Saturday, October 31, 2009


Ah yes, Hallowe'en.

That most dramatic of nights where every thought in my head is bookended by an explosion of light and noise from the outside.

'I wonder if this cheese is safe. Three days gone. I'll risk it.' - WHOOSHHHH!

'These pickles look sad. I think I'll throw them out.' - GRRRRNNNNN-WHEEEE!!!!

'Fuck it, I'll have a Dominos.' - ZZZZZiiiinnnNNNNGGGG!

'Bollix - this book was due back in the library weeks ago.' pop pop pop BAM!

You get the point. I had the offer of two separate fancy dress parties but my cross dressing days are long since over, my one-week run playing the world's gayest hobbit Sam Gamgee - full stage make-up and almost lady garb - putting me off dress up for the remainder of my days.

We won't mention the year of the punk priest and purple hair-dye. That was just deeply wrong and instigated a ten-year sex ban. Disgruntling times, them.

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Spanish sailor indeed!

"How far is she gone, Margaret?"

"Jesus I couldn't tell you Marie. Four or five months by the look of her."

"Jesus, her poor mother."

"I know. Oh it's shockin'. And she's there still servin' away behind that counter, bould as brass."

"You wouldn't be up to her, Margaret."

"And her mother's a lovely woman. A LOVELY woman. Do you know her?"

"Ah I know her to see..."

"She took it very bad, God love her. She's the only daughter."

"Who's she having it for?"

"She's not sayin' or, if she is, I couldn't tell ya."

"It's like that film, isn't it Margaret?"

"Which one? The Ronnie Doyle one?"

"The very one. The one about the showband."

"Ah Jesus, Marie. Wait, here it is. Which one are you gettin'? The 121?"

"No I'll hang on for the 122. Don't forget your bag, Margaret."

"...where's me purse??? I'd forget me head if it wasn't screwed on. Bye bye Marie."

Friday, October 23, 2009

The Dublin pub guide

I'm still quite listful.

The Porterhouse (formerly Judge Roy Beans) - Like the Bada Bing, without the Bing.

The Bailey - Where formerly great pubs go to die.

The Dawson Lounge - Contrary to popular mention, nobody has ever tried to swing a cat therein.

The Chatham Cocktail Lounge - Nearys, but on a Friday night.

MacTurcaills - Eighteen yellow walls surrounding nothing at all.

Kehoes - Needs more red lit snugs.

The Stag's Head - All shadow drunks and substance.

The Long Hall - The slow pint.

Knightsbridge - Diddly squalor.

Mulligans - Not as friendly as it thinks it is.

Bowes - The seat by the window.

Flannerys - Mecca for muckers.

The Globe - You might drink there, despite yourself.

The Sackville Lounge - Sponsored by Racing UK.

Dicey Reillys - Coppers for bankers.

Coppers - Diceys for guards and lonely primary school mistresses.

Sheehans - Always seats available.

Noo Bar - Somebody really ought to apologise.

The International Bar - The great unwashed.

The George - Kooks and trannies.

Peter's Pub - Nobody has ever met Peter.

The Hairy Lemon - Be still my beating remortgage.

Chaplins - A fine pub for a break-up.

The Bank - Those waitresses!

Le Cirk - Winner of 'the best Dublin pub that used to be a Centra' award for 2009.

O'Neills, Suffolk Street - Was only in there looking for a way out of there.

O'Neills, Pearse Street - Can't see for the suits.

Doyles - Leave your sobriety at the door.

Q Bar - Not in a fit.

Messrs Maguire - The pub that 2001 forgot.

The Palace Bar, Fleet Street - One's raison d'etre.

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Bish bash bosh

Well, we know (or should know) the famous Hemingway six-word story. He called it the best thing he ever wrote - the literary equivalent of Eric Cantona saying a through ball for Denis Irwin to score, way back when against fuck knows who, bested all of his own match-winning exploits for the Rags.

Anyway, yeah, Hemingway's story was...

'For sale: Baby shoes, never worn.'

"It's good, very good in fact," as the superchefs over on BBC2 might say, so I'll take a stab myself.

Disclaimer: This is neither a meme nor a day-of-the-week regular feature.

Here goes...

1) 'What's that smell, Dmitri?' 'Petrol. Shit.'

2) 'A tenner for that? Fuck you.'

3) 'My word. What a lovely statue.'

4) 'Go home. Shut the door. Cunt.'

5) 'Gerrard... Torres... Lucas... deflection... wide... relegation.'

6) ''Just the women now!' 'Cluck, cluck.''

7) 'Some blogs worked. Hers was toss.'

8) 'Top, top player? You're fired, Jamie.'

9) 'Pack your bags. Unload the pistol.'

10) 'Her spilled drink said it all.'

11) 'Knee gnaw knee gnaw knee gnaw.'

12) 'Have another. Go on. One more.'

13) 'Tried the pilates. Steak was nicer.'

I always try to end on an upper.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

Reel it back in

I suppose it's just one of those nights of half formed ideas and irritations everywhere.

From the utility door left open, inviting back garden crooks, to the banger that went off only a few feet from me, all the way to work and the covering of Fulham v Hull - clash of the fucking titans - it's left me with a foggy and stupid head that's grateful for the fact that I live alone so I can turn my frustrations to drivel... such as this... and not towards some undeserving housemate.

Deep breath.

It really has just been one of those off kilter days. A stopped watch, clothes still damp, irrational faculty head demands, a shoelace broken and juice spilled on an outsized shirt sleeve rolled back. There was more and there was less and there was me threatening a smile before allowing my more miserablist tendencies to flourish but, again, there was nobody next to me to notice and that was the best thing about today.

I ran out of Twixes is all.

Sunday, October 18, 2009


"I think it was the breakfast."

"Definitely not the brandy or the beer or the wine or the four course meal containing rich foods, sauces, meats, chocolate and...?"

"It was the fucking breakfast."

Well whatever it was, it had me heaving and careening through the vacant pub toilets of Kilkenny, leaving a trail of uttermost radge in my wake yesterday. Safety came in the form of some little brown and green pills and I was able to resume with the beer, the grub and festivities, but I swear to jaysus I came rightly close to the touching of cloth.

Not nice. Not nice at all.

As for my little checklist of Thursday gone, let's have a looksee...

1) Will not sit under a tree for the best part of an hour, 300 yards from the action.

Successfully avoided. There was plush greenery aplenty but I eschewed it.

2) Will not drink brandy.

Unsuccessful. Hence some prized squits.

3) Will not dance.

Unsuccessful. It was late in the night and I can only barely recall it, but I don't think I broke any bones.

4) Will not sing, or play an instrument, or make any claims to poetry.

Successfully avoided, but my French accent went down a treat.

5) Will not be slapped.

Successfully avoided.

6) Will not go for a nap.

Avoided. I paced myself well enough until the clock struck twelve.

7) Will avoid, most studiously, the creature known as Sea Bee.

Unsuccessful. Eyewitnesses tell me I sat down at her table for all of 28 seconds before I remembered myself and our last encounter and promptly ran screaming under the gaze of her dick shrivelling lasers of hate. This one wasn't for turning.

Thursday, October 15, 2009

Don't mind if I don't

Another weekend wedding and this time I...

1) Will not sit under a tree for the best part of an hour, 300 yards from the action.

2) Will not drink brandy.

3) Will not dance.

4) Will not sing, or play an instrument, or make any claims to poetry.

5) Will not be slapped.

6) Will not go for a nap.

7) Will avoid, most studiously, the creature known as Sea Bee.

All achievable bar the last as things could get very wrongly horny.

Until next week...


Wednesday, October 14, 2009

These girls fall like dominos

Lank, straggly hair. A face full of shadows. Mad, staring eyes. A white tracksuit top and pink bottoms flecked with dirt, or shit, or something not quite dead yet. A smell like the devil's wanksock.

I've passed the same woman at exactly the same spot on the New Cabra Road for the last four days. As I make my way over to Spar to replenish my supply of fun-size Twixes and Benecol yogurts she passes me at the large tree between the corner of my road and Clarke's bakery.

It's really very unsettling, the repetitiveness of her.

I think she's an addict as she has never looked directly at me, just the fifty yard stare of a woman gone wrong. No matter how windy the day I catch the stench of detritus in her wake and the squelch of her broken runners. She could stop traffic but not in the good way.

She must be homeless and never rests, just circles the area over and over again. I've become in tune with her route, hence the daily tree-pass like something from a David Lynch hallucination, but please don't mention a certain type of synchronicity.

No, this is aggrieving because I know that some day she'll have taken her last swig of something awful and I'll be the one left calling for an ambulance, holding her heaving, piss-soaked embers in my arms.

I think I'll move out.

Monday, October 12, 2009

The real Slim Shady

Noel O'Flynn - that was the fucker's name. I remembered Noel but in the ten minutes of 'Prime Time' I caught last week Miriam O'Callaghan had neglected to mention his surname.

Picture this fella, beamed in live from the Cork studio, sucking lamb fat from his cheeks when he thought nobody was looking. Snorting back his own sense of amorality when he thought the mic had passed elsewhere. It hadn't. I heard it.

Now, I'm going to paraphrase this ten-foot wide piece of effluent because I can't remember it verbatim at several days' remove, so forgive me, but I have the gist.

Noel O'Flynn: "I totally disagree Miriam... And I think if you ask (disremembered journalist) you'll find that it was his shower that kept quiet on FAS all these years when they were being flown left, right and centre..."

Miriam: "But it was a journalist from his very paper that first exposed the FAS situation..."

Noel O'Flynn: "Well... Urrrhhh... (Slurp, lick, slurp)..."

Miriam: "Let's address the government expenses scandal."

Noel O'Flynn: "I am paid a salary of €104,000-a-year, and when you think of all the things that have to come out of that..."

Now this is the part that really fucking galled me.

"I have to come up from the country to attend the Dáil, feed myself, clothe myself, attend functions and that, Miriam, is before you even mention my constituency office and having to work locally..."

Pity fucking about him. It's been said on countless other sites, but why the fuck should we pay for this cunt's lunch every day? I certainly don't get my food paid for.

He has to come to Dublin to attend the Dáil (read as: attend work)? He has to wear clothes? Bend over and kiss the arses of financiers and property developers while simultaneously shelling crab claws in the Mansion House?

Of course, this is all completely moot. The clincher for me is the fact they chose to enter government, every pampered, cretinous, grab-all-you-can, fuck-over-the-populace, 'that rocket salad has a real kick to it' one of them.

They chose this life, and they choose to fuck us over again and again and again and expect us to thank them for the privilege through evening wear, bottles of Chateau Lafite and varied expensive items of cuntitude.

I'll leave the last word to my friend.

"I want the public to know that we want them to be happy."

This, of course, makes it all better Noel, you patronising slug of a man.

Friday, October 09, 2009

Ten for a fiver

Another night spent on the couch, another night of screeching and whooping and cheering from the folks next door.

I'd get annoyed if they didn't remind me of me, of us, in 32A circa 1999, or 2000, or whenever it was that we'd ritually gather in the tiny garden outside to throw young people at old people and to drink the Kwik Pils.

Ten for a fiver.

Tuesday, October 06, 2009

May as well go all out and call me fucking 'dude'

I'm an intolerant fucker and I tend to take the most irrational of dislikes to certain people.

Neither rhyme nor reason to it, it just simply is. I have to stop myself in the pub waxing on and on about the people I wouldn't have in the flat, purely because I don't like the way they sneeze, the way they taaaalk verrrry verrrry slowly or the fact that they're, like, just SUPER every day of the week.


Take the office last night, take me and one other lad a few rows down pulling our respective late shifts. I've never spoken to this boy but I've witnessed his drawl in conversation with others. He's a smile-talker. He talks through a perma-fucking-grin, even when he's being serious, nails on a blackboard.

What was his sin on this most unnoteworthy of Monday nights? He called me 'man.'

Leaving before me, he walked past, a simple 'see ya, man.'

I lifted my head from the keyboard, forehead indented by the qwerty, cocked my head with the anger of a thousand blazing Samuel L Jacksons, fixed him a look and asked...

"...the fuck you say?"

"Eh, just saying g'luck, man."

"...the fuck you calling me 'man' for? You know my fucking name?"

"Eh... Yeah... I..."

"Just get the fuck out and wipe that fucking smirk off your face..."

This is, quite obviously, a falsehood. I spake a timid "safe home" because, well, he'd take me in a fight. Mine is a silent rage.