, have kids, play golf. It's not yet pushed down my throat, but it's coming. I know it.

I just don't necessarily want to follow the blueprint for life set out by some of my peers. l haven't come across a crisis point where I've missed the boat, so to speak, where the fear of not following the herd into early middle age has borne fruit, leaving me alone and crumpled in a corner and wondering why oh why I never opened that SSIA account.

I don't see why I have to own property. Why I have to get into debt to buy a car. Why I can't sit in the Stags on a Monday afternoon. Why I shouldn't buy quite so many DVDs. Why I should stave off happiness for a rainy day. Why I should eat steamed fish only. The done thing isn't necessarily my thing.

It strikes me that people are petrified of just floating on through. To most people that's the worst thing in the world. Don't get me wrong, I have ambitions for myself but they are my own and will come to pass in my own time. As I enter the last year of my twenties, I really don't want to be 50.

Wednesday, November 07, 2007

Seeking, seeking, seeking.

I thought I was having a heart attack the other night. Oh it was terrible. Went to bed on Sunday early doors, read for a while, then turned the lights off.

It was at this point that I started losing my breath and palpitating wildly. Terrible. The hands went all tingly and I had visions of laying there for weeks before some concerned family member would break in and discover my rotting corpse.

Happily this didn't transpire, I fended off the reaper and woke as normal the next day.

However, once I sat at my desk the palpitations started again. Sakes, says I, so I headed to the doctor on the advice of my peers. "Stress," he said. "Stress?" said I. This perplexed me as I've been going with the flow as normal lately, but he felt strongly enough to medicine me, leaving me non-alcoholic for weeks to come.

This is handy in a way. Just checked the bank balance. Oh mercy me but funds are tight as fuck. Where has it all gone? I kicked my addiction to Magnum Classics years and years ago. I don't gamble. I don't smoke. I've even been rationing the old nights out.

I think the problems start when you're paying 99 cent for a Toffee Crisp.

Sunday, October 28, 2007

Swoon.

Fair play to me, I went all of the afternoon and early evening without knowing the score of the Liverpool v Arsenal game. I don't think I've ever staved off curiosity to such an extent. The highlights were due on RTE Two at 8.3o.

At 8.15 I made a trip across the road to Spar, and as I approached the fear hit me that the radio in the shop would give the game away, pun intended. With much trepidation I ventured inside to buy my phone credit and copy of Empire, and was fully prepared to block out the blast of the wireless with a series of bleats and la la las at top volume. It didn't come to that though. They were playing Journey instead.

Why didn't I just venture to the pub to watch the game? The usual. Three nights on the gargle had given me sense. Thursday was the table quiz in Slattery's, we came 11th or something, then it was Bowe's on Friday under peer pressure from Dave, Kev, Kev, Jay and Jonathan, fellow slaves to Setanta Towers.

I wasn't about to miss a rare chance at ale with Kev Murphy II - as distinct from the non-fat fat lad - et al, so merry was made. There may even have been beer spilled. I disremember. A great night with a bizarre coda in McDonalds, but that's mine for the knowing.

Last night we hit O'Reilly's for our Emma's birthday drinks. I made some inane attempt at water but the gods prevailed and I had a few lager beers. Just to fit in, you understand.

Anyway, today I rose at the ridiculous hour of 8am - 9am in old time - watched the very worthy 'A Guide To Recognising Your Saints,' hit town to buy Emma's belated present, then it was '28 Days Later' and avoision of the Anfield result, before the highlights, sushi and that lovely orange tea drink.

Thursday, October 25, 2007

Broken.

It's all terribly regular, isn't it? Life, like. The tedium's getting to me, every day the same.

8.31am, get up, brush teeth, check email, shower, get dressed, forget keys, retrieve keys, leave flat, 9.07am, walk to bus-stop, get the 121, people-watch from on high, alight bus, purchase latte while getting loyalty card stamped, work for 9.45am, check email again, 10am, start work, copy and paste and copy and paste and copy and, lunch break, paste and copy and paste, 6pm, exit work, admire commuter love subject, get 38 home, make tea, check late football news online, go on MSN, watch TV and/or DVD, 11.30pm, bed, read for a bit, set alarm and...

8.31am, get up, brush teeth, check email, shower, get dressed, forget keys, retrieve keys, leave flat, 9.07am, walk to bus-stop, get the 121, people-watch from on high, alight bus, purchase latte while getting loyalty card stamped, work for 9.45am, check email again, 10am, start work, copy and paste and copy and paste and copy and, lunch break, paste and copy and paste, 6pm, exit work, admire commuter love subject, get 38 home, make tea, check late football news online, go on MSN, watch TV and/or DVD, 11.30pm, bed, read for a bit, set alarm and...

8.31am, get up, brush teeth, check email, shower, get dressed, forget keys, retrieve keys, leave flat, 9.07am, walk to bus-stop, get the 121, people-watch from on high, alight bus, purchase latte while getting loyalty card stamped, work for 9.45am, check email again, 10am, start work, copy and paste and copy and paste and copy and, lunch break, paste and copy and paste, 6pm, exit work, admire commuter love subject, get 38 home, make tea, check late football news online, go on MSN, watch TV and/or DVD, 11.30pm, bed, read for a bit, set alarm and...

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

Doom.

Ireland manager Derek Davis' future looked bleak after he saw his side beaten 1-1 by the indomitable Cypriots at GAA Park on Wednesday evening.

The home side, so impressive in beating the Germans by a score of zero to zero on Saturday, were overwhelmed by their illustrious opponents, conceding to Papadopolous Okahopolis late in the fourth quarter period.

A late strike by Matt Damon failed to quieten the GAA Park boo-boys, who had turned out in their tens to watch a stagnant Irish performance. Midfield maestro Danny DeVito, so influential against the Bavarians, was a shadow of his diminutive self, seeing pie after pie sail harmlessly to touch as his incredulous teammates could only yearn for the anonymity of the Premier League.

Davis is now expected to return cap in hand to the warming bosom of the RTE couch and Thelma Mansfield, with the FAI bigwigs crawling back to Eoin Hand, a man who almost nearly took Ireland to the brink of the Simod Cup qualifiers in 1973.

Sunday, October 14, 2007

Territorial musings

I braved Flannery's. I did, you know. It was Thursday night last and the tenth anniversary of our college debut, so those of us that could make it headed along to the Bleeding Horse for pints and pints of good old lager beer.

It was topmost fun, my only regret being that 5X was lounging in Paris and Lynn was taken up with matters educational. Myself, Michelle, Ollie, Denise, Marko and Owen in the same seats where we celebrated Cowzer's 21st, oh, EIGHT years ago this December. Sweet divine mother of Michael it's been a long time.

As the evening turned to 9.30 or 10 we decided to flog the horse and head for the Great Satan on Wexford St.

In fairness to it, it wasn't too bad to start. You could walk unflustered from the front to the back and sit and drink Baby Guinnesses to ones heart's content. Granted, the bouncer was a bit of a prick and gave Owen some ill-deserved ire, but that was quickly forgotten as we got ridiculous.

That was all very well until I got up to leave, around 12 or 12.3o. I was greeted by a crowd the size of Croke Park, barring my exit which seemed a 100 metres away or thereabouts. Countless whoopses and sorryses later I was eventually spat to the street, like trying to get that last impossible Airwave out of the chewing gum wrapper. No good, but I dusted myself down, squoze out the beer spilt on my trip through the throng and headed for home.

In terms of craic, it was in my top five nights of the year, and the hangover wasn't so bad as to warrant drugs.

On Friday I managed one last effort at work, seventh day on the bounce, and came home to where I currently sit. It's Sunday morning and I've barely left since - just a trip to the friendly local butcher yesterday - so I've been sitting and drinking the lovely tea given to me by Dorte and contemplating everything and nothing at once.

Crap telly last night once the fitba had finished - Reid gave a masterclass, it's generally agreed - but I did happen on the 100 Greatest Stand-Ups on E4.

It occurred to me that Lee Evans is roughly as entertaining as a pile. Ditto Al Murray. If you're looking for blatant cultural differences between us and the English, it's encapsulated in the fact that they seem to lap up this shouty, lairy, butch bollox while we tend towards the genius that is Dylan Moran. And he is a genius. And he only made number 14 or something. Harumph.

The Big Yin topped it. Fair result.

Tuesday, October 09, 2007

Velvet

I had a Wispa today. It was nice, like a posh chocolate carpet, but I don't really know what all the fuss was about. Where's the Fuse bar, which combined raisins and krispies and well, ok, that was a bit crap.

Or the Secret, the spindly delight with a sullen soft nougat centre?

Gonzo! That's what it is! Nowhere to be seen.

I'd love a 5-4-3-2-1, or a Telex, or a Mint Crisp. Oh wait, they still sell those.

Anyway, confectionarial musings aside, I'm blinkin' exhausted. Fierce tired. Out the last three nights in a return to drunken Radge.

Apparently there's footage of me singing 'Don't Go Breaking My Heart' at Emma Quinn's new palace down beside the Royal Canal. Her sister Cara was Kiki to my Elton, and I hope to never see this monstrosity in my living room. I refer only to myself of course, to my recollection Cara had a lovely warble to her.

The party was class, from Emma's mam applying concealer to my knee (true) to the hot snacks and cans of beer (true and true again).

Sunday saw us in Bowe's for the post mortem, while Aisling Eile held me rapt in Nearys and Kehoes on Monday with witticisms and wonderings on life itself. Fun fun!

Tonight I rest, but only after gracing Johnny and Pike for what was a POWERFUL cup of tae.

Galuck.

Tuesday, September 25, 2007

07:44

What a ridiculous state of affairs, not even 8 in the am and I'm up and typing and everything. I'm even off work today.

My own fault. I can't sleep hungry. I thought the bag of chips and quarter pounder with cheese from the chipper would keep me going last evening, but the pangs started in the middle of the night, so had to rouse myself for some cereal.

Crunchy Nut Corn Flakes and Weetabix in a glorious combination. Try it. Honestly. It works.

So here I am, planning what to do with myself for the morning and the afternoon. This evening goes the introduction back to student life, only this time I'm seeing it from the top down. Mes nerfs!

Hopefully all will pass smoothly though, and I'll take on academia and kick its learned ass.

I see the rain is out, and the girls have started wearing the big coats again. I'm always relieved to see 'big coat Monday,' as nobody but me calls it. It's the day where the young ones realise it's too cold for the skimpier garments.

That's not to say I don't have heterosexual blood, it's just that the winter is a comfort to me. I'm strange like that. Nothing like the cold and crisp air.

So yeah, seems I'm gone past the stage of being able to go back to bed. I'll sleep tonight.

Sunday, September 16, 2007

Stay away from Grogans.

Having an indoor day, keeping me to myself, staying stuck to the couch surrounded by my DVDs, but can't decide what to watch.

I think Taxi Driver.

Anyway, quiet enough few days. Saw Atonement on Thursday, riveting stuff, that five-minute tracking shot at Dunkirk a piece of cinematic genius. Took to the drink on Friday night, a few handy ones with Ollie, Noel and the Belle, lovely, then the Liverpool match yesterday in The Bank.

To be continued....

Continuation...

Got distracted there, Cowzer, Dave and JW came a calling for sups and I obliged. Shook now but. It's a beauteous day out there, which probably means I'll stay indoors with the curtains closed and the TV on. Never was one to make the most of the sun.

Back to last night - went to Grogans. In a recent interview, Graham (think that's his first name) Knuttel the artist spoke about his drinking days, and the fact that he gave up the gargle for a number of years. He now drinks once a week. The interviewer asked him what's the best way for someone trying to give up drink to get through their plight.

"Stay away from Grogans," he responded. Pity I didn't heed his advice. In a heap. There are crap stools and flies everywhere, my kind of aleing house.

I'm going back to bed. It's early yet.

Thursday, September 13, 2007

You Sexy Beast you!

Second post of the night, suppose I'm restless. Thought I'd talk about my recent filmic purchases and experiences.

First of all, I saw Knocked Up. 5X is bound to gawp at this one, it being 'white shite' and all, but it actually tickled me. Hardly the most subtle humour you'll ever come across but Katherine Heigl's deadly and yer man wasn't your typical leading man goon, so it's worth your time. Ephemeral it may be, but so's a nice Malteser Ice Cream so off you go or your money back.

Now, DVDs. Have bought many recently, seeing as I have little cash and need to waste whatever I do possess.

The Proposition I found to be a monumental film. I hadn't seen it before, but it was a winner from the get-go. I remember Guy Pearce in Neighbours. Not sure where I'm going with that point, but he excels here as a morally invisible gang member in a tight spot.

I've never been a massive Ray Winstone fan, and with one glib comment I've alienated my entire male readership, but he is class in this.

Also got the Prestige, which I've probably blogged about before. Christopher Nolan's finest film to my mind, pisses on Memento. Sorry Dave.

Moving on, The Departed because I felt I had to, and not JUST because of the Oscars. I've been tarred with the wrong brush there. Didn't love it by any means, but figured it would be a grower.

The Deer Hunter gets better every time I watch it. The wedding scene is exhaustive and maybe twenty minutes too long, but after that there's not a frame wasted and it served as a prelude to De Niro's best moments where his silence is his strong suit. See Heat, for example. Neil McCauley's a descendant of Michael, he must be.

Also got The Godfather trilogy because I didn't own it myself, and Taxi Driver. I don't need any more words on those.

Getting back to Dave, I want Napoleon Dynamite back.

Wednesday, September 12, 2007

What dressing?

Nothing but time I have, at the moment. On two weeks of a break, and unfortunately I've had to kick Dingle to the kerb on account of being on the brink of broke.

It follows that I'm sat here on my little chair, in my little flat, writing little words for your little eyes. And my little sanity.

Came back from Limerick today, had been down since Saturday for my da's 60th birthday party. The man was truly staggered by our deception, he walked into a chorus of 'SURPRISE' and the usual lark for these occasions. He was loving it though, and my mother and Anne, the chief architects of the ruse, could finally call an end to the clandestine phone calls and food arrangements.

Fair fucks to those who came, with special mention going to Kev and Austin, Ollie and the Belle, Dee and, well, all that dug into the cold meats and smoked salmon and what have you and toasted Mick on the occasion. He got five bottles of whiskey, a Diesel shirt, loads of vouchers and Celebrations chocolates. Loads of other stuff too but I stopped paying attention after I started in on the shorts.

On that note, I broke my pledge. 12 days I lasted, but couldn't keep from beer on Friday night in the Ferryman, seeing as I'd just been freed from Setanta Towers for a fortnight. Then my da's party and I couldn't see that one through without an ale and yes, I know, there's always an excuse.

So it's nearly 12 and normally by now I'd be heading bedwards, but I've fuck all on tomorrow, seeing as I wasn't even meant to be in Dublin this week. Don't come calling on me because I've no interest in the shindig, just lying low and getting some scribbles down. Unless you're talking 'just the one.'

ALWAYS an excuse. Always an out.

Thursday, September 06, 2007

Bleak and beautiful.

It's working. Properly. Das Interveb, as they don't call it in Germany. Got me Irish Broadband in the shop that sells it last week. Was acting the bollix for a few days but now it seems ok.

Anyway, about an hour ago I nearly got run over by a speeding BMW. I had to dive out of its way, less Bruce Willis in Die Hard, more startled rabbit, but it was effective and I preserved my presence on this Earth. Fuckin' idiot though, a boy racer with a big car and a small penis.

With my life intact, I can now enjoy ringtone ads, Lee Evans, the fucking Rugby World Cup, popular vocoder music, Ron Blacks, buses, HR, posers, sneezing loudly. empty soap dispensers, stale bread, the lad who does the links on Paramount and cucumber.

Oh wonderful!

Tomorrow at six bells begins my two weeks away from Setanta Towers. Thinking of hitting my favourite place on this isle for a few days, and will toast 5X in John Benny Moriarty's. Surely they don't have rugby in Kerry? Lord God I hope not.

Looking forward to being incommunicado, with the mobile secreted away and the only web in view spider-spun. I've 73 DVDs to catch up on too, at the moment it's the Deer Hunter. Bleak and beautiful it is, much like my holiday destination.

Sunday, September 02, 2007

One of these aul things...

1. Full Name: **** *******.
2. Nicknames: Radge. Titface.
3. Birthday: 30th November.
4. Place of Birth: Dublin.
5. Zodiac Sign: Sagittarius.
6. Male or Female: Male
7. Year: Yes.
8. Former school: Belvedere.
9. Occupation: Journalist
10. Residence: Dublin

__Your Appearance___

12. Hair Color: Brown. Not greying.
13. Hair Length: Which hair?
14. Eye Colour: Blue
15. Weight: Fluctuating. Roughly 12 stone, I suppose.
16. Height: Five foot eight minus a smidgeon.
17. Braces?: Nah.
18. Glasses?: Almost always.
19. Piercings: Not a one.
20. Tattoos: I don't foresee it.
21. Righty or Lefty: Thrifty.

___Your 'Firsts'___

22. First best friend: Probably imaginary.
23. First Award: The Gradam Mobhi.
24. First Sport You Joined: Drinking.
25. First pet: Kitty.
26. First Real Vacation: Too small to remember. Probably Luxembourg. Oik.
27. First Concert? Wet Wet Wet. I'm not ashamed.
28. First Love: Madeleine Lyes. Unrequited. I was 9.

___ Favorites___

29. Movie: Too many to mention.
30. TV programme: West Wing/Sopranos/Six Feet Under/Scrubs/Football.
31. Color: Don't care.
32. Rapper: Always thought the Kinder Bueno has a lovely foil.
33. Band: National.
34. Song: City Middle.
35. Friends: They don't wish me any SPECIFIC harm.
36. Sweet: Twixes.
37. Sport to Play: Bed sports.
38. Resturant: Waga I like.
39. Favorite brand: Of?
40. Store: Kelloggs Country...
41. School Subject: I'm a professional journalist. No more school.
42. Animal: Momo Sissoko.
43. Book: The Grapes Of Wrath.
44. Magazine: Total Film.
45. Shoes: Have been known to wear same.

___Currently___

46. Feeling: Driven by lust.
47. Single or Taken?: Single.
48. Have a crush: Not yet.
49. Eating: Nothing.
50. Drinking: Not alcohol anymore.
51. Typing: Loudly.
52. Online?: Next...
53. listen to? Some rugby nonsense. In work having completed shift and waiting for the bus.
54. Thinking About: Steak.
55. Wanting To: Drink. But not going to.
56. Watching: My wallet.
57. Wearing: New white t-shirt replete with slogan, clothes.

___Your Future___

58. Want Kids?: Yes. In March 2052. Specifically.
59. Want to be Married?: Not in my thinking.
60. Careers in Mind: Butcher, candlestick maker.
61. Where do you want to live: Ireland.
62. Car: I'm a driven man.

__Which is Better With The Opposite Sex___

63. Hair color: Mauve.
64. Hair length: Short, then long, then short, then shaved.
65. Eye color: Bleu.
66. Measurments: There's a typo in that word.
67. Cute or Sexy: I'll argue with neither.
68: eyes or lips: A woman should come equipped with both.
69. Hugs or Kisses: Kisses.
70. Short or Tall: Smaller than me, ideally.
71. Easygoing or serious: Both.
72. Romantic or Spontaneous: Didn't realise these were exclusive.
73. Fatty or Skinny: Somewhere in between.
74. Sensitive or Loud: Sensitive. Don't like loud.
75. Hook-up or Relationship: Depends on the people.
76. Sweet or Caring: Swearing.
77. Trouble Maker or Hesitant One: Trouble Maker.

___Have you ever______

78. Kissed a Stranger: I have.
79. Had Alcohol: Too much.
80. Smoked: In my time.
81. Ran Away From Home: Too lazy.
82. Broken a bone: Don't know.
83. Got an X-ray: Roughly 28 and a half of them.
84. Been with someone: I have been in the company of people. Is this a sheltered way of asking if I've had sex? If so, yes.
85. Broken Someones Heart: Yeah.
86. Broke Up With Someone: Yeah.
87. Cried When Someone Died: Yeah.
88. Cried At School: Maybe, when I was six.

___Do You Believe In___

89. God: Yeah. He plays for Cardiff.
90. Miracles: No.
91. Love At First sight: Lust definitely, love no.
92. Ghosts: Don't be talkin' soft!
93. Aliens: It was a sequel to the film Alien, or so I've heard. I'm a smart arse gobshite really.
94. Soul Mates: Four at my last count.
95. Heaven: Maybe.
96. Hell: Perhaps.
97. Angels: Blah.
98. Kissing on The First Date: No. Purely intercourse.
99. Horoscopes: I was joking on that last one. Just oral. OK. I'd better stop. Hand jobs. I can't seem to...

___Answer Truthfully___

100. Is There Someone You Want But You Know You Can't Have? Ronaldinho. He's too expensive, he'd never join us. And no.

Friday, August 31, 2007

Fuckin Zara, maaaan!

I'm writing to you from the Internet. MY Internet. It comes in a box now, slow as fuck but operational. Can't go wrong. Just another thing to distract me from my true path in life, that of the drunk, unpublished writer.

I'm off the gargle though. Honest to jaysus. Sick of the brutal mornings, their placebos and headaches, the memory holes, the fear and the fuck ups. I'm weary of all that nonsense. It's weird what a period of sobriety will do. I already frown on the inebriated, believing myself better by way of my abstinence.

Surely some day soon I'll be lowering lager beer in the Stags, making plans while life runs away from me, but for the moment the tea will do. Oh that's tea alright.

So I'm here in the flat, after a steak dinner, with an old episode of Friends troubling me in the background but I'm too stuck in my seat to go in search for the remote. So far, so humdrum. Did the hoovering today. Washing up now. Yeah. The....old.....washing....up. Dum de dum.

Fuck it. Better tackle it. I hate that baked on grime.

Friday, August 24, 2007

Mr Cuddihy-Fitzpatrick writes...

Email to Julianne on what really transpired in Galway. Read on...

I did end up married, as it happens. I was at the mass, all was going well and we were all concelebrating the union of Vik and Olivia. Communion came, and I saw this wild look in Johnny's eyes. I thought nothing of it, thinking it was just some minor mischief he was up to, and it would lead to laughter later.

Little did I presume the ordeal in store.

The priest administed the eucharist to me, and I recall thinking my Jesus cracker tasted a little off. Turned out Johnny had got his mate Gar to pose as a cleric, and 'spiked' the body of Christ with royhpnol.

I went back to the pugh to say my prayers, and began feeling a little woozy. I blacked out then into a dreamy fugue, and all I remember is Johnny saying something about finally getting his 'civil union' and that he'd now be entitled to 'half that fucker's DVD collection' and the 'Superquinn bag full of loose change he keeps in the top drawer of his desk.'

I finally came to at the top table. Vik and Olivia had long since departed - turns out their own 'marriage' was just an elaborate ruse - and Kev was giving his best man's speech at Johnny's side.

Aisling was very upset in the corner, she didn't know about any of this, and I was too groggy to do anything other than sit and smile and wonder what the hell had just happened. I'm just hoping against hope I can get an annulment.

Quiet weekend otherwise.

Sunday, August 12, 2007

Radge circa January 2007

I suppose it's about time, isn't it? I have plenty of guts to spill, I can safely confirm that life has never been so full of upheaval, and stress, and wonder about what the future holds, as it is now.

Such times are not a bad thing, necessarily. Too often the blanket of the comfort zone has cosseted me and made me complacent. I can't be having that. Perhaps better to be in turmoil, out of the shreds come a new design. Or some such bullshit.

I've been drinking too much. The warming splendour of the pub has left me powerless against its allure. All except last night, where the sheer busy-ness of the Odeon divorced me from my pint early and took me back to Charleville Road via Zaytoon.

Vik's stag, it was, but the lad was suitably oiled not to notice my departure, while apologies go to the rest of the boys for my defection.

As pubs go, Bowe's has my heart at the minute. I see it as a 1920s IRA hideaway, centred in the city but dwarfed by Doyle's beside it, a pleasurable annex with uncomplicated aleing and witty banter much of.

In other news, it's back to Radge circa January - May 2007. I've promised Julie I'll curb the braggadocio that those months saw born in me, I'm a far tamer beast in this day and age. I'll leave all cockiness to the regular Odeonites.

Saturday, July 21, 2007

Basetouchers rant 45

OK, I return. It's Saturday, the weather's shit, sitting in Limerick, nothing to do but blog. The details of my life at the moment would bring shame to me, to this blog, to everything, so not getting into it.

Instead I'm going to write about the 'busies'.

I've been observing these lads and ladies with more and more interest in the office. Fascinating. They're the bottom feeders who enjoy the nausea of the corporate ladder.

1) They must talk on the phone very loudly. One little hellion in Setanta Central, let's call her Sweetie Darling, is known for her less than subtle phone manner. Especially when talking to slightly important football pundits.

2) They touch base. Makes sense really, given the path they've chosen.

3) They don't walk, they stride, and they have to be on a mobile phone touching base with someone while they do it.

4) They talk about going forward, without moving an inch.

5) They ask if anyone fancies a few bevvies after work on Friday. Tuesday afternoon drinking is complete anathema.

6) They like horse racing, but ONLY during Cheltenham. Or the Grand National for a flutter. Ask them who won the 3.20 at Market Rasen and they'd most likely froth at the mouth and wreck their tie.

7) They air kiss.

8) They go to Howl At The Moon.

9) And read Ross O'Carroll Kelly.

10) And drink Budweiser.

Fuckin' basetouchers, man.

Wednesday, July 04, 2007

14:15

Y'know those stupid email jokes you get three or four times a day, the ones masquerading as humour, who writes those?

I've often pondered where they originate as I hunt in haste for the delete button.

So begins another missive on the life of Radge. I've kept schtum lately for technical reasons, I still haven't got the Interweb in the flat, so I write to you from my work desk of a lunch break, a Hot Italian Hoagie and half a bag of Hunky Dory's already consumed.

I've taken an inordinate like of dark chocolate. Dorte's chocolate fondue set may be to blame, or maybe it's my taste buds - they change every seven years, reportedly. I never thought I'd be talking about chocolate fondue sets, it's far from them I was reared, but that's just the kind of man I've become.

I also bring good news of work, got me a nice little job as Sportstel Editor. This won't mean much to most* of you, but rest assured I'm pleased.

What I'm not happy with is the current state of my bank balance, however. Spent the weekend in Westport for Ollie's birthday, and Jaysus but it proved pricey. Still, we managed to have the craic and will get around to posting pictures if I can figure out how to.

All that aside, lunch hour is up, so see ye.

*any.

Friday, June 22, 2007

Radgery lives!


Radgery lives! I can't bring myself to kill it off. Can't. Too many words expressed and days gone by.

I've had little chance to blog lately though, I'm currently stealing five minutes from the lobotomising EPG shift in Setanta Central to speak to you.

Does anyone know if Level 42 have a 'Best Of'? Was talking to Dave about them at the traffic lights on Tara St the other day. I loved Mark King and his troupe as a nipper. 'Running In The Family,' 'Lessons In Love,' eh... Can't remember any others but if anyone spies said CD, drop me a line...

Sunday, June 03, 2007

Penultimate


A while since I've put a picture on this, some illustration, so this was me little over a week hence in Dorte's place with two of her visiting pals from Denmark.

The camera has added a number of pounds to me, upwards of ten anyway! Still, all in the name of fun.

I'm in Limerick again, seems the only place I can blog nowadays, save for the odd twenty minutes stolen in work, here and there. Still no Interweb in Radgery Central, you see. I'll remedy shortly, all going well.

There's a lightness in my step lately, a feeling of general optimism undented by my crappy station in work. Still with the TV listings, living the dream, but hopefully that'll be sorted soon.

Toying with the thought of leaving old Radgery behind. There it is. There looms the feeling that I've written one humdrum entry too many, so it might be time to move to pastures new. Having said that, I may reverse my decision and blog here for many years to come. Who knows, just something to explore.

There are only so many cheeses though.

Saturday, May 26, 2007

All God's hours.

I've no time for idiots. You know the type, they put '-ers' at the end of a first name to signify to some kind of chummy familiarity.

For instance, I heard this one in the office the other day. "Hey Neilers, did you get that promo I sent over to you?" It made me grimace, like a particularly sour sweet.

Yes yes, I'm a miserable bastard. In fine spirits though, about to drink with 5X for the first time since a particularly cloudy session at Christmas. Then it's on to Blanchardstown to acquaint myself with two friends of Dorte's, over themselves for a debauched weekend.

It never stops.

Otherwise, I hope you're keeping away from yourselves. I was bitterly disappointed by Liverpool's defeat on Wednesday, and then proceeded to get over it five minutes later. I never get too upset about the 'fitba', you see, we'll take it next year.

Finally got my hands on 'Boxer,' and tickets to see The National again in November. Cheers to Ollie for that one. It's a spectacular album, with stand-outs 'Brainy,' 'Mistaken For Strangers,' 'Slow Show' and the masterpiece that is 'Green Gloves.'

I need a haircut. But when? Working all of God's hours!

Friday, May 18, 2007

Soft furnishings a flashpoint

Blimey, did some amount of shopping yesterday for the new flat. Lamps, cushions, an iron, a kettle, a George Foreman grill, cutlery, a bin, laundry basket. Not only that, but I know once I get back to Dublin I'll realise I forgot the most important item.

What was it? Shit shit shit.

PING!

A hammock. I need a hammock. Will pick one up in The Pale. Sorted.

So it's the sunset of my two weeks off. Feels like ten years since I last trod the boards of Setanta Central, so much having transpired since. Got the new place, moved in, over and back to Dorte's and the pubs visited like The Bank and The Stags and Cassidys and O'Briens and even Coppers and the Corkonian ones and Limerick with its own stresses and strains, such as the visit of the dreaded aunt.

This woman is a pokey, shrill and dismissive shrine to materialism and apathy. Tuesday in her company was a Tuesday sadly spent.

Still, she was gone by the time I awoke on Wednesday, and I have done nothing of note since, bar scan every football site for news of the final next week and annoy herself in Xerox with constant emails containing my thoughts for the day.

That all comes to a halt tomorrow with my return to Formula One duty, but I don't really mind. There's always value of a weekend in the Towers, and off again on Monday to get my house in order, both figuratively and literally. Actually, only literally.

Cheese of the week: Blue.

Things I don't give a shit about this week:

1) Over compensating.
2) Bluster
3) Leaky roofs. Or is it rooves?
4) Woks.
5) Stale bread.
6) Romanglements.
7) The film 'Last King Of Scotland.' Overrated.

That's me for now.

Monday, May 14, 2007

Pades of shink.

Hello, you lovely people.

My time off is closing up rapidly, seems like many, many moons since I last trod the boards of Setanta Central. I'm back there on Saturday when the new routine kicks in. No more quick ambles up the quays for me. No no no, I'm bussing it again from my lair on Charleville Road.

Still, can't complain, it's working out well. This living alone lark was always going to be a tough one to negotiate, but I've done alright so far. Granted, I do miss Johnny robbing my beans and Aisling replacing them, and the general vitriol fired at me daily for the last ten years by the great oppressor, but I'm surviving.

I'll remain a frequent visitor to Forbes Quay, not wanting to lose the run of myself and all...

Otherwise, it's been the best of times. A lot of fun has been had in the recent times, can't smile wide enough. Had dingers of nights on Friday and Sunday with the lads, while Saturday was a bit good too (though the live music idea in La Terrazza was lost on me, the food and company was more than acceptable!).

By the way, I need the following items for the flat:

An iron.
A kettle.
A George Foreman grill.
More cutlery.
A wok.
Coffee.
Tea.
Sugar.
Tinned food in case of war.
A bomb shelter.
Broadband.
BADLY need broadband.
Some lamps.
A laundry basket.
More air fresheners.
Beer.

Can anyone help?

Sunday, May 06, 2007

With my green gloves...

Rightio, here I am. Glorying in the thoughts of my new home on Charleville Road, just off the North Circular. A dandy little shell of a flat that I hope to make my own for many moons to come, can't be having all this moving about at all...

Also, it's back to the old neighbourhood, kind of, I'm a Northsider once more and wearing a proud, proud face...

The packing and unpacking will be less than pleasant, but worth it in the finish.

Otherwise, I've just been, well, around, really. It's already been a boozy weekend. We'd Ronan's 30th birthday celebrations in Na Fianna on Friday, a top night enjoyed by all. Myself and Dorte decided against a late one and taxi'd back to Blanch for some Tuborg - to the uninitiated it's basically repackaged Carlsberg - and whiskey most enjoyable.

The head wasn't great yesterday but I figured there was no harm in meeting Richie for a swift one in The Bank while watching the Manc derby. Well that turned into the Liverpool travesty against Fulham and onwards and onwards to inebriation in the company of Etaoin, and later Gary and Johnny Ward.

I reckon I knew the one that was one too many, and surpassed it bravely with three or four more.

Anyway, no more of that for a while. I'll be financially crippled after the deposit and what-have-you, and could do with keeping the beer at bay for a bit. At the start of two weeks away from Setanta Central too, which pleases me greatly.

Greatly!

Tuesday, April 24, 2007

Ada, I can hear the sound of your laugh through the wall

You may or may not know that I'm seeking a place to live. In my naivete, I thought it wouldn't be a tough task to find some small domain to squirrel myself off in, plotting the demise of my enemies and hatching schemes towards my writerly success.

That was until I saw No.3 Harrington Street yesterday. Jesus Christ. Ollie and I ventured up and I had hope in my heart that this one bedroomed apartment with all mod cons (they're never old cons in the ads) would be my new home. Not so. I was encountered by a transient Dutchman (I assume he was Dutch anyway) with madness in his eyes, wondering when the fuck he'd manage to offload the absolute hole of a flat he'd been living in.

Filthy mattresses against the wall, ill-fitting couch, mildewed bathroom, bars on the windows, peeling wallpaper... Oh and the smell! Dead cat's remains, I'd wager. A shocking place.

Anyway, I feigned interest and legged it as fast as I could, myself and Ollie soon finding ourselves lowering pints, with the thought dawning on me that this search could go on and on.

And the price of rent! Gonna find myself 800 quid down monthly for a half decent place, it seems. Sure that'd drive a man to... well... we know where...

Drink, most likely.

Thank heavens I'm an optimist, and praise must also go to Emma and Dorte for trawling through DAFT on my behalf.

In other news, I'm still National-obsessed...

http://false45th.blogspot.com/2007/03/national-boxer.html

Check out these two videos. They have held me spellbound, especially the second one, 'Ada'. Would like to know what the dancing girls are on.

Otherwise, I've booked myself a couple of weeks off work, starting Friday week. That'll be a hell of a weekend, and then I'll try and pass it quietly and get my business affairs in order. It occurs to me there's only so much time a man should spend on hedonism and being lazy, this beast needs to turn from a whimper to a scream.

Tuesday, April 17, 2007

Greaney. A love story.

It occurs to me that a technical error let to the forgettances of Messrs Salter and Greaney from my previous blog. Humblemost apologies gents. Destroyed soon.

Monday, April 16, 2007

Mocking is catching.

http://www.prefixmag.com/media/the-national/fake-empire-mp3/3182

The above link features 'Fake Empire,' the unwitheringly gorgeous new tune by The National. Oh mercy me. As Johnny Ward said to me, its immediacy will be its downfall. Beautiful. Check out the horns at the end.

Anyway it's me here again. Off work nursing a hoor of a hangover and a burgeoning cold. Out last night with the aforementioned Galway lad and Skehan, in Brogans. Got messy with the Jameson and the Charlies sweet and sour afterwards.

What's that smell? Burnt candle wick it is. Whether it's been out getting shenaniganed or in getting served gin cocktails in Blanchardstown (Dorte was right about the grape juice concoction the other night, far less acidic than a Manhattan), it's been a great and good time for old Radge. I'm happy to put up with this light ailment for the sake of the craic.

On to other matters. Walking to lunch last week, Dave, Julie and Emma told me they only refer to Radgery when they're involved. So, for the sake of boosting my readership, consider yourselves mentioned, along with...

5X, Richie, Denise, Lynn, Andrew, Gillian, the Jennifers (both Bacon and Clegg), Lisa, both Kev Murphys, Johnny, Pike, Ollie, the Belle, Noel, my mam, my dad, Anne, Emma, Cowzer, Dave Delany, Dockers, Faela, Gillian in China, Aisling, Jasper, Princess Orla, Etaoin, Mark McCadden, Karen, Anne's John, Ronan, Austin, Kenny, Ken, Finbar, Billy Leahy, Raf, Jay, Ciara, Gersende, Twenty Quid, Ding Dong, Niamho, Michelle...

If I've forgotten you, well, you have some getting over it to do.

Monday, April 09, 2007

Daneland and mermaids.

Well, you find me right as rain. In fact, just used that opening to question the saying itself. What is so right about rain? Or what's wrong with the sun, as the right honourable Jennifer pointed out to me a couple of days ago?

All very queer altogether.

Lent has passed, and with it the need to defend myself against the zealots for not giving up the Mars Bars or the pints. My ever-widening belly is a less forgiving beast, however. Easter weekend itself was a dinger...

Was off on Good Friday so myself and Dorte drove our way over to Skerries for the craic. A fine seaside escape and a flask of coffee. Though it was more of a transportable pot. And little chocolate muffin buns. I say muffin buns because I couldn't decide if they were one or t'other. Tasty though.

What followed saw us dotted throughout the city, with a pit-stop at Owen and our Emma's into the bargain. It was a very good Friday indeed, though I will admit to a lasagne thanks to the Danelandish one...

Saturday saw myself and Bill and Johnny Ward in John Mulligans pub for a couple of cheeky post-work beers, nothing mad, though possibly as a result I have succumbed to a bit of cold manifest as an ear-ache. Seems to be on the wane though...

I'm in Limerick anyhoo, came down today after barely managing to escape the clutches of Titface himself. Johnny had that wild look in his eyes as we thought about a day of Stella and football in the flat, but sense prevailed and we'll resort to such shenanigans another time.

Shame to see the sun gone in, but I feel as shiny as a new old penny.

Sunday, April 01, 2007

Happy from Harrogate writes...

Jimmy Carr though, what a twat.

A pleasant day today, though long. Roused myself at 7am in Limerick to make it to work at a reasonable hour, and swore blind (why is that a saying?) that I wouldn't go boozing, that I'd come back to the apartment straight after leaving Setanta Central and make tea and the like...

So anyway, met Skehan and the belle and went for grub in that Italian place, what's it called? Oh yeah, Bar Italia, and came back to the apartment DETERMINED that I wouldn't go any further with the hooch than the couple of glasses of wine with the meal...

So anyway, was sat here at 11 bells, watching that withering gobshite Carr doing some countdown show, ready for the leaba, when the quare lad, Richie himself, texts to see if I'd be on for a local few.

So anyway, we hit the Ferryman, and had a nice couple (three) before we realised the barman was serving no more and we "may take ourselves on home."

Upshot: Sat here at 3 in the morning with the laptop, dallying around when I should have been asleep hours ago.

Terrible man, that Richie Roche.

Thursday, March 29, 2007

**** bores the shit out of me.

Well well.

I came to realise it's been a while since my last proper blog, and time to kill before heading for Limerick, so here I am.

Shell-shocked I am after a night with the worst ailment this side of the bubonic plague. OK, perhaps I exaggerate, but I sit here a broken man.

Loathe as I am to blame the Stag's Head, could it have been a dodgy pint? Methinks possibly, especially as I only managed a couple before the Belle came and rescued me and ferried me home, Ollie taking no little joy in my discomfort! I won't forget this Skehan!

All of that aside, you find me in rare old form. A plethora of excellent nights since my last posting, with Dave and Nar chiefly to blame for a fair few of them. Or to thank, more precisely.

OK, well I'm off, I'll come back when I'm back in the fitness of my health and post properly. Stay ye beautiful.

Monday, March 19, 2007

Papa Smurf. A redemption story.


Generic Communist leader Papa Smurf often drew controversy for his close ties to Karl Marx and, later, the Stalinist Soviet Union, but this ‘kindly’ alchemist has had a private life to rival the most grizzled tabloid veteran.

The 579-year-old may have appeared docile and was noted for his diplomatic skills on screen, but off it this brutish blue creation led a life of homoeroticism, debauchery and, on occasion, bestiality.

His problems began while shooting the now infamous ‘Smurf Against Smurf’ episode from 1973, in which he was required to switch bodies with Gargamel in order to pretend to attack the village.

On screen his bravura was applauded by millions, off it Papa Smurf - his ties to several communist regimes being investigated by the Senate - became aloof and disinterested.

The full extent of his drug taking was exposed around this time, he became sloppy in hiding his predilection for sheepish sex (literal meaning), while his colleagues, including Clockwork Smurf and Nosey, became concerned about his mushroom intake.

So they informed the National Enquirer.

Fired immediately from the animated series, along with Smurfette, another victim of the shrooms, Papa Smurf took to harder substances to mask his latent love for young boys and woollen beasts.

Smurfette, meanwhile, just smoked a lot of crack.

However, as the darling of the show disintegrated into a sunken shadow of the cartoon sex symbol she once portrayed, Papa Smurf found redemption in the form of the Sierra Tucson rehab facility.

He talked his problems out, got off the substances, and learned that animal love should be left to the animals.

He also met the man he’s with today, make-up artist DeLonge Sinclair, and made a brave yet unsuccessful attempt at a seat in the US Congress.

A cartoon comeback is not to be ruled out.

Thursday, March 15, 2007

I have located my glasses

That Kenny, he likes a stout so he does. Anyway, you'll all be cheered to know I found my glasses, they were under the couch. Dave's theory goes that I came in last night and fell asleep on the sofa and threw my spectacles from my face in a fit of drunken barbarity.

He's probably right too.

Anyway, sat here on my day off with the usual drunkenness to report. Took myself to a number of aleing houses yesterday with the mucker.

The Ha'penny Bridge Inn and The Bankers proved non-runners, so back with us to the Kehoes snug and pissedo drunko lockedo fuckedo was got. Johnny Ward was there, glorying in Cheltenham, and we were soon joined by Brian and Vik, and Richie and Dave D and the man known only as Ken Mackenzie. A worthy addition to our coterie.

One Burger King later and I don't remember the rest. Had pointed towards more of the same today with Ollie, but the two of us agree that one night's destroyedness will do us, so I'm sat in Forbes Quay, still with no NTL, and planning where to get some grub.

Oh, and the Glenn Medeiros feature went down a treat. If there's any other obscure Eighties singer or actor you want profiled, give me a shout. Better that than doing any actual work.

Cheese of the week: Crozier Blue.

Things I don't give a shit about:

1) The washing machine being ridiculously loud on its spin cycle.
2) Music criticism. Objectivity rules!
3) Getting my hair cut. Putting it off for weeks with no sign of action.
4) Cheltenham. I really couldn't give a bollix.
5) Rugby. This is going in every one of these lists from now on.
6) Palindromes.
7) The films of David Lynch.

Tuesday, March 13, 2007

Nothing's going to change his love for you


Glenn Alan Medeiros (born 24 June 1970) is a singer and songwriter of Portuguese ancestry from the state of Hawai'i.

From humble beginnings performing on a tour bus on the island of Kauai, Medeiros's musical career soared. He is best known for his rendition of George Benson's "Nothing's Gonna Change My Love For You" which was #12 on the Billboard Hot 100 in 1987.

He also scored a 1990 United States #1 hit duet with Bobby Brown entitled "She Ain't Worth It" and followed it up with another hit duet hit with Ray Parkers, Jr (#32) "All I'm Missing Is You".

Today, Medeiros teaches music at St. Joseph's School in Waipahu, and teaches 5th grade at Island Pacific Academy in Kapolei.

Friday, March 09, 2007

Me on the film called 'Venus'

'Venus' (as relayed to 5X and Fell through email this morning)...

I really can't recommend it enough, as per my text.

Two old goats, actors, and one (Peter O'Toole) takes a lusting to a young one. All played out very subtly, and the scenes with the aul boys in the cafe are pure gold. Could almost be us in 42 and a half years.

Reminds me of the O'Toole classic. He's on a session with Richard Harris before they're both due to appear on stage. O'Toole just makes the curtain, steamed, and as he begins to perform an audience member shouts out...

"Mr O'Toole, YOU'RE DRUNK!"

To which the great man responds, drolly and icily,

"If you think I'M drunk sir, wait until you see Harris."

It's my favourite West End story to recount, and really puts my current standing on the Content shift in Setanta in context.

Monday, March 05, 2007

Minutiae.

Had an email from Gillian today, wondering if it was true, had I really foresaken booze above all others? She's been keeping up to date here, you see, wherein I informed you all of my all-too-recent pledge to stay on the straight and sober.

Well, I broke it.

And how.

It began last Wednesday when I took to the Long Stone. Had been there the previous night too, with the lads from work, and didn't touch a drop. Let's just say I've had better nights, though no fault of the Setanta crowd, you understand...

Anyway, Wednesday and met Kenny - back from Germany - and Kev and I broke. Started with a 7-Up but soon gave up the ghost and next thing I knew it was Thursday, and the snug in Kehoes with Ollie and it was all over again.

Did discover the Ha'penny Bridge Inn though, what a spot, and some very friendly Welsh folk from Rhyl. One was called Kate-eh, and another one Rhys. Fucked if I recall the rest of that night.

Which took me to Friday, and met Val for some long overdue dinner and drinks value. Most pleasant, but she chose to abandon me early (I'll get an irate comment for this, no doubt!) and I ended up in the warming bosom of Dr Fell and the rest of the lads in O'Neills.

Dave raised an interesting point on the night. He said he enjoys reading old Radgery, but he feels there's very little of my actual life in here. Gave me some pause for thought, and upon reflection it's almost certainly true.

The details are all correct - in that I do find myself in the pubs of Dublin to excess and I don't bother changing any names - but by and large I choose not to divulge the minutiae, the smaller moments that make a man, or break a man, and the longings and the crapnesses that make life such as it is.

Anyway, I appreciated the observation from Dave, he's a tough man to get anything past.

So where was I? Oh yeah, looking at the moon. That was Saturday. I've settled on 'ochre' - see comments on previous posting from 5X - and since then I've happened down to Limerick to see the auld pair.

They're keeping well and asking for you.

YOU in particular.

Cheese of the week: Vieux Boulogne: Recently named the world's smelliest cheese, and it's aged with beer apparently. Cheers Jennifer for the info on this. To the hypermarché!

Sunday, March 04, 2007

Man seeks a loaf of bread.


View from my balcony this evening, pretty much. Debated the colour with Faela. I'm sticking with 'blood red.'

So now.

Monday, February 26, 2007

Genesis were crap, weren't they?

Came up with a good word today - 'romanglements'. They are, in other words, romantic entanglements. The lads at lunch were well impressed.

As a complete aside, may I extend a heartfelt welcome to Jennifer, may her cup always runneth over. Radgery greets you and hopes you enjoy our little fraternity. It's like a cult, though without the creepy leader and chanting.

So here I am as sober as the days are getting longer. Decided last week to kill beer from the diet for the time being. There have been two visits to the pub, with the tally consisting of two Lucozades, one orange juice and two glasses of water.

The first of the two was to see Liverpool beat Barcelona, which pleased me greatly. A high without the hangover.

Otherwise, just checking in. It's Monday night and I've little to be doing.

The week ahead is fixing up nicely. Gonna get reacquainted with Ms Valerie Lynam, it really has been far too long, hopefully see Kenny and Kev on Wednesday, and entertain Denise of a Thursday. A whirlwind week. If I get through this one without liquor I'll expect either a gold star or an Oscar.

Tuesday, February 20, 2007

B for BALLS!

More power to you all, you're still here.

Coming to the end of my time off from work, and I must admit to a tinge of sadness and frustration that I can't spend ALL my days drinking tea and watching re-runs of the West Wing (notice how Josh's hair becomes steadily fairer as the seasons run on apace...)

As for the nights? Well that would be telling. And tell I will...

Hmmm... Going backwards.... Monday and Z-We-Ton (YOU try and pronounce it!) and Sinnotts with Aisling for top notch food and craic... Sunday all day and a mammoth session with Ollie and the Belle (the new newcomer of the year 2006, how could I forget?) and Noel and Johnny Ward and Richie and jaysus but it was merrisome....

Saturday and the Villager with the brothers Skehan after a brief encounter with Emma and Cowzer and Etaoin... Made it home twenty minutes past bedtime (come to think of it Ash I still owe you that drink!)...

Friday I arrived back from Limerick to Pike and Catherine (Johnny's mam) and Kev and Val... This blog is a sea of names, I know... in the apartment to all sorts of chatter and banter. Great to see Kev it was...

Thursday was... Thursday was... I think I'll err on the side of caution on this one...

Wednesday came back from Bantry with the aul fella after our usual, VERY enjoyable couple of days peering out over the mountains and bays of the Beara Peninsula and enjoying beautiful pints of Black Gold in Eileen's... If I had pictures I'd show you but I don't so I can't...

Prior to that, I believe, is when you caught me last, at the start of my holidays and in rare aul form.

Can't say much has changed in that regard. Can't smile wide enough despite TWO impending EPG shifts.

Shudder.

The cheese of the week is Manchego. I'm putting 'Things I Don't Give A Shit About' on hiatus because I'm in no mood for negativity.

Post scriptum: Speaking of holidays, a hearty welcome home to Faela from the Champs Elysees, and au revoir as she jets to England in the morning. Ryanair never had it so good. A stick of rock on your return, please!

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

Way past bedtime...

Sweet divine mother of all that is holy in the world of St Columbanus of the Cross Of Cush.

Story?

Yep it's old Radgery up to his tricks, the dirty sly dog running through the events and tumult of his life for you, my pretties.

Bantry is still in one piece. Took a trip there with the aul lad over the last day or two, and a fine time was reported by all. Or, well, both. Did the usual boozing and driving over mountains and admiring the unsullied parts of Ireland, before we packed up and came back to Limerick.

Limerick. A hole, mainly.

What else? Mention must go to our brilliant work lunches, normally attended by myself and Julie and Dave and Fin and Emma... The reason I bring this up is our Julie opining that I only ever talk about nights out and the like, and never that hour of peace and bullshittery that makes work barely acceptable.

Things I don't give a shit about this week:

1) Discarded lottery tickets.
2) Food stamps.
3) El Hadji Diouf.
4) The howling wind outside.
5) Explaining myself. Pah.
6) The music of Mary Black.
7) The fact that this keyboard won't do fadas.

Cheese of the week: Camembert.

Monday, February 05, 2007

Made you look!

What's your favourite song? It's one of those questions you generally ask the lads when you're 15, before you sneak up the lane at the back of the garden for an illicit smoke or something, but I'm curious...

For me it remains City Middle by The National, the most transporting of songs about the dreaded draw of relationships and what not. Supreme music, and to see them perform it live remains a pivotal musical moment in the life of old Radge.

Speaking of the man himself, me, I'm in tip top form. Closing in on my time off and can't smile wide enough. It's a good way to be.

Thursday, February 01, 2007

Lost in Swords.

I just emailed Cowzer and said a blog is long overdue, so I feel duty bound to perform for you, my adoring little minions...

First of all, let me inform the world that the Eagles are recording a new album. There's no need for that. I fuckin hate the Eagles, maaaan...

Anyway, sat here on my day off watching Scrubs and wondering what the bedevil to do with myself for the afternoon. Chances are I'll sit watching the same news reports on Sky Sports News until I head townwards to meet Ms Denise of Farrell for food and an inevitable pint in Neary's... Twas always thus, and always thus shall hopefully be...

It has been a time chockful of boozing and working and looking forward to my upcoming two weeks off. Bound for Bantry with the aul fella on Monday, there's no better place to restore me to rights, seafront views and country surrounds and all that nonsense. It's like Withnail And I without the sodomising uncle and central heating. Beautiful.

Much of my life of late is unbloggable and troublesome. Lots of tos and fros, craziness on an unwholesome scale. 20o7 has already shaped up to beat 2006 comprehensively in terms of upheaval and possibility. January, for me, has been anything but dull.

Deliberate vagueness aside, on the insistence of Richie I'm bringing back things I don't give a shit about this week...

1) Gin.
2) Tonic.
3) Broken washing machines and showers and cold, nay, ARCTIC bedrooms.
4) Owning my own property. In my own time!
5) Matching socks.
6) Condescending ticket inspectors.
7) The fact that I can't find my watch.
8) Cheers. Prefer Frasier.
9) The service in Pacino's.
10) Guffawing suits.

Cheese of the week: Red Leicester.

Wednesday, January 24, 2007

Interim

Forgive me readers, for it's been well over two weeks since my last blog. Raf says he's struggled to live vicariously through my stylings, so I can only apologise.

These have been insane times, candles being burned and what not. I just don't have the words. Proper update soon.

Sunday, January 07, 2007

Prohibition here.

Sakes. 9.24 of a Sunday evening and I'm laid up in the bed with the behemoth of all belly aches.

Can't quite sleep yet so figured I'd catch up on my correspondance, and lo and behold not a comment in sight on old Radgery. My own fault, of course, I've been lacksadaisical in the blogging stakes of late.

My month long festival of alement that was December turned itself into January with barely a pause for breath. Granted, New Year's Eve itself turned into the dullest night this side of October, with me flicking from Frasier to Scrubs to heaven only knows what, drinking cups of tea in the apartment, nursing a hoor of a hangover and staring wantonly across at the revelling hordes across the road.

Made up for it on Tuesday, myself and Richie doing an awful damage to the Long Stone before fixing on Q Bar - not a typo - and a group of sound Chinese lads. I danced like a dervish and got many, many withering glances from the chickenheads.

Rejection has never been so much fun.

Wednesday took it handy, while Thursday I got Mulliganed with the lads from work and Emma and Owen. Mention at this point goes to Charlie's on Westmoreland St, their Sweet And Sour is spot on.

Friday and I was ready for a quiet weekend with no carousing whatsoever, so went to O'Reillys and got destroyed. Usual suspects, Ward and Richie and Lisa and Ciara and Jay and Aaron and mercy me my head the next day! Such a to-do!

Otherwise, Liverpool are shit, my stomach's in knots and I'm off the booze for a week. I swear it.