Tuesday, September 27, 2011


You could tell the tourists by their shoes. Tennis shoes or hiking boots, baseball caps, big beards and even bigger accents.

One woman thought it would be lovely and kitsch to wear an outsized farmer's cap with her pink rain jacket and Californian bob. It really wasn't and spoke only of them speaking down to us, the cute Irish gombeens.

We accented our Dublinness at every point, visitors but not too much so, fitting in while the gawds stood out.

Driving over the Connor Pass, under fog, in fear; eating chips on a wall in the daytime and sober; walking by water, through the town, two or three times; drinking coffee beside a garden shed while the owner played guitar; the smell of the cheese shop, which smelled like a cheese shop; secretly cursing the B+B owner for being too handsome, too rugged, too Kerry, in her presence; a charm, one year on, as a keepsake...

Two swapped starters and stories over wine, new ones, that never run out.

Tuesday, September 20, 2011


Job the third has started, just another ruse to keep me from myself, from Frasier or those terrifying Loose Women. Jesus but they scare the knackers off me.

Job the third. I'd call it a 'gig' if I didn't want to facepunch anyone that refers to a job of work as a Pink Floyd concert. Fuck that.

Anyway, yeah, it's the one where I walk into a room, dab at my liquid face, gabble on about my chosen subject and hope I won't get caught.

I used to be one of this particular group, I formed part of the same undergrad clique back in the late 1990s.

The fear comes from the freshness of my memory, knowing the freedom of sitting-looking-up as opposed to the sweat of standing-looking-down. Doodling cartoon boobies instead of a lesson plan, mind drifting to thoughts of the pub and some unattainable sort from the Interior Design course, the sheer liberty of not being the teacher.

Happily, ten minutes in I remember myself and all it takes is a curt "no talking when I'm talking, please."

From then on it's plain bluffing, just me and my monocle, my pointy stick of justice and 15 blank, blank faces.

Tuesday, September 06, 2011

Mike Scott's hat

It's taken longer than I thought it would to get to 750 posts, but a slowdown doesn't mean a stoppage.

Once I whittle this old life of mine down to one source of income, one place of rest and a handy little scribbling desk I'll be able to pay more mind to old Radgery and give this here interlog a proper talking to.

I'm here now though, some dental work that went awry leading to a broken head, a proper ouch of an ear infection and the ringing in sick to work. Proper sick but proper bored, the guilt of an early morning call to the boss offset by his understanding and my own need to poke and prod at the sore bits in peace.

"Stop at it! Leave it alone!"

Here now with the telly off, with the window open, with the tinnitus ears and a half drunk coffee, weakened by too short a spell in the French press.

I'm thinking about Mike Scott's hat, which I encountered on Saturday in the Italian place off Nassau Street. Just myself, herself, Mike Scott's hat, Mike Scott and some boring dolt of a young one accompanying him.

Why a Waterboy should have to sit and listen to the witterings of a Krystle-faced chickenhead was beyond me, but there they were at the next table, his attentiveness and Scottish brogue matched by her tales of how she fancied some young fella but he was paying no mind.

She was guilty of not asking questions, just prattling on while Mike Scott's hat (featuring Mike Scott) took it all in, until a good hour later when she queried about his favourite place.

He paused a while, considered it, before saying that he didn't know. Different places held different charms for him, but as I waited to hear him expand on the point she came back in with tell of a 'text message from that dick Steve.'

Theirs was an incongruous lunch date.

As I got up to leave I turned and told him I liked his music very much, when all I know are the hits, and he thanked me for the compliment. I felt like a fake fanboy gobshite but turned it to my advantage when I met herself outside.

"Fuckin' Mike Scott," I said. "He just asked me if I was THE Radge, or radgery.com fame. I told him to go fuck himself."

She laughed, did Shiny, where few others might have.

Friday, September 02, 2011

Writing home about stuff...

Ever hear the one about the man with two homes, two part-time jobs and a stop-start case of ear knack? No, me neither, and were there to be a punchline it would likely be unwieldy and confusing.

Two homes. Two jobs. A stop start case of ear knack and the things I nearly blogged about, but didn't, such as a visit to the dentist and the fact that co-habitation looms.

Because I've just started what I'm certain is my eighth year of blogging and I have to dash home for a night of purest sitting, I'm going to revert to an old favourite.

Things I don't give a shit about this week:

Jessie Wallace's marital woes.
How long it took the Ireland handball players to get to New Zealand.
The fact that the dentist wants to thieve almost 300 of my europounds for fillings.
The fact that I should have flossed more.
Pink wafers.
The early retirement of Anne Doyle.

Cheese of the week is Jarlsberg.