What seest thou else, in the dark backward and abysm of time?

Well that was an insane period of the ceaseless passage of time.
And I do mean insane my little droogs. As Frank Black would often wonder –‘Where is my mind?’ It’s a contentious issue; is it an artifice created by the comings and goings firings and sparkings of the neural pathways? Is it a kirlian aura around the body that gets divorced at the point of death? Is it in your ball-bag?
A couple of days ago I thought it was leaking out of my fingers and into the concrete, dissolving and flowing down into the gutter along with every semblance of an id or ego. But then, that’s insanity for you!!
I’ll give it a rest for a while though. There’s far too much to make and do.
Time for a bit of grousing methinks. I have to agree with David Ashforth in the Racing Post, no, I’m not about to offer scathing remarks towards Godolphin’s current crop of two-year olds don’t worry. Instead I’m going to bang on about one of my pet hates, and Ashforth’s it seems, that of music in pubs.
Don’t get me wrongo. I’d be a fan of music, and venues where there’s decent sounds on and so on always get the thumbs up from me. But I’m snarling here about normal everyday pubs that have to blast out the poxy chart hits of the day at max volume. The Motherfuckers like, surely they are doing this just to lessen the amount of time talked and increase the amount of gargle sank. I know you’ve heard all this before Cowzer but it’s really getting my gander. Think about it, four persons standing around in Kehoes or somewhere musicless can chat to each other and interject into one another’s conversations thus keeping fresh the witty cut and thrust of social repartee.
Transplant that scenario to one of these godless ‘plubs’ and two out of the four have the choice to either keep yelling ‘Wha?’ or just ignore the general topic and keep supping.
Nothing wrong with that if you’re a nipple-hairless teen on laser-guided mission to get destrucified but at this stage in the game: Homie don’t play that. If I get rubbered and want to go dancing then, so be it, I’ll go there but just tone it down ta fuck in the pubs! And I don’t want to hear this ‘Oh , you’re getting old man,’ Bite down on my dick you unimaginative bastards! Suck it in the rest of the way and bite again. I have not the slightest desire to compete with Jessica Simpson’s caterwauling when I get out for a libation – which is becoming a rarer and rarer meatball for this very reason.
Example, MacTurcaills, (or however that kip is spelled) is a semi-decent spot not far from work. Had a few with some colleagues there, just relaxing, quietly enjoying our beers as is constitutionally entitled as Walter Sobchak will tell you, when suddenly it hits 9 o’clock and, even though the place was relatively empty, they saw fit to turn on Dublin’s saddest display of disco lights and blare ‘These Boots are Made for Walkin’ at eardrum-devastating levels that were last used to rattle David Koresh in the Waco siege.
Not only does that tune make me ill right down to my sub-atomic particles but there was just…no…..need…..for it. This creation of false atmosphere to lure people in. People can create their own atmosphere, that’s what social interaction is? Why do we try and drown out and numb everything, everyday. It’s like driving a car to work when you live in the city. Why? You only get to work quicker! You’ll miss the life that goes on between.
I just don’t get it.

Spirit of Sir Belvedere Place.

This was originally an email I sent but I thought it might good enough to post anyway...

Listen to this one.
As you know, and are annoyed at, I've given up the beer for a while so I was astonished to find myself getting into an odd scrape when coming home from the pub after being on water all night the other night.There I was just near my gaff when I see a bird staggering along the railings hopping slowly on one foot and crying. I walked by her naturally.
But then I stopped after a few paces and grimaced as pangs of what I can only call conscience erupted inside my head. To my dismay It looked like I was going to turn around and say -'Are you alright?'
And I did, to which she replied in a wailing voice 'Nooooo, I hurt my ankle...I want to go home....help..please.''
Ah for fuck sake' I thought.
But still I got her keys off her and asked if the door she was currently outside of was her place, she said it was and so I tried all the keys, none of em worked. I asked her what number she lived at and after a good long wretched rumination she said it was number 36. The door I was trying was 22.
'Ah for fuck sake' I thought.
So then I tried to hoist her up and see if we could go and find number 35 but she cried out really loud that her ankle was killing her, and on inspection that bad boy was going blue. We were getting nowhere fast so I said to take off those stupid fucking high heels, how are you supposed to walk in them anyway broken ankle or not? She couldn't handle this manuever so I took them off myself with a moderate amount of trouble.
'Ah for fuck sake' I thought.
So I told her to wait there and I'd go and find her gaff first so that we wouldn't be hobbling around like headless chickenheads and I'd come back then. She didn't seem too troubled about this stranger making off into the night with her keys. After a well-educated guess and search I found the house across the square, the keys opened the door. Thank Rod. So I went back for the bitch. There she was unconscious on the steps and I had some trouble rousing her back to a semi-awareness of reality. C'mon, said I, and tried to walk with her with one of her arms over my shoulder, but the dumb cow kept slipping and yelling about her damaged ankle. I was ready to fuck her into a skip but then my lack of drunkenness took over again and i decided to lift her up and carry her ass over across the square.I did and she was about 12 stone so I had to make the voyage snappy. A few strides in and my nose realised the awful truth. She had pissed herself at some point.
'Ah for FUCK sake' I actually said this time.
So there I was carrying this dumb semi-comatose heavy slag like a potato bag across the road like a fucking mug when what happens only a cop car comes around the corner and stops in front of me in the road.
'AH FOR FUCK SAKESSS!!' I gritted.
The cops roll down the window, bear in mind I'm struggling with the weight of the wagon, and ask me what's going on. I say that the ho has hurt herself and I was bringing her home. They ask her if she knows me and of course she just slurs...'Nooo...'
I hang my head and shake it in utter disbelief.
But Then I tell the cops she's had one too many and they eventually move on, but actually they just cruise around the square keeping an eye on me. Finally, with my arms screaming and burning in absolute pain, I get her to her door, open it and get her in. I bring her as far as the elevator and tell her to be on her way. She puts her arms around me and is all full of thanks and stupidity.
Then of course she starts to slobber on my chin and cheek in what I suppose was some monstrous attempt at a kiss. I push her away in sheer horror and launch her ass into the elevator then scarper out the main door.
As I walk home cursing my foolish turn of good samaritan-ness I notice the cops slowly cruising behind me a ways back.
I lose sight of them when I get into my own flat.

I shower and say fuck sakes a lot before going to bed.

Trees are beautiful and they dance

Savage.
It’s just plain difficult to sit down and get this blog out after the sheer, relentless madness of the Electric Picnic. We all definitely shaved about five year’s off our lives on this one, but not to worry; those are the shitty years where you just sit moaning about how you can’t wipe your own ass anymore whilst the stink of your decaying neck-skin offends your family. Not that any of us males who were at the Leccy Piccy have any undamaged sperm left after such incessant intoxication. And the ladies egg-making tubes can’t be in good nick either. Ah man, this is getting a little queasy, change gear.
The best preparation for a roughing-it weekend of mayhem is plenty of sleep the night before and avoidance of booze. So to that end I made sure that I stayed up getting destroyed till 5am on pink, red and white wine followed by a whole bottle of Bailey’s. I’ll stop right there as this is starting to sound like a Radge blog, chock full of ale tales and hangover synopses. Suffice to say I was in a right jocker the next morning when it was necessary to take the Liammachine down to Laois. One foot aboard and I was handed a whiskey and coke, 10 bells, nearly killed me. But more and more I’m becoming certain of my invincibility. Ten seconds after the arduous trudge to bartertown and who do I meet at the gates only one of the Naasheads who have already being fucked out. There’s just something about the Na Riogh mentality that hates paying a fair price or any for receiving something. Fayfucks to Conor who drove to Athy to buy luminous yellow shoelaces to wear in lieu of the official wristbands – enterprising.
Anyway, the Thing. Marvellous fucking set-up altogether. Despite their being plenty of pigs you could get away with and more importantly simply get anything you wanted if you only tried a little. This was the first festival where everything was thought of for me. Our camp was one of those ones with a marquee in the middle that I’ve always been jealous of and all. Beer to steal was in abundance and there was heaps of good music in the air. And the hammocks, oh the hammocks. Can’t really describe much else about the festival itself, and in truth, it would be easy to have a crap time if you hadn’t your knapper screwed on, or if you got too rubbered that you spent hours recovering in your tent. But you just have to know the limits of your own body and how to pace that sucker out over the two or three days you’re there.
And unlike Oxegen, the fun doesn’t stop when the festival officially ends each night. Plenty of raves on after hours from the back of mentler’s cars, and I mean fucking hardcore raves man. This was the where sanity broke down and an almost complete loss of identity occurred for me for hours on end. Didn’t. Know. Where. The Fuck. I was. But I knew that I was where I should have been in the cosmos and that dancing was the best course of action. Walking a half mile down the country road away from the gig on my own only to find that the sound of the bangin’ party I was following was just a power generator is a cautionary tale. Still danced my socks off to it though, for a while. What were the musical highlights? God, let me see. Kraftwerk, Soulwax, Nick Cave, LCD Soundsystem, Audio Bullys, ah I can’t remember, it was all gravy. Cruising the Bumpercars wearing the smileyvison 3d glasses shroomed up to the nines was top too. It all takes a toll though, gonna take her nice and handy for a bit. My soul is in ribbons.
Three days next year.
Mother of Rod.
Till Friday, and Johnson’s fucking-off-Oz thing. The night calls for a disgrace.
And so shall it be delivered.
Whooop, wupwipwupwupwipwupwupwipwipwupwipwupwip!!!