Sunday, June 06, 2010

My cleanest dirty shirt

6.30am, the couple overhead fighting and fucking things around again.

Teleshopping on RTE1.

Rain about to pour.

Paracetamol, hangover.

The Sky Sports News night staff, janitors masquerading as newsreaders.

A shirt, a pair of jeans, socks and shoes strewn in different corners of the flat.

Tired but not tired.

Padraig Harrington's nasal whittle on an Optical Express ad.

Check sent items, the coincidence of a shared birthday.

Check inbox. 'Loving your blog.' Panic.

Back to bed, a slow sleep.

9 comments:

tony said...

hey! you stole my life! Give it Me back...

Radge said...

I don't want to have to take this outside.

tony said...

better Out than In.

Holemaster said...

2am Sunday morning:

Bearded man-bagged black-rimmed glassed fuck from downstairs was locked out because his dumb ass girlfriend couldn't hear the incessant bell ringing over the noise of their stupid washing machine. So I had to let him through my place into the back garden so he could climb in the window and proceed to loudly bang his girlfriend for an hour.

Humiliating.

Radge said...

Ah here, jaysus, that's a bottomlessly shit thing to happen.

Those fucking black rimmed bastards again...

Jennikybooky said...

Ah boys, ye make me laugh.

Conan Drumm said...

If I go back to nodland after waking early I get the worst headache in the world, and no drink taken.

Radge said...

Jen - Appreciated.

Conan - Budvar and stout the weekend just gone, avoided the whiskey. What that has to do with anything, I don't know.

Conan Drumm said...

That'll be the stout, it's been chemicalised to hell. I wouldn't like to tell you what slithers out of my sinuses if I drink any chemical beer/stout/lager. Which is a shame 'cause I like stout but I rarely ever drink more than a single pint of it at a time these days.