Monday, March 30, 2009


Well it all came to pass terribly well. The technology did not fail. I knew my Popov's from my Rangelov's. I left with life unscathed.

I did my best to blend with the regulars, failed utterly when I couldn't find the door marked exit, scurried to my watching post and kept my head down, red-faced but happy not to be squirrelling details offathetelly, or from the tabloids, or out of my own arse.

And it is an impressive arena, is Croker.

I bookended my flirtation with journalism by drinking deep (Friday) and drinking dry (Saturday) the last of Johnny's Stella crate. Just one or two, mind, otherwise it's called drowning.

This is not a dramatic time in the life of Radge, not in the slightest, but sometimes the min must outweigh the max.


hope said...

How else would we judge the great times if we didn't have something to measure them against? :)

Have a good week!

Radge said...

Thanks Hope!

Holemaster said...

Going to see the Dubs play sticks in June. Not about the roundy ball, messy.

Meadow said...

Where do frogs play football?

Ah, it was my favourite joke when I was five...

Red Leeroy said...

So you didn't approach a complete stranger and quite politely say "If you’ll be my bodyguard I can be your long lost pal, I can call you Betty and Betty when you call me you can call me Al" ??

Radge said...

Holemaster - I'll come too. I'll be a veteran by then.

Meadow - I had to do a triple take.

Red - It didn't work when I met Roy Keane, it's not gonna work now either.