Friday, January 27, 2012

50 bad things (the 2012 Burial remix)

1. Flaxseed, but I persist for reasons peristalsic.
2. One fucking two fucking three dot ie.
3. Football agents.
4. Rachel Allen's accent.
5. Jeremy Clarkson.
6. RTE's business correspondent David Murphy, and his rape of the letter 'T'.
7. Ryle Nugent.
8. Strep throat.
9. Tallafornia, for its name alone. I'd never infect my senses with it.
10. The Afternoon Show.
11. The Lotto letdown.
12. Outnumbered.
13. Damp.
14. Cucumbers.
15. Ohmigod ohmigod ohmigod.
16. Teenagers from Terenure affecting tough Dublin accents.
17. Jason Byrne.
18. The word Twitterati.
19. 'Fail.'
20. No Sky Sports.
21. Andrew Carroll.
22. Absent bloggers such as Gimme and Annie and Therese and those that keep me away from myself.
23. Fibrous Dysplasiae.
24. The sheer number of 'transformative' programmes on television.
25. Rihanna
26. Male pattern baldness.
27. Dublin Bus fare hikes.
28. Internships.
29. Accidentally pressing the wrong button and ending up on the UPC info channel. Repeatedly.
30. The film 'The Guard.' A huge disappointment.
31. Two And A Half Gobshites.
32. No chocolate in the house.
33. Private blogs. What's the point?
34. HSE leader Brendan Grace.
35. George Hook.
36. Night shifts.
37. Liquorice.
38. Forced short termism due to occupational uncertainty.
39. Rick Santorum.
40. Seán Sherlock.
41. Eamon Gilmore.
42. Everything becoming social. Everything.
43. The Academy Awards.
44. HD. 3D. All that bollocks.
45. Smartphone snobbery.
46. That Ladbrokes ad with the Italian fella shouting his head off. Jesus Christ.
47. Drunkenness.
48. The need to wee in the middle of a cosy night's sleep.
49. Fads.
50. Troikas, Anglo, waste, despair, bad news, David McWilliams, foreboding, hospital trollies, price fixing, bondholders, gaffes, kill me.

Thursday, January 26, 2012

You may recognise me from the following...

Radge got his big break playing the wife of Tim Robbins in The Shawshank Redemption. While only seen in profile at the start of the film while necking with a golf pro, the long, luscious curls and pouty lips clearly gave him away.

He went on to star as Matt LeBlanc's arse double in an episode of Friends where Matt LeBlanc plays Al Pacino's arse double, an exposure that brought him to the attention of one Martin Scorsese.

Scorsese cast Radge for seven roles in his film 'Kundun,' with the budding actor showing his versatility in parts such as Lama of Sera, The Messenger, Nobleman #2 and Mother.

Also adroit at voice work, Radge hit the talkshow circuit for playing the voice of Ronnie Drew in the hit play 'The Voice of Ronnie Drew,' and several stints as Old Mr. Brennan (unseen and unheard, merely referred to by 'man with gravelly voiced Dublin brogue') in the 1990s and early 2000s.

While his career has seen a number of setbacks - he was much derided for his attempt to take over as the voice of The Simpsons' attorney-at-law Lionel Hutz, following the sad demise of Phil Hartman - he enjoyed success in the role of Teasy McDaid in the stage adaptation of popular Irish soap opera 'Glenroe,' earning six Tony award nominations in the process, and one win for 'Best Performance By A 23-Year-Old Male Playing An 84-Year-Old Transsexual Playing A 68-Year-Old Barmaid.'

Minor roles in Steven Spielberg's 'Minority Report' and Steven Seagal's 'Under Siege 7' followed, before Radge retired from showbusiness to concentrate on his first love, namely modern dance.

Radge currently resides in Newtwopothouse in County Cork, and is frequently mistaken for fellow actor, and one time yoga instructor, F. Murray Abraham.

Wednesday, January 25, 2012

Should is a pointless thing

Apparently, you should never confuse streptococcus with staphylococcus.

Once again, I fail one of life's little tests.

I've had a knackering case of throat ouch, the likes of which I've only suffered once before.

I remember it well because of the sheer bastardry of the thing, and it cleared up on the day that the Branch Davidians ran afoul of the US government.

Sitting in my parents' room in 32A, lying on their bed when the sickness broke and my wellness was greeted in a torrent of FBI hellfire. Strange the things we recall.

If I had school to miss, I'd be missing it now. Fucking strep throat. Any pox that sunders a man's ability to enjoy his food is not alright by me, it isn't welcome when all I can do is yearn for the Stag's Head, or Neary's, or McDaid's pub on Harry Street.

I want to go out and play, but I make do with the World Indoor Bowls Championship on BBC2, and the book that never ends.

Last Saturday night, in O'Neill's on Pearse Street, aroused a hunger in me for stories and ale that never bedded down, thanks to this malignance, but dammit if it didn't go into retreat an hour ago.

Porridge and flaxseed, if you please, and the first razor-free ingestion in days. Let it not be a ruse, let it be a turning and I swear to jaysus I won't waste another moment lamenting things I should be doing.

Should is a pointless thing.

Friday, January 13, 2012

Good news

'Fun-loving non-smoker, social drinker (29), looking for necessary new lease of life. WLTM healthy kidney who shares her interest in travel without Peritoneal Dialysis machine and her fetish for midriffs without tubes attached. GSOH in bad times essential. Only kidneys interested in long-term relationship need apply.'

This morning, a call came. A match. Send happy thoughts and I'm sure the good lady herself will tell the full story soon...

Thursday, January 12, 2012

Second sleep

"Would you go to work tomorrow, if you won it?"

She told me she would. Then she wouldn't. Then she'd ring in sick. But she'd want to hand in her notice. But who would she tell? And what would she say? And then there's the obligatory Facebook cull of those you don't need knowing your business. Not this business, anyway.

"Would you rather buy an island or a yacht?" I asked her.

She wanted neither. What use an island? And who'd sail the yacht? I told her 'not that kind of yacht, the posh Roman Abramovich kind,' and she still wasn't interested.

I told her that I'd quite like a yacht, for seeing places, but she'd rather a helicopter. I disagreed, said I'd fall out, and all of a sudden she was commanding her phone to look up the prices of private jets. Anywhere from $6m to $45m, apparently. Then the upkeep is $100,000 a year on top of that.

Fuck that. Fuck private jets.

But who would we tell? Who could we tell? Who could we help and who would we just be enabling?

This went on, and on, and around our heads while Family Guy played in the background. It's the greatest tease of a conversation and plays around bigger and smaller beds than ours, the country over, the continent over, one year to another...

The changed lives. The invasions of privacy. The electric gates for the really big money. The stuff begetting stuff. The 'never forgetting where or what we came from.'

Anyway, she won a fiver and privately cussed me this morning, rolling over for my second sleep.

Tuesday, January 03, 2012

You're a good boy, Tin Tin, and I love you

2004. A house party in Lucan. Myself, Fitzbollix, the Crazy Cat Girl and all manner of other revellers drinking all manner of lovely potions to the point of inebriation. This here weblog was just a whelp.

I did a New Year's Eve countback the other night and reckoned that night, seven years ago, to have been the last time I counted down among a crowd as the year became another.

2005 - 5X came over. We watched Eddie Murphy's 'Raw.'

2006 - I got drunk the night before and failed to make a trip to, ehm, somewhere near Ballybunion.

2007 - On own. Charleville Road. Six Feet Under.

2008 - On own. Charleville Road. The Wire.

2009 - A couple of pints in Downey's and then on own, Charleville Road.

2010 - My first New Year's Eve with herself, on us own, on the quays.

To 2011, to the Horseshoe Bar with Johnny and Glenda (friends again), to Odessa, to partying into the small hours with the Xposé girls to the not having the energy to continue this charade.

We stayed in, we paused The Snapper while we ate a tea of fine cheeses, meats and wine, we watched The Snapper until the magic telly acted the bollix and then... crestfallen (we lost it at the bit where Dessie and the wife are about to have the ride)... we were left with Miriam O'Callaghan fellating her drunken colleagues on live RTE.

This fucking country and its state broadcaster, interviewing itself to within an inch of its life, Des Cahill looking like the inebriated first cousin of John Kenny in Father Ted, and more woe besides. Brendan fucking Grace. Some Afternoon Show bint. Glasses of champers on the table. A mild case of depression.

I can't really say why we stayed up, especially as Facebook now negates the need for anyone to phone each other or even send a text, but we did in a car crash sort of way. We were, at least, a force of two griping at the telly, a force of two wishing each other a happy new year in the home we now share, a salve to the forced enjoyment of another night of bombast.