Thursday, April 30, 2009

Listfully done

Things I should do tonight:

1) Clean the apartment. Bombs would leave less destruction. I'm normally fairly clean and tidy about the hovel but lately, well, let's just say the place has put on some weight.

2) Go back to the piece of fiction I started a couple of months back, in Dingle. It's about a man who goes to furthest Kerry to get started on his meisterwerk, only to get distracted by anything or anyone who might lead him to distraction. It's a real thinkpiece. You'd all lap that shit up.

3) Write another letter to 2005.

4) Mow the lawn. No sign of the landlord. I hope he's ok. He is a nice man.

5) Buy some milk, safe in the knowledge that King Cunt only works the mornings in Spar.

6) Finally use that hot curry powder on something that sizzles.

7) Plot a trip to Heidelberg.

8) Read the 'Engaging Pedagogy' notes that have been on my floor since last August.

9) Dress up as myself circa 1997, fashioning the hair I have lost out of twigs.

10) Plot the demise of 5X.

11) Knock on the neighbour's door and ask them to stop drilling, even though they haven't made a sound since Tuesday morning.

12) Bake. Anything. Because I never have.

13) Steal apples from the neighbouring tree. In order to bake. Anything. Because I never have.

Things I will do tonight:

1) Fewer than six of the above.

2) Scratch balls.

3) Engage burgeoning headcold.

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

The manager

I doss around the shop. Orange juice, apples, bread, that will be all. I queue to pay and the manager is on the till.

In his 40s, bleeping and checking and throwing bags at the customers. I've observed his rudeness before, he's served me on occasion, he serves me now and I curse quietly on the approach.

"Do you have any Kinder eggs?"


Oh. So it's going to be like that.

"Do you have any Kinder eggs?"

"There. Just THERE!"

He points to the Cadbury's Creme Eggs.

"No. I'm sorry, Kinder eggs," and I curse myself for the small apology in my voice.


"WHERE?" Losing it.

He reaches through the divide and picks up a Cadbury's Creme Egg. "Are you blind?"

I think a minute. I look him in the eye. I don't lose my way.

"I don't want a (fucking) Creme Egg, I want a Kinder Egg. The one with the toy inside."

He speaks to his colleague.

"We don't sell them."

He goes back to totting up my groceries, I add a different confectionary.

No please. No thank you. Just the miserable churning of a seismic cunt.

"5.55." he says.

"Happy in your work?" I say.

"Next!" he says.

I quiet out the door, just met by my new nemesis.

Grammar porn

Apparently there's a fetish for everything. For EVERYTHING. Little old innocent me with my head stuck between the pages of the latest jazz mag, Ostrich Sluts 2 - y'know, the standard stuff, like - little did I realise that there is nothing in this world that cannot be fetishised.

So, things that can be fetishised.

1) Keys: Oh baby, give me some of that sweet locksmith value. Oh yeah. Right there. Open that lock. Oh man. Enter.

This isn't working so I ask, "Here, can you fetishise keys?" "Of course you can. They're phallic, they make a beautiful tinkling sound. You carry them on a ring and what's kinkier than that?" I don't see it myself but whatever you're into.


2) Salt. Salt in the wound. Rock salt is the best because it's those little sharp edged crystal pieces, feel so good on your skin. Apparently. I'm becoming more and more aware of my audience here. Gonna delete the REALLY bad stuff.

3) Payslips: Oh the numbers. Crunch those numbers. PAYE. Deductions. PAYMENT DATE. Stop it, you're making me wet. "Can you put income levy in there?"


4) Cafetieres: "Yeah! The whole plunging motion."

5) Nettles: Bit obvious.

6) Corn Flakes: An entire box. Emptied on the floor. Do the maths.

7) Sandpaper.

8) Any film starring the actor Bruce Greenwood: Except Thirteen Days. Anyone who wanks off to the Cuban Missile Crisis is one sick puppy.

9) The number nine.

10) Anyone still with me? Because I lost myself in a fit of cafetierism about half an hour ago. Look it up.

Friday, April 24, 2009


It's taken some time to correlate all these, minutes in fact, but finally I can show you what the bloggerati are saying about Radgery...

Maxi Cane says...

"Groin spankingly good. Peel the onion. You won't be sorry. Zang!"

Terence McDanger says...

"He gave birth to me. Spawned me and spanked me when I was bad. Spank!"

Red Leeroy says...

"What's all this about spanking? I thought it was a gardening blog. I'm confused. Pint?"

Annie Rhiannon says...


Meadow 'Meadow Chance' Chance says...

"Meh. I prefer Desked. He lost me after 'Twenty Quid.'"

Gimme Gaia says...

"What? Is he still blogging? ...the fuck? No comment."

NaRocRoc says...

"His stylings take me to another level. They take me to... to... ehm... Abbeyleix."

Damien Mulley says...


Twenty Major called him...

"The F. Murray Abraham of the blogosphere."

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme

Please, don't all applaud at once, I have some news.

I am going to marry Elaine Robinson.

I am. I'm driving up to Berkeley tomorrow and I'm going to marry Elaine Robinson, I am going to propose to her and nobody can stop me. Not my parents and their Rotary Club set, not her father and his pungent cigars.

Not her deprived little sexcat of a mother, all vodka and lost promise. No. No I say. Elaine will be mine.

I'm going to rent a nice little room on Carter Street and mind my own business, mind my own business all the way into old Elaine's heart and steal her away from Carl Smith. He's a mighty fine walker, the old make-out king, but he can't regale her as I do.

This plan isn't half baked, it's fully baked, I'm driving to Berkeley tomorrow to make Elaine Robinson mine and, you know, it might just work. I've got pluck aplenty.

The name game

This is inspired by Maxi Cane, who I linked to recently and can't be bothered doing it all over again. Suffice to say his 'What Would You Rather Do?' blog is one of the funniest things I've read in aeons. And I know my funny.

We play a game in work, myself and Davros. We come up with two separate names and apply the following rule:

If you had to go through life with the following name, you couldn't change it by Deed Poll or anything, which would you choose?

Then we proceed to our own little game of either/or.


Dunstable Carrutherknobble or Melwith Lippe Swillager?

Arse Face or Purple Scrotum?

Lampoon Michaeltown or Reginald Thump?

Minge Razor or Uncle Meercat?

Donald Munch or Easter Antichrist?

Jersey Cream or Soft Bite?

Viscount Flower or Sticky Plant?

Lord Gadge or Ned Lord?

Howz Yerfather or Screwz Yerdaddy?

OK, that's enough of that, except to say that these are all names of people in the real world. This blog needed that touch of authenticity.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009


Tell me...

These are the nights, the ones that work out best. Nerves, confusion, an hour staring at a blank screen, complete fucking torpor. At least I think torpor is the right word? Who cares.

Fuck. Half an hour until the shower, ten more minutes to the bus, fifteen into town and seven to the pub.

Check the shirt, no check shirts, collars up, collars down, slap slap and out that door to God knows what...

...does anyone know what the fuck I'm on about? Answers on a postcard.

Sunday, April 19, 2009

We're the meme, you and me

Andrew has tagged me with a meme and I've decided to comply because, after the drama of my previous post, I'm too tired to be contrary. I've used it all up.

Here are the rules:

1) Put the link of the person who tagged you on your blog.
2) Write the rules.
3) Mention 6 things or habits of no real importance about you.
4) Tag 6 persons adding their links directly.
5) Alert the persons that you tagged them.

Well, 400 posts on and, much like the aforementioned Gooner, I've probably revealed everything there is to know about myself. Except...

a) I can't read. Or, indeed, write. I'm a complete illiterate. I use voice recognition technology to write this blog.

b) I was considered for the role of Billy in emotive drama 'Kramer Vs Kramer.' I got down to the last five but lost out because I wasn't American, blonde or born at the time.

c) I wrote a novel when I was in secondary school. It was 50 copybook pages long. I'd like to explain how I did it, being an illiterate dunce, but I won't.

d) I'm afeared of mice. I enjoy spiders.

e) I have just eaten my first ever vegetarian burger. It was actually quite tasty. I used Chef ketchup instead of Heinz but I'd prefer if nobody judged me for this.

f) I made up the bit about 'voice recognition,' but I genuinely have no clue when it comes to the most basic HTML. Hence this post is taking fucking ages when I usually knock one out in seventeen seconds. Oik.

Right, who to tag?

First of all, it's going to be Flann because he has impressed me among the new breed.

Next, I'm going all the way to Red Leeroy because he's going to need something to concentrate the mind come Monday morning. Also, it will distract from his impending nuptials.

Maxi Cane simply must.

Holemaster's going to make a fine fist of this one. I can feel it.

Sarah is my penultimate choice because her London stylings have been impressively, eh, wrote.

Finally, NaRocRoc because it might just be rude not to.


"I've had a great time with you, I have, but there's something I should say."

"This doesn't sound good."

"Well, it's not. But I should say it anyway. Ehm..."

"Tell me."

"No I can't. It's fine. You're fine. We're fine."

"What's on your mind? Tell me! Don't leave it hanging."

"Do you really want to know?"

"I really do."

"Okay, well, the thing is, and don't kill me and I'll understand if you never want to see me again."

"Just fucking say it!"

"Okay, okay, well... YOU CAN'T SPELL!"

"Get the fuck out of my flat."

Saturday, April 18, 2009

I missed a bit

I do find that Leffe, taken in sufficient quantities, leads to all the effects of drunkenness.

So my Friday night passed in Forbes Quay and the Ferryman and back to Forbes Quay again. A mystical, mythical, DRUNKENING drunkening with Fitzbollix and Pike.

Oh mercy.

The face that greeted me in the mirror was not my own, it was a beardy little bastard with a hoor behind the eyes, so I shaved it off to start anew. Two Mach 3 blades to leave me blotchy and bloodied but that balm works a treat.

To town now for food and a good roam.

Thursday, April 16, 2009

"You can't go in there!"

Where's the rulebook that says, in cinema and television, all red wine must look like cranberry juice? Diluted cranberry juice at that.

"We'd use real wine but it doesn't look like wine on camera. It just looks like blood. Here's some Ocean Spray."

"Fuck. I was really hoping for some caber..."

"Just fucking drink it. Roll tape."

How come, when someone walks into an office with greatest gusto, there's always a secretary on hand to form a barrier to entry? Once, just once, I'd like to see her say, "I know you don't have an appointment but, y'know, work away."

Smoking: No more than two drags and it's stubbed out.

A meal is never, ever finished. Often it's not even touched, it's just there as a prop for whatever sad little discourse some sad little screenwriter has put together between bumps.

Moving on...

As our two lovers are gaily strolling through Paris or Manhattan, talking of their loves lost and their hopes and dreams for the future, the male lead (in my head Ethan Hawke in 'Before Sunset') never says "hold that thought, Julie Delpy, because I badly need to have a slash, Julie Delpy."

Why do children always need to have pudding bowl haircuts, when the last known sighting of same in real life was back in 1993?

A wedding must never pass without a simultaneous death, divorce, interruption from a drunken ex-lover, car crash or sex change. That one's pretty much confined to the soaps.

Nobody ever, EVER, takes the change from a taxi driver.

Among my myriad DVDs, I doubt one disc contains a single scene of someone doing the washing up (I don't own any Ken Loach). Kitchen sink dramatics my hole.

And don't get me started on the faultless use of chopsticks, and the fact that there is never a gap between the answering of a phone and a response.

The miser

Not all taxi drivers are cunts. It's true. They're not.

Of course, this runs contrary to a recent blog where I wished death upon one member of the species, but tonight I met the Jekyll to his Hyde, or the Hyde to his Jekyll as it's late and I forgot the one from the other.

I finished up at 11 and fled to Townsend Street, thence on to the quays. I hailed down this fella and he regaled me with stories of supporting St Pat's and having Kevin Doyle in his car.

I phoned in my interest, wanting no conversation and a sleepy seven minute trip of silence and the inevitable Q102.

We got to my road and I padded myself down for my wallet. Nothing. Not a sign. An empty pocket save for a Bus Eireann ticket stub and some chewing gum.

He told me this happened all the time and he could tell the 'genuine from the chancers, Bud.'

I had six euro in change, a fiver shortfall, but he let me off. He wouldn't even take my number and off he went.

Straight away and the flat ravaged open for the card company number. Only at this point did I remember there was an interweb ripe for the scouring and that was that.

I probably just left it on my desk in work, as I needed something to throw when that Portuguese haircut lashed one in from forty yards and more.

P.S. Don't worry about me tapping you up for a few bob. Before writing this message I counted out twenty euro in shiny 20p pieces. Miser is as misery does.

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Planning ahead

Tracker funds. Fixed interest. Index linked. Percentages. Projections. Advantages. Disadvantages. Options.

I've been, not for the first time, confronted by my own idiocy when it comes to financial arrangements. I met the nice man today because, well, should the next thirty years happen past in a blur the size of my life to this point, I'm fucked.

He was thorough and helpful and generous with his time. I was nodding and commenting and thinking about lunch for the full two hours.

I left the building with a convulsing gut and a throbbing head. I went this way and then that way, passing back by the building's exit three times before finally my bearings were got and the one word prevailed.

That word? Lasagne.

I stuffed away the envelope still stuck to my hand and went in search of some grub.

It will, in all likelihood, remain untorn for at least a month.

Steaming pile of wank

There isn't much to be done here in Limerick 'sides washing the clothes, watching the news and, well, supping the da's whiskey. That's her. That's all, really.

Tonight I did the unforgivable and went looking over my older entries.

Followed up a weekend of utmost non-activeness with merry, merry pissedyness on Tuesday night. The 25th is gonna be a dinger, we'll take Milan and rip 'em a new panino. For sure. Wednesday was more boozishness by way of Grogans - it's built out of spit, I'm sure of it - so last night saw me eschew the possibility of pints with rogue trader Nick Leeson. I would've been there, but I felt my brain and soul had gone numb, and my leg was wicked sore.

Jesus wallpapered!

At least one thing is certain. I'll never go all 'one from the archives' on your unsuspecting faces. What a steaming pile of wank that would be.

Monday, April 13, 2009

Review: The Visitor

I watched 'The Visitor' last night and decided that, when I grow up, I wouldn't mind being Richard Jenkins.

Sunday, April 12, 2009

Another Sunday bluster

A frenetic few days and candles being burned all over the place. I look at my previous post and read it as though it wasn't penned by me, myself, I.

I have no recollection thereof.

Play, play, work, sleep, work, play and work. There's been not a minute of min to my aeon of max until now, this moment and an evening spread out before me of nothing doing.

Today was the watermark in busyness, covering both the racing and the football.

Darting typing fingers between sports and, as I texted to the good man Ollie, not a second to so much as fart. Then a taxi and home to rescue Isaac, a fellow tenant who had locked himself out of the house. Another tenner to the winds in the name of a good deed, and of a sudden I'm a man without immediate purpose.

Feels good. I think a pizza. And some unencumbered flatulence.

Friday, April 10, 2009

Going 'gator

I'm in work. I'm fucked tired. I need to find somewhere to lay down and die.

Thinking about the disabled jacks, the sink my porcelain pillow.

The folly of drink, of John Kehoe and Sheehans, of all sorts of messing in all manner of daylight hours.

Thursday, April 09, 2009

Get confident, stupid!

I told myself before that I wouldn't write a post about the search terms people use to get here, but I like to tell myself little untruths from time to time and I'm wondering who the fuck googled 'Andrea Corr ear infection' and happened upon my stylings?

Which sad soul was so engulfed by his or her mid-life crises that they looked for 'fifty good things about being fifty'?

I must apologise to this person, I'm twenty years shy of it and, if memory serves me correctly (I'm too lazy to look back at my old posts) it was mostly just about cheese and pints.

Somebody e-searched 'peh peh peh.' That one was probably 5X, we decided one Stephen's Green afternoon to replace the generic 'la la la' of too many Britpop staples with 'peh peh peh'. Tunelessness for tunelessnesses sake.

Many, many times people click on Radgery thinking it to be a paean to Johnson, Mooney and O'Brien advertisements. Alas, no.

'She never calls first.' Holy fuck. That sounds curiously, to me, like mid-noughties Radge, before the facelift and the counselling sessions.

'Calling doctor by first name.' This is another regular on my stat counter. Obviously I hit on something there. A tip - it's ok, folks, call her or him what you like. You're paying fifty euro for the privilege.

'Skinny latté pilates.'

'Morning ice breakers.' Do the elephant. That's always a conversation starter.

We have an illiterate seeking 'www.tom and,' and we have a few searches for 'Barry Egan Sunday Independent' (probably himself).

Somewhat queerly, someone's seeking out pictures of 'Beyonce fucking Lucas Leiva' and another blindfolded themselves, randomly hit the keys and magicked 'Beyonce fucking Beyonce' and neither of these two searches involved the necessary accent on the second 'é' in the girating gobshite's name.

Someone, soon to be everyone, went for 'no work today' and then there was my favourite of the whole bunch.

'Who is the original singer of nothing going to change my love for you.'

They forgot the question mark at the end.

Wednesday, April 08, 2009

Face value

We hate to be taken at face value, we Irish.

We do. I don't know if it's a defining national characteristic, but it's something that has just occurred to me and I've yet to pick it apart in any meaningful way, to turn the truth of it to bullshit.

Having dropped a tantalising little piece of exposition, we hate nothing more than when the other person comes back with, "Oh right. Would you like some tea?"

"No I fucking wouldn't like tea. Clearly what I just told you is an absolute fabrication. Dig further you imbecile and I might just tell you some truth. I may lie to you further but it'll be a whole lot more interesting than sitting here talking about Brian fucking Lenihan."

"Please. Strong. Small drop of milk. No sugar."

"Pink wafer?"

"Pink fucking wafer? What??? Would ya get to be fucked! I want a fucking a Viscount biscuit and now you've made me repeat the indefinite article such is my bile you complete fucking cretinbag. Now, please ask me what I really meant before..."

"Yeah. Go on then. Just one mind. I'm watching my weight."

"I wonder what's on telly."

"Do you mean to tell me that when I off-handedly said I had met someone, she piqued my interest and I would like to maybe, possibly see her again but am busy with work and not that bothered... Well, you believed that shit? You didn't seek to pick apart my veneer of indifference. Ask me questions! Jesus! Do you know me at all???"

"More budget stuff. Fucking dodgy box is fucked. Fuck sakes. Fucking Brian Dobson again."

"Stop cursing."

"Oh fuck off."

"Oh fuck off."

Monday, April 06, 2009

Politics? On Radgery? Get ta fuck...

I can't wait for tomorrow.

"So, Minister, how do you respond to those who say that, once again, you have put the tax burden squarely on the shoulders of those on lower incomes while the wealthier members of society have been given an easy ride?"

"Well, I think there are many questions that people can ask and they have every right to ask those questions. I think to address any specific concern, Brian, would be micro-managing the situation when what the country needs is a look at the bigger picture."

"But that doesn't take us away from the fact that you have imposed, basically, penalties on those who can least afford to have their pockets emptied..."

"Not to cut across you, Brian, but I think we need to get away from a blame culture and deflect the attention on to an economic stimulus package that will benefit the whole country in the medium to long term."

"But surely, Minister, you can understand that the divide between the rich and the poor will grow to epic proportions, given the time frame you have set out, unless you penalise the top 5% of earners now as opposed to the vast majority of the population who earn..."

"Now Brian what I don't want to get into is the realm of hair splitting and semantics... I mean, if you want to argue semantics you can but I'm here to assure the public that if we all take our medicine now..."

"But my point is, Minister, that we're not ALL taking our medici..."

"...that if we all take our medicine now then we can get this country's finances back to a safe place by..."

"Minister, we're out of time but thank you for appearing this evening.... (Turns to the camera) The main news again, the government has announced that we're pretty much fucked so I, for one, am going the fuck home. Sharon?"

Sunday, April 05, 2009

Still brilliant sugar, turn over.

In a quirk of the rota I've got two days off together. This is a rare luxury, a chance to tease myself with luxurious sittage, readage, eatage, drinkage and collapsage before Tuesday morning happens and the workage resumes.

There are many things I could do.

Pottering about the town in search of the perfect cheese.
The Damned United in the nickelodeon.
Orienteering in Blessington.
The Age Of Stupid in the nickelodeon.
The reading of a book I have never read before.
Cursing at the television.
Six Feet Under. Third series.
Das Pub.
Das Park.
Das Dogging.
I could merely sit here typing.
But town it is.

Thursday, April 02, 2009

Fast one.

I got into the taxi and didn't make conversation.

"Where to?"

"Cabra Road please. New Cabra Road."

Silence all the way, just one of those shitty radio shows where people ring in to tell of the famous people they've met. Apparently Adam Sandler is sound. So is Lorraine Keane. But Brian Ormond is a complete cunt.

Past Peter's Church and I ask him to take the next left.

"I have no change," he says.

"Well, I have twenty euro on me. That's all. And why did you accept the fare if you didn't have any change?" I asked him nicely, if a little impatiently.


"But we didn't even speak. You never said a..."


"Look, I wasn't being snotty," I said in my best tired. "But I'm not paying over a tenner. That's what the meter says now."

He gruffed a bit more, muttered, tutted and swerved in a u-turn. He left me sitting in his car, went to Spar and came back two minutes later.

No more words. He got his tenner. I got my change. No harm done. Recession.