Friday, December 28, 2012


Are you having a good Christmas?

Do you know something? I am.

Have you consumed?


Do you spend an inordinate amount of time giving out about things beyond your control, TV shows you are supposed to like, social media trends and the decline in quality of mince pies?

I spend an inordinate amount of time moaning about moaning, and the world somehow consumes itself with it.

Do you have a pension plan?

I do not have a plan.

Do you feel really satisfied with life every once in a while and then worry that you're being smug and then worry that the act of worrying about being smug is in itself really smug, or else a mask for many other concerns because you aren't all that satisfied at all, are you?

I actually spend far too much time worrying about the state of others' minds, to give my own too much concern at all.

Do you participate in that ah here leave it out hilarity even though you know it's not really very funny?

I certainly fucking don't. I bristle at it, it disturbs me, it is acid to my sensibility.

Have you ever eaten four pieces of shortbread in alarmingly quick succession?

In my doughier years, quite possibly.

Did it hurt?

Most definitely.

Do other things hurt?

Oh most certainly.

Is it OK to go shopping on the 26th of December?

Anyone who rails against it has too much time to rail.

Is it OK to loudly proclaim your despair with the world over people going shopping on the 26th of December?

It isn't. People love to moan.

Is it?

They can have at it, but I'm over there, ignoring them.

Have you read a book recently and was it good?

I am at the moment and yes, it is good, though I struggle to see its point.

Do you not have time for reading?

I have plenty of time for reading, but I don't use it often enough to read.

Do you watch more than four hours of reality TV a week?

I doubt I watch four minutes of reality TV a year.

Do you believe that America will ever sort its shit out with guns?

No, I despairingly don't.

Do you gripe about auto-correct? Do you jangle your keys? Would you buy a gun if you lived in America? Do you get vexed?

I do, yeah I do, no I wouldn't and yes I absolutely do.

Do you regret a lot of the things you did in your early twenties and some of the things you did last week?

I regret many of the stupid things I've said over the years, some of them recent.

Do you think that foetuses have a soul and can you explain what that might be?

I have trouble with anyone who thinks they can define what a soul is, let alone when it is felt.

Do you ridicule the religious?

No, I don't. I ridicule the stupid.

Are you, the evangelical church up the road wishes to know, the victim of an ancestral curse?

They can fuck right off and mind their own business.

Do you ever pray? If you do sometimes pray do you mentally sign off with "almost certainly not, I know, but just in case,LOL!!"?

I'm not comfortable.

Did you read the small print?

More and more.

Have you claimed your tax back?

Less and less.

Do you do something to break a sweat every day?


Can you touch your toes?

Yes, if I sit comfortably and raise them to me.

Are you aware that this entire concept comes from Padgett Powell's 'The Interrogative Mood', but that this particular dude hasn't read it because writing a whole book like this and getting it published and expecting people to pay for it would be taking the piss, right?

I did not know that, and I'm fairly certain I didn't expect to write this blog either.

Am I wrecking your head?

My head is rarely unwrecked.

Has anyone ever accused you of being a hipster?

They'd soon know about it if they had.

Can you go now?

I can not go yet.

Is it getting better?

It's getting worse, but will get better.

Did you get what you wanted? Do you feel at home? Did you have a good year?


Thursday, December 13, 2012


"I know you wouldn't think it lookin' at me, love, but I'm a junkie."

Full marks for honesty to her, if not for her powers of self observation. She was a giveaway, telling the strung-out mister to her left - on the back seat of the 16 - that he was "nothin' but a mean cunt, I've hash on me and you're not gettin' any cos you're just a mean cunt y'are."

He was a man of many noises, none of them English, just a stream of groans and nods and the pluralisation of "wharrayaonabou'yatickdopeyeh?"

I wondered myself what she, the thick dope, was on about as getting any kind of sense out of this beard wisp yoke was an exercise in stupidity. He was badly, badly fucked up on smack cocaine or whatever the hipsters don't call it.

She'd turn on him, then turn to us, then turn on him again. All sorts of names, all manner of abuse to a man whose floating head was left back in some squat on Townsend Street, to my imagining.

How he could have flagged down a bus, paid a fare, made his way up the stairs was beyond me. He must have just appeared there, his heroin superpower that of multilocation.

She softened towards him as the bus turned up George's Street, stopped stabbing him with fingers made entirely from bone, even rubbed his head and said repeatedly, "yer alrigh,' yer bird will sort yet out, yer' alrigh,' yer bird..."

She asked him where he was getting off.

"Bleedin' Horse, meet me bird..."

"I'll help ya off the bus. Get ready now," she said to him, but the act of remembering a specific anything had sent him back to unconsciousness, his head hitting the top of the seat in front of him and his mouth slackening out some drool.


Her language was appalling.

"GERRUP OURRA THAT YA PRICK! People on the bus won't know what to make of ya..."


"Come on, press that bell missus, will yeh? Come on... You've to meet your bird..."

Eventually, she shovelled him up on to his feet, bowled him to the top of the stairs.

"Here..." was the last thing I heard her say to him. "What's your name?"

"Daithí," he said back to her.

"Nice to meet yih, Daithí, I'm Teresa."