Sunday, February 28, 2010

The barman

Bowe's last night, the barman becomes engaged in a stand-off with some quarrelling lads at the bar.

"Lads, if you're going to have a scrap in Bowe's I want to see blood spilled. None of this ogling bollocks. Get it done."

Situation diffused and without missing a beat he brought our Cremes de Menthe to the table, offered to polish up our monocles and went back about his duties.

If there's a barman of the year award they can start setting up the satellite feed, sharpish.

Thursday, February 25, 2010

New clothes

I'm just trying them on, trying this on, pared down and not a flashing red light to be seen.

Should it feel too snug about the groin or too garishly white I'll go back to old black and red with scarce an apology to boot.

= = =

Update: It didn't take.

Monday, February 22, 2010

As my mentor, F. Murray Abraham, once said...

'Dexter' is a disappointment, no?

I bought the first series recently, hoping for something to fill the vacuum left by The Sopranos' legendary fade-out and to shield me from having to interact with those pesky friends and family.

What a swizz.

Exposition, exposition, three episodes in and another monologue from Michael C. Hall about how he's wearing a metaphorical mask, exposition, some annoying fucker wearing a trilby or a fedora (I can't tell the difference), signposted dialogue, HAM acting, this annoying bint of a sister and exposition.


It's bollocks.

Apparently if you're into CSI you'll love this but I don't so I don't. I'm not waiting for it to get good anymore, I think I'll just throw on Strumpet City instead.

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The academy have failed to recognise this here weblog as worthy of joining 87,154 others in the long-list nominations for the Irish Blog Awards. At time of writing, internet owner Damien Mulley has failed to respond to my demand for a recount. Protesters are gathering at the Garden of Inebriation. He'll be fucking sorry.

= = =

I wish The Simpsons would stop being shit for just five minutes because 'Amhrán Is Ansa Liom' is beginning to look very attractive over on TG4, even if I don't know what the gravy it's about.

= = =

My recent spate of walking has been replaced by my current glut of leaning against things.

= = =

New York in early summer is already looking like a non-starter due to reasons financial. It's alright, though, because the new Discover Ireland ads are telling me that a weekend in Connemara will see my quest for love come good.

= = =

I've foreseen my death and it will be by Dublin Bus rearviewmirror. I'll play brinkmanship with that curb on the Cabra Road once too often, the golden jelly of my honeyed thoughts spilling right at the heel of the advertisement window.

Thursday, February 18, 2010


Some words sound ridiculous coming out of the mouths of Irish people. For example...

1) Dude.

Far too fucking prevalent for my liking. When did 17-year-old American college students with the tail-end of an acne problem and a deep lust for girls called Starbecca become literary trailblazers? Fucking Farrelly brother cunts.

2) Maaan.

Same as dude, times one thousand.

3) Snog.

What an ugly word for a nice thing that I last did in 2003, or thitherabouts.

4) Chunder/chundered.

No real reason why I hate this synonym for vomit, other than it sounds like it was stolen from a Protestant boarding school somewhere close to Harrogate.

5) Innit?

It certainly in not.

6) Retarded.

I swear to Rick James, I passed by two young Dublin lads last week when one turned to the other and said, "man, those jeans are fucking retarded." Actually, scratch that, he actually said "retorded" in his best Blackrockian. For retarded, read 'pure cuntish.'

7) Spew.

That hoisin duck was so distasteful to the palate, it made one wish to spew.


No, just no.

8) Store.

Shoppe. Nae store.

9) "...was really good." (in a food context)

When the Americans say, "that steak was really good," it sounds ok.

When the Irish say, "that steak was really good," as opposed to "nice" or "tender" or "bloodytafuck," it sounds like they need to step away from the Comedy Central.

10) Hon, or hun (short for 'honey')

Nails on a blackboard.

Monday, February 15, 2010


I've been to the States before, once, in the wake of a Leaving Cert full of unopened books and Pearl Jam-shaped distractions. New York and Boston, the former with family and the latter with friends on their J1 drinking visas.

I don't recall too much at a remove of thirteen years. Words like 'beer delivery,' 'Miller High Life,' 'Quincy Market' and 'a bar called Shenanigans' frame a foggy memory full of teenaged debauchery, faking our way past militant doorbodies.

I'm going back. Plans are nascent at this point but, following the arrival of my redundancy cheque after a slovenly seven months, it's looking like an early summer plane trip to the land of at least two of my readers.

A solo jaunt as soon as I finish lecturing is called for, I'll travel as light as the guide books and surplus charges will let me. All East Coast suggestions gratefully accepted and I'll promise to keep the head down, fitting in with ne'er a camera hanging below chest.

Thursday, February 11, 2010

Kumeer Iwancha



All own teeth.

Recently perfected technique of throwing peanuts in air, catching in mouth.

Likes the crooners.

Writer of 'Apocalypse Whenever.' Tagline: War has never been so disaffected.

Never runs for women or buses.

Allergic to tardiness.

Rarely lets mother buy clothes* nowadays. *His. What she does on her own time...

Traps spiders using standard cardboard/glass manoeuvre.

Is unsure of spelling of manoeuvre (since amended from original post, cheers Sarah).

Delusions of adequacy.

Wearer of spectacles just the wrong side of fashionable.

Dislikes rodents.

Intolerant of messy kitchens, bad handwriting and yoga.

Invented kiss chasing.

Abhors airports, does not mind flying.

Other allergies include bananas, avocadoes, Kerry Katona, the oval ball.

Likes the phrase 'tired, weary and worn.'

Prefers the phrase 'wired, teary and torn.'

Ale experimentalist.

Wants secret life.

Chooses never to LOL.

Speaks fluent cantank.

Pours water out of glass four times before filling and drinking, only accession to OCD.

Sleeps soundly.

Sits upstairs on bus, left hand side, preferably alone, uses window for wist, never works.

Craves positive feedback.

Cooks few dishes with verve.

Dislikes people who tell stories in pubs.

Likes quips.

Dances despite self.

Wit enthusiast.

Tuesday, February 09, 2010


If you haven't seen the latest Lotto ad, I'll set the scene.

Matronly nurse is reading to a newborn baby in a maternity hospital. However, this new arrival is actually a fat and middle aged man done up in nappies and white cottons, with a massive shit-eating grin on his face.

The nurse reads to the 'baby' from an outsized story book, and the ad is scripted as follows...


"My, what a big wallet you have..." she said.

"All the better to treat you with," replied the millionaire.

The manbaby gurgles and titters playfully.


What creativity, what a feat of advertising. Avarice and disgusting subservience in one handy little 30-second TV spot, a nice little throwback to the sixties and 'marrying for money,' the woman reduced to a slavering leech.

Are we still thus?

Are there not 1,253 better ways to advertise the Lotto than feeding us these two pantomime cretins?

Are there not newborn babies in the country spitting out their dummies and asking, "Christ, I don't look like THAT, do I? I'm surely not that big a cunt?"

I feel a bit sorry for the two actors because sooner or later they're going to have to face their friends in the pub, come out of hiding and explain where exactly it all went wrong.

Then again, it's only an ad.

Monday, February 08, 2010

The bad place

"Kidders totally got it spot on, goys, I mean I've been saying for months that Rodge isn't like completely knackered and lo and behold he grabs us, like, 16 points..."

"Yeah but we were totally shite. Seckers would've done much better."

"Be that as it may, we always play like totally within ourselves against the minnows. Now, bevvie? Bevvie? Bevvie? Right. Four pints coming up and one white wine spritzer for the fucking bender in the corner."

"Yeah, Sprog, you fucking bender."

"Shut up guys I'm on a diet!"

"You're totally gay, dude."

Ah here, I have to stop this before I bring myself to the bad place.

I'm staying in this Saturday.

Friday, February 05, 2010


Kudos to the scumbag I saw being escorted out of Spar/Centra/Londis/whateverthefuck on Dorset Street this morning, by the police, at 8.20am. It takes moxy to rise at such an hour from under the blanket of a skag attack.

Unkudos to the scumbags we saw taking a group shit in the abandoned car park on City Quay, viewed them from above we did.

That's just disgusting.

Monday, February 01, 2010


I'd only ever thought of the town as a talking place, a drinking place, a place of stories and boats and singing. In my head I travelled there an awful lot more than my budget of two or three visits a year would allow me.

Through meetings and the whirring of printers and the general bullshit of men in suits at work (trying to out-loud each other) I'd imagine myself sat in O'Flahertys pub - that great big green room with the replica of itself in the corner farthest from the door - pretending to read while listening in on Irish words long since left in my Leaving Cert textbooks.

Off the bus. Into Murphy's. Out of Murphy's and up Green Street, past the shop incongruously named La Boheme. Past Dick Mack's and the church and the chipper that never opens. On to Main Street with Currans and Foxy Johns and Ashe's agus An Droichead Beag, before the turn of the heel to visit them all again. And again. And again to inebriation...

I don't meet strangers easily.

It's not in my nature to start up conversations with people unknown to me but I could always manage it there. They'd see my history in me and know I'm not a blow-in - two of my grandparents were born in the town before making their lives elsewhere - so I'd feel unencumbered in stepping in to ask random people if they knew of any living Devanes from Grey's Lane.

I've still to hear the word 'jackeen' muttered under breath, probably why I keep going back.

This time was different, though.

Years after my first visit there I realised that this is a place of water, and places of water are never far from darkness, and I wondered how I'd never noticed it before.

Eyes narrowed where hands had been proffered. Confrontation replaced ebullience. The song taken by the whisper. Our openness met with reluctance.

My mother told me afterwards that the place was always made that way. Brothers and sisters living two streets apart who hadn't seen each other in years, families riven with only minutes between them at any one time. Inheritances, you would imagine, or just plain old fighting over a woman to blame for it.

Or blow-ins.

It's in my head at several days' remove and the closest feeling that comes to it is the unimagining of Santa Claus but, in a strange way, it makes the place more attractive to me - something more than pubs on a poster to be crossed off over a spell.