Tuesday, March 25, 2008

Post 200.

Look to your right and you'll see photos from Stef's recent trip home from Heidelberg. I decided to steal them from her Facebook page because, well, I could.

Unfortunately blogger wouldn't let me create a slideshow, so they're strewn down the side banner, but these are the breaks.

Anyway, welcome to the new Radgery, with the lights turned down and the Stag's Head given its rightful place in the banner. What has caused this cosmetic surgery? A spanking new dashboard is what, enabling even the technophobiest of cocks such as myself to pretty up his weblog and greet the world anew.

I'm still not right after the weekend. After swearing blind (eye test tomorrow) that I'd take it handy and stick to my project this weekend, I folded in the face of relentless calls and texts from Cowzer and Johnny. Saturday took us to Stepaside, yonder in the mountains somewhere, to see where Kev calls home.

Sunday was grand slam or something, with Liverpool plundered senseless by the rags. We could do nothing but lament by way of drink and Mulligans and Capital. 4am I got home. I outlasted Dave and Emma in the drinking stakes. Don't think that has ever happened before, what with them being more addicted to the shindig than I am. They won't deny it either.

Still shook, and next door are letting loose with a fucking power drill. Sakes.

Friday, March 21, 2008

I am a weak, weak man.

Powerful dryin' today. Could rain though.

Yeah yeah, I've been a useless bloggist lately, but I'm here now, am I not?

In the middle of my time off work, doing my utmost to stay sane and avoid the pub at the same time. I find these pursuits to be at odds with each other. Still, I persist in the hope that I'll better my situation through penmanship.

I am a penman.

Since waltzing away away from Setanta Central last Sunday and straight into the bosom of the Palace Bar and later Bowe's, I've been to Limerick and back for a visit to the medic and little else. Oh the fun of sitting in a GP's waiting room for two and a half fucking hours.

I got through three 2006 copies of Four Four Two magazine, replete with World Cup preview material, and a full hour and a half of Pat Kenny. That I didn't mind too much, but when Ronan Collins came on, with the two small children tearing said waiting room asunder, I thought of breaking into the surgery and demanding something lethal. A vial of smallpox to take the pain away.

That didn't happen though. He ushered me in with a frank apology and all I could reply was "ah that's no bother, felt like five minutes." I've always made a point never to argue with a man about to extract blood from me.

Moving on, it's Good Friday today. The lads have been trying to decide where best to get drunk, seeing as the pubs and off licences are closed and that. I don't understand. Were it a normal Friday, there would be every possibility of heading straight home from work and settling for tea and multiple episodes of whatever E4 + 1 are showing but no, not today. The compulsion is to drink because it's not allowed, a giant fuck you to a church that's largely irrelevant anyway. I do feel sorry for the alcoholics, hope they stocked up on WKDs or whatever it is they're drinking nowadays, but for folks like myself there's no harm in sitting in, switching on the kettle and...

(phone rings)

...I'll let you know how the drunkening goes.

Wednesday, March 12, 2008

Gid. Totally gid.

Old Terry McDanger wants me to reference him on the blog here by tagging or using something called a meme or, well, here - check out www.terencemcdanger.com - that's the best I can with absolutely no technical savvy whatsoever.

Hello anyway. I've lazily drunk my way through the last few days but tea was the height of it. I've never heard of anyone overdosing on it. Never has there been known a 'lemon and ginger tea high,' but I really do love the way it leaves a slight tingle on the tongue with none of the acidity of other lemon-based beverages.

Slap in a Marks And Spencer's mini-bite and you're away.

On to far more important matters - congratulations go out to Kev and Aideen (Kev correct me if I've mis-spelt your lady love's name) who are the proud father and mother to baby Joshua since last Friday.

Moving next to the social pages - I've done very little. A few crafty halves last Friday aside with Emma, Dave, Brian and JP, I've been indoors crafting my work of whatever the fuck it is. Not going terribly well. How can anything go smoothly when Paramount show a weekend's worth of Scrubs? Sunday Stacks kill all creativity.

Right, better run, Lotto to be won.

Wednesday, March 05, 2008

Don't mind if I do.

I am in love. I am. It hit me tonight like a thunderbolt. The person I'm in love is 23, Spanish, wears a lot of red and now has 18 Premier League goals to his name. It's hard to remember football, it's hard to recall life itself, before Fernando Torres.

Torresian testaments aside, I have been drinking a lot of alcohol recently. Bored yet? Well I have. Friday night after work, Sunday all day and then Monday again. The first two saw me destroyed, the final a cap to finish off a few days of rabid intake. Drink, taken in sufficient quantities, leads to all the effects of drunkenness.

Doyles and the Palace Bar, Forbes Quay and the Harbour Master and the Dice Bar and the Stag's Head have all known my custom over the last few days, Budvar and Quilmes and Jameson and Heineken and Smithwicks have all known my lips, while the jacks in my flat has heard all my cries of desperation. This last week I grappled with alcoholism. The jury's still out on the victor.