RedLeeroy - The Struggle For Power

The poll has spoken. I heard on the grapevine that there was some vote rigging involved. But none the less The Diggy won out by two votes and his story shall be told.

The doctor (although he was in no way an M.D in any way shape or form) had many names, Marky D, diggy dicko, dicks, markygianni, Mario G. I suppose he was like Lucifer in that way. He had many talents too. I met him growing up in a shitty Dublin estate, we became fast friends. Played commodore 64 together, played Pele’s wonder together,  cycled Choppers around together. We have lost touch over the years though, and I heard he sells mobile phones to support his cowboy boot fetish these days. I can’t quite put into words all the crazy stupid and amusing shit that diggy got up to in the time I knew him because it would be a novel in itself, so I think a top 5 will have to do.

The Diggy Doctors Top 5 (from 5 to 1)

5. Once on a school trip to France he put woman’s foundation on his face to look ‘black’. He was promptly beaten up near the Eiffel tower.

4. He claimed that on the same trip he had met Public Enemy, his holiday photos had a shot of the back of a black gentleman’s head in a red beret from 100 yards away. We remained sceptical but he continued to wear his giant clock and Africa medallion for years afterwards.

3. One particular evening after smoking far too much dope. We asked Diggy was he ok, he turned around with his eyes rolling and his face snow white, his legs gave way and he collapsed backward over a 6 foot wall into a hedge. It took us 45 minutes to coax him back up to safety. He didn’t smoke for 2 years afterwards.

2. Diggy was once mistaken for a rent boy, he was standing waiting for a mate at the entrance to a laneway and was offered some business by a middle aged man. He refused but from then on was constantly worried about his appearance.

1. The Diggy actually starred in a movie. ‘The Commitments’ no less. He has the honour of turning in the worst performance by an extra in film history. He is on the extreme right of this clip (with the slight mushroom afro and black bomber jacket). Watch his as he shakes his head solemnly at the poor horses death. Pure acting talent unleashed.

Here’s to you Mr Diggy wherever you are !!

A wise man asked me a question last night. Did I infact get my delicious pie that ‘Her Indoors’ promised to make for me? The answer is yes. What an oversight on my part, I must apologise to her for failing to thank her publicly.

Let me set the scene. I was working on Saturday. I don’t normally work on Saturday. I consider it uncouth. It was dark before I left the office and my mood was in the gutter. I cycled home. My face slowly freezing arriving at my front door. I put the key in the lock and opened it. I was greeted by a sight mortal men should all be privy too at least once in their life.

My wife to be, a warmly lit room, a roaring fire, a frosty cold beer being opened, and on the table a pie. A pie of such glorious beauty, such pastry flakyness, such moist beef and Guinness goodness that a tear nestled in the corner of my eye. I sat down and a knife and fork were placed in my hand, I took a huge draft of my drink, tiny ice crystals sat on the top of my tongue, I turned on the TV, sport, glorious sport. My pie was everything I hoped it would be, I spoke not a word during it’s consumption. I did nod and make slight noises of happiness after every fourth mouthful.

So in summing up, ‘Her Indoors’ has proved herself to have culinary skills I had not noticed in her due to highly evasive skills. Next week it’s bramly apple and raspberry shortcrust pastry pie. Ohhh baby I hope I am working again.

Way back when I was a youth and doing my charity work (well ok, I was given 100 hours community service and was forced into it) I met a girl who worked in the Simon community. A nice sort, chatty, outgoing, fond of giving her free time in the noble pursuit of taking old clothes out of bags and hanging them up to sell to old folks. This girl was completely normal in every way except for one. She was addicted to mints.

She had given up smoking some time earlier, and had taken to eating a few packets of mints in their place. This had gotten out of control and it had got to about ten packs a day. She had gone to the doc’s as she had become unwell. He ran some tests and apparently her blood was thinning to worrying levels as a result of her mint addiction, she was in real danger but still she couldn’t kick the habit.

She tried everything, fruit gums, chewing gum, smoking, nothing worked, she was still on ten packs of a day. Her skin took on grew white grey ashen colour, her black hair would fall onto her face, she would smile a wonderful crisp white toothed smile, her fresh breath was like an artic winter. As I reached my 100 hours and we unpacked our last black bag of urine soaked check shirts together. She stopped for a moment and let out a little sob, I put my hand on her shoulder, “you’ll be alright, I believe in you, you can beat this, I truely believe that” I said softly. She smiled, sniffed and wiped her eyes, she cracked a sad knowing smile and replied ……..”thanks for the encouragemint“

It’s been a very long time since this and this. A good old fashioned critique on a music video can go a long way. Let us begin.

Click on the link and join in.   Van Halen - Jump

0:08 Dave Lee Roth splits his barse into two equal pieces right at the weld. Then praises Jesus.

0:13 DLR checks hair for rock god consistency.

0:20 Eddie Van Halen’s face conveniently obscured, DLR and bass man do the left to right dance.

0:36 Bass man has first of many seisures

0:53 Eddie Van Halen grins inanely

0:57 Gratuitous elbow shot

1:16 No time to heal barse, DLR splits it horrifically once again

1:24 Eddie grins inanely

1:47 Bass man has another seisure

2:00 Second gratuitous elbow shot

2:18 E.V.H takes out his penis, grins inanely, performs guitar solo

2:54 DLR takes command of his mic. Sexy command.

2:57 Eddie laughs knowingly at his own talent.

3:09 DLR performs invisible air keyboard. A first in music video history.

3:15 Hair again checked by Dave for rock god consistency, rock levels found to be adequate. Video continues.

3:28 Band performs a three way.

3:33 Eddie feigns headbanging in order to smell Dave’s armpit. It goes unnoticed.

3:34 Most acrobatic gymnastic moment, dignity achieved with perfect landing. Drummer cheers. Promptly told to shut up and take off that stupid headband.

3:40 Drummer finally gets moment of glory with a symbol tap. Happy for all eternity.

3:51 Dave Lee Roth realises he has just made the best video ever. Can now head to hospital for reconstructive surgury. (barse plate re-welding).

I had a dream last night about being in a restaurant being served by a waiter in a white shirt. A table of six. The waiter in question looked kind of Italian. All was well, the wine was poured, the linen was pristine white, the cutlery was polished and all the guests had smiles on their faces.

Then he came to take our order but he was wearing a blue tooth ear piece. He asked us were we ready to order, when we replied yes he whispered sorry but that he was talking to table ten. This continued as he took our order in unison with another table who were ordering by mobile phone.  He would ask aloud how we wanted our steak, someone would give a reply of medium rare and he would cover the ear piece slightly with his hand and apologise and inform us that he would be right with us. He would ask us about starters, we would order but he would have to tell the people on the other end of the line that he was dealing with us. The circle of confusion had no end.

I woke up and thought, that’s a great start to a blog post and promptly told ‘her indoors’ about it. She nodded blankly. I assured her it that although it wasn’t funny at present I would embellish it with humourous additions to make my readers titter and chuckle. I didn’t.

Happy Monday.

* I always had a fondness for Robert Gould Shaw

The poll has spoken. The tale of the chick in the window is to be told. Thanks for all the votes.

If the story I am about to tell you had taken place last week then I would have to shut down this blog. Delete all its entries. Change my name back to Dr Fran-nicoise Incredulous-O’Jus and leave the country. As it is, it happened when I was a younger man. Time has passed and it’s ridiculousness and shame has diminished.

I was about fifteen or sixteen, my mother had gone away for a week and left me if the good hands of Momma Ovak. She had given me a sum of money, about 50 pounds (a lot at the time) to contribute to the household and to generally look after myself. Ovak Jr and I hid in the attic and listened to tunes and figured out ways we could get into trouble. On this particular day Aidano and JK had joined us. As it was not the weekend yet we hatched plans for the coming days. Eventually as it got dark JK declared it time to leave and catch his bus home. We offered to walk him around the block.

In the previous year or two we had managed to get ourselves into a few scrapes with the odd scumbag or two. Ovak had two bikes taken from him while he was still sitting on them and consequently had procured himself a impressive kitchen knife as an anti scumbag device. I had been on the wrong end of a couple of signet rings too,  Aidano had no suck bad luck but a few days earlier a kindly friend had leant him a stungun and he carried it about for fun. The combination of the fifty pounds, the flick knife, the stungun and a beautiful woman were on this particular evening to be our downfall.

We headed out into the dark with our MA1 bomber jackets, baseball caps and white trainers, As we walked JK to the bus stop we passed a window with the lights in a the curtains wide open. Inside a girl danced up and down on a bed in her undergarments. We stood starting for a moment. Not often you saw a beautiful woman dancing around in her smalls, and especially not at 14. We joked around and stared for a minute or two peering around the pillars at the front of the house. Her dancing ceased and the curtains were eventually closed. Fun over we proceeded down the road and dropped JK to the bus stop, we turned back around and made our way past the window again. Before we knew what was happening we were surrounded by blue flashing lights and shouts of “stay where you are”.

Two plain clothes Garda leaped out of a car and ran towards us. We froze. “Well boys been doing a few burglaries tonight?” . None of us answered. We were asked ever so nicely to take a seat on the kerb and empty our pockets. Change, lint, keys, fifty pounds, knife, stungun. shit. The Garda couldn’t believe his eyes. In a sarcastic voice he said “ahh sure there is nothing untoward there ehh lads?” . Then another car pulled up and a woman and two more police got out. “Stand up and turn around lads”. We did as we were instructed. “That’s not them” the woman growled. We heaved a sigh of relief. Whoever had been breaking in and out of houses had not looked like us from behind. One charge avoided.

“Well gents, it’s off to the station with you. Knifes and stunguns lads pfft, what did you say your name was again, Dr Fran what?” he sounded almost dissapoined. The idea of heading down to the local and sitting with the signet ringed bike stealers that we were trying so much to avoid was too much for Ovak. “But I only live ten yards away” he offered. The two Gards looked at each other and looked back at us. We obviously werent the criminal masterminds that they were thought they had bagged, just a few lads dressed like rappers with some contraband. Admitedly not the usual stuff but enough the sound the alarm bells. They seemed to take pity on us and drove us back down the road towards Momma Ovak’s front door. We stood in the doorway dwarfed by the Garda as he rang the bell. Ovak picked up his cat as the front door opened and Momma stood with a confused look on her face. Ovak passed the animal into her arms. There was a uneasy silence and then Ovak grinned. “Its the cops mum…..oh and I borrowed your knife”.

‘Her Indoors’ and I were watching Jamie Oliver and his rustic-fake-studio-I-don’t-really-live-here-garden-home-type-show the other night. I was reading Mein Kampf and nailing a tarred dog to a crucifix so I wasn’t really paying that much attention. However, say what you want about Mr Oliver, he talks funny, likes saying ‘mate’ a bit much, or just that he is a total shitface, it does look to me (I have never had him cook for me obviously so this is a guess) as if he knows what he is doing.

He was cooking savoury and sweet pies. He was busying himself with making pastry, cutting apples, cutting meat, opening Guinness (for seperate pies you understand) and it was all coming to a glorious crescendo. I have to say I don’t like cooking shows as a rule. What is the point? You wont make any of it. You will talk about it at a dinner party perhaps (somebody else’s dinner party) but you wont ever present it to aunt Mable and uncle Fester. You will wish you had. But you won’t.

But apparently ‘Her indoors’ has decreed that I am to to be the recipient of a pie this weekend. A Jamie Oliver type pie. With homemade goodness, full of care and attention, and served with not a lisp of any kid to speak of. Full of meaty Guinness flavour, pastry so flaky I shall weep. I may have to drink too. And if I don’t get what I want I shall set myself on fire and leap headlong into a wasp’s nest. That’s how much I am looking forward to it.

So I mentioned a while back that I lost my identity. I am desperately trying to get it back. I sent my old washed passport and form 156Aii in black ink to the office of sour fuckin bastards on Molesworth St, only to be sent a auto-robotic response.

Dear insignificant no mark. You matter not to the civil service. We are Borg. 10% more please. Logic is futile. Please resubmit a through j to have any hope at all of not being a prisoner of the green state for the rest of your sad life. 15% more please. We like when you fill out forms. It pleases us. You will require the following original documents/items in triplicate…

Your parents marriage certificate. Your fathers death certificate, your mothers amniotic proof chart. Your long form birth certificate, your mothers first training bra, your fathers glass eye. 1 glass jar of magic beans. A lock of hair from Nancy Reagan’s hair circa 1986. 1 ship in a bottle (Titanic preferable).

Yours etc,

A. Cunt.

Well, having received the above I am now off to order my stationary for the coming year. Dr Fran-nicoise Incredulous-O’Jus has a certain Je ne sais quoi dont you think?

Connie Booth to the cowardly lion in a few easy steps.

I loved Connie when I was a kid. She had so many teeth. Yup late night TV will send you in directions you never thought possible. These directions will amuse, entertain and disturb. I really need to start drinking again. Here is the six degrees of separation. (this is all because of the lack of alcohol you understand)

A show about comedy

The comedy was Fawlty Towers

John Cleese was in Fawlty Towers

Connie Booth was in Fawlty Towers

Connie Booth is now married to a man named John Lahr

John Lahr’s dad was the cowardly lion in the Wizard of Oz.

A freezing cold bottle of Heineken, perhaps a delicious creamy Guinness, a 12 year old scotch, a mojito. Any dream will do. Connie Booth and the Wizard of Oz. What was I thinking?

Once again the poll has told me what I have to do. Post about the Nissan factory. Thanks for the votes.

Around the year 2000 I thought in my infinite wisdom that Amsterdam would be the place to go and live. A land of hope, freedom, tolerance, beauty and weed. So off I went. My first task was to find a job, I headed into a job agency looking friendly and employable. I did some spacial awareness tests, was given a pair of black boots and a bus timetable. Report to Nissan tomorrow morning, your now a part of the Dutch workforce.

So report I did. Along with the six new brothers on induction day and I was Mr White. My other handicap was lack of my spreuken Nederlands. That didn’t matter though as the staff of the largest factory in Europe were more than happy to shout at me in English or in Dutch. For the first two weeks I stood at a hatch scanning tiny bar codes before parts of cars dropped off the conveyor belt into a black hole. Not the most stimulating of work. I complained to Mr Foreman. A large bald fat man called Herman. So he decided to put me on driving duty.

Being put on driving duty was both good and bad. I was the envy of the newbies. I was the bastard who got to sit in a little cab and buzz around the factory all day. I picked up, I dropped off. I picked up again, then I dropped off. The buzzer would ring for coffee breaks and I would drive to the little portocabin and beep my horn cheerfully at passers by who would swear at me in Dutch. Sometimes I crashed, I smashed crates off doors, ran over people’s feet, hurtled into doorways, ran out of battery power. I was fast becoming a liability. Herman warned me about my dangerous driving. The newbie’s wore grey overalls. The established workers wore green. I was told in no uncertain terms If I wanted the green jacket I would have to be more careful.

I bought a dutch pocket dictionary. I would sit and wait for my loads to be lifted onto my truck and conjugate the verb ‘to go’. This impressed the managers. After a few months I was asked to do the precious overtime. Golden hours of overpaid work for a kings ransom. I jumped at the chance. the green jacket was on its way. Then cruel fate took hold of me. On a smoke break I was out the back of the factory with a few of the green coats, I was in goal and being peppered with shots from the brotherhood of Amsterdam Noord. One particular bullet was heading for the top corner and I leapt and got my hand there just in time. Crack. I fell to the ground  holding my wrist. The boys gathered around i pulled back my jumper. “‘godverdomme” was the cry. My wrist was at an angle I had never seen before and off the hospital I went.

My driving career was over so I returned to the job agency. A week later I was at a desk in a multinational typing with one hand. My factory work was over, but my office and writing career had begun. Thanks Nissan.

So after my hospital antics and 20 hours of fasting I was hungry. The kind of hunger that everyone within ten feet knows about. Stomach churning. Noises that sound like a train coming from the depths of hell. A roaring empty echoing hollow sound of hunger.

I headed home. Various foods filled my minds eye. A gourmet sandwich seemed appropriate so I set about making a double decker. All went according to plan. A cup of tea shall accompany this well I was sure. I made the tea and took the tea bag out and walked over to the bin, i swung open the lid and saw a sad sad sight. I hung my head is disbelief. She hadn’t. Yes she had. ‘Her Indoors’ had finally gone over the line of acceptability. She had thrown a perfectly good Tiramisu into the bin.

I felt let down, shocked, betrayed, alone. My sandwich has been fresh, tasty, filling. The tea has been thirst quenching, strong and wholesome. The Tiramisu would have been the piece de resistance. I wasn’t going to be beaten. This was cake. This was not some half eaten microwave meal. This was cake you understand.

Now I have standards. The cake was boxed. Safe, clean, unsullied. This was not covered in dust, sour milk and eggshells. This cake was as pure and beautiful as the day it was baked. Sealed perfectly and awaiting my sweet tooth’s marks out of ten. I stooped down and with the love of a man picking up his newborn child I plucked the cake from its dark coffin.

I didn’t even plate it. I got a spoon and headed straight for the best bits. The cake smiled at me. Winking occasionally with knowing content. We both knew where it’s destiny and mine lay. It was to me what I was to it. Hope. Clarity. Satisfaction. Suddenly I stopped before my first bite. A flash in my head. This was life imitating art. I put the clean spoon back in the drawer. I placed the cake back into the box and then carefully into the bin. I let out a small murmur of discontent. Damn you George Costanza, Damn you.

So I had to go to hospital today to get my bionic shins fitted some tests done. The doc says my heart is about to explode. Well ok my heart isn’t about to explode but I was sent for tests anyway. I was sceptical of hospitals. I looked up hospital in the dictionary.

It reads : hos·pi·tal (hsp-tl) - A hive of sickness and plague run with smug superiority, a dirty place that provides medical, surgical, or psychiatric care and treatment for the mental heads, people wounded from booze or the genuinely slightly injured.

I had to get three tests done, blood samples, ECG and a chest X-ray. I don’t know what a chest x-ray has to do with getting bionic shins fitted but I submitted none the less. If you ever want to ‘people-watch’ then a hospital is the place to go. It’s a building of wonderment, full of mad goings on. People with spikes sticking out their elbows or groins, worried looks on their faces, all cajoled and corralled by men and women wearing long white coats and from what I could see - pyjamas. Wheelchairs buzz around like bumper cars, perambulated by salt of the earth Dubs shouting at each other as they pass in the corridor.

The staff come in as far as I could see, four levels. They are easily recognisable. If you are stuck and need to find a specific member of staff follow this simple guide.

Level One - Head honcho/Boss. Stethoscope, shirt, trousers, nice shoes. ID tag. Nods a lot. Tells people that they need to speak with them. Walks quickly away.

Level Two - Underling. Stethoscope, trousers/shirt, slightly dirty shoes / high heels, 2 ID tags, 3 pagers, clipboard. Walks behind head honcho agreeing and frowning at Level Three’s.

Level Three - Moron. Wanders around looking like a lost patient, just walked out of college, large wet patch behind ears (and on front of ill fitting pants), docksider shoes. No accessories. One pen (out of ink). On verge of tears.

Level Four - Wheelchair Operator / Cleaner. Wheelchair men. Nametags. Jolly type. Water off a ducks back. Halls could be flooded with napalm and still ‘Larry’ would say “cheer up, may never happen”. Cleaners. Never talk. Tasks completed with efficiency. Not allowed eye contact with levels 1-3 or patients.

If the staff are easily slotted into categories then the patients are totally unique. I could write for a month about the myriad of weirdo’s I had the pleasure of sitting near this afternoon. These included Thom Yorke lookalike (complete with sore eye and foot). The man with neck muscle problems who magically seemed to be able to hear my ipod and nodded his head in perfect unison to the beats until I turned it off and he kept rockin. The woman with four babies all under 1. The man with two broken arms. Twins with exactly the same head wound - that was really strange. Unfeasibly large man who never sat down. Nervous Wilma, muttered from ticket number 25 until her number was called at 79. Annoying.

As it stands the hospital is the most exciting place I have been in ages. I think I will take my holidays there next year. A mammoth one week stay. Sleep in A&E. Canteen food. Lolling around in wheelchairs in haematology. Sooner or later I will procure myself a blue uniform and I can join the ranks of the level fours. A nice nametag is all I need. I shall call myself Francis Sweetman, but I shall pronounce it Francis Sweetmin. I think today has changed my views on these misunderstood houses of madness.

This woman has to be gotten to a hospital.
A hospital? What is it?
It’s a big building with patients, but that’s not important right now.

I need a good hat.

I know hats have sort of stigma attached to them. People tend to see the hat wearer as (to use the vernacular) a ponce. But I long for some head coverage, from wind, cold and sun alike. I don’t want to look like this. More like this.

But alas Dublin is devoid of hatters. Along with the the sad closing of Stringfellows, Dublin’s hat shops are long since gone. Either closed down by the lack of dandy’s patrolling the George’s St area or the inevitable hat recession of 88.

Good people. Give me your hats. (or tell me where I can get one)

So Gimme mentioned here that six weeks off the booze should reinvigorate my love for the grape and grain. Six fuckin weeks. The seventh day and I feel like a shadow of my former self. Eyes streaming, chest heaving, litres and litres of water pass my lips yet my mouth feels like the bottom of a sun baked sandpit (totally free from child’s urine).

GG told me it was a fruitless pursuit and that I was wasting my time, I am teetering on the edge of beer filled failure. A looming 30th birthday party on Friday is filling me with fear. The thoughts of listening to people telling the same stories over and over again while I sit, smiling inanely and drinking sugary bubble filled drinks and wishing for slow painful death.

‘Her Indoors’ has lost all patience with me (and I wouldn’t blame her) as I threaten to drink the unopened grappa that my mother left on the kitchen table, or lick the top of the sherry cheesecake that grows old at the bottom of the fridge.

The weekend mocked me. In addition to the non boozing there was Morgor besmerching my name and crushing me into submission. My only solace was Ovak and I indulging in another episode of the Harolds Attic Radio which kept the wolf from the door. One day at a time booze you bastard, one day at a time.

The poll has spoken - again. The votes came flooding in. I had to hire someone to collate them all. Ok there were six votes. Here it is none the less.

Many years ago I lived with Dr Bobo Bolouski in a house right behind the Jews of Terenure village. A spacious top floor apartment painted with a hideous peach colour. We didn’t mind the peach as the place was huge. We would set up the TCR racing through 6 rooms and watch the tiny cars speed around the track. We would roar and shout and verbally abuse each other.

When we were finished we would go to the nerd room and play WWII first player shooters till 5am. Bobo’s dream had come true. A room full of humming personal computers and virtual violence. Everything seemed fine. We could make all the noise we wanted. Watch football all afternoon. Shout and hurrah at will. Until they arrived.

On one particular Saturday we sat on the couch eating breakfast rolls when suddenly and brutally our day was interrupted by the noise of storming techno coming from below our feet. Thud, Thud, Thud, Thud. Unz, Unz, Unz, Unz, Unz, We grimaced and looked at each other in disbelief. Our haven of peace and manly fun had been shattered. What the hell was going on. For six months we had lived unmolested by the inconvenience that were neighbours. We had to take immediate action.

Bobo decided we had to nip this in the bud. He took it upon himself to greet our new friends below and let them know that Eastern European euro techno was not our cup of tea. I waited nervously for his return. The music stopped. I pictured the scene of a polite Ukranian gentleman apologising for the loud music and smiling a broad grin with his three teeth on show. His demure wife in the background wrapped in a shawl nodding and cradling her baby. This, however was not the case. He had been greeted by a 300 pound man with no neck, gold teeth and swathed in tattoos.

The good doctor arrived back up fuming and cursing. He had been told in no uncertain terms where to go. Instead of a kind Eastern European gent, he had been met with a vicious verbal assault from a caveman. They protested and blamed us for the noise. This was confusing as they had just moved in, this went on for a few weeks. Massive crashes were followed by babies exercising their lungs, people arguing in unison and the techno becoming louder more frequent, and with more BPM’s added per day.  It was all supplemented by up to ten voices from a one bedroom flat. We despaired, what could we do? It came down to a simple choice. Embrace the fear of being beaten by a man with questionable musical taste.or we had to fight fire with fire.

Every time they turned on the techno we could turn on the vacuum cleaner, one of those industrial Henry’s. We would turn up MTV full blast, pop on 2fm and go out for the afternoon. Every time they Auslanders had a screaming debate we would sit on the couch and bash our feet on the floor until they would stop. They produced noises that we couldn’t decipher. Crash. Crunch. Hreest. Arrrrttz. Fuungee. Booonng. Dr Bobo joked that they would all sit together drinking vodka and coming up with new and inventive ways to annoy us. This,  it seemed was their lot in life. We laughed and put on our best Russian accents and would shout “climb wall,  climb wall with hammer“. The battle continued.

Eventually we had enough. We called Sir Alfred Quench. Our eccentric landlord. He barked that he knew nothing of our neighbours foray into providing asylum for half of Poland. We assured him that there had been a small orphanage, and a building contracting company set up downstairs, and that we had personally seen trucks unloading crates of AK-47’s, and that they were being stored under the cots and occasionally tested after 10pm. He was outraged. Not it seemed with asylum, weapons or building. But with children. It seemed that he had no love for them, and that along with pets and plutonium they were not allowed on any of his premises. He promised to deal with it.

Saturday morning arrived again. I tapped on Bobo’s door. “Wake up” I said. “I don’t hear anything“. We went down to the front room. Silence. Nothing. Utter quiet. We stood for a moment in disbelief. Sir Alfred had ousted the clan of Communist noisemakers. They were gone. Back to the radioactive post and wattle villages from whence they came. We sat watching the morning football updates. Eating our breakfast rolls and sipping tea. Neither of us spoke. It was peaceful and calm. But somehow something was not right. After a few minutes Bobo put down his tea cup. I waited for him to speak. “Do you think they will try and take revenge” he said sternly. I stared back at him, my mind racing. Thoughts of petrol bombs, smashed windows, crow bars, Russian Mafia and night visits from balaclava wearing maniacs threatening us with sodomy.

I put down my plate on the table. We both stood up. Bolouski then voiced what both of us were thinking.

“right, get packed, we’re getting out of here“.

On my trip to get a new identity it started to rain. Rain hard. The kind of rain in Blade Runner, or maybe the kind of rain in Black Rain. Anyway it was some wild rain. It was cold, really cold, the kind of cold in The Thing. Stop. Stop you fool before you lose your entire readership.

I navigated the puddles and found my way back to the dart station and stood in the doorway and waited with Daisy for the minibus to take us back to hell office style.

After a couple of minutes a shadowy figure approached. It became clear that this figure was wearing ugg boots and a mini skirt. We looked at each other with a ‘what the hell’ expression. She walked through the door and stood dripping. We looked her up and down. She ticked all the boxes. Paris Hilton hair, ugg boots, dressed all in black. Her downfall was her fake tan. The water ran down her tiny coat onto her skirt and in turn onto her legs.

The tan was fast losing it’s orange grip on her legs and it was only made worse by her desperate attempts to smooth it out with the back of her hand. Large white strips on her calves became larger as she audibly cursed her decision to wear a mini and apply a fresh coat of rust that very morning.

She gave up and returned to her runny mascara. This would not co-operate either. She slumped where she stood and a tiny bleet of disatisfaction could be heard. She sought solace in her pink mobile phone. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Her speedy fingers working feverishly. Ohh Myyyy Goddd Serina, my gawd dam lipstic is awwl ova my face and thatt faake tan wuz soo not wrth mi mum evan getting out her credit card.

So I officially have no identity.

In a most excellent of moments I washed my passport. It went into a 40 degree wash in the back pocket of my jeans. It now looks like a maroon mess. I have lost my driving license. I have no idea where it is. Birth cert. No idea, probably in a safe place or slipped into that copy of Chevy Chase’s autobiography that I promptly gave to Oxfam.

So I am without proof of who I actually am. I am going to go up to the cop shop this afternoon and see if an xtra-vision card, a giant sponge like passport and a smile will allow me to exist again. It really depends who I am confronted with. An angry mook-sávage who has just spent all morning in court being berated by the honourable Judge Glendike Flambay-McMoneycock, or more preferably a fresh faced newbie who thinks they can still do some good.

Please Sir, can I have a new passport, I so desperately want to fly Ryan Air again….

I am going to give up booze. ‘Ohhhh sure you are‘ comes the response in unison. But it has beaten me. I cannot drink anymore. It actually hurts me. But you love wine, beer is your friend, the jameson on the shelf is twelve years old. But I cant breathe. I wheeze. I cough. My waistline grows. My wallet shrinks. I say things I don’t mean. But what about the great nights. But what about the day after. I grow weak. We grow strong. I cast you out, unclean spirit, along with every Satanic power of the grape, every spectre from grain hell, and all your fell companions; in the name of our Lord Diageo.

The poll has spoken.  This weeks Friday post is “An Overheard Conversation”

A train. Ovak and I are going from Central London to Gatwick Airport to fly home. A man and woman get on holding champagne glasses and luggage. The man puts down his case and proceeds to dial a number on his mobile phone.

Woman: Call Pam, call Pam, Gav, call Pam, Pam. Gav, call Pam. Gav, Gav, Gav, call Pam.

Man: Gonna call Mark. Mark, mate, it’s Gav, yeah mate, Gav. Yeah Susie and I got engaged. Yeah mate, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah mate. No mate. Yeah mate, yeah I know, yeah mate. yeah mental mate. Yeah I know, yeah, yeah, talk to you then mate.

Woman: Call Mum, can we call mum Gav, mum, call mum Gav, Gav, can we call Mum?

Man: Gonna call Dave. Dave, mate, it’s Gav, yeah mate, Gav. Yeah Susie and I got engaged. Yeah mate, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah mate. Yeah mate, yeah I know, yeah mate. Yeah top mate. Yeah I know, yeah, yeah, talk to you then mate.

Woman : Call Margot Ga…..

Man: Gonna call Paul. Hello Paul, mate, it’s Gav, yeah mate, Yeah Susie and I got engaged. Yeah mate, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah mate I know I cant believe it. Yeah mate, yeah I know, yeah mate. Yeah I know, yeah, yeah, talk to you soon mate. Cheers, thanks mate, yeah, talk to you then, yeah cheers, bye, bye, bye, yeah, cheers, bye.

RedLeeroy: Cunts

So apparently the Dail have decided that Tuesday will be a continuation of the bank holiday. This is due to angry abusive behaviour and insults being exchanged from both sides.

Sources say that there has been a breakdown of etiquette and complete disregard for the inner workings of a modern democracy and government.

A friend of mine who is a press photographer gained access during the confusion, and before he was ejected he managed grabbed a shot of what actually is going on in the chambers amidst the current chaos.

This image may shock, upset and offend.

HeraldAM sent me this picture (story is here).

So Atheist bus ads hit the streets. Fine, no problem but aren’t Atheists quite sure there is no god. As opposed to the Carlsberg idiom of well you know, probably, perhaps, kinda, if your up for it.

This is probably (sorry) an advertising standards rule though. You can tell someone to start their day with Nescafe but when it comes to the almighty, well he might exist but it’s tricky as he’s a recluse and his son is a little late coming back for round two.

Anyway scrap that ad and run with this one.

So down in the wilds of Ireland with ‘her indoors’ and her clan we needed respite from the Guinness that was flowing through our veins, so we headed to Europe’s largest go-karting centre. (sober I may add). I mentioned this largeness but someone called bollix on my statement. Hey do shitty websites lie ? I think not.

Here is a picture of me in my fetching overalls. Being overshadowed by someone’s groin. I was just about to zoom around the track like…..well, like someone who was not going to get the fastest time. I like the blue/grey overall look though. Afterwards we kept them and went and did a bank job in Galway city which funded the rest of the weekend.

There is nothing quite like shouting “GET ON THE FUCKING FLOOR” while brandishing a sawn-off shotgun and a battered bike helmet. It makes you feel quite sober.

what is black and white

fluffy, sad, and wont cheer up

it’s my depressed cat

A slight sniffle a few week ago led me to rummaging around in a green crate looking for a the product that is Vicks. I finally found it. Bearing in mind this crate belongs to ‘her indoors’ it was mixed with all sorts of shampoo’s, make up sponges, creams and beauty lotions. Added to this never ending mix of products, it is well known that men only have hunter vision and they can only find things directly in front of them. It’s in out genes they say.

Anyway the vicks eventually presented itself. It looked about six years old. It had some sand, some glitter, a caking of Vicks and dirt all around the lid. A sorry sight, but not sorry enough for me not to smear my nose and parts of my face in it and wait for it’s magical properties to start working. It did some good, for about 15 seconds I could breathe. Then another dose, 10 seconds breadth. Another dose. 5 seconds. Last dose nothing.

What really bothered me though was not the fact that It no longer worked, I could not breathe and I was covered in glitter, sand and methol glue. No no, what really got me was the fact that I couldn’t figure out what the vessel that contained the vicks was called. Was it a pot, a tub, an urn, a jar, a vat, a beaker, a burette? Nothing seemed to fit. As I type this it sits on my desk giving me the glad eye. This nameless vessel of menthol.

Right. Let’s get religious. (well for half a paragraph, I don’t want to burst into flames for the sake of a blog).

Do you know the story of Sodom and Gomorrah? Well here it is.

If you don’t have time to read that, the general vibe is that God informs Abraham that he plans to destroy the city of Sodom because of its wickedness. Abraham pleads with God not to destroy Sodom, and God agrees that he would not destroy the city if there were 50 righteous people in it, then 45, then 30, then 20, or even 10 righteous people. The Lord’s two angels only found one righteous person living in Sodom, Abraham’s nephew Lot. Consequently, God destroyed the city.

One righteous person. Is that all. Fuck sake. That’s a bad place, no wonder their was fire and brimstone. Under current conditions I wonder how many righteous people are from Dublin?

Go on, name one righteous person in our fair city and perhaps you could save it from certain destruction, and if anyone says Ronan Keating I shall really have to consider why I should let them live.

So as to avoid what I thought would be the budget delivery induced sacking of byzantine, I decided to catch a train out of Dublin after work last night to visit a friend.

I bought my ticket and walked through the ever increasing number of suited zombie’s who were wailing as they read aloud the evening papers, desperately trying to work out 2% of nothing on their iphone.

I hung my head. Was this the end. Was society about to collapse, or was this just another budget?

I was tired. Tired from predicting the future with such accuracy. The train was a whole 17 minutes away from arrival. I scanned the platform for a seat but these had been removed to provide building materials and shelter for down on their luck developers.

Suddenly I spotted it. Paydirt. An empty wheelchair. It sat there, half peering at me, oh how my legs ached. I had to sit down. I approached it cautiously. Looking left and right. What if it was merely a temporary vacation, perhaps it was owned by an overweight gentleman whose lotto ticket had blown down the platform and he had left this throne in a moment of weakness. I slumped into the soft blue leather. I clicked the legs supports shut and let out a sigh.

I sat back and slumped into the chair, my eyes closing. What seemed like moments later I was being tapped in the shoulder.

“Excuse me sir, would you like some help?” A kindly voice asked.

I opened my eyes, my train had arrived and I was faced with a CIE porter of some kind. His had a blue hat, round eye glasses and his chubby face was smiling at me.

“Are you waiting for this train?” He asked.

“I am, yes but….”

Before I could answer he had walked around behind me and pushed me towards the train, then up a small ramp and into a cosy compartment. I grinned over my shoulder at him and said “how very kind of you“. He smiled again, patting me on the back before heading off down the carriage. I closed my eyes once again and lay against the window.

Recession, what recession?

Here we go. Only a matter of hours till the Department of the insane release their bleak black budget.

Smokers. You lot are fucked. I would say another 75 cents on a pack of delicious twenty. Your Iron lung just got prohibitively more expensive.

Old People. Well you’re just in the way. You will all be loaded onto the shit-ship and brought out into the bay to be disposed of. Leave your suitcases on the dock, clearly label them. Last name first. First name last,  they will follow you later.

The Poor. Well, you are fucked too. You should have seen this coming. You were always going to need some new qualifications (or firearms). You shouldn’t have had that fourth child and lost your ration books. Join the lines.

The Rich, well hopefully you’re fucked but I can’t see it. Too many upcoming lunches to be had down on Merrion Square. You may have to pay for Fintin to go to college but that will be your only worry. Perhaps we can use you later though, when things get really bad and money loses all value. Soylent Green?

Students. Ohhh yup. Totally fucked. Unless your emigrate. But then your probably still fucked.

Home owners. You are in trouble. I hope that flat you bought with your mate from college is comfortable because you have about 3-5 years to go living with Deirdre or Liam and their B/O.

Vehicle Possessor . Guess what? If your a jeep jockey then I hope they charge you some serious VAT for having a really unnecessary automobile, but maybe if we are lucky they will throw in a manslaughter charge for the hell of it.

Politicians. You are all fu…..oh wait. Your not. You are OK. There will be talk of a pay cut. But everyone will be so up in arms about the old people getting thrown in the sea, and the eating of the rich. That you can close the gates of the driveway, climb into your sandpit. And bury your head and wait for the LUAS’ to link up.

Monday began with a urrrrgggggh. A noise or protest. Getting up is hard to do. The usual ablutions, and some machinations for the week ahead.

I hopped onto the trusty steed. She neighed and whinnied under the weight of beer and battered sausages from the previous day. I peddled.

Approaching work I pulled in towards the bike-locking-area, freewheeling with my eyes just open enough to guide me. Then it all went wrong. From speedy peaceful grace to a life threatening speed wobble in one glorious movement.

It had been too late to avoid the spiderweb. I saw it glistening in the sunshine but it had all too quickly wrapped around my face. Now without thinking I had removed both hands from the handlebars and was spitting and blowing and slapping my face and cheeks to rid myself of the possible giant black, well fed, human hating wolf spider that I was sure inhabited the web which was now attached itself to me.

The front wheel went from 10 o’clock to 2 o’clock and back again in extremely quick succession. I was slipping out of the saddle. And this was all happening at about 20 miles an hour. I abandoned my efforts to get rid of the web and concentrated on staying upright (and most likely alive).

I jammed on the brakes, she neighed again. I had manage to stop. My life had not flashed before my eyes but I was breathing heavily, sweating slightly and being stared at my two amused bikers. I nodded sheepishly and dismounted. I was safe, but somewhere there is an angry spider with a Charles Bronson face hunting for me, desperately seeking retribution for a ruined home and a murdered family.

Ever have a moment that you wished you could relive over again. A small time travel amnesty. A moment that was so ready for a perfect reply or quip, but you stood like a  village idiot and said nothing. Then all too quickly the moment was gone forever.

While on a tour around Europe a good few years ago I was in the Schoenbrunn palace in Vienna (a long story for another post). I was having a drink and a smoke outside on a terrace. A beautiful blond middle aged lady approached me and said hello. She asked me for a light and stood beside me smoking.

“So what has you in Vienna” she asked.

“Well I am travelling around Europe” I offered.

“Ahh Riding the rails?” she laughed. Yup I said, and nodded in reply.

Small talk continued for a while, she offered a handhshake to me and smoothly said

“my name is Candice”.

“Nice to meet you Candice, my name is Leeroy”

“Leeroy, oh, my masseuse is called Leeroy, I have a Leeroy in my bedroom almost every week” she smiled and batted her eyelids.

Now I know what you are thinking. What a line. How easy it was to reply to. What an ‘in’. It’s an invitation to take Candice for a free sexy type love massage. But what did the man with A Grade, Bsc, BA Hons in being a moron do ? Smiled. I fucking smiled. I fucking smiled like Pat Kenny receiving his bumper delivery of Black Juggs Monthly. She winked at me and turned around to join her suspicious looking make companion, who’s name could only have been called Adrian-Patrice De La Touche.

I always wonder why didn’t I say. “well you can have a Leeroy in your bedroom this week too” or something equally as cheesy and suggestive. But what did I do?

I smiled. I fucking smiled.

I have had a lot of musical related moments in my life. Lots that stand out. Memories that are intrinsically linked to a particular point in time.

Driving around the West of Ireland listening to a battered old tape with only two tracks from the reservoir dogs soundtrack on it, looking for places to surf. Or standing in the Temple of sound shouting Mega mega white thing mega mega white thing. Or even the first time Aidano ever played me ‘Sound and Vision’ by David Bowie.

But one particular moment came back to me this morning as I cycled to work. The Sun was low in the sky and it reminded me of when I lived in Amsterdam. I would cycle down to the Ferry every morning to go to work. I had bought myself a copy of Badly Drawn Boy’s ‘The hour of bewilderbeast’.

I put on my russian hat, my scarf, and I hopped on the bike, it was just starting to snow. I pressed play and cycled down to the ferry just making it before the front closed and it pulled away. I was in the open air, leaning against the side as the sun rose and this played in my ears.

Perfect.

Any musical tales to tell ?

Yesterday I went to unlock my bike and someone had locked their machine over mine so I was trapped. I couldn’t move my bike, or smash theirs. I had no tools. So I stood hands in pockets for an hour getting colder and more angry. They never arrived. I left. I walked home.

My question is this. Should I take retribution on this thoughtless moron. But let me narrow it down. I now know what the bike looks like and it is there everyday, so should I…..

a) Let all the air from the tyres

b) Slash the seat

c) Get my spare lock and have similar fun with them

d) Do nothing

Who are they? Well the blog love-sharers obviously. I have no blogroll. It’s partially to do with being too lazy to find a suitable widget, and also when you have 30 or 40 blogs on a sidebar does anyone actually click on them?. Perhaps they do and maybe I shall rethink my policy on this but I will need convincing.

Go and read Well-Done-Fillet where the ever excellent Manuel delivers some choice moments of restaurant customer tom-foolery and his own brand of wisdom.

The un-Joycean tales of the Bad Ambassador, the CBF and a fantastic and F5 happy ‘Friday Album Cover Quiz’ can be found right here.

The prolific Samurai Frog gives great commentary on movies, music, politics and……….tits.

And can I predict the next big thing? Check it out.

Happy Friday reading.

A dear family member told me today that she wanted to christen her unborn, unconceived child Ryder. I promptly told her if she went through with it I would disown her.

Ryder what? Ryder cup, dick ryder, ryder cowboy, ryder-up, ryder-in, ryder-out, ryder-in-RAWHIDDDDE.

No, no, no. You have to be a celebrity to get away with that. You cant just be a semi normal nine to fiver and have the balls to nail a name like that to a poor unfortunate child.

I know there are far worse names but I can’t think of them now. Loyal readers and lurkers, help me out with the crazy/cruel/shit/ child names.

I was visiting a friend in hospital yesterday. As I left his room and headed for the front door I was approached by a man with grey hair in hospital garb. Pyjamas, slippers, dressing gown and all. He placed his hand on my arm and paused. “Have you got 4 euro’s for a bottle of coke?” he said.

So may things were wrong with it. Although he was in his sick clothes he didn’t look sick. He looked like he just came from his couch. (as he had some fresh food on the side of his face to prove it). And since when has a bottle of coke cost four Euro’s ?

Explain it to me ?

Woman: No sorry I cant make it I have pilates tonight.

Man: What are they for then?

Woman: Apparently they are great for older women with problems when they sneeze…

Man: What kind of problems, you mean gee problems?

Woman: Well yes, sometimes they wee a little when they sneeze or laugh. This is known as flabby gee syndrome.

Man: Jaysus really?

Woman: So they say.

Man: Do you……..

Woman: NO.

Many years ago, when I was full of youthful exuberance, I entered into a short lived relationship with a young lady twice my age. She lived in a top floor flat in Ranelagh. One of those two room affairs, one that shares a toilet with six other people on the floor. Let’s call this lady Jane Doe.

I had a secret doorbell ring. I suppose maybe it was because I wasn’t exclusive, or perhaps her Uncle Fester was there occasionally, and she had a thing about him meeting her relatives. One midweek night I called over for some wine and light hearted chat about economics and third world debt, aww who am i kidding we never talked about economics.

As we sipped red wine at her kitchen table I was acutely aware of an ever growing cramp in my stomach. A pain that hit every few minutes with even more ferocity of the previous shot. As she searched for an ash tray I sat grimacing with a layer of frosty sweat gathering on my brow. She lit her Malboro light and I excused myself. I scuttled down the hall into the tiny toilet, quickly locked the door and evacuated the contents of my bowels. It was not pretty. The previous night had seen it all. It was post Jalepeno, 10 pints, three coffee’s and a pack of 20. As Al Pacino said. “You ever take a dump made you feel you‘d just slept for twelve hours?”

I cleaned myself up and clasped my belt shut. I washed my hands in the cramped washing basin, As i turned to flush, my hand clipped a roll of toilet paper. The world went into slow motion. The roll went from one hand to the other, bouncing, changing direction, falling towards it inevitable fate. I flapped in vain, desperately trying to save the pristine white untouched roll of paper from plunging into the bowl of hideousness. I failed. I stood aghast. There was no hope in this flushing it’s way to freedom.  It was a bumper roll, now sodden and sullied. I had to think quickly as I too much time in a bathroom could look bad in a blossoming relationship.

As I was on the top floor. I opened the tiny window and peered out. It seemed like a dumping ground for old rubbish, mattresses and TV’s. I was safe. It was just possible that I could extricate the now no longer pristine white fluffy toilet roll from it’s brown watery grave, and drop it out the tiny window. I would never be found out. I reluctantly grabbed one of it’s less tainted areas. Lifted it slowly and carefully towards the window. It barely fitted but passed through without molesting the window frame. I held it for a split second and let go. I heaved a sigh of relief. Washed my hands once more. Clicked the window shut and returned up the corridor for some more wine.

I sat smugly smoking and sipping my wine. All was well. I was proud of my somewhat carry-on-esque comedy moment and my ingenuity to get out of a messy situation. So as the evening wore on and we polished off the bottle of wine, I stood up at the kitchen sink to grab myself a glass of water. My previously smug face turned ashen hued. My eyes stared straight out the window. Ten feet away was a vision of horror. The shit covered toilet roll sitting perfectly still on the opposite window sill. So plain in view that it could not be ignored. I panicked for a moment. Had she seen it?, what could I do?, I couldn’t retrieve it as the toilet window was too small.

A moment or two passed. Jane called out from the sitting room. “Red, want to watch some TV?” Damn right I did. I grabbed the kitchen curtains and whisked them closed and headed into where she was sitting, closing the door behind firmly behind me. I left shortly afterwards and never revisited the scene of that terrible crime. I often wonder if the ‘brown roll’ is still there, peering solemnly into her kitchen window as she sips her last glass of red wine.

‘Her indoors’ has one joke. Only one. When she tries to tell it she burst into fits of giggles and loses complete control. She eventually sounds like Eddie Murphy laughing. She occasionally gets in wrong and substitutes Lionel Ritchie for Stevie wonder (not sure what this says) and then the joke loses all relevance. Her one joke is this.

Why won’t Stevie Wonder play Dublin any more ?

He can’t see the Point.

It’s old, it’s been told to death, but it makes me laugh. But the sad thing is now that the fuckheads over at O2 have renamed The Point Depot after themselves, The joke is now dead and gone.

RIP The Stevie Wonder Joke.

My mate D’McD moved to Tokyo. He loves it. Says no joke it’s like Blade Runner when you come into the city on the train. Sky scrapers by the thousand. Huge screens with people selling noodles and trainers. Everything is different.

We Irish grumble about our morning commute. Fuckin slack jawed pussies. The population of Tokyo is about 12 million. And 8 million of those go to work between the hours of 8 and 9. The M50 is peanuts compared to being pushed in the back onto a train and your spine pressing into the wall.

But the greatest thing he told me was when you go into a shoe store and ask for a pair of shoes in size 10, if by chance they dont have your size they say in japanese something akin to “I have failed you master, I am a worthless dog, there is no excuse”.

Now considering some of the little shitbags that serve you in various spar’s, pertrol stations and inner city stores around Ireland, I think that this should be made mandatory for all public facing jobs.

Customer : “May I have that T-shirt in blue please”?.

Shop Attendant : “Oh christ, I am a total prick, I have failed my such simple a task, please spit in my face.

The result, a happy customer and a meek servile shop monkey with a great attitude. Everyone is happy.

I wear a pair of black Nike trainers with a gold swoosh. Comfy. Functional. I tend to buy a pair, wear them until the fall apart and buy another pair. I know gents who own many pairs. But I never seem to get around to buying a few. I find it hard to buy one’s I like, there is always a big buckle, or a picture on them that annoys me.

Yesterday I was driving along and my feet felt kind of uncomfortable. So as i was stopped in traffic I raised up my knee and loosened my laces. It felt wonderful. So I loosened the other foot. It was a like a new beginning, It seemed over time that my feet has been constricted by the constant pulling tighter of my footwear every day.

Like one of those chinese chicks who have size 1 feet and are in terrible suffering only comparible to attendees of a four hour Kenny G concert with support from The Goo Goo Dolls. Anyhow, now I stroll with abandon. If you can imagine Mr Soft from the softmint advert, but a drunk Mr Soft, after a hit of Ketamine and a nice lie down.

Anyone make any pro-active wardrobe changes ?

When I was in school I was told I had a knee problem called Osgood-Schlatter. If you say it like a Dutch person speaking English it does sound mildly amusing, but basically it’s a really sore spot below your kneecap. You can’t do any sport for ages. It was a pain in the hole, (and the knee obviously).

When your 15 all you want to do is sprint around kicking a football or playing beat the hell out of the unfortunate new guy. But forced to sit around at lunchtime with the people who didn’t like sport was really annoying.

I never got these folk really. They seemed to be 10 years ahead of where they were supposed to be in life. Going to the library at lunchtime to talk to Mrs Farquarr about the new debating societies outing to the botanic gardens curator of records department. It seemed to me like a waste of time when you could be out in the sunshine dragging someone around by their school jumper, or scoring a belter in the top corner after beating three players.

Perhaps if I had Osgood Schlatter for a while longer I would be an associate professor of physics, instead of writing a blog that has a readership of 7.

So last Thursday myself, her indoors and the whole crew headed down to Southern Spain for Waxy Dan’s wedding.

Ovak and I were groomsmen. We drank Cruz Campo. 5am drunken cannonballs and dolphins were achieved. There was miraculous speed wobbles across the dance floor. Speeches were delivered. New friends were made and abused. Sexy disco harnesses were discussed. All in all it was an extremely enjoyable time.

The outdoor ceremony was performed by a gentlemen in a nice suit. However I can’t go to a wedding without thinking about this particular moment. People must think I find nuptuals most amusing, as more often than not I am biting my hand as they exchange rings.

Congrats Dan. I shall cherish the cheesecake tie.

When I was a kid and my mother would be driving somewhere and would say “we shall go up the dual carriageway” I always thought she said jewel carriageway. I imagined this road that looked like Superman’s gaff, filled with magical stones and gems.

Alas it was just a road. I felt cheated there were no jewels.  As a child I must have had loads of these misunderstandings in my mind, but that is the only one I can remember.

Damn feeble brain.

P.S. I have gone away. Back in a week.

I found it a week ago in bushes in the 9th hole. I hit my tee shot into a hedge, and as I scrambled for it I saw what looked like a cloak. It turned out to be…….a cloak. I put it on. It was comfortable if a little worn. Red velvet with two drawstrings. Rather fetching.

On my way home I passed through the the main street. Everything looked different. people wore cloth sacks instead of diesel jeans. Designer footwear appeared to me as animal skin held together with string. Women were make-up free and men were devoid of gel. The throngs of shoppers who used to hold paper and plastic carrier bags now carried dead rabbits and fowl. I had been set free.

No longer would I be tricked by global corporation claws. No more would I bow down before labels, designers, custom made suits and sunglasses. Billboards now told me the truth.

After a few days I longed for chicks wearing make up, Brown Thomas bags and designer sunglasses. Nice suits, friendly suggestive billboards and trash magazines. It was all too much. I was living in the middle ages. I reluctantly took off the cloak, stuffed it into a bag and left it on the LUAS. Someone with more substance could use it for good.

I missed you advertising.