Saturday, January 26, 2008

Put the freshness back.


Saturday morning and I'm off work, o happy days, so thought I'd look in on my good friend 'interweb machine' and feed it stories from my life. Actually, not strictly true, it's a straight choice between blogging and taking the feather duster to Radge Central, so the former wins.

For some reason I just pictured myself in a pink fluffy mini-skirt singing the Shake 'N' Vac song. Chilling.

So most of my readers will have been out carousing with me on Thursday night in O'Neills for Dave's birthday. A fine spot is O'Neills, located just around the corner from work on Pearse St. Fine pints and a free platter of cocktails sausages and chips. At least I think it was free. I didn't pay anyway.

Destroyed was got anyway, with only shards of conversations remembered yesterday as I searched the flat in vain for paracetamol. No fear though. Had a good long chat with Mother Maher and her remembrances of the young Pado and Fred calling to the door for David to go out knocking conkers off trees and, presumably, engaging in gang warfare with those from Marino.

None of that probably happened.

Spent yesterday cursing the two tonne weight in my head. Had intended heading out to meet Denise and some of her colleagues, but whenever I tried to be upright the wobbles would start and the tears of excruciating pain start to form. No value. With a heavy heart I told her it would have to be another time, so hopefully that will come to pass soon.

This was, of course, also the weekend where I should have found myself in Cork with Orla, but the cruel gods intervened and work is on the agenda for tomorrow. Curses. I'm hoping I'll soon be heading south though. That wasn't intended as a crass sexual euphemism, by the way. I need to be clear on that.

Sunday, January 20, 2008

I steal Dave's mints when he's not looking.

Lo and behold, it's me, back from wherever I was. I understand my blogging has been sporadic of late, and apologies go out to my six readers who hang on my every word like leeches to something adhesive or a human body in some unnamed jungle.

What an intro.

I'm down with a kidney infection at present, rushing in and out of the jacks trying to avoid catastrophe and the sponging of the carpet. Successful so far, I'll hope the ailment passes before the words 'granny' and 'flat' take on more of a literal meaning.

It's been a relatively quiet January, dented only by nights out in Bowe's, the Hairy Lemon, the Long Stone and then last Thursday in Kehoes. It was a date blind in its inception and uninspired in its execution. I'd taken note of various tips from sources more worldly than myself, given a longer than long hiatus from the world of boy meets girl meets intercourse. It all went out the window on the night itself though, when I reverted to the state of shifting awkwardly and wondering what excuse I could use to absent myself.

The best dates are not like job interviews, but this one was, though I'm not laying any blame on her. We said our goodbyes, and I eschewed the whole 'let's meet again some time' palaver because, well, I had no interest in doing this particular dance again.

Enough of that. I saw 'No Country For Old Men' yesterday with Fell. I don't remember the last time I'd wanted to see a film so badly, so took the first available opportunity to drink at the font of the Coens' new 'masterpiece'. Of course, such a build-up could only leave me deflated and so it was.

The film, while magnificently played by Tommy Lee Jones, Mickey Dolenz and your man from The Goonies, meandered along and then finished. Loose ends went untied and the much vaunted violence was alluded to rather than played out in front of the audience. Perhaps I'm a bloodthirsty wretch but it left me wondering what my overall opinion of the film was. I'm still not sure. Still, I'm curious enough to give it another look at some point soon.

I felt like this after seeing 'Heat' for the first time, so it could turn into a seminal piece for me yet.

(Darts to bathroom)

Curse my infernal innards!

Wednesday, January 09, 2008

The pesky youth

I'm not quite at mid-life crisis point yet, as I hope to live long beyond 58, but I have taken stock and come up with inventory of Radge, 2008. Everything changes and everything stays the same.


The washing up must be done immediately, with minimum time on the draining board. Who can be looking at them? Not me anyway. Cleanliness in radgeliness.

I look forward to a good episode of Prime Time, and Questions And Answers provokes thought as opposed to the switching over to the football.

I drink herbal teas, and coffee is now ground. No more with the Gold Blend.

I frown upon shots. Mostly.

I house a plant.

I buy tea towels.

I worry about cleaning the oven after cooking, worry being the operative word. I actually clean it roughly once a month, a big step up from never.

Vitamins. Daily.

I notice when people get haircuts, men and women. Actually, I always noticed, but I now voice it.

I can admit freely when a member of the same sex is good looking, confident I won't be mistaken for a homosexual.

I no longer listen to young people's music.

RTE. Radio. One.

Matching socks always.

I wonder where my taxes are going.

I correct assignments, as opposed to write them.

I meet people for coffee.

I feel the cold more.

I praise the advent of online banking at least once a week.

I put off social engagements to do my washing.

I own more than one pair of shoes. And a suit.

I sigh loudly when I see the youth of today doing, well, anything.

I have a bed-time.

I enjoy correcting spelling mistakes.

I pay for family meals. Well, once to this point, and I expect kudos for it for years to come.

I have, in my lifetime, bought a spatula.


I have a Bebo page.

The Griffith College Student Handbook that I spilt beer on during a drunken session last November is still on the floor under the chair in my living room.

I do a 'half laugh' every time I fart on my own.

Pasta. Daily. It seems.

I never remember to water the plant.

I frequently ignore my bed-time.

I'm still late with the assignments.

I pretend two miniature basketballs in work are my testicles, and sit with them in place until someone (Dave) notices.

I own a water pistol.

I lost my water pistol.

I can't even be responsible for the safe upkeep of a water pistol.

I still refer to 'the gays'.

I feel myself reddening when talking to a particularly attractive female. While I have attained (I do hope) a certain level of skill in the conversational aspect of pre-coital verbosity (chatting up), my face betrays the urge to plunder.

I can't negotiate wages.

The subject of the housing market/economy in general makes me yearn for self harm.

Saturday, January 05, 2008


I feel left out but in a good way.

Everyone I know, EVERYONE I know, has suffered from or is suffering from colds, stomach blights, scurvy, scarlet fever and shingles this Christmas bar me. For the first year in five or six I've seen the festive season through without so much as a sniffle. I know that I am tempting fate writing this - particularly as two of the lads present here in work look like famine outcasts - but I feel I need to glory in my current state of wellness.

Oh lovely it is.

(Coughs) Shit.