Tuesday, March 31, 2009

The Water Cooler

"Now this isn't coming from me but I think her days are numbered..."

"Go on..."

"Well her attitude is bad and she never filed the thing that Gordon..."

"You SERIOUS? The thing that Gordon..."

"YEAH! SERIOUSLY! I mean, I did it straight away. Any eejit would but she didn't and he... is... not... happy."

"Well he wouldn't be."

"GAWD no. I mean she doesn't seem to realise the sign of the times. I mean, did you see George Lee's show last week?"

"No I was watching Desperate Housewives. I missed it."

"Well, the gist of it was... Well... The gist... Well from the five minutes I watched we're all focked and she comes swanning in at 11 o'clock!"

"Was she not at the doctor's?"

"That's hardly the point. I mean if Gordon says do something you do it even if your orse is hanging off."

"True... True..."

"I mean, don't get me wrong, she's a LOVELY girl but..."

I expire.

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.

Saturday, March 28, 2009


I have been to the Carlisle Grounds in Bray.

I have been to Richmond Park more than twice.

I have been in Lansdowne, Dalymount, Anfield, White Hart Lane and Tolka Park, the latter more times than I could begin to remember.

Tonight I will be in Croke Park for the very first time, working, trying hard not to display my greenness.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Vicky Cristina Barcelona

There's a scheduled outage at 4:00 PDT. I haven't a clue what PDT is (Pacific Day Time?) so maybe it has already come to pass, or maybe it will die before I finish this post and it won't appear and Jesus Swept this is the worst start to a blog I've ever...

Anyway, today I spent a good deal of the day fucked off at the government, fucked off at Woody Allen, fucked off at the dirt of my kitchening area and fucking bounding around in a springing, cleaning frenzy as a result.

The place still has the hue of drear to it but at least you could scratch the surface and come out undusted, you could breathe in something other than stale coffee and eau d'my farts.

Am I having company over? Did I wash my sheets? Why the sudden bout of marypoppinsing? Am I gonna get a little sugar? Do I want to kick Scarlett Johansson in the back of the face? When am I going to write a proper post with a narrative and pathos and a point?

No. Yes. Re-energised. Inevitably. Definitely. Tomorrow.

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Nice flower

I think she's right, I've been watching too much television.

On RTE One this evening we had 'The Master's Apprentice'.

I can say that in all my days I have never seen a more pointless piece of twaddle. This would make the dullest episode of 'Location Location Location' look like a celebration of the visual arts, such was its codshittedness.

We have a 33-year-old who has discovered the joys of pottery after spending many years in meaningless employ, so she goes to some bigwig in the industry to be mentored for a week.

Of course, she's a natural, and she makes three pots, and they come out of the kiln looking all pretty, yet there isn't even a job on offer for her at the end of this half an hour of drivel, half an hour of my life that would have been better spent listening to some Level 42, or having a shite.

Instead she gets offered a place in some pottery college to learn a trade she's, seemingly, already prodigious at.

To my knowledge it's not even a series, just a one-off stab at something that even TV fucking 3 manage to do a lot better.

I've never been as close to killing my television.

The Bad Parish II

There was plenty of strategic waving on the weekend gone by. The nine mile drive from the town to the house is purest waving country, a barren and long stretch dotted by houses, mussel farms on the sea and one hundred thousand fields.

We'd pass only seven or eight cars on this lonely old road, thin and never ending. Johnny drove and was the chief waver, acknowledging every passing Paddy with a friendly lofting of his paw.

Things got ugly, though, when one or two didn't return the greeting. I warned him not to become cynical, that cunts still exist on the seemingly friendly peninsula. Aisling told him the non-wavers were from 'The Bad Parish,' hence the title of the ninja post.

Still, I felt a part of him die before the realisation dawned that these shirkers were visitors too and that they hadn't become accustomed to the customs of the Goat's Path. They were clearly from Germany, from Britain or from Dublin.

At the finish of the path so went the waving. I wondered why.

"Radge, everyone knows you can't wave on a main road."

It's true, you know. You mustn't wave on a main road.

Monday, March 23, 2009

Friday, March 20, 2009


This isn't a post about Friday night television, nor a post about Amanda Brunker. It's not a post about the films of Judd Apatow and it is not a blog about blogging.

It's a post about not blogging, actually. I'm fleeing the city at the crack of Saturday and heading for West Cork for a couple of days.

Come Monday you can expect a post that won't be about sheep, and it will not be about one-toothed men querying my gait. It won't be about the sea and the quiet and Kilcrohane, and it probably won't be about wood.

Apparently a couple of picnics short of a seaside.

The Stags was full so we went to The Bankers. The Bankers is never full, just full of betting slips and the post-bingo brigade. They settled in some time ago, 1975 I reckon, liked the ale and never left.

Now they just spend their time talking value and cussing at Four Dame Lane across the path, the Anfield to its Prenton Park.

So we went to The Bankers and we sat on the only couch I've ever sat on in The Bankers. I think they hold it over for me, leave it barren for years until such a time that The Stags is heaving and I don't feel like fighting for my pint.

I tell her that this same arse groove has hosted me twice before memorably, and unctious more times drunkenly.

The first was with 5X not too long before he moved to Paris and we set the world to rights over crisps, porter and disgrace.

The second was with Mad Mandy on the only occasion that I knew her. She was the kind of girl I felt sexy in front of, and I'm not the kind of man who ever feels sexy in front of girls called Mandy.

And so it proved as the body language led to body language and the drink led to a brand new toothbrush, a proffered key and alarm bells in my head. Oh mercy she was a looker but there. was. something. not. quite. right.

Then the reveal.

A week later I was walking up the quays listening to her telling me she loved me down the phone, she fuckin' loved me down that phone and I thought it was nice to feel the drunken threat of her ardour, before hanging up and seeking a barring order.

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Funniest home videos

Something tells me my streak of double digit comments has come to an end, thanks to those cunts in Spandau Ballet. I don't deserve your love after that horrible little piece of postage, Tony Hadley has much to answer for.

You catch me post-work, pre-fish and vegetables, pre-heating the oven and preparing the DVD player for one hell of a watching.

Let's have a look at the contenders, at random:

'I'm Alan Partridge' - Nah. Feature film time.

'Apocalypse Now' - Nah. Too light-hearted. I want something weighty.

'The Deer Hunter' - Too fluffy.

'The Wedding Crashers' - How the fuck did that get in there? I was plainly having a Spandau Ballet day. Shit.

'Donnie Darko' - A possibility. I'm clearly in the mood for some Tears For Fears.

'Play Misty For Me' - A bit close to the bone.

'Last Tango In Paris' - A bit close to the bone.

'Napoleon Dynamite' - Into the 'maybe' pile.

'Serpico' - Too Village People.

'Brokeback Mountain' - Too 'Serpico'.

'Deliverance' - Too titillating.

'In Bruges' - Too recent.

'Radge's Funniest Home Videos' - Fuck the film. We have a winner.

They have a point, you know

I miss the New Romantics.

Monday, March 16, 2009

And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of Dead

The picture postcard friendly tits, the unadulterated craic of it, the spirit in the place of it, the pouring pints in lieu of it, the shamrock toping off of it.

The corner-sitting-lovely-ladies-grasping-at-the-cocks of it.

The skirts of it, greenhattedness, the pain of it the name of it oh how I fucking love it.

The Americanny twang of it, the gutter belching mess of it, the scumbag wielding day of it, the five-deep panting barring it, the migraine waking noise of it the stupid fucking point of it.

Sunday, March 15, 2009

Not even mentioning THAT win

I am here, I made it, I am utterly broken. The mother and father of all late shifts last night to cap off my run of four, this one was a dinger. A horrible little dinger.

3-5pm: Tend to the football. So far, so Saturday. This is the good time, I'm at home with this stuff.

5-6pm: Football aftermath. Checking, unchecking, subbing, distributing, re-writing, the hour flies past.

6-6.50pm: There appears to be some handball match in the background, Ireland are playing, but that is not my concern. No no. I'm all about the rallying. Fucking rallying. My timesheets are in order, I hope.

6.50pm-7.30pm: Lunch. Spaghetti and meatballs from the microwave. I am going to die soon.

7.30pm-8.30pm: Live Gaelic Games. Ugh. I am just the helper, tending to the tiny stuff in assistance to the Big BM. He'll be tied up with reports from Cavan and Dublin and elsewhere all night, leaving me with...

8.30pm: Kickboxing. Honest to fuck. Kickboxing. Jesus. You'd want to hear this squealing little cunt of a commentator. Every three-minute smackaround has the significance of an Ali-Foreman, while he knows all the contenders personally and they are all 'lovely gahs' but fearsome in the ring.


Two and a half hours of this, and...

9.30pm: Reaction from the handball at Murrayfield and...

10.30pm: ...two golf reports and...

11.00pm: THE. BOUT. TO. KNOCK. THE. OTHER. GUY. OUT. and...

11.10pm: Thank fuck that's over.

11.30pm: Pruning and tweaking completed I get a taxi home. A Nigerian boy. He says nothing, I look out at the lights and the skirts and feel as drunk as this City Centre. I nearly soil his cab, psychosomatically.

Midnight: Home. Fuck. The Khan-Barrera fight! I switch on the internet. It's been done, thankfully, but it's not everywhere it needs to be so I throw some water on my face and continue my work from home.

12.47am: After wrestling with my connection for half a fucking hour, finally it works and I get it done. It takes ten minutes.

1am: I go to bed, knowing I forgot something.

Friday, March 13, 2009

Stirring Ronaldinho's soup

It isn't every night you walk into Bowes to discover a mess of American girls, drunk from unfamiliar stouts, with one of them claiming to have pleasured Ronaldinho.

She told me quietly I'd be next, if only I wasn't too old and didn't look like her ex-boyfriend.

"But you're much sexier than Ronaldinho, he's all gums and can't speak English."

I took solace in that before they went upon their way and I stayed with Smithwicks and the lads, but I did pass on my number. Just in case, like.

If I'm to stir anyone's soup, it might as well be a former World Player Of The Year.

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

Penelope Cruz and me: The truth

It seems all I'm doing lately is refuting tabloid tattle and headless gossip from the press. First of all I was reported as being Ewan McGregor's 'stunt cock' on the set of Trainspotting - a story utterly without foundation that I've struggled to dissociate myself from for nigh on 15 years - and now we have these rumours of bedtime trysts with Penelope Cruz.

The Irish Daily Mirror carried a short article some weeks back stating that "the Spanish actress had recently sought succour in the arms of Irish blogging guru Radge, and the pair shared intimate dinners together in the remote County Kerry town of Dingle while staying with close personal friends of the online diarist."

The picture they published was a grainy effort, obviously photoshopped, and seemed to evidence a clinch between myself and Penny. Well, believe none of what you read and less of what you see.

Yes, I have enjoyed a close friendship with Penny for a number of years now. We met on Gothika - I was executive producer on a fright of a production and she was the star of the film.

That time was a difficult one in Penny's life, as she had recently ended her relationship with her superstar boyfriend Maverick Thunder.

Yes, we did have a brief flirtation and yes, that did flower into a series of comfort calls and sizzling Latin bedroom exhibitionism.

I ended my dalliance with Penny when she fell for another co-star, Matthew McConahockey, but we stayed in touch through text messages and emails.

I won't go into the details of my arrest on Hallowe'en night 2007 but what I will say is that Penny saved me from myself in that difficult time. Our friendship - theretofore borne of unspoken sexual frisson - became more profound, a deep bond that lasts to this day.

We are not, nor have ever been, a couple. These salacious little snippets may sell papers and I understand that my life is of interest to a wide and varied public.

I can take this but Penny is a sensitive little sexcat so please, ye scribes, suck out your marrow elsewhere because bottom feeding on one of the cornerstone friendships in my life is neither big nor clever.

Glug glug

Today I am fantasmically and rightfully and utterly hungover.

I had the lads over for the match. With the Spanish minnows cast aside after twenty odd minutes there was no tension left in the occasion, just time to drink and be drunken to.

There are, placed handsomely, at my sinkside fourteen empty cans, with a further six strewn about the little bin beside the big bin. Another night's destruction, another night of guff and grumbles and a routine 4-0 victory against the greatest side in club football.

I'm reminded of the story of Dixie.

Dixie went off the drink at Lent some years back. He didn't touch a drop until Easter arrived and he bounded for the Monks. He got fucking destroyed with the gargle and, on his way home with the girlfriend, he stopped to vomit copiously and at length.

"Never again," he said.

"Never again?" she said.

"Never again. I'm never giving up drink again," he said.

Monday, March 09, 2009

Overheard in Cabra

When standing at my bus stop on the Cabra Road, I have never once seen a pensioner eat a bag of Hula Hoops.

I have never seen a pensioner texting someone.

I have never seen a pensioner smoking a cigarillo.

I have never seen a pensioner carrying a Lifestyle sports bag.

I have never seen a pensioner carrying a shoulder bag.

I have never seen a pensioner trying to look cool in front of another pensioner.

I have never seen a pensioner use an iPod Touch without looking at the screen.

I have never seen a pensioner use an iPod Touch.

I have never seen a pensioner reading Closer Magazine.

I have never seen a pensioner drinking Lucozade.

I have, only once, heard a pensioner tell another pensioner about their blog.

Saturday, March 07, 2009

Aborted entries

Yeah, having some trouble posting the last couple of days. No great crisis, just been sleeping and working and watching DVDs and not having the faintest fucking clue what to write about.

I started a few but they died on the vine:

First entry:

We started a poem once, in collaboration. He wrote the first line that went, 'O Wither, O Wither, The Willowy Waters,' and I came up with the subsequent, 'Farmers allowed to marry their daughters?' Only then did we allow ourselves to drink.

Second entry:

I fucking hate shit films.

Third entry:

'Breaking The Waves,' a cute and cuddly frolic through the heady fields of Calvinist Scotland. Fun for all the family. Emily Watson at her most wacky. Variety called it the 'film Chris Farrelly never made.'

Fourth entry:

Inverted commas. Inside or outside the full stop? Nobody can ever tell. OK, most people can, but I can't.

Fifth entry:

dheiruhfa frepqroa freqfheohnf fcrqefjoie.

= = = =

I actually posted the last one and took it down 58 seconds later. I was caught, though.

Oh, and look, the spell is broken.

Wednesday, March 04, 2009

No time of day

He rushed past me this evening outside Trinity, this man that I used to know to see about the place. Walking his dog, chatting with neighbours, having a moustache. He'd see me seeing him, salute me and sometimes stop to talk.

A nice man, I always thought. A nice lad, he probably thought.

Tonight he turned his head in the first time seeing me for three odd years. No hello. Not even a nod but a passive aggressive and speedy ignorance.

Fathers can be so funny about their daughters.


I joined Twitter last week. Don't hate me. Stay here. I can't promise to never write of it again. I can't even promise to try, but I can promise to try to try.

I don't think I'm very good at it. I 'chip'. I'm a Twitter chipper. It seems to me the point is to be in constant care of it, updating one's every move and shake, but that seems more than a little invasive.

I check in a couple of times a day and I comment here and there, sporadically and uninterestingly. My comments on other blogs tend towards glib and ill thought out at the best of times. Add a 140-character limit and there's only so verbose a man can be.

I got a direct message from someone yesterday - a tiny missive aside from the madding cyber rush of gawkers and stalkers - telling me that they're a fan of the old Radgery but they've never commented. This pleased me, the narcissist within quelled in a warming blanket of self brilliance.

It was the best 'tweet' yet, before I went back to the feed, reading how people like their coffee and about the lonely man standing outside Brown Thomas.

Tuesday, March 03, 2009


From Sky News: A man has been found guilty of negligent homicide with regard to the death of a 23-month-old toddler, Brandon Muir, in March last year, in Dundee.

The child was left in the care of this man, this Robert Cunningham, while his mother went to the shops. When she returned the child was feeling unwell and it later emerged that he had received a punch to the stomach so severe that his intestine had been ruptured.

What did they do, these heroin-addled pieces of sub-human scum while the child vomited in the corner? They did nothing. They just got on with their stash while the child petered out.

That night they took the toddler to a party. To a fucking party. While they fixed their addictions the child's plight went unnoticed, and it wasn't until the next day that they finally sought medical attention but it was too late to save him.

It later emerged that he had injuries accrued over three weeks - the length of time his whore of a mother had been living with Cunningham - and the autopsy revealed 'cuts and bruises on his head, shoulder blades, abdomen, back, hands and abrasions on the inside of his eye.'

There really is no punishment suitable for these people, for this man who saw a young life to its death after only 23 months. I don't have imagination enough.

Of course, Cunningham wasn't convicted of murder. Instead it was the lesser charge, the aforementioned negligent homicide. He'll be sentenced later but expect it to be no more than five years before he's walking around the streets of Scotland again, looking for drug money and children to torture.

So inevitable, so very, very sad.

Monday, March 02, 2009

At my most beautiful

Handing a cup of freshly, painfully squeezed-out piss to a very comely female doctor, well, it puts manners on a man. Chastens him, even. There's really no coming back from it, no way to look debonair.

Ear infection last week. Kidney infection this week. Don't go drinking on antibiotics, kids. It won't serve you well.