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...


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.


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.