Tuesday, March 30, 2010

Excuses excuses

He came into the lecture after an hour, frazzled yet unapologetic. "Sorry, I just saw the weather and decided to have a lie in."

"It's 5 o'clock," I replied.

"I know. I got up at 2. I just couldn't have been arsed going out, you know? I promise I'll be on time for the rest of the lectures."

I laughed.

"You won't, though."

"Yeah, I know."

I thought of all the other excuses I've had for tardiness over the years...

"I've just worked an 18 hour shift down the mines."
"I had a fight with a bus conductor."
"I wanted to be here but the house next door went on fire so myself and the lads had to go and get drunk."
"I fell over a pencil and hurt my back."
"'Neighbours' was on."
"I was part of an intervention and time got away from me."
"My sister accidentally swallowed my brother."
"Earth Hour caught me off guard, I don't know whether I'm coming or going."

...and I figured this lad deserves an A for honesty.

Still didn't let him sign the attendance sheet though. I'm a Nazi like that.

Saturday, March 27, 2010

You are my centre when I spin away

A no email day. Not a one.

Cutprice viagra. Begging letters from THAT Rwandan princess (stalking bitch). The Force India Formula One team. Facebook comments. Alerts on this here wonderblog. Conspicuous by absence.

The blogging community is in Galway trying not to sleep with each other, then sleeping with each other, while I whittle away the dying light of this sleepy Saturday with football and a nice cup of Camomile tea.

The dogs aren't barking and even next door have hit the mute button, their weekend revelry replaced by fridge buzz and crickets.

I'll be sleeping sober when the hour stealing bastards come, before belching me up at Stupid O'Clock for another Sunday pushing buttons and hitting 'send.'

Monday, March 22, 2010

Introducing a better blog and the six chips scandal

For those of you who like their blogs with a coherent narrative, and away from one man's gripes about chip portions and unremarkable boy-meets-girl-meets-indifference tales, check out Regina's blog about waiting for a kidney transplant on This Limbo.

Feel free to offer her a kidney or, if you're a little too wedded to your internal organs, just have a read because writing of this quality demands a greater audience.

= = =

Back to the portion of chips.

Now, I'm no gastrophile, but if you can count the number of chips on your lunchtime plate then you're on to a loser.

Six. Six fucking chips with my BLT, arranged atop each other like an asterisk.

There's something very wrong with this picture, especially when you're paying a tenner in a nostalgic nod back to 2006. More fool me, I know, but I had a good mind to call Joe because this would likely rile him up like a malnourished taxi driver.

First Seanie FitzPatrick, then Mr. Brady, now this, surely the tipping point for revolution.

Saturday, March 20, 2010

Five oh

"Tonight - Max Clifford, Carol Vorderman, Dave McSavage and a whole lot more. The Saturday Night Show, after the break."

Abort! Abort!!!

I've already spent one weekend night in the company of RTE's detritus, waiting to throw plates at Monsignor Dooley on the Late Late Show in an interview that never arrived.

I'm not about to do it again lest I actually carry it out this time, lest I let Brendan O'Connor's inexcusable face bring me to the dark side, to murder, to Mountjoy, to regret at the fact that Brunker didn't get it too.

No, I'll allow The Wire to handle this particular Saturday evening.

Fo, and, indeed, sho.

Monday, March 15, 2010

Tick tock

Tick fucking tock.

I'm in a horrible bout of clock watching, the big hand telling the little hand that this dating nonsense is truly a ruse to bring us single stupids all the way to a drunken, early, hazy grave.

Wear the red jumper. Don't wear the red jumper. Clad yourself in a suit. Don't be a fucking muppet, she knows you have the week off work. The hoodie's too casual, maybe the shirt with the buttons that pop. No, not that.


I'll wear the blue one to bring out my eyes, which will dart in a most clandestine way to the Liverpool match that I'm going to miss while I woo, the goal being some measure of scandal or the thrust to write again.


Pray for a cancellation that won't come. Check the iron. Another cup of tea. The watch again. Warm enough for the nice jacket. Bring a purple snack. Don't ask about old injuries. The rounds issue. The blushing issue and the keyring in the pocket, fingered as a makeshift stressball.

Don't mention the blog.


Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Slim pickings

"Here, lads, do you know what'd be hilarious?

If I used the news of Corey Haim's death to update my Facebook status with...

"The Thrills finally have their answer."

Nobody else will think of it and, even though my mam will ask me who The Thrills are, it'll be so worth it."

Still, it's not all bad, the new presenter lass on Setanta just said 'crap' instead of 'grab' by accident.

Exclusively live.

Tuesday, March 09, 2010


Liverpool Football Club, you horrible fuckers.

If ever a match had me yearning for the casual fandom of somebody who claims to enjoy 'sports,' last night's was it.

You know the lads.

"See the match?"

"Which match was that?"

"The Liverpool match. They were playing Wigan."

"Oh... Ehm... No. No. Was it the FA Vase, sorry, Cup?"

"No, it was the Premier League."

"Really? Wigan are in the Premier League? I thought they were in the fourth division."

"(Oh Christ)"

"Yeah, I follow the football like but only if there's a big match on, like an Ireland match or whatever..."

"Oh, so you saw the Brazil game last week?"

"Did we play Brazil? Don't know how I missed that. Who won?"


"Of course. I suppose that means we're not going to the World Championships now."

I wanted to be that lad for 108 minutes, including half time, last night instead of the frustrated, bawling, pillow whacking disgrace of a figure that I cut throughout, sucking Lemsip through a straw and keening for the sweet relief of death.


Sunday, March 07, 2010

The dangling dog

Dr Fell, fellow drinkist and the artist currently known as Neuroskeptic (see sidebar) is right, it IS a lazy, dog dangling day of a Sunday.

I can't separate the hangover from the possible headcold, following a night spent in Clonmel getting a sorry shade of sodden.

Pisht I was, pisht and stupid.

Ah here, that's all, I'm off to hang a pooch.

Wednesday, March 03, 2010

The headache

What's the protocol with first dates and getting one's round in?

I get the first, proper order, as she settles and wonders about the fact that I really don't have any earlobes.

I really don't, I'd have been hexed in the Eighties.

Anyway, yeah, I get the first and we sit and talk about all the blundering shite that's required on a getting to know you basis. Where do you work? Do you like where you work? How many brothers and sisters? Do I have any tomato sauce left on my chin? Favourite biscuit? Political bent? Shower of bastards? Favourite pubs? Brothers and sisters? Oh, I already asked that, didn't I?

I always offer to get the second. While I'm the opposite of a stingey fucker it leaves a better impression if she goes with, "you got the first, I'm getting this."

We live in an age of mutual nervousness.

That being said I don't let it bother me if I have to make a return trip as long, AS FUCKING LONG, as she makes the move for a third.

Not so this time. I repeated my "fancy another?" to my Monday night darling and she sat there, looked at the bar, made no move towards her handbag and told me that yes, indeed, she would like me to put my hand in my pocket for the third time and I should be glad of the privilege.

"Grand so," says I, as I fuckin' eejited my way up to the bar for a 'same again.'

What a ruse, what a bunch of bollocks, what misplaced chivalry on my part as she spent an hour bitching about the government and the rest of the time going on about what she hates, how she hates the things she hates and how she'd hate to be a person just like other people.

It finished 1-0 to me, though.

I had a "headache."