Monday, August 31, 2009

Number 500

I get up, I feel like shit, I decide not to visit the folks until later in the week, I make a Lemsip, I switch on the computer, I wait for a blog that won't come, I read other blogs, I wonder if I'll ever be topical and write something about NAMA...

...I google NAMA for the eighth time and, still, it doesn't stick...

...I eat some pineapple for breakfast because, apparently, it's the best food for my blood-type and I wait for a promised phonecall that never arrives...

...I take a scatological study borne of yesterday's beans and I don't light a match and...

...I send a mail seeking work and get no response but it's too soon and I really don't mind.

I undress and I shower and I re-dress and I slap my face with something that smells much better than me...

...before I sit back down and wait for a transfer that's never going to happen before it hits me that this, of all days, is one where things just are not going to happen... I switch off my phone and lock up the flat and I go to the cinema and eat a club sandwich (expensive and rank) and drink a coffee and lament the fact that cinema advertisments are now interspersed with the trailers and... wasn't like that in my day but...

...enough of that because the film is 'Funny People' and it proves more a hit than a miss and...

...I pick up my bag and head straight for the jacks where the beans are still fucking with my innards like little orange balls of Satan and...

...eventually I leave and I go shopping for food in the pissings of rain and get annoyed at the umbrellas blocking my view of the number 10 bus that takes ages to come and I switch on the iPod and the shuffle brings me to Bonnie Prince Billy...

...and he's too earthy for now so I go to Fourtet and that will do fine and...

...I alight the bus, still the pissings of rain, and I enter the flat and I empty the bin and I take clothes from the wash and I ramble in my mind around Howth for no reason...



...and I wake up by the sound of my very own farts and I ablute and I switch on the telly, no transfers, and I review the film for Culch and shamelessly plug myself and my brethren and that leads me to this...

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Bleedin' scarleh

The French teacher, the manky old crone, she's responsible for this. This perpetual reddening.

"Radgykins," she said, "come up here to the top of the class and point out the irregular verbs."

Of course, she didn't call me 'Radgykins' but she did apply the suffix '-kins' to my real world name, rendering me a shade of pink that colours my face to this day at the most inopportune of timings.

It's a fucking liability, especially when beautiful Czech women stop to talk on the subject of their homeland beers.

Her: "You like Budvar? It's great beer, yes?"

Me: "It's a great beer, yes."

Her: "You like Staropramen too?"

Me: "I love Staropramen."

Her: "It is my favourite beer. I like Ruby Leffe too. You like Ruby Leffe?"

Me: "I like it very much."

Her: "You are colour of Ruby Leffe. It's funny, cute Irish boy."

Me: "Ehm... Eh..."

Her: "You take my number, yes?"

I'll stop now before I get further into the realm of fiction.

That fuckin' French teacher.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Did am will and might

1) Endeavour to make more food from scratch, inspired by Rick Stein's Far Eastern odyssey. Google tumeric. Discover spelling to be turmeric.

2) Write short story based on brief, yet unconsummated, flirtation with infidelity. Discover opening lines to need much work. Shelve.

3) Make decision to quit blogging. Write lengthy entry announcing decision to quit blogging. Brush teeth and come up with eight fresh ideas. Renounce decision to quit blogging.

4) Lament onset of male pattern baldness. Accept onset of male pattern baldness.

5) Do charity work in former place of employment.

6) Paint skirting boards while sober.

7) Muddle around issue of love.

8) Hold head in hands while bitter realisation that this will not be our season takes hold.

9) Walk to Glasnevin cemetary.

10) Speak to nice man about copperfastening lecturing position.

11) Wonder what 500th post will be about.

12) Read second of two books withdrawn from library on Navan Road last week.

13) Reorganise thoughts into one cohesive whole.

14) Decide on blade two, all over.

15) Bore fuck out of anyone still reading.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Nites out wit de girlies

Check this out for 'top three turn offs,' courtesy of 'NotRealName' on

1. Cheaters (we'll allow this, though surely it should be cheats?).
2. BO (fair enough).
3. Feet.

Feet? Feet, for fuck's sake? I hope the weather stays fine for her, but the feeling remains that she's in for a tough time. She's waiting at Trinity, he's a few minutes late, the anticipation's building. He approaches.

"Hi, I'm, I dunno, Graham."

"Hi, I'm notrealname. Tell me Graham, how did you get here."

"I walked."

"This isn't going to work for me."

According to her profile, this girl has a masters degree.

Not to pick on her too much, but she uses the one line that tears me away from these sites every time I think, just for a milibeat, that I might be up for meeting someone anonymously again after all this time.

The line is this: I love drunken nites out wit the girlies. Enjoy going to cinema and havin lazy nites in aswell.

It's not the conjoined 'aswell,' it's not the abandoned 'h' at the end of 'wit,' it's just that every fucking second profile has this line somewhere. It may as well read: I enjoy existing.

Moving on, some other examples...

xxbettyxx2xx writes: 'i is gona be honest i aint the type of gurl u look at on the tv or walkin down the road and say HEY I GOTS TI GET ME SUM OF THAT!!!'

lubejob writes: people wit no pic dont mail me cause ya wont get 1 bk

flimsylass likes rugby players and going to Santa Ponsa.

legseleven writes: love nothing more than going out socializing with friends or sitting in with a good bottle of wine, a dvd :)

missperfect can't live without her car and phone and her hairdresser and her handbag and just cos 'i don't have a pic up don't mean Im ugly I ain't.'

I'll let you all know how many replies I get.

Monday, August 17, 2009

Not in my house

The 'I Wouldn't Have Them In The House Because They Have Distinctly Punchable Faces' Five:

1) Andrew Maxwell from The Panel.
2) Jimmy Carr.
3) Lee Evans.
4) John Terry.
5) Danny Dyer. Oh that's a good one. Danny fucking Dyer.

The 'Empty Vessels Make The Most Noise' Five:

1) Lee Evans.
2) Jordan.
3) A****r B*a** from work. You don't know this cunt, and would not want to.
4) Amanda Brunker.
5) Harvey Norman.

The 'How The Fuck Are They Famous?' Five:

1) Glenda Gilsen.
2) Lorraine Keane.
3) Kerry Katona.
4) Amanda Brunker.
5) Jordan.

The 'Least Favourite Footballers' Five:

1) Ronaldo.
2) Ashley Cole.
3) William Gallas.
4) John Terry.
5) John Terry.

I thought I'd get ten top fives out of this, but my well of hate has run dry. Shame. Any suggestions gratefully accepted.

Saturday, August 15, 2009

Unclean! UNCLEAN!!!

The house has been sealed off, the army are here with their white boiler suits and surgical gas masks.

It's raining Tamiflu tablets and they're powerhosing me down with alcohol hand rub.

They've set up an isolation chamber in the back garden and the rubber-neckers are out in force.

I just sneezed, you see, and I don't want to tell them it's the result of two nights' revelry and nothing more because they've gone to an awful lot of effort.

I suppose I'd better make them some tea.

Thursday, August 13, 2009

A message from the chair of The Pale Separatist Movement

"We demand a blog from Radge," it says.

Well, it is my fifth blogday. It's Brain Day too, that being the seventh anniversary of getting my head cut open by the nice neurosurgeon in order to...

(Deletes finer details of cranial incision for fear of eliciting lovely sick stuff all over your shiny HP monitors.)

Every year I plan to recreate the splendour, the majesty, the incalculable fucking drunkenness of Brain Day 2004, a session so all-consuming that it must have taken at least a month from my life. They'll be the crap, nursing home years though, so I don't mind.

I digress.

We did it again in 2006, sectioning off the top floor of the Stag's Head for its purpose, but it felt more like an organised function than the 'scotch for breakfast' lunacy of its predecessor.

Sure, we had a personalised video message from Bono ("you're the ledge, Radge, Brain Day is the precursor and postcursor to my own vision of a united world order where CHANGE is gonna come, mister..." at which point we unplugged the telly) but it felt too commercialised so I haven't had one since.

Today, for Brain Day 7/Blog Day 5, I'm going looking for a bank loan. Then I might check out 'Mesrine' in the Screen. Then I'll come home and have a celebratory wank before going all foetal and wondering where it all went wrong.

Chin chin.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Enoch Showunmi

There comes a point when a man takes stock of his surroundings, sips contentedly on his cup of tea (scald the vessel first), takes a bite of half a Viscount biscuit and says to himself:

"I have arrived."

For me, that moment came tonight, 64 minutes into Leeds United's workmanlike 1-0 victory over Darlington in the first round of this year's Rumbelows Cup.

Sunday, August 09, 2009

Chaumes: Cheese of the week

I turn five this week. Thursday, being precise. Five years of Radgery. Isn't that nice?


It started with a Waga Mama recipe from the white chair in Lucan, followed up with some Carpenters lyrics, onwards with three and a half years' worth of nights out chronicled - each entry as repetitive as the one before and after and before and after - and then a review of 'PS I Love You' that ushered in the current era of random nonsense that has seen me become a legend in my own granny flat.

Things I don't write that much about anymore:

The Stag's Head.
Harold's Cross.
Katy French.
5X. But he will resurface.
Commuter love.
Internet dating.
Blogger's block.
James Blunt.
My twenties.
Search terms.

I'm joking, of course. I have never written about doughnuts.

Thursday, August 06, 2009

'im indoors

I read once that a person should sporadically spend three days indoors, in one's own dwelling, without stepping outside before emerging empowered to see the world anew at its end.

I tried it today, one third of the allotted time. I hung curtains. I cooked a healthy dinner of fish and vegetables, the dregs at the back of the freezer consisting of three pieces of sliced carrot and a couple of bastardised florets of broccoli.

I watched television. I browsed the internet eighteen times. I re-read four chapters of a book I wished I'd written myself. I wore two different pairs of tracksuit bottoms, the first too elasticated for my expanding gullet. I wrote some football preview stuff that ranks among the worst crap I've ever committed to screen. I drank three mugs of strong coffee.

I thought long and hard about a blog entry before it occurred to me that I never pre-think my blog entries, so what was the point?

I finally went to the garden where a collective noun of ants had gathered in their thousands and was barked at by the hobbling dog next door. I encountered one blocked drain and the noise of a fighting couple over the wall next door.

At the death it occurred to me that the originator of this 'three-day solution to clarity' was both a cash rich rock star and somebody who has never lived in this dank little corner of Phibsborough.

Tomorrow I am going to see the sea.

Tuesday, August 04, 2009


Well, my telly's been reconnected. Not much has changed.

Sky Sports News is still obsessed with cricket and the frustrating bastard that is the Transfer Window.

The Lee Fucking Evans channel is still masquerading as Comedy Central.

Oprah is still emoting professionally.

Fucking ads everywhere.

I'm not turning it back on until the football season starts.

Saturday, August 01, 2009

Those crazy kids

The former manager of the Jordan Formula 1 team Eddie Jordan was teaching me how to fly a plane and I nearly had it down. I was reaching for the throttle with only his words to guide me when I said...

"Do you know something, Eddie? I'm completely indifferent to Formula 1 and I don't think I'll ever need to fly a plane. Why are we in Iraq? Fuck off."

And he did, morphing into the actor Dennis Hopper splicing out weeds with me in my back garden, and then my front garden, in Charleville Road, before of a sudden I was drinking a pint with my Granny in Downey's across the road.

"Haven't you been dead for 13 years? Isn't brandy your drink? Hang on, you gave up the drink before I was born..."

Then the fucking students singing happy birthday to one of their brethren through the paper walls. No dream this. Inglorious, sleepy reality. In my fugue I thought about the couch. I've often pondered moving to it during the parties next door but never actually have, but Falco's 'Rock Me Amadeus' was my imperative.

I looked at the clock. 3.30am. I took my duvet and two sunken Dunnes Stores pillows to the sitting room and covered my face in seventeen layers of cushion and fluff, drowning out their middlenight chorus. I slept soundly, perfectly. I may make the move full-time.

McMuck's wedding today. I'll sleep tonight and all, the brandy will see to that.