Friday, October 29, 2010

'With yer man, from that film...'

I'm in an empty apartment, just after watching Wednesday's episode of 'Mad Men' on BBC4 (Don's gay, who knew?), wearing a t-shirt with a slogan on it.

'Apostrophe's! Extra apostrophe's! Use 'em for plural's! One dollar!'

I like this t-shirt, and I don't usually wear sloganised garments.

= = =

A pisspoor day outside in the outside, what with the rain falling and general windy bastardry of a Friday. 5X is home from Paris to stay this evening and I have ne'er a slice of brown bread in the house for him. These two factors will come to meet, but I think I'll keep with the sitting for the time being. As vignettes go, you will have glossed over this one.

= = =

My stint on Celebrity Love Jungle was ill advised, at best, and only got worse from the get-go. Mr Producer, who must remain nameless, saw fit to maroon me with both Cat Deeley and Natalie Imbruglia. After 'that' night in Ryan's of Parkgate Street he really ought to have known better. That was one bitchy sandwich.

= = =

Is it wrong to eat mushroom soup with garlic bread?

= = =

Please, nobody tell me what happened on Masterchef. After a whirlwind week of meetings, greetings, teachings, pukings, drinkings and worryings I'm going to leave Tuesday's and Wednesday's episodes until tomorrow or Sunday.

= = =

Don isn't really gay.

= = =

Does anybody know when the second series of 'In Treatment' can be seen in Ireland? It's pissing me off that there's no sign of a DVD release, while 3e seem more concerned with the likes of 'Glee' and 'Young, Dumb and Living Off Mum.'

= = =

Back to that. 'Young, Dumb and Living Off Mum.' I'd like to meet the kind of person that would watch that, shake them, feed them six bottles of Duvel, spin them around 18 times, lead them to deepest, darkest Leitrim and leave them there, naked, save for my aforementioned t-shirt.

= = =


= = =

If a tree fell on Barry Egan in the woods and there was nobody around to witness it, would anybody suspect me?

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

All beer and no food makes something something...

My headsong is alternating between Take That's 'A Million Love Songs' and Phil Collins' 'Sussudio.'

I'm pleased with neither of these, knowing that I must have heard them drunk on a beery Bank Holiday Monday yet I'm not able to place the where.

They don't have music in Kehoes and, by the time Round Two came along in the Ferryman, the lights shone a little too brightly and I was just sitting there pretending not to be steamed.

I was. Muchly.

Gary Barlow and Buster have terrible things to answer for as I sit here at a remove of two days, at a capacity of little more 63%, silently willing the songs to stop their looping whirr.

Why didn't I eat? A bowl of Crunchy Nut Corn Flakes does not an iron constitution build and I spent Tuesday cursing the folly of ten beers and no sustenance.

"I'll be grand."

I wasn't grand. I won't make the mistake again.

Sunday, October 24, 2010

'Take Me Out'

I've seen it, I have stared into the abyss and it is not good. The most scarifying piece of television ever to be transmitted and it's called 'Take Me Out.'

"You let a girl into your life, you have to expect some bad TV."


She clued me in on the premise.

A boy walks into a studio and is met by a congress of approximately twenty girls, lined up as they do on 'Deal Or No Deal.'

They each stand behind their own technoplinth and, as the fella reveals more and more bits about himself they can either a) switch off their lights if they're not interested, or b) keep their lights on if they think the subject is suitably 'ripped,' which is a word I learned out of 'our Charlotte from Clondalkin' last night.

Hopefully, come the end, there will still be three or four lights left on and then the power transfers to him as he straddles the spotlight, takes a look at what he sees and turns off the lights of all but one. His chosen one. Then they go on a date. And report back. Then the whole process begins again.

Things worked out well for some boy from Cavan whose name I never learned as he trotted off to bump uglies with a blonde sort from (probably) Leitrim, but the second fella had an awful time of it. A ginger from Belfast, he'd matched his belt to his shoes and this worked for Chantelle from Naas, but eventually he talked himself into a hiding and all the lights were out before he could even choose a date. The poor fucker.

Ray Foley, at least, couldn't keep his hands off our dejected Nordie friend and offered him solace after solace before sending him off with a goodie bag, while the girls just waited there for the next prey.

All I could think back on was my worst of the first dates, back in yore, and multiply it by 20, one light going off after another. It was a horrible half an hour that will be repaid in football, and plenty of it.

Thursday, October 21, 2010

She's in fashion

Dolores and Jimmy, sitting in their kitchen in Crumlin. Dolores is pottering around, doing a bit of tidying up, while Jimmy's just finished his Teatime Express coffee layer slice and reading the Independent.

Dolores: "I think I'll get one of them hoodie things."

Jimmy: (Nothing)

Dolores: "Jimmy! Should I get one of them hoodie things?"

Jimmy: "What bleedin' hoodie things?"

Dolores: "I always hear people go on about these hoodies, they're 'in,' or so they say. I seen a load of women wearing them on the South Circular Road yesterday. They're in fashion, like."

Jimmy: "Far from fashion you were... Throw on that kettle, will yeh?"

Dolores: "Throw it on yourself ya lazy bollix. I'm serious, though, I think they look lovely. They're real exotic."

Jimmy, putting down his paper: "Exotic? What are they? Describe them to me."

Dolores: "Well, they're these long black dresses and they have these hoods that you can only see through a slit, like."

Jimmy: "Jesus Christ woman, you're talkin' about a burka!"

Dolores: "Oh is that what they're called? Oh I love them, I think they're smashin'."

Jimmy: "But... they're what those foredners wear to cover themselves up so's fellas won't be lookin' at them. You can't get one of them!"

Dolores: "Are you sayin' you want fellas lookin' at me Jimmy?? Is that it? You tryin' to tell me somethin'?"

Jimmy: "I'm trying to tell you that only women of a certain ethnic background can wear them! The Muslims, like. You can't be going around in a burka for the love of Jaysus."

Dolores: "Oh but they look lovely and warm."

Jimmy: "You're losing the plot entirely woman."

Dolores: "You haven't a jealous bone in your body Jimmy Brady! Fellas do be ogling me all the time. I just think they look lovely and elegant and I'm getting one, right!"

Jimmy: "Look, do what ya want as long as I get a fuckin' cup of tea before next Tuesday!"

Dolores, distracted: "I wonder if Penney's do them. Here, Jimmy... JIMMY! If you get lucky I'll flash you a bit of eyebrow!"

Jimmy, despite himself, laughs.

Word of the day

I have this idea that actors in training have to use just one word to convey a series of emotions. I'm sure I saw it somewhere. They pluck one word from the English language and bend it this way and that to elicit sympathy and laughs and joy and fear and what have you?

Our word was 'recession.' Our word is now 'Rooney.'

"Rooney Rooney, Rooney? Rooney roo roo Rooney, once Rooney, twice Rooney, Rooney! Oh Rooney."

Look at him, just look at his gurrier head spitting all over my lovely shiny Sky Sports News. Smoking, drinking, prostitution and ugliness, that's all that is. Sure all he does is kick a pigskin around a...

Fuck it, I'm getting up out of bed.

Monday, October 18, 2010

Blue Monday

I do hate sneezing, the hearing of it and the doing of it.

The hearing of it: The idea of somebody's innards becoming somebody's outwards, the sudden explosion of snot in my airspace. Too few people cover their noses.

The doing of it: I sneeze about four times a year, except when I'm met with a headcold. This is that time and comes only three weeks after my last one. I'm normally the picture of medium-sized health, two colds a year maximum, so this is as surprising as it is unwelcome.

If there's a bright side it's in the knowing that this isn't a bubbling under, there-but-not-there half virus, it's a glorious thwack of a blizzard and will be gone the quicker for it. There's also the hope that this comes in lieu of my yearly Christmas cold, meaning I won't have to scoff down Maimie's glorious banquet with the aid of a gallop of Uniflu and several hot whiskeys.

There's that, at least.

Sunday, October 17, 2010 360

I was somewhere called Smock Alley to see something called a Hugh Hughes this evening.

Normally, the closest I come to banging elbows with culture involves a mid-afternoon slumping in one of the upstairs innards of the Savoy, away from the Big Beatbox of the Savoy One and whatever Zac or Zak Efron is starring in this 'Fall.'

Old Hugh. A Welshman, the whirringest of dervishes of fellows. Affable, frenetic, looks like Jose Mourinho on a Revels rush.

I'm no fan of slapstick but the sight of this forty-odd-oddman lashing into the stage wall, repeatedly, did for me like Benny Hill never could, and he had some interesting thoughts on the nature of friendship.

All quite strange, and all very terrifying given the level of audience participation. I'm no heckler, I'm no showman, I'm a passivist and it is my ambition to remain as one. Show me a jester eyeing up the audience as bait and I'll show you squirming to its highest degree.

He was looking to conduct a fake marriage ceremony and started separating the twos from the singles in the audience. How the alarm bell of my face, ringing red, didn't alert him is beyond me but he picked out Anders from Norway and his nondescript German missus. They handled it well. I would not have.

Awkwardness avoided, show finished and dignity somewhat intact we took on our bag and baggage and headed for Brogan's, leaving Hugh Hughes behind to hand out buttons with a slogan about perspective.

Thursday, October 14, 2010

...and on and on...

The snug in Kehoes, a dangerous place. I'm sure it had a red light back in the day, which records show was 1998. It's been replaced with a standard and sickly yellow hue but it's all the better for drinking in. And drinking in. And drinking in again.

The folly of it, following up Tuesday night pints with Wednesday day beers and nervously introducing the Thurles lad and his belle to the cat's mother. Good craic, mind you.

It needed to be worth it, given this morning's early start and the shaping of eager young minds.

This is me, mildly broken on the couch amid rememberings of slaggings and couch talk, writing my little addled mind off before another trek out into October and all its useless beauty.

Logs off. Steels self.

Sunday, October 10, 2010

I was never the something after that fateful something

In the absense of anything interesting or, more to the point, printable, I'll try to remember Saturday in a vaguely interesting way. As this day only happened to me yesterday, its recall should not be too great a stretch.

9.35am: I wake to an immediate work or teaching panic. As a cloudy remembrance of Brogan pints, whiskey and a stolen piece of cardboard hits me, I reach for an empty plastic bottle of water and finally come to realise that I'm off for the first Saturday in an aeon. No football has its plus points.

10am: After lying for twenty minutes, trying to figure out what film I've seen Don Draper's rival creative director in before, I give in to the need for a piss and clean my teeth.

10.10am: I see Wardrobe Girl having a smoke on the balcony opposite. I name her Wardrobe Girl because she never appears in the same garment twice, throughout a day. I think there may be six of her.

10.10am - 1.20pm: I watch recorded Masterchefs from the week, cultivating blog ideas, as well as the end of the bespoke episode of Mad Men. Better than last week's. Betty has gone from an 'I would' to an 'I mightn't after all.'

1.20pm: I wonder what the smell is. The smell is me. I shower at length.

1.22pm: Well, at length for a boy, like.

1.40pm: I walk across the river and buy a sandwich from the girl with a bad limp. I feel sorry for her because she looks utterly, painfully miserable.

2.05pm: The LUAS to Abbey St, where I pass the Octoberfest. Or is it Oktoberfest? I decide I don't care. Many drunken heads.

2.20pm: Cinema. 'The Town.' It occurs to me I haven't been to the cinema since seeing the old women from Offaly, which I didn't like as much as I was supposed to. 'The Town' is very good, reminds me of 'Heat' and 'The Departed.' It's not as good as the former but better than the latter.

4.30pm: Leave cinema. Walk home, except for the fact that I actually get the LUAS again, rendering the words 'walk home' as a lie. I pick up the kind of fish and chips you throw in the oven, as opposed to a fat bastard's fish supper.

6pm: Realise I've just spent the last hour looking at, and for, nothing on the internet. The internet has taken a day off save for Status Updates from people I wouldn't have in the house.

6.04pm: Discern her whereabouts. She's in a taxi on the way to County Swords, as it's now called. She likes her taxi driver. He doesn't like County Swords.

6.20pm: Eat dinner, and come to the realisation that I'm as bored writing this post as you will be reading it. And there are still five hours until bedtime.

Highlights of the rest of the evening: American Beauty ("Something tells me you're going to remember me this time.") - The word 'bawdy' used for its own sake - Wardrobe Girl entertains a young man, though I think it might be another version of her - I eat the forgotten Magnum in the freezer - I note countless references to something called a 'Mary Byrne' on Facebook - I remember I forgot to buy the new Empire - I take up the whole bed.

Thursday, October 07, 2010

A fear every man knows

I do the check, pressed for time. Left leg pocket - phone. Inside jacket pocket - iPod (public-blocking-out-device, Apple in origin). Right leg pocket - packet of Blackcurrant Fisherman's Friends.

No wallet.

A minor 'fuck' at this stage, it must be on the couch. Not on the couch. It must have slipped down the back of the couch. 50p and a layer of dust, but nothing. The table. No. Back to the bedroom. Not on the bed. Back to the couch. Checked there already.

The fear growing. Wore tracksuit bottoms to the shop, must be in the zippy bit. Not in the zippy bit. In hoodie. No.

FUCK. It must have slipped out of my pocket.

Check the corridor outside the apartment. Not a thing. Check the bathroom, could have left it there while having a shower. No. Check the bed.


What's the number for Mastercard? How do I cancel? My Laser! My health card! My social services card! My 1995 USIT identification! My three-years-out-of-date press card! My receipts! My gym membership!

My what now?

Panic. Fuck. Check the fridge. The milk needs replacing. "FOCUS for the love of Beethoven!" Not in the fridge. Check the inside of the microwave. On top of the radiator. Behind the telly, which is raised on the wall. The freezer. The cupboard. The washing machine. Fuck fuck fuck. Late late late.

The couch again. Losing mind. Behind the couch. All sorts of imaginings. Inside the bin. Smell is rank.

Fitzbollix's room. Not a hope. Back to my own. Giving up. Inside the laundry basket. Last chance saloon. Nothing there either. Life is over. Sweating and heaving. Life in ribbons. Bank account hacked. Someone's flatscreen. Someone's trip to Ibiza. Somebody's drinks are on me. My finances plundered.

Then I check my arse pocket.

"Ah. Grand."

Wednesday, October 06, 2010

Damage is done

I've let you all down, and I am sorry.

On a bleary walk towards Pearse Street this morning, where those evil Lucky Leopard red lights touch the sky at the Grand Canal Basin, was seen the makings of a television ad.

There were booms and lights and vans and people stood around eating tin foiled sandwiches, and there were the wheelbarrows full of snow.

"Fuck," I said to somebody in particular.

"What?" was said back to me.

"I'm willing to bet it's the fucking Meteor fucking Christmas fucking ad. I bet that it is. I can stop this madness if... I... can... only think or speak all coherent like."

I couldn't, though.

I could only form thoughts of the cot and even the sight of Frank Kelly standing around couldn't rise the revolutionary in me, couldn't fathom me up the will to walk up to him and say: "Here, Jack, have a word with yourself. Don't you remember that gimp with the beard and his carol singing wankathon? Or his 'Merry Christmas babes' Vodafone equivalent?"

It's all very well writing it now but at the time I just grimaced, held my tracksuit top a little tighter to myself, cursed the coming winter and went back inside.

Monday, October 04, 2010


Reasons to be cheerful:

1) Look at that day. Just look at it. Sun blazing and not a bead of humidity. Winter soon. I loves me a winter.

2) I finally understand matchplay. This has been the mentalest of mental blocks for me down through the years, but 6&5 now reads like sense to me.

3) The washing is done.

4) No work today.

5) My mind has finally stopped playing Florence And The Machine on loop.

Reasons to be cheerless:

1) A mild hangover borne of pints with Neuroskeptic in John Mulligan and the other pair in Neary's.

2) Ian Poulter's eyes are giving me the willies.

3) Still to be paid.

4) My fridge is sadly lacking in fine cheeses, and there isn't a Twix to be found.

5) Liverpool. Twenty two years a supporter and this the lowest moment.

Friday, October 01, 2010

All he needed was a 'booyah!'

Well, there was something about golf and rain and a lot of stress over things going live but, while I was in the office, I certainly was not of the office.

Not today.

I'm a headphones man and this ought to surprise nobody, given my pencil thin tolerance of sales drones.

They moved up to our floor a few weeks ago, giving it Glengarry this and Glen Ross that.

They have no sense of humour, saving all their bonhomie for their hostaged pub owner down the phoneline. Poor fucker, having to listen to that scripted shite and vague questions about how his wife or same sex partner is doing.

One lad, one of these sales boys, was even heard to shout out "that's how we. make. THE MONEY!" after one of his pitches hit the spot. Geebag. He's the one who steals our papers without asking.

Also in the news, a good week. Coppinger Row for the second best black pudding starter of my days, a Black Thursday spent boozewards, debates over the colour of Tuesday and a few tongue tied moments spent on a couch that's new to me.