Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Until an idea comes along....

Recent events include:

Eating the best bit of fillet beef of all my days before I tasted the rib eye, which was better again.

Walking up Marlborough Street to the removal of my former English teacher, under cover of darkness. Part of me wanted to go into the school to see which of the teachers might disremember me first, the sensible side of me kept walking, steadily, with my head down and my eyes alert for the many I hoped to never see again, and the one I hoped I would.

Drinking on Aungier Street, and in Ranelagh, in the Ocean Bar (a many headed shithole) and just up from the canal.

Interviewing for a job I have fuck all chance of getting.

Staring at the 'New Post' page before catching myself on, switching the computer off, and going outside to play.

Monday, March 21, 2011

Gerry Haugh: RIP

Gerry Haugh, my English teacher for six years, passed away on Saturday night. A great and generous man, I last saw him a few months ago from the top floor of a bus and lamented the fact I wasn't passing him by foot so I'd be able to say hello.

He looked well and, sad as the news this weekend is, it's good to know that his illness was short and his death was not prolonged.

A brilliant director of plays and musicals, a soft spoken man that you never thought of crossing, a thoughtful and decent person. I suppose the best thing I can say of him is that he took a month off for himself every year, the other eleven were for us.

May he rest in peace.

Friday, March 18, 2011

Limey innards

It was the first St. Patrick's Day that I wasn't either in work or at home watching dogeared episodes of The West Wing or Six Feet Under.

I hold no truck with this day, Temple Bar opening its gob to cover the entire city in a technicolour yawn. Young ones passing out at DART stations, lads getting all nice and fighty with each other, fairground attractions and people forgetting that this is Dublin and it's not going to run out.

I don't like to drink when I'm told to, you see, and I certainly had no intention of 'painting the town red' or 'larging it up' with the suits from the office and their briefcases full of cliché.

Still, the ghosts of previous Beer Days don't stand a chance when it comes to her and our six months of firsts.

= = =

After a glorious banquet consisting of twice made coffee, Special K and a great big dirty gap where the rashers should have been, we headed for the outside. Pearse Street looked like a normal Thursday until we got to the Tavern past the Holiday Inn, apocalyptic scenes and torn up Cheltenham slips.

We first met the leprechaun hats on Westland Row and followed them up to Merrion Square where the very thoughts of a magic carpet ride made me grip her hand that little bit tighter. Remembrances of Funderlands past. I could be the very first man to look right, into Government Buildings, on quest of calm as the buggies and the American accents made it a bad day for agoraphobes everywhere.

The crowd bested, she took me on a tour, an odd thing for a Thursday in my home city.

We're devils for the details, the tiny moments of our lives, spelled out in day long email threads. Devils for the details so she put recognition on her lunch spots, the places she strolls to get out of the office, the Tesco where she buys her fruit and the shop where she has, so far, failed to win the Lotto.

The smell out of O'Donoghues put the want of a pint on me but that was resisted. We walked down Stephen's Green, meeting flurries of kids with hidden cans and scumbags climbing the gates of the park.

We looked like saps, looking to the left and the right at each other and then at the top of Grafton Street, a maelstrom, a mess. I lamented my Neary's taken over by the part-time drunks and gave a nod, just a nod, to Kehoes as we turned left and towards Harcourt Street.

That was deserted, by comparison, save for the shiny trains and their limey innards. We thought of paying a fare but kept walking instead, to Ranelagh, briefly thinking of a pint on the wall by The Barge, but no.

Starving, we found a café. We ate club sandwiches and drank coffee while the child at the next table dipped his elbow in ketchup and the waitress said he was lovely and cute.

Enough of that, the bill was paid and we found a seat, an actual seat, in Birchall's pub and sat there drinking until the second pint had run out. The second pint had gone dry and we had to make like a taxi and scram for the perfect finish of a roasted dinner, the craic, and some quiet, sober reading on her couch.

Monday, March 14, 2011

Numbers, statistics and foie gras burgers

Foolishly, in my cups, I opened up the calculator on my phone. I factored money coming in against money going out and slept no kind of a sleep afterwards.

Don't do that. Please don't ever do that, it will only depress you if you're a man like me that enjoys the fine things in life. Fine things like beer and cheese, the odd cinema trip and occasional mini burger with foie gras and truffle mayonnaise.

Catching a hold of myself, I resolved to go on a budget for a few weeks and eschew the all too frequent taxi jaunts over to, and back from, hers in place of sitting with Joe Public on the 19A and some honest to goodness ambulation.

I resolved to seek out some new employ and got my first invitation to 'kindly fuck off' in the post last week.

It didn't piss me off, this rejection of an interview, because I know that I'm a few steps away from being the CEO of a major overseas investment firm. I'm more than a couple of rungs down that ladder but I'll start off by getting the suit dry-cleaned while I brush up on my bullshit bingo.

Soon enough, and I'm a patient man, but soon enough I'll be briefcased up to the balls and my gurning face will greet you from a plinth in Citywest. I'll tell how you can do it too while doling out the synergy like yet another unwieldy analogy.

Oh yes. Corporate Radge. Gizza job. Giz one, go on, help me to help you.

Until such a time as my accession to First Class, however, I can be found here, and there, feeding my newfound porridge addiction and worrying about the price of McCambridge's finest.

Friday, March 04, 2011

In the fall season...

I sent my sister an email earlier, I thought I'd colour her day with some of my purple prose. Well, not purple prose, as such, but the details of a new sitcom starring our friend with the God complex from across the water.

'One And A Half Radge.'

In this ribald tale of one man's journey through life, Mr. Sheen plays my good self in a series of elongated stories from my time on this Earth.

-Like the time Joan Collins delivered me a Four Star Pizza while doing research for a part in a James Woods-scripted mini series called 'Eight Slices Of Life.'

-Like the time I went around the pubs of Glasnevin to show off a perfectly preserved snot in the shape of Martin McGuinness's head.

-Like the time I owned up to my mam about mitching off school with Angeline Ball from The Commitmentettes.

-Like the time myself and Fitzbollix were so drunk we thought we were pissing up a wall. We were, in fact, pissing on a statue of Julie Andrews having sex with Ronan Keating.

-Like the time I accidentally elbowed Cilla Black in the nuts, before being kicked out of Coppers.

-Like the time I jelly wrestled with Brian Kerr, John Ritter and LaToya Jackson. Funny story actually...

-Like the time I commissioned Larry David to write a sitcom about Aaron Sorkin writing a drama about George Romero directing a horror based on my six years with the Jesuits on Great Denmark Street, before things got far too complicated and we shut up shop.

-Like the time I ran out of things to say and employed Gerry Adams' unemployed voiceover artist to do my talking for me in a stern Nordie brogue.

Yep, it's going to be good. And for those of you wondering why it'll be called 'One And A Half Radge,' it's partially as a paean to Sheen's last day job, and partially because I figured the midget from 'In Bruges' would make a deadly narrator.

Wednesday, March 02, 2011


I'm back in a phase of starting and unfinishing blogs, saving to drafts and deleting entirely while I get distracted by tell of Adonis DNA and Tigers' blood.

Charlie Sheen is a very entertaining man, even if 'Two And A Half Men' is roughly as funny as a drillbit to the loins.

'I expose people to magic. I expose them to something they’re never going to see in their otherwise boring lives. And I gave that to them. I may forget about them tomorrow, but they’ll live with that memory for the rest of their lives, and that’s a gift, man.'

I wish I'd come up with that, though I'd have left out the superfluous 'man' at the end.

Beyond that, I have nothing. I've come to recognise these thoughts of ending the blog as routine, it's just a block, but I'm not going to write stories about taxi journeys and disappointing fish dinners just for the sake of them.

Until such a time as something can't go unwritten...