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 Just another thing to distract me from my true path in life, that of the drunk, unpublished writer.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.