Six helluva Tough Guy sayings

I know, I know, oh don’t I know? I’ve posted damn all in the last ever so long.
But that’s not to say that nowt has happened. In fact, just the opposite. Owt has happened, major Owt. Like for instance OwT from my flat goes whatsername de Gaul. (Surprisingly with a low level of violence and high level of allriiighht!) And OwT I go too on the 4th of Jan. And OwT of my head I’ll be tonight at the Backlash Xmas bash.
But nevermind about all of that – the pissedmas is upon us again.
Seems like hardly a drop and two tokes ago when we were down in Naas givin’ it loads at the likes of Private Swan’s going away (and coming back suddenly) party and causing serious havoc all over the town from gaff to party to club to road and gaff and christmas dinner to pub to field to gaff again, up and down like yo-yo’s with Hey-Ya as the unshakeable soundtrack. And we all saw that it was good.
Be doing well to make the most of it this time as there’s lots of work to be done in between all the festivery, not that I’m complaining, I need the beans, especially with the hunt for a new lair now officially being on.
The Setanta hooley was fairly sweet; a little bit OTT on the trimmings but you might as well fill your boots if you don’t reside in the realm of xmas bonuses. I kept myself to myself and all, Radge thinks I can’t do it, I beg to differ. Or do I differ to beg? Or maybe I to differ beg do? Ask Derrida’s ghost. I’m sure he blogs from beyond the veil.
Eh, I’ve actually got loads to do in work at the minute, big Gee-gee previews and concentrating on not fucking-up so, eh, yeah…like,
Do one.

Il jamais arrêts

There is only one solution. I should have seen it sooner.
Disgraceland will be no more come the end of the month.
Well, it’ll still be there, but I won’t be using it as a lair anymore.
Can’t be doing with finding some new slav to come in for the last three months of the lease and there’s no way the ingénue and I would survive, physically, mentally or relationshippy, if we’re up each other’s arses so much.
The heads at the property place were cool about it as a matter of fact, thought there might be grief over not getting the deposits back but it all worked out well. I’ll relinquish the spare keys to them on Monday and they can view that sumbitch while I’m out and about.
Sweet enough. The plan is to retreat to the shortgrass for a couple weeks then find a one-bedroom gaff somewhere back up here. It’ll all be gravy, you’ll see.
Thursday night was good-ass fun. The lavish and prestigious Trinity College common room was the scene for one of the classest things I’ve ever done in my life. Snuck in there at 3 in the morning, and on the long dining table, under the chandelier and indignant gazes of former Deans, worthies and Provosts, didst create a most fantastic tableau of the sensual.
Friday was a day of great relief, contented happiness and calm enjoyment. A joint effort of cleaning the apt was carried out with a light nature and a long awaited absence of suspicion and anger. When all was spic and span the only place to be was bed, and what better place to linger, explore, rise and fall, lay silent and warm, bound in legs and arms of acceptance. These things are nice a-times.
So brimming with the elation and satisfaction of all these things and a burgeoning desire not to ruin whatever it was that allowed such a happy condition to exist, off to a party in Crumlin with me.
So at peace was I with my lot that I went straight out and fucked up, relenting to the first bird who wanted it.
Groan………
Stupid gay Phil.

Soul radiation in the dead of night, love in the middle of a firefight.

It’s all a load of bollocks.
I haven’t used that maxim in a while. It’s as true today though as it was when Methuselah first said it.
Here, for instance are a few things that are a load of bollocks –
1 – Television. This having ten ringtone ads in a row on telly for only six yo-yo’s and the sound of that Crazy Frog thing.
2 – The public. Voting in for everything. The blithering gestalt of idiocy would vote for how they wanted Busted to comb their hair that morning but wouldn’t bother their arse to aid in the determination of who rules their country/county/town, makes laws etc.
3 – ‘Success’. The most overrated and pointless target. The unattainable road to busyness. It doesn’t even exist!
4 – The Dice Bar. Doesn’t serve Bud. Smells like shit, Barfolk are busy, all too trendy, Plays music from the 50’s in a sad attempt to be ironic. Crap in genera. Oh! I could go on…
5- Bars that don’t serve Bud, because it’s not as cool as ‘revolution’ or ‘Erdinger’. Fuck right off with that!
6 – Bars! What happened to the word pub anyway? It was a good word. I suppose the difference is anywhere that you can’t doze off in front of the fire of an afternoon with getting a fuck-out is a bar.
7 – People moaning about how Christmas is ‘too commercial’. Get a grip will you?!! Look around, everyday of your life is ruled by commerce, it ain’t just Christmas. Deal with it. Jesus!
8 - Religion. Ha! Religion! Don’t make me laugh. Religion indeed.
9 - The Beatles. Say what you want about their influence and place in history but I would never choosingly (It’s a word now!!!) put their records on for a listen. Shite if you ask me.
10 – Life.
I mean, it’s good craic and all, but seriously, what a load of bollocks.

I’m not in a good mood, my head is wrecked, my foot is in agony, my thoughts are confusticated and bebothered.
Alternately, because I’m a basically a wuzzel (Two times the fun, wrapped up and rolled into one) I’m in fine gay form, my hair is obedient, my other foot is just dandy, I’m getting my oats.
But it’s not enough, it’s never enough.
Gah!

A quite bearable lightness of Being.

Howdy pop-pickers!
Haven’t made any entries in a while, but that’s probably just down to my life being totally and utterly out of fucking control.
I know I’ve said before but this time I really am going to cut down on the amount of succubae taking up my time. The Italian for a start, I’ve adopted a strict policy of ignorance re mobile calls and texts and the like. She overstepped the line when asking could she leave a box of her bird-shit in my gaff while she went back to Wop for the Drinkmas.
Bollocks to that.
The policy worked anyway and so she’s out of the equation for the festive period.
I’m in ribbons today, my back, neck, ribs, knees, and all the other joints are at me after I went ice-skating yesterday. ‘It’s not the years it’s the mileage baby’ I protested as was dragged whining and wheezing across the blood-soaked grit. This must be what it feels like to be an old married codger when he’s out with his much younger mistress. Running me ragged.
I didn’t fall though, as y’know, I’m the man, and ice-skating comes highly recommended if you’re a fan of the female breast. Coz, you’re pretty much given carte blanche to grab any jug that wobbles by and say you were just trying to stay up. All good clean fun until the stewards notice you’re doing nowt else apart from that.
Did I tell you about my haircut? I probably did, I’ve been telling everyone. Long story short anyway – Went into barber – haircut 12euro. Got given free voucher for 3euro bet with Paddy Power on the way out. Straight into bookies. Montosari in the 3.30 at Lingfield. Romped home at 6-1. 21 euro win. Made a profit of Nine euro on me crimp.
Can’t fucking argue with that.
It’s Dr. Fell’s twenty-eight anniversary of not dying yet tonight. Should be a hoot, I’m also treating this as Radge’s bash whether he likes it or no.
Had a quite one with Fell afterwards where we jested long and with novel style. Thence home, and to the lair of the Tiger.
Was in too much of a heap last night for any shenanigans, but the Tiger didn’t accept that as any excuse and so I had to step up to the plate with a resigned sigh.
That was taken as a slight and so battle ensued. Know that video by Fatboy Slim, Slashdotdashdot.com?
Well it was exactly like that, mental shit altogether biros and markers stabbing all over the shop. I don’t know what was writ on me but I was quite pleased with the slogans and lewd depictions I managed to etch over back, belly and arse. Somehow got my tongue stabbed with a biro, my blood came out purple. That was new
At the heel of it, I ended up panned out unconscious while my tattoos were being coloured in with pastel markers.
Woke up looking like some sort of a fucking twat. For want of a better simile.

Oh, and it seems I’m kinda back with my ex now too.

Bombshell!!