Monday, May 30, 2011

An empty cup of Brian Dennehy

She looked at me with sympathy, the kind doctor with the soft tones, and she hid well the horror of having to look at my ten-pin leg and dire case of foot knack, once again.

December was the last time that she sent me for an x-ray I didn't end up needing, and now I was back with vague instructions about how I've had a headache in my paw for the last four days, and a dreadful dose of crapness to go with it.

"Describe the crapness," she didn't quite say.

"Well, Davros made a funny in work yesterday and I barely raised a chuckle, while I've been cracking old man noises in reaching for a glass of water. I nodded off briefly at my desk and my head's been a-rattling like a sailor's sock."

"A sailor's sock? I don't get it," said the doctor.

"No, I don't either, that's just the problem. Whatever the fuck this is, well, it's making me dole out the bad analogies like Ryan Tubridy on a slice of Calvita."

"Open your mouth and say 'aaaaah...'"

I said 'uuuuh' by mistake.

"I'm just going to have a look inside your ears."

"What for?" I asked. "You'll find neither money nor sense in there. It's like an empty cup of Brian Dennehy."

"There's a bit of redness in your right ear but how that corresponds with your foot ouch is anyone's guess. Your throat's a bit red too. Blood pressure and temperature are normal, mind you."


"So it's most likely a viral infection. Keep taking paracetamol, drink plenty more water and give me fifty five of your hard-snoozed europounds, please."

"Oh very well but I'll have you know this is just like the time Jerry Seinfeld played Snap on his own in my granny's kitchen. Nobody wins."

"I don't quite follow."

"Goodbye doctor. I'll see you in time for Christmas."

Monday, May 23, 2011

Topics proffered by other voices

I used to open this page and write whatever came out unbid, then wonder how people could respond with positivity, glibness or even a lovely invitation for me to cop the fuck on and realise that love wasn't just something that happened to other people.

I seldom knew what I'd write about before opening the browser and that's why I've never taken to being offered a subject on which to blather, topics proffered by other voices.

Funny things, blogs, for their breadth and their untidy ramblings, for the links that have migrated to Twitter and for the occasional gold that remains.

A funny thing to a comment whore like myself, vomiting words for words to wake up to, but it's all got a little bit lost since I've realised that one set of eyes seeking me out in a room is enough, for any man, and the once cherished (3) of a Gmail account is the most anti-climactic thing in the world.

I remain, though, I persist. This is not a giving up. I still get mornings like the one that happened today, sitting on a bus for an hour and a half in the rain while Dublin shuts itself down so a man can drink a pint.

Mornings like this one on Clanbrassil Street where I look out from the 19A and a phrase hits me that I'll probably never use, but I like the thought that I can, and the comment whore inside me will get his end away. I may have lost some structure but I'm trying to get it back.

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Always the danger of Twink

Things I wouldn't watch on television...

The Queen's visit: Plane lands, old woman gets out, decides it's much the same as England, walks around a bit, searches for her pills, likes the blue ones, takes out a Murray Mint, wonders why nobody came to see her, goes home.

St. Patrick's Day parade: People walk, twirl stuff, get drunk, get sick and go home.

The Late Late Show: I actually don't mind Tubridy, but when you know he's been combing the halls of RTE on a Friday afternoon for somebody to sit on his couch, it's getting a bit tedious. Plus, there's always the danger of Twink.

Sky News: Or 'The War Channel,' as herself puts it. Breaking News ceases to be Breaking News once it's broken, as opposed to 46 hours later when they're still floating that delightful yellow ticker below our noses, telling us that Bin Laden got got.


Budget coverage: Just a load of people sitting around and telling me how drunk I can't get and how many Twixes I'm not allowed to buy.

Election coverage: Just a load of people running over themselves to see who can be vague and non-committal with the greatest of alacrity.

Formula 1: Cars driving.

EastEnders: I swore I'd never fall into the trap of calling it a show full of miserable bastards, but it really is just a show full of miserable bastards.

Grand Designs: They rope you in, they end the show with no pay-off, leaving you wondering for days whether that yacht ever made its transition into a magnificently appointed Tuscan villa.

Anything with the word 'Extreme' in the title.

Friday, May 06, 2011

A moody bunch

They crack me up, the scumbags outside my office. They've migrated down to the water from Townsend Street or Tara Street or wherever the jaysus, they now live on one of those marble benches that looks straight across at the IFSC.

Fascinating noises and gestures come out of them, a stone's throw from where Gráinne and Samantha discuss their weekend plans with the goys while out having a smoke break.

Fascinating noises altogether.

They don't converse, they bellow. They take on the form of three or four arguing, gnashing coat hangers with their screams and their tears and their cans of cheap piss.

I can never, of course, make out a single thing they're saying to each other (such is their volume) but I like to think of them getting all strung out and worked up about the best way to make tiramisu, the vagaries of the Croke Park agreement and the merits of the IMF bailout.



And so on.

Be sure of one thing, never get them started on whether to use sherry or brandy in the bespoke Italian dessert. Things will get volatile.