Friday, August 29, 2008

Offski.

That's quite enough from me for the moment, I'm heading out of the country again tomorrow for a week in Spain.

I could, in boredom, scooch down to the nearest internet shop/burlesque den, but I wouldn't count on it.

I'll come back in better form with tales to tell and, most importantly, a plan.

Love.

Thursday, August 28, 2008

Seven Swans.

You should never listen to Sufjan Stevens while blogging or, if you must, make sure it's something cheerful and life affirming like 'Chicago'.

Stay away from the far too beautiful 'Seven Swans' though.

I'm fine now.

Service charge.

Big boss man, known to some of us as 'First Name First Name', wants to know when I'll be back to work?

Says I, for the 143rd time, it'll be September 29th and not a minute sooner.

While one part of me glories in the fact that I don't have to work for another month, another is getting very strange and lonely indeed.

As you probably gathered from my day-in-the-life style blog, it's a bit of a drag when all you have to do for amusement is go to the shop for XXX mints and watch television. One would think that I'd be taking this opportunity to seize this Dublin town anew and get rightly rubbered with whoever's about on any given day, but this isn't the case.

I feel isolated and anti-social today. I did yesterday too, and hope I don't tomorrow. I don't want to do anything, yet I don't want to not do anything, if you follow.

In my countless cups of tea and coffee I think back to my trip, how I relished the thoughts of it a few short months ago. I think of how I failed, even though it was sickness that stopped it earlier, much earlier, than anticipated.

It's left me with all this time to kill, and think, and be a little bit sad at things that should have happened but didn't.

= = =

I fell in love today, just briefly. It was with a waitress who paid me a little bit too much attention in Aya.

I wanted to tell her about my writing block, and ask her for five words on a sheet of paper, but gave her a slightly larger tip than she deserved instead.

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

Lime juice.

I'm feeling all bloated and sluggish. Fajitas for one - you end up eating far more than is medically recommended or humanly possible.

I diced the onions myself.

My current writing block prohibits any kind of.... furtherance....to....

Ah fuck it.

Monday, August 18, 2008

Yves Saint Lauradge.

8.06 and I'm out of bed. Nothing worse than waking four hours into a good night's kip, having to urinate, banging your knee on the doorframe and throwing any possibility of further rest to the gods.

Still, at least I get to enjoy this morning of murk and rain and general miserability.

There's no work to be going to, no commitments beyond the hunting and gathering of food and J-cloths, so here I blog.

When I was away recently I got to thinking about the younger Radge. It was a strange thing, memories that I'd long since squirreled away returned in glorious technicolor as I did little but sit and sip drinks and sightsee around.

Radge the parfumier.

I remember being in my back garden with my sister Anne and a few other friends, my granny looking out the window at us from her kitchen sink, when I took the idea of snipping the rose bushes outside and using the petals to make perfume. This involved getting several glasses of water and swishing the mixture around and testing it on the female members of my family.

My mam, ever supportive, told me it was absolutely beautiful - and that she'd happily wear it on a night out - so I took to going house to house, selling my flower water at a low, low price.

It sold moderately.

Radge the gardener.

This one I only barely recall, but involves a spade, my friend Ronan and his front garden. Ronan informs me that he was sitting inside with his folks, having a feed of toast and tea, when his father Noel walked in, all befuddled.

"What's wrong Noel," Teresa asked.

"Well, ****'s in the front garden. Or what's left of it. He's after digging the whole thing up."

Such industry! I was seven.

Radge in the battle of Pig and Cow.

This isn't one specific memory, more a signature of an entire childhood spent fighting with Anne, who - while only a slip of a thing - was a tempestuous little urchin at the best of times. We fought A LOT. My good friend Kev used to have ringside seats, and he'd commentate on our various bouts. "Pig looks at Cow crooked. Cow doesn't like this. Cow throws a pillow at Pig. Pig retaliates with a cup. Cow is rattled but determined. PIG GOES DOWN!"

I'm still not sure if I was Pig or Cow.

Radge the failed truant.

In fourth class I had a teacher called Sister Cora. She was a brick shithouse of a nun and a complete psychopath to boot, but she loved me for some reason. I realised I could get one over on her easily enough, and over a number of weeks came down with all sorts of imaginary sicknesses so I could go home.

She'd phone my dad, who worked from home in his Dublin days, and he'd promptly appear on his bike and wheel me home.

This was all very well as my mother - a teacher and by far the disciplinarian of the two - would not get back from school herself until 3pm or so, at which stage the horse had bolted.

One day, however, she returned early. 11am or so. I was up in the folks' bed watching telly, all delighted with myself, when my mother came up to check on me. She tells me now she knew instantly there was fuck all wrong with me, but she wasn't about to let on at the time.

Instead, she told me to put on some clothes, that we were going to go for a bit of a drive. I got all excited, forgetting instantly I was supposed to be writhing in some suspicious agony, and bounded down the stairs.

"Where are we going?"

"It's a surprise but you'll love it," she replied.

Next thing we pulled into the school gates, she produced my schoolbag from the boot of the car, and told Sister Cora to make sure I was ACTUALLY sick the next time she sent me home. What a brilliant humiliation. I never rang home sick again.

Radge the forger.

First year in that Jesuit rugby-obsessed school on the North side that dare not speak its name, my love for study was bettered by experiments with drinking, smoking, petty theft and heads and volleys in the park. OK, not the petty theft.

One maths test did not go at all well, and I failed with a miserly 37%. We were told we had to get the tests signed.

I turned to Kev, who informed me he was expert at forging signatures. He took a few practice runs on the test paper itself - on. the. test. paper. itself. - before applying the name of my mother in the most ham-fisted scrawl possible.

The teacher, a young one by the name of Ms Browne, saw this and passed no comment. God knows she must have felt sorry for me.

I thought I was out of the woods but stupidly kept the offending article. Anne, going through my stuff with scarcely a thought for my privacy, found it and vowed to show it to my mam. I was shitting it for about a week.

Just when I thought I was out of the woods, my dad found me in my granny's sitting room and told me my mother wanted to see me.

Imagine my horror when she confronted me with half a packet of Rothmans found in my jacket pocket. I was shell-shocked. The two of them lectured me for a good hour on the perils of smoking (while smoking themselves - my dad quit a couple of years later), and threatened to tell Anne, who would make my life miserable for aeons to come.

Lecture over, my dad brought up the subject of the maths test. Anne had ratted me out, the little bitch. My mam didn't flinch. "Yeah, I remember that, I signed that."

You win some, you lose some.

Radge the vagrant.

An old couple, Mary and Dermot, lived down the road from us. They were simple people. He an illiterate, she a bible quoting busy-body that people crossed the road to get away from.

I took against her, in particular. Knick-knacks, tricks and general cheek were the order of the day as I made it my life's mission to torment the poor couple, little shit that I was.

One day, I took a couple of footballs, bikes, jackets and sundries and put them in her fenced front garden when there was nobody around to see me.

Half an hour or so later I rang her doorbell, and Dermot answered.

"Hi Dermot, can I speak to Mary please?"

She appeared at the door.

"Hello Mary, myself and the lads were wondering if we can have our stuff back please?"

"What do you mean?"

"Our stuff. It's all in your front garden and we want it back."

"I did NOT take your TOYS!"

"They're not toys. And I'm sure you didn't Mary, but it's all in your front garden and we need it back."

"Yes, well, yes, well....I'll let you in. Dermot, where are the keys? I really have no idea how..."

"I'm sure you don't, Mary. I just hope this doesn't happen again."

Friday, August 15, 2008

It's a full life.

I forget what it's like to work.

I really do.

I'm still checking in on my work email, as I receive the odd personal mail on that, and the other day found a work missive detailing changes to work practices, gripes, suggestions and all sorts of such things.

It made my head hurt.

The idea of getting up before 9am, falling asleep standing under the shower, shaving (I've grown the mother of all stubbly beards), getting my coffee voucher stamped, sitting at my work computer and painstakingly editing, copying, pasting and tweaking all day is enough to drive me to distraction.

Thankfully, I'm still six or seven weeks away from such drudge, but this is the life for me. I've still to settle into any kind of routine given my travels, but an average day would be thus...

11am: Arise after ten hours of sweet slumber.

11.03am: Turn on television to Sky Sports News. I will see the same stories on rotation roughly eight times.

11.1oam: Coffee.

11.12am: Internet - email, Football 365, the blogs (Rosie and Terence, then onwards), Facebook, job sites (which quickly scare me).

12.20pm: Check phone for eighth time (it's been on silent). No messages. Everyone at work.

12.30pm: Shop. I've run out of cheese and toilet roll and Weetabix.

12.51pm: Catch the last few minutes of Frasier and hope that there's a fresh episode at 1pm.

1pm: Fresh episode of Frasier.

1.30pm: Fresh episode of Frasier.

2pm: Back to Sky Sports News. Internet. Bowl of cereal.

2.20pm: Wonder if I should go into town.

2.21pm: Decide not to go into town, have nap instead.

3.13pm: Wake from nap, see missed calls from Private Number with no message. Become frustrated.

3.14pm: Stare into space.

3.50pm: Realise I've been staring into space for over half an hour. Check email. Three new emails. All promotional messages from Aer Lingus.

4.01pm: Put on DVD.

4.51pm: Pause DVD to check email and realise I have a problem.

5.55pm: DVD finishes. Proper dinner or toasted cheese sandwich? Choose latter.

6.16pm: Note smell from clothes and armpits.

6.20pm: Wash.

6.30pm: Get dressed. Phone Johnny.

7.21pm: Call over to Johnny. Commence drinking.

9:55pm: Ferryman. Get destroyed.

11:35pm: Head for Doyles. Destroyeder.

1:45am: Home. Toasted cheese sandwich or cereal? Choose latter.

2am: Bed.

It's a full life.

Thursday, August 14, 2008

I need toothpaste

Merciful Jesus I am wrecked, very hungover from excessive drinking of lager beer. Same old. Yesterday was Brain Day, you see.

The six year anniversary of my cranial incision, so it all ended in Doyles. In fairness to her, Niamh the barmaid gave me a free pint for the day that was in it. That was nice of her.

The players last night? Johnny, Dave, Emma Nar, JW and McGoo.

My fucking ear is killing me for some reason.

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

Proximus.

Let me enthuse a minute about the film The Kite Runner. It's fucking brilliant.

I hadn't read Khaled Hasseini's book, so knew little about the story save for what I gleaned from reviews on its cinema release. Based in Afghanistan before, during and after the Russian invasion of 1979, it tells of two boyhood friends torn apart by class differences and an incident in which the poorer child falls afoul of a gang of youths in a dark alley.

There's much, much more and if you want a fuller synopsis head to the iMDB, but it completely destroyed and uplifted me and will likely do the same to you. Films such as this, by Marc Forster (who made Monster's Ball), only highlight the tat we pass as entertainment these days.

Tat such as Wall:E, which I went to see one raining afternoon in Antwerp. It had its moments but, much like The Dark Knight, the realm of fantasy doesn't float this boat and after a while the cutesy humour grated on me.

It was either that or Mamma Mia, though.

Elsewise, I'm coming home this evening. I have liked Belgium, plenty to see and do, but a week is long enough to be here alone. Brussels and Bruges and the lively and lovely Antwerp all made fine homes, but this nascent chest infection of mine will be better served by my own bed in Charleville Road.

Tuesday, August 05, 2008

Killing time.

Belgium beckons. Brussels and Bruges and if I make it to Genk (because it's called Genk), then all the better.

Not much to report here, I'm probably just blogging to avoid packing. Pain in the hole.

Fuck it.

I must away. Expect an actual blog anon.