Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Not the full story

-He came back in, two friends this time, 'mates' long gone. Talking shite over long lunchtime hours, throwing good money after pints of stout. More big plans from the corner. More big talk, bluster and the forgetting of himself.

-A young one, 22 maybe, shouldn't be seen in a place like this. A kind faced girl who'd ride him later too, if he stayed just about on the right side of bastard.

-Walked in, headed for the jacks, ordered a glass of water and set it to one side when he remembered something about a pint. Another one after that. No companion, or a paper, just somewhere to sit and to sup and to never be seen.

-Saw him leaving, arse over tit over the rest of himself, spilling guts on the street and heading off to find more.

-I sat with him, two stools down, saying nothing, staring at the football, the signs and the bottles on the bar. Two of a set of shadow drunks, eyes tracing the door for the next set of ourselves.

Monday, November 22, 2010

Opened it, read it, said they were suckers...

The stars, upon hearing of Ireland's gubbermental and monetary woes, quickly revised their weekend plans.

Lindsay Lohan had been planning a coke-fuelled sex romp with Shane McGowan in one of the rooms over Bruxelles' pub, but decided to stay in and watch a James Bond marathon instead with three three-packs of Snickers ice-cream.

Documentalist Michael Moore had planned on a weekend break visiting relatives near Knock but, instead, will be heading to Washington DC for some target practice on the White House press room.

Grace Jones had hoped to complete her takeover of Sporting Fingal but decided against it, opting instead to go deep sea fishing off the coast of Finland.

Dannii Minogue had intended on pulling a sickie from The X Factor in order to do the Viking Splash Tour of Dublin, but was worried that 'mocking is catching' and she'd end up with proper flu knack.

Gordon Ramsay had a serious jones for a lamb shawarma from Iskanders, but will instead be loud and shirtless somewhere on the continent.

Bruce Willis had pencilled in a night playing strip chess with Mary Hanafin, but she texted him tonight to say, "Sorry Brucey babes, rain check, 'kay?'

Thursday, November 18, 2010

Lorraine Keane

Lorraine Keane launched her memoirs last night.

"I don't know of any book that has produced such controversy before people saw it. My God, did this book produce controversy," said John O'Connor, managing director of Blackwater Press, publishers of 'Working the Red Carpet'.

As Fitzbollix - who sent me the link to this dreadful little nothing of a story - put it:

'Generally high ranking politicians, highly successful individuals or military leaders write memoirs as they are more relevant to events in public rather than private life, not some dipshit little snatch with a personal gripe against some pissant TV station who produce endless reems of dross on a daily basis.'

I doubt I could put it better. And where did this all take place? The new 'Pink' nightclub which must be on Harcourt St. Fucked if I'm looking it up. And who attended? Something called a Claire Byrne and various other....

Ah here, look, hopefully there's a better blog waiting to be written, away from this detritus.

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

The Gaby Roslin post

Moreish. No no no. I'm not having that as a word. It's one of those made up English fuckers that gives me quite the ire, along with snog, corrrrr!!! and barnet.

Also, the adding of -licious to words that aren't delicious, and even 'delicious' itself is a little too Rachel Allen for my taste. Yeah, that'd get it, my stick of justice.

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I was examining the Red Tops for work purposes this morning. The Sun, The Star and The Mirror all carried front page leads related to The X Factor, with news of the country's impending bankruptcy relegated to the sidebar under the fold.

'Ireland: Ah Sure, It'll Be Grand.'

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A septuagenarian taxi driver last week had just attended the christening of his 21st grandchild. An outrageously entertaining and brilliant man, he was the sort to pronounce beautiful as beautyful. I love that.

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It's a long time since I've had occasion to try a new cheese.

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I think Gary Barlow looks like a fat Gary Barlow.

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I've dabbled in Smithwick's before, but I think it's going to take hold this time around. Brownest of the browns apart from heroin, which I hear is browner still and makes one all sleepy. I'm far too interesting for drugs.

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I saw Black Roy and his White Wife down The Feathers last night.

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I always thought Gaby Roslin was a cracking show host, and it's a travesty that she's currently slumming it for BBC Radio Kent while Phillip Schofield maintains a prominent televisual presence. I can only hope she does an Alan Partridge and bounces back.

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Another mild headcold borne of tapas, ale, sandwiches, sex cake (not as bawdy as it sounds, but very tasty), late nights, triangulated sandwiches, Neary's and not enough fresh fruit and vegetables. Luckily, December's usually a quiet month.

Oh Jaysus.

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

Awareness Awareness Month

I do love Awareness Awareness Month.

For eleven months of the year the unaware trundle along, stepping on dog shite, tripping over cracked pavements or spilling coffee on themselves while trying to sidestep the homeless.

Not in November, though, no.

Awareness Awareness Month will, hopefully, see a rise in carefulness and result in the eradication of absent minded wandering in our lifetime.

"The goal of Awareness Awareness Month is to make people more aware of their awareness and to curb on-bus-snot-hocking, queue jumping and loud chewing in the cinema," said AAM spokesperson Donald True.

"And that's only for starters. We feel that people getting lost in their own thoughts can bring on all sorts of awkward social situations, such as that thing where you try to move out of someone's way and, in so doing, you end up stepping right-then-left-then-right at the same time as them.

"Running into someone more than once in the supermarket aisles is another symptom of AAD (Awareness Awareness Deficiency) and, if AAM is successful, the phrase 'we really must stop meeting like this!' will never have to be spoken again."

So, how do people spread awareness of Awareness Awareness Month? I asked Mr. True.

"Shave your face," came his response. "Shave it all off. The very fact that you don't have a moustache will make you stand out from the crowd and instantly make people aware of how aware of your awareness you truly are."

Monday, November 08, 2010

Click. Save.

I don't know how I'm up. I've normally taken to the bed with my pipe, slippers and puppy-eared collection of Ireland's Owns by now but there's no sleeping in me, just snatches of Sunday and the refusal to miss the storm.

I want to be awake and alert when Hurricane DavidMcWilliams breezes past and spirits Mary Harney off to her eternal Liffey cot. 'Floodgate,' some wag will dub it.

I get snatches of the day coming back to me.

The showing off of my DVD collection, at last, and admiration replaced by, "I'd love nothing more than to alphabetise that, and what is Jade Goody's autobiography doing in your wardrobe?"

The stirring of coffee in Spar and something wonderfully droll, followed by, "you're making a note of that for your blog, aren't you? You're going to take credit, you fucker."

"Yes and yes."

Bringing biscuits in to the lads in the office, Cadbury's Fingers, eating only five and then forgetting where I left them.

The watching of football when I should be covering the driving, two loud hip hip hoorays and arms raised.

Gusts on the quays and me, stood there like a shivering idiot in my summer clothes, waiting forever for a taxi. The arrival home to fish fingers and waffles and warmth and things that need to be washed.

Finally, 'Crazy Heart' and the line about how bad she made that room look, how he didn't realise what a shithole it was until she walked in.

Thursday, November 04, 2010

The forgetting of keys in the Tenners..

"They change the access codes to the apartment complex every three months," Fitzbollix told me when I moved in. That was three months ago, as it goes, and in a tempest of moving and clearing and putting things away I gave him scant notice. There was probably drink taken too.

Cut to tonight and a taxi down from the even numbers, I tip the driver 80p and shimmy over to the door all botherless like. I put in the code. Door stuck. I put in the code again. Door stuck. Fuck. I move up to the next block and figure I'll get access around the back. Stuck stuck stuck, and then his warning about the access codes comes back into my brain.

11.40 at night, I try the property management company and then a number for emergencies.

The phone rings out. Bollix.

I try it again. It rings out again. Fuck fuck fuck. I start eyeing the pavement slabs as a mattress, pruned hedges the pillow, the wind and the rain and the shite of this disgusting November pelting my cold and heaving body in the small hours, my bed and my tea and my notes for the morning unattainable overhead.

I know there's a cot for me from whence I came, whether she'd like it or not, but I give it one more go and, finally, an answer. The woman at the other end verifies me, makes sure I'm not after the good china, and calls to me the new code. The door opens, the rain starts pelting, I drop inside my door and wonder how to craft a blog out of this smallest of dramas.

Monday, November 01, 2010

Spotted in Dublin

People I've spotted around Dublin while doing very little of anything productive in the last week:

Supreme Masterchef chef Michel Roux Jr. walking down Capel St. while eating a packet of cheese and onion Hunky Dorys, which he deemed to be just on the right side of flavoursome.

Mike Murphy and Will Smith holding hands and feeding the ducks in St. Stephen's Green, before heading off to Nude for something containing lemongrass.

Carly Simon preening herself to within an inch of her life in the ladies' toilets of Davy Byrne's.

Juan Sebastian Veron getting destroyed in McDaid's, before being refused entry to Bruxelles (of all places).

Orlando Bloom with a documentary crew outside Super Valu on Aston Quay, before seeing me and legging it.

Paul Gascoigne climbing out of the Liffey, before jumping back in.

Film director James Cameron queueing for a ticket to Athy in Bus Aras, wearing an Abyss t-shirt, a Lincoln City scarf and a bomber jacket.

Simon Cowell in Neds of Townsend Street every schoolday morning for a week, for a bet, which he won.

Marty Morrissey and Glenda Gilson being indiscreet in the Horseshoe Bar.

The actor John Cusack waiting for Frank Stapleton at the front gate of Trinity College, looking impatient and fiddling with his iPod.

Marian Finucane rolling down the hill, at the Papal Cross in the Phoenix Park, in the pissings of rain.