Valley Of the Snake

Stick 'em up !

2009-02-28T06:03:00.000-08:00

B pour Baguette.

Just came back from my boulangerie, not too long before that I sprang out of my bed alerted by the sunshine dappling over my face - it's a beautiful day, Spring has sprung. (There, used all 3 conjugations of the verb)
And walked around with a solatic smile on my face and arms raised, palms outward soaking in the sweet, sweet vitamin D until the roasting vapours of the bakery sent their ephemeral invisible hooks into my odorat organs.

Bread!

Now here comes further instruction in Parisian, and French in general, social interaction.
As an Irish person you should know that once you decide to come and live in Paris, and most places in europe actually, you have to face two important nutrional lacks in your life.
Milk and bread, those basic cornerstones of a hearty diet are simply not the same.
You can say goodbye to fresh, full cow-juice and hello to UHT powdered horror, demi écreme that never seems to go sour, even if you leave it in the press for a month. The press!!
I've found a replacement, lait entier which you can get from the supermarket in plastic bottles but it's nowhere near fresh and hasn't got that same invigorating taste as Irish bainne.
Back in the summer of 2006 I remember feeling the early onset of rickets, really hearing the grinding of bone on brittle bone in my knees and elbows as my body tried to nourish itself on UHT, so I'm on to mulitvitamin supplements.

It's a price I pay for quality théâtre.

And bread.
You won't be able to get your hands on anything homologeous to white fluffy, fresh sliced pans the likes of Brennans or Johnston, Mooney and O'Brien, you know those waxy paper packets which you can bury your nose in and inhale great gusts of childhood. Because the bread industry is totally different. Or rather, there is no industry, no big bakeries, just boulangeries, little boulangeries vieying every day (except mondays) for your palate.
And they don't make sliced pans. A crude American artifice it's seen as, and if you go to the supermarket you can find, neglected on the shelves packets of 'American Style sandwich bread' but it tastes abominable, way too sugary and can't withstand a buttering, the knife ploughing through it's feeble surface, the butter not budging from the blade.

But that's fine with me, because there is nothing like the Saturday morning baguette, or the afterwork demi-baguette bought on the fly on the way home. Well, the second being harder and just a full one cut in half from earlier in the day rather than a specially made demi from the morning which is.... anyway, I'm losing myself here, the point is -it's heavenly and I, like everyone else, can never resist biting the end of mine as I leave the shop such is the thrall of it's crusty fragrance.
In fact, under French law it is illegal to walk more than seven paces from a boulangerie without tasting your baguette. This is totally true yet, interesingly enough, nobody knows what the punishment for this cardinal sin is because nobody has yet being able to do it.
I'm betting it's directly to the guillotine though.

However, it's not so easy the boulangerie, oh no no no it's not !
This is why it shouldn't really be risked by foreigners, and generally isn't as the queues and obscure codage and systems frightens them off, as it did me for months.
So, only the French are customers then for the women behind the counter don't put up with any guff so let me tell you how it goes down -

First of all there are two doors, one for going in, one for going out, don't choose the wrong one as you'll either get pushed out of the way with a shaft of hardened dough in your eye or crushed by the automatic door. Go to the entrance where the queue is, logically enough.

Have your plan in mind already, know what it is you want to buy before you get in the queue, you can do this by looking at the sign on the window or the blackboard in the shop as you'll get asked what you want even if you're at the end of the queue sometimes, this shit moves rapidly and if you faff around you'll get oh la la'd out of it and given a mowldy stick.

So when you hear 'Monsieur bonjour" being cried at you in an osscilating ostrich voice which actually sounds like 'MeeeesYoBojyUUUUaaahuuu!?" with a question mark at the end that's your cue to rapidly respond what you want, in what quantity and how well cooked.
Those are the three things they want to hear and nothing else.
So, AFTER you say bonjour madame/mademoiselle or Monsieur you ask maybe for three baguettes, not too cooked and you can also specify the type from complet (extra fibre) campagne (grainy) céreal (even granier) aux noix (nutty) and a whole host of others depending on the particular shop and it's specialities, usually the array is flummoxing.
A fraction of a second later your order will be in your hand and the lady will have shrilled something at you that you'll have missed, it sounds like 'Sasratooo??" and here you can't hesitate or you'll be baled out of it, she's asking if you want anything else, and by now, you don't as you should have asked for it already and if you start going back on your tracks the old lady behind you in the queue will start making that Pffffffff blowing of the lips sound in frustration behind you.

Exit by the exit door.

Another great thing about the boulangerie and patisserie are the cakes and tarts and fancy what nots on offer. And how you can order any sort of cake your imagination can come up with, and the frankly, quite gay joy you feel when walking out with the lovingly packaged and ribboned delicacy.

All that remains then is to share your Sunday morning tarte aux fraise or mille-feuille with a sulking french girl in order to bring her back to sunshine.

Works a treat.

Gastropodopolis

2009-02-13T12:13:00.000-08:00

Because there is nothing that can be recommended more in life than living in Paris it can be easy for me to forget that the reality behind the dream requires that you be possesed of a soul and heart and calves of caste iron to withstand the systems, the moeurs and the peoplehood.
I've been here a bit now and already I've seem 'em come and go. Irish, American, Scottish, Australian, New Zealander, Canadian, English, whatever, I've seem at least one and often many of each of the main anglophone groups arrive with great romantic notions and energy only to have the inner, more difficult to access Paris denied to them due to their inability to handle their affairs or deal with the remorseless administration. Or even to be able to handle the sheer violence of the simplest matters like buying a stamp without having your ego torn apart and handed back to you with a disdainful sniff.
And so they head home after a couple of months - broken. Forever.
And if it's not the people, the systems, the tax, the impossibleness of lodgement that get them it's......l'amour.
And believe me, nobody gets out of that alive in this city.
I remember meeting a bloke in Abbeyleix back in Ireland over the Christmas who had spent a year or so here. When asked about it, he blanched, said, with a stutter that 'it...it put..f...fucking YEARS on me" then he held his forehead in his hand for a very long time as his shoulders heaved. I left it at that. I knew his type. He was now one of the Great Parislysed.
So with that in mind, I think it's up to me, one who, having faced the fathoms in these deeps and finished up, after I must admit several periplés, growing the necessary troisiéme peau so that now I can swim with the electric eels of Lutece with impunity - to write bit of advice here on this blog to perhaps prepare anymore foolhardy hard fools after me.
So let me start at the start, go through the middle, and perhaps finish at the end. I'm feeling classic. The next few entries here will correspond to our greek alphabet, of which you should be familiar.

A pour Arrondissment.

Paris is one big snail.
The numbered districts unfurl out from the centre to form an escargot shell and each have their own individual flavour (like snails themselves, mmm) which any Parisian knows innately. They often talk of these numbers rather than names of places so it's a good idea to have a vague idea what they mean. Or where you have the slightest hope of living. I'll make this brief by pointing out the most important thing in each area and labelling it what the locals sometimes do to give you the overall gist and follow with the HOLT (hope of living there) factor on a scale of 1 to 10.

1th - Louvre, etc.

Expensive, tourist ridden area at one end but also includes bloody Châtelet the main interjunction shithole of the metro. Beautiful along the river nonetheless. HOLT -0

2th - Bourse

Which means both treasury and scrotum in French. Elite interior financial and governmental area. Spookily quiet and beautiful in it's reserved austerity right in the heart of the city. You've also got the amazing Opera Garnier. HOLT-0

3th - Marais. (the swamp)

The gay area. Chic, classy, sassy, glassy, bassy, oh monsieur your knees are grassy!
There's actually a lot more to do here than merely sitting around being gay. I quite like it actually. But if you ARE gay, well, you're in for a treat and many an American fag comes here, gets used and abused and set fudge-packing home in tears. These queers take no prisoners.
HOLT - 0.5 (if you become a rentboy)

4th - Bobo.

Years ago I remember Zig And Zag going to Paris and having only one line which they used in every situation. It was "Ou est le centre de George Pompidou?" Well, that line won't get you very far (it's not even polite enough to start with) but here, my muppet pals from long ago, you will find it. And it's a magnificent art venue, always intriguing, mutating and inviting. Best view of the city from the top at twilight. This arrondissment is a curious mixture of tourist and true-blue Parisan who live on the island of St.Louis, which you will NEVER live on.
HOLT - Minus 20

5th - Sorbonne

Haughty student area, when you hear people talk about "the left bank" or the "Latin Quarter" well, this it. This is ACTUALLY it, the original of the species, and it's amazing, IF you know how to deal with it with getting ripped off or mocked openly. And unfortunately the only way to do that is either not be a foreigner or pretend really hard not to be a foreigner. But why, am I bothering, all of the people who frequent this place are smarter than most people I know, and definitely smarter than me, there's little fooling them. Greatest bookshops in the world here. It's paradise basically if can unlock it's secrets. HOLT - Minus 10

6th - St Germain.

Like above only more residential and perhaps that bit more expensive. The only thing you can do without having to take out a loan is play pétanque in jardin du Luxembourg. But be ready to have old men scoff and scorn your pathetic ball-lancing skills. You miserable roastbeef.
HOLT - Minus 15

7th - Trocadero

The real one, not the sham one in London. Here, if you come at the right time at dusk and stand at the low wall after the courtyard to look beyond the fountains see the Eiffel Tower and the champs de mars beyond framed by Les Invalides......you will begin to understand, you will begin to understand..
HOLT, a surprising 1, if you decide to live in a carton under the bridge with the rest of your bum friends.

8th -Champs Elysées.

You can come and walk along and enjoy the pulse and bustle but you won't be able to buy anything in any of the shops, but they will let you come in just to laugh and point heartily at your shoes and the disparity between the rent or mortgage you pay and the products they have on display.
HOLT - hah hahhhahaa! ohh! (wipes tear from eye)

9th - Pigalle
Sex district. If you want to buy sex or things to do with sex then here's your dive. Funny place really, you can either pay one euro to go into a booth at Sex-O-Drome or FuckCitee and watch a naked woman pleaure herself or pay 40 euro and watch a naked woman pleasure herself less convincingly at Crazy Horse or Moulin Rouge. It's your move Big Player.....
HOLT - 2

10th - Gare Du Nord.

Avoid.
HOLT - 1 But you won't live long enough to enjoy it.

11th - République.

One of the last places in the Western world where you can still buy games for the Neo Geo, Master System or SNES.
HOLT - 2

12th - Bastille

This is a place of fun and hedonism which gets a little blue later on, so make sure you stay when you see it getting mauve or violet as the real shindig is on the way. But caution, you'll miss the last metro and be FUCKED if you want to get a taxi, so try and ask where the bus-stop, once you've been mugged by that guy, go to the central pillar and try and fight your way onto a bus, when on the bus keep your eyes down and don't reveal yourself as an anglophone at all costs unless it's a girl.
HOLT - 1

13th - Bibliothéque

Chez moi.
The top half is oriental of all shades and the bottom half is french village, a charming combination and I live in the latter half. The most well behaved Chinatown you'll ever find and very few English speakers, no tourists. Larvly.
HOLT - 1

14th - Montparnasse.

That big dark finger pointing accusingly at the sky is the only skyscraper they ever allowed built in the city and people either love it or hate if for that. I used to work in it on the 18th floor actually, how do I feel about it? After relfection, I either Late it or Hove it.
This is where you can eat proper crépes as it's Breton territory.

15th - Just known as the Quinziéme.

I used to live here too, in a flat the size of a lilliputian matchbox. Two types of people in this mostly residential area -Well off catholics and their rampant kids, or illegal arabs stuffed into the cracks in between. Once again, a schizophrenic mix that somehow functions.
I went completely mad here once don't you know? That was......interesting.
HOLT- 1

16th - Charles De Gaulle

Well, not really as that étoile straddles 17th and 8th but somehow you always end up there from here. Just stand and watch the traffic chaos around the Arc, from there walk back up towards Concorde and you're understanding will deepen if weather conditions permit.
HOLT -0

17th - ?

Is a place of mystery, nobody knows what goes on in there. Nothing goes in, nothing comes out.
It's locked down so tight that ********cette ligne a été supprimé par ordre du conseil executive du dix-septiéme @ Paris. Merci pour votre inattention*************

HOL*****On a dit chutt!!*****

18th - Montmartre

Well, we've already seen the bollocks, so here is the heart.
Again, the true wonder hides itself prudently from the teeming masses of tourists and the endless uphill struggle of the place forces many to renounce. But there is true magic in that that hill. Every brick is held together coquettishly by tromperie, deceit, lust, love and disappointment.
It's all poetry.
HOLT - For one night, you can fall in love with a local, spend the best night of your life, then spend the rest of it trying to feel like that again, before dying alone, unsatisfied.

19th - Black people
HOLT - That depends how much game you got, shorty

20th - Arabs
HOLT - That depends on how much game you deprive yourself of, my brother.

I'm sorry, I couldn't write a blog about arrondissments without letting rascism slip in somewhere, man I've been living here t..........quite long.

Till B.

Here I am, Here I stay

2009-01-22T11:33:00.000-08:00

I think it would be remiss of me not to notify my fellow Gaels of an interesting snippet of table-quiz trouncing knowledge (If only that noble pursuit hadn't long ago been annihilated by rapid evolution and abuse of internet capable portable telephones and similar devices) though for a time I'd considered guarding it jealously for myself to add to the pile of accrued wisdom which I will reflect back on at the end of my life and cackle in pleasure at - this forbidden lore known only to a select few.

But I'll let you in on this one, seeing as you're probably Radge, and there is a relevance.
So, if you want to amuse and astound your brethren, sit back, cross your legs, jut your lower lip in concentration, squint your eyes and heed my words of education.

Once upon a time, a distinguished family from Limerick, the Mac-Mahons saw the light and moved to France, there they lived long, fruitful cheese-fulfilled lives and produced a son by the name of Patrice.
Unlike so many of his fellow emmigrants young Paddy enjoyed a luxurious and privileged life and so logically sought to ease his ennui through military service. So off he went to Algeria to kill people, and he enjoyed himself immensely in this until being shot. But people were made of sterner stuff back then so he got over it and soon was back merrily killing people again, and effectively, so much so that he became General of the Foreign Legion - the most infamous and murderous of all French regiments.
So efficiently bloodthirsty and cunning was Paddy that, having acquitted himself well in the Crimean War and other engagements Napoleon the Third made him a Duke. Nice one!
Paddy loved killing arabs, that's for sure, but when the Germanic folk started acting up he soon showed that he was just as dextrous at killing those filthy Prussian dogs too. Only problem was, there were far too many of them and better organised, so Paddy had to let hundreds of his own men die before he figured out that he'd better retreat and figure out how to deal with the Hun. But it was all right, as they were Alsatians, nearly German themselves sure, thought Paddy.
Worse was to come though, as he decided to follow Napoleon to Sedan, and we all know how that ended. As for Paddy, he got shot again. Everything looked fucked.
But chance was to come his way, as in the aftermath of that disastrous conflict for France, disgruntled workers and bookish types with those John Lennon round glasses started asking for this that and the other and wanted to run the show according to new fangled ideas like social democracy and autonomy. Bollocks to that! Thought the upper classes and establishment and so each side thought it best to try and solve the situation through the time honoured method of bloodshed and murder.
T'was a bloody week.
But in the end Duke Paddy Mac-Mahon, who was leading the Versailles troops managed to get the upper hand and the Communards gave it up. After this surrender Paddy, keeping his eye on the ball, played his trump card - he had pretty much the whole lot of them, and thousands of other workers, rounded up and killed.
That's what they get!
This sort of thing looked great on a CV back then and so it was to pass that Paddy became nominated the first and only French President of Limerick origins. A job he did for six years.
Now, if you go to Charles De Gaulle Etoile, you can take one of the mighty avenues that come off this impressive star, one of which is Avenue Mac-Mahon, in honour of this fine killer of men.
And of course he left French history with one of it's fondest, and funniest military quotes -

La fièvre typhoïde est une maladie terrible. Ou on en meurt, ou on en reste idiot. Et je sais de quoi je parle, je l'ai eue.

To Mac-Mahon!

(clink)

Chinese Gooseberries all round!

2009-01-19T13:01:00.000-08:00

I've just discovered the kiwi!

Let me explain. You see, all my life I've avoided eating kiwis just on the basis that they look like a German Shepard's ball bag. And they do. That's fairly indisputable. So I happily went about my life plucking kiwi pieces out of fruit salads, avoiding kiwi milkshakes, and generally living a gentle, undisturbed or remarked-upon kiwi-free existence.

But I was wrong.

The other day in the caféteria they had no mandarins left, what was I to do then in order to round off my dessert? Quandry you see, as I'd already eaten a banana that morning and the apples had nothing going for them. So I decided, well, what's a kiwi next to a horse's dick? And so I took a couple and put them on my tray, all the while fidgeting nervously knowing that hardened kiwi-eaters were looking on with suspicion as I ineptly handled them. You seem to just have to rotate two kiwis in your hand, and that leads the mind into dark, dark places.... But anyway, when it came to eating them I didn't know what to do. I started to peel them mandarin-style but it wasn't working out, the skin was tough and not coming off in smooth peels but in little unglorious bits, I was destroying the kiwi.
Panic!!

I could feel the gazes of others on me as I put it down and pretended I wanted to eat something else, but there was nothing else left on the plate, I had to keep going! I started to eat it like an apple, but there wasn't enough peel gone and I could only get my incisors in there and scrape out miserable shreds, juice getting on my cheeks, stares of gallic reproach lancing into me from all corners of the restaurant. I was fucking up in front of my peers!!! But then suddenly it didn't matter.......the taste....this taste that I had for no good reason denied myself for so long....I'd never tasted a kiwi before. They are gorgeous. In fact, now I rate them one of the best fruits of all time because unlike most other fruits....YOU CAN EAT THE PIPS!! What a revelation. And so I have learned the true way of eating them, like a boiled egg, scooping them with a spoon. Well, what more can I say but that the old French saying is true, 'never be put off by food that looks like a nutsac, unless it's actually hanging off an animal'

The Kiwi, the fruit so good it could almost apply for meat status.

And it would have a good case for getting it!

*********STOP THE PRESS*********
Additional pertinent kiwi information discovered post blog.

Kiwifruit also serves as a natural blood thinner. A recent study performed at the University of Oslo in Norway reveals that--similar to popular mainstream aspirin therapy-consuming two to three kiwifruit daily for 28 days significantly thins the blood, reducing the risk of clots, and lowers fat in the blood that can cause blockages.[10]

Perspective through the dendrites

2009-01-07T12:09:00.000-08:00

Crunching through the freshly packed Parisian snow yesterday the cold reached such an intensity that I did a deed I hadn't done in years.
I pulled up my scarf to cover my nose.
Strange memories came to me then with the stifling, prickly sensation of icy wool on the muzzle as I bore on against the incessantly falling flakes towards the crisply glittering lights of La Défense.
Fractal memories of shivering in another epoch, similarly wrapped, standing atop a truck dangerously over-laden with fossil fuel, itself frosted over. The scaldingly cold pain as rime-covered plastic bale twine cuts into finger joints. Or slippery coal sacks rip free from numb digits. Freezing Saturday mornings spent like that, with glimpses of other kids through windows enjoying the cartoons.
Well, that was a bummer.

But that being said, and hard work aside, I had a great childhood. And an animal adolescence.
And a brilliant life now.

And as the temperatures drop again, and I make it back to mon quartier and notch up the heating in all the rooms, I notice the homeless guys outside. Then turn to the TV to see Palestinien kids getting blown asunder.

I'm a lucky, lucky man.

From where I'm sitting

2008-12-29T08:48:00.000-08:00

From where I'm sitting, Ireland has a strange look to it.

So much so that at first glance I hardly recognised her. She uttered my name with a hint of hesitation on my way past and we both chuckled with our lack of instant reconnection. And as I had been hearing nothing but the despairing wails of financial discord drifting over the electronic and marine waves these past six months I couldn't help but notice the disparity between those pessimistic caterwaulings and the emminently comfortable lifestyles being pursued.
Instead of hollowed-out gimlets staring at the empty walls in arch despondence, from where I'm squinting I see glimmering eyes fixed on acres of flat-screen plasma TV surface as expensive sports coverage packages pass.
Rather than frugal and cautious belt-tightening meals there are great swathes of swine hewn down as replacement for the burned dioxin-riddled carcasses in order to supply an unflagging hunger for sausage and rasher to round out already bloated family menus.
Is there any other interior design apart from sofly lit beige and bone-white minimalism, with decking and darkwood furniture, and of course leather couches? Not from where I'm lounging. And sipping Perlenbacher, or Adelscott, or Leffe. Getting hard to find yourself offered a can of Smithwicks.
From where I'm jostling, this car is mega-long, scarily silent, and the dashboard is as wide as I am from foot to forehead.
It must be easy to be an apprentice burglar these days. You just go to any new housing estate, master breaking into one beige house and you have the knack. Every house has the same layout, you could do it in your sleep, or preferably, the owner's. Great atmosphere around here too I hear said from where I'm frowning, very quiet seems to be the desired quality. More important than life or vibrancy. But they say they'll build a Centra soon, and a pub in a few years. The markets permitting.
From where I'm quaking, everyone is forcing themselves to enjoy themselves as they play poker. Texas Hold'Em is the sarky succesor to Trival Pursuit. Ah yes, a game where pure chance, deception, ego, bravado, lieing and one-upsmanship apports the victor the spoils. A game that can't be played for a pleasure un-accompanied by monetary gain. A game I suspect people try desperately to like more than they actually do so that either harmony reigns or they don't feel left out. A game that is no more or less boring than rolling a dice and betting on the outcome.
Across the glass minnarets completely covering the bar table there are seven former brunettes who fail to convince me of their blondeness but succeed in conveying their blandness.
From where I'm shrugging they can look my way all night, even talk to me, and never understand how I feel towards them. I'm willing to bet they'd be surprised.
From where I'm listening, these accents sound strange.
From where I'm standing, the words I get in edgeways seem to come out sideways.

From where I'm from seems to be gone.

Certa-tude

2008-10-27T05:28:00.000-07:00

I had searched with great determination and thirst to find a watering-hole I could call my own, or could call me it’s own, until I found what I can now proudly call my local.
Most of the places crossed off the list fell into one of three F categories – too false, too French or too fucking expensive.

False as in those hickety hoo ‘Irish’ bars where not one of the staff comes from our island and can’t recount the history of the stuff hung on the walls or the characters that frequented in the past. And the supposedly Hibernian food on the menu bears little resemblance to anything you have ever scranned on. Apparently we eat a lot more quail than you would think. There’s no balding, white shirted, sleeve-rolled up barman called Shay to tell you how the GAA got on or who he fancies at Punchestown. Ah, I tell a small untruth here, you can get that at Corcoran’s in Pigalle, but tellingly, if you walk just a few yards down to O’ Sullivan’s you’ll be back in a foreign land. However, saying that now, Dublin is getting fierce like that too these days. But at least there is a good quantity of bastions of solid pubbery. Just look at the list on Radge’s blog. Or ask Radge, he knows pub.

However, what I meant by French was the ambiance. The people themselves are grand but just don’t comport themselves as you would expect in an Irish pub from the heartlands say. Alright, they just don’t drink enough, you get me. They have a half, and go somewhere else, talk amongst themselves. Don’t sit and fester, getting ever so maudlin around 7 pints before letting the head sink despairingly into the folded arms in front. Like real folk.
And that’s fine. But for serious drinking, I needed more.
(I believe I needn’t clarify the ‘too fucking expensive’ category)

And so it was that one portentous evening I found myself sat at bar Certa.
The buzz was different, there was a calm that spoke of things to come, and the very walls resonated with the accumulated laughter of revelers of quality. And as usual I tried to speak to those around me, and lo! They answered, and reacted and in moments I knew I was among friends. You can see the glimmering in certain people’s eyes, like a pack intelligence, they have evolved to know who is cool and who isn’t, who gets it and doesn’t, if you are doted with this gland give thanks to Darwin and the blind watchmaker for you are amongst kings of the earth.
Folken like this can spot each other a mile off, and I knew I was in a certain sense, in my right place.

The ease of camaraderie, the relentless welcome, and the, dare I say it, trust, I have found in this, what amounts to one single long room, is something precious. I drink until closing time, mouth running at double team, conversation flowing like mead at a banquet, then drink later with the barstaff, all around Paris, here there and anywhere. Good lads and girls, French but sound, not a given that.

And what is more. The history, unknownst to me until recently, gives me great pleasure indeed. For I have discovered, first through the Princess of Chesnay and then expanded on further by the Patron Jean-Luc himself that this bar was the haunt of none other than one of my utter heroes, Salvador Dali himself, and his band of cohorts.

Yes, the Emperor of Montmartre and I both were drawn to this place; it all begins to make sense. And not just he, other notable characters too, and get this, Winston Churchill liked to come here on his Parisian trips.

Little wonder then that I find myself inspired as I sit sloped on the bar, hunched over my notebook, writing feverishly, automatically, sipping Affligem, turning and regaling all around. I have put some nice lines together, wrapped up in an unbelievably living atmosphere.
Important and terrible and hopeful and hurtful lines, but honest ones.

There are ups and downs at Bar Certa, but I think I’m on the right way.

Turn and face the strain.

2008-10-18T13:16:00.000-07:00

Cha cha changes

Yep, that remorseless wheel keeps going around.
The fullness of Time unearths everything. If we could be always honest without ripping people apart we would do so, but where's the kindness, where's the humanity in honesty?
You can't hide forever from Father Cronos.
Let's look at his latest victims -

Jorg Haider.
Austrian extreme right-winger who was heralded as the guiding light, great white hope of all those pockets of xenophobia and intolerance still festering mid-continental Europe.
Died in a car crash during the week, well, he was bollocksed and didn't kill anyone else and nobody likes to hear someone losing their life, but you gotta believe he wouldn't have wanted the truth to come out - that he was on his drunken way back from a gay nightclub.

Sarah Palin
Yeah, I know I'm always going on about this witch but here again an old misdoing catches up to haunt a public figure. A bit of nepotism always gets my goat and it was noted recently that this seal-clubber had been using her powers to influence petty family matters, trying to pressurise a public safety commissioner to fire her ex-brother in law,a state trooper who wronged the family Palin, romantically. But it all comes to light.

Harun Yayah
Turkish nutcase who sent around a glossy book refuting the theory of evolution and championing the might and right of creationism, specifically the Islamic version.
Science teachers around the world might be pulling this disgrace out to teach kids were it not for Yahah's fatal mistake of sending a copy to Richard Dawkins who of course wasted no time in spotting that absolutely every scientific fact in the book was completely wrong. Snakes labelled as eels, worms as starfish and best of all, a fishing lure, complete with hook which was meant to be a caddis fly that hadn't changed since time began.
A charlatan of epic proportions! Time outs the lies yet again.

Madonna and Guy Ritchie.
Are two of the fakest people in the world. One thinks she's 25 year old popstar the other thinks he's a distinghished 60 year old film-maker. So imagine the porkies they would tell each other on a daily basis? Anyway, my point here is, just you wait for the revelations to follow, oh we will have so many! Both of them produce absolute dross and call it their 'art'. There was once a time when Madonna was relevant, but now she's an ape. What a regression. What a devolution.
As for Richie, he's static and boring and annoying. "Annava Ard Brit Gangsta film innit?"
Bouncers love him I'd say.

I said now Time may change me, but I can't trace Time.

Real Wild Child

2008-10-10T16:27:00.000-07:00

I will never get married.

And there are hundreds of reasons and arguments I can prop up to support this stark proposition but this isn’t actually the precise time or place to get into it, perhaps another day maybe.

Suffice to say, not enough time, too many people.

But to get back to my point, if I ever was to hypothetically get married, I know exactly who my best man would be.
I’m sorry if this might upset my friends and associates and even my arch nemesi (for they are legion) but I really can’t look any further beyond the man who I consider THE BEST MAN.

Iggy Pop.

Why is he so good ?
Well, there is nothing that can’t be said about the man, except that he doesn’t keep it real, because he does. He does every day. He has, since being in the public eye, and relatively low-key at that, ask any 20 year old who the fuc k he is, and does so every breathing moment and second.
Pop was born a year after Hitler died and with all that accrued energy he found himself iGnited incandescently at a Doors concert where the Lizard king himself gave birth to the Iguana and a whole shed of Holy Cow came flooding out the vulvan doors of a funk odyssey that has continued in the hearts and minds of many a sidewinder, and I count myself as a proud member of this esteemed group (being the fastest hips in Naas) ………….niet, I think I’m break, or is that brake, the sentence here and say, that is how those things came to pass.
Iggy is an artist that I feel connected to. He ain’t like anybody else but so many want to be him after the fact. He invented the stage dive! He went to Berlin on retreat with Bowie to wean themselves of drugs and they ended up making the best music ever. He laughs with full honesty, in a goofy but endearing way, that laugh echoes through me and makes me eternally happy everytime I chance to catch it on a song or DVD or interview somewhere. Speaking of which, check out that interview he does back in 76 or 79 on some American chat show where the host is trying to ridicule him but Jim comes back with erudition to rip the host a new one and explain , and cogently explain why really smart, sensitive and loving people do drugs and enjoy them. It will tell you a lot.
Sure he has some shite roles in shite films and some cringy songs here and there, and those jeans with no belt circa The Idiot are beyond redemption, but fucking hell, what were you wearilng in 81? Nappies? I was in shorts and a BA Baracus T-shirt tellement j’etais petit à l’époque.
Est-ce que je vais finir le blog en français ?, non, je pense pas, ça ne serait pas gentil. On continue..

Lack. Of. Compromise. Kid.
As those beautiful words from Rorschach in Alan Moore’s Magnum Compus, Watchmen came out, that’s the way to live a life.
A life without compromise. This is what Iggy deals in, this is what Jim M was talking about, this was the brass ring that Kurt’s fingers kept slipping off, this is all anybody who is…..God…not like you lot, need.
To be other. To be full, to see and experience everything the cosmos can throw, pain, joy, fear, surprise, shock, horror, NEWNESS, novelty ! Show us something new.

Leave them thinking, when the cinders die down, GOSH…

There will never be anyone else quite like you.

Coming around

2008-10-10T04:52:00.000-07:00

Trauma.

Never forget that you have to fight every step of the way.

Every step . Every inch. If you let your guard down even for a moment while you’re out there on the streets of rage then someone will surely hoodwink you, be it through malignancy or complacency, doesn’t matter, either way you’re not getting your dues.
Unless you are the possessor of a certain ‘Factor’ that is pre-fixed by the portentious word, Cuddihy.
Ah no, even still, even if you are someone who is jammy enough to survive major brain surgery, you need to keep your peepers peeled and slap-box on a ready spring.

Take yesterday.
The day announced itself badly when, while obtaining my morning sustenance, a jambon /fromage flute, I wasn’t totally focused on the matter at hand, lost as I was in the tune ‘Well Did You Evah’ (Debbie Harry, Jim Osterberg) on my portable stereo sliver, and only discovered later to my horror that the serving wench had put a DIET coke in my haversack not a MAN’S coke.
Well you may ask how I recovered from this blow to continue the rest of the day, and in truth I don’t know how to answer you. It was a hard time. But I feel stronger having come through it.

Cocks.

12 seconds ago I just sent an email to Leo Boyd saying something that I want to relate here.
We are happily both of the opinion, and more often than not our ideas diverge when it comes to the seventh art, that the new James Bond films are no use.
Now granted I haven’t seen either of them, I mean the ones with the blond guy, I don’t think the second is out yet actually, but anyway, it won’t be watched.
The old James Bonds were a lark because of the crazy gadgets, silly storylines, caricature henchmen, filthy innuendo, lame one-liners and amused eyebrow raisings. The golden era was of course in the 80’s with Roger Moore. I still have extreme excitement when I watch Octopussy, Live or Let Die or Moonraker. I laugh all the way through, in fact, the last time I watched Octopussy I texted Richard Roche nine times saying things like «Tennis racquet-wielding Indian Death cult Tuc Tuc chase !»
But as to the new, and this whole ‘serious, dark, re-inventing the wheel’ business. Nyeah.
I find that those people who like the new ones, folk who take James Bond seriously, often tend to take themselves too seriously.

And then you can go further and see that they are cocks.

Witch.

This Sarah Palin character, John McCain’s running mate and the lady that’s one heart-attack away from becoming the dark queen of Armageddon (think Galadriel when she flips out in the Fellowship) is some piece of work all right.
Anti-abortion and pro-execution (you gotta shake your head there) she has the debating skill potential of a gnat in a spider web and a whole head full of evangelical wrongness.
Have you watched the head to heads ? Obama and McCain was an exercise in condescension but Joe Biden refrained from ripping the Alaskan harpy a new fundament. (pun intended ha ha)
Her arguments went something along the lines of soccer mom, soccer moms, soccerage, mommery
Biden - "Governor Palin, the Republicans have yet to account for a 70billion defense surplus that is suddenly unavailable to cover unpaid debts on Main Street. How you can reconcile that with your campaign objectives?"
Palin - 'Ya know Joe, the soccer moms all across America and Joe Six-Pack really just love that straight talkin'! And we're gonna straight talk our way to the White House because we're together and straight and soccer moms and everything."

Budweiser.

So, despite the fears of luddites and Copernicans around the world the activation of the Large Hadron Collider over at CERN failed to produce the dreaded micro black hole and destroy all existence.
Well, it was worth the try.
But seriously, I’ve been following the progress of the LHC since 2003 when I first read about it in Focus and had been thrilled by the prospects of what we could learn from it, in particular in the area of dark energy and the possible detection of gravitons. I even wrote a short story about it, which I found recently in a cardboard box to my delight. It didn’t amaze me too much then to discover that in the week when they fired that 27km baby up that the only thing to be read on the scream sheets was about how religious nuts caught wind of it and protested against the search for the ‘God Particle’
It’s a fucking metaphor you idiots. Read some of the published findings on particle physics over the last 50 years before you mount a protest. That or go back to casting bones or reading the entrails of goats to see what future your Sky God has in store for you.
In the end, various technical problems called a halt to the experiment, overheating of the magnetic rings principally, but also another unforeseen hitch, a snag from on-high perhaps? The Holy Creator, or Vishnu or Jehovah intervened to put an end to this arrogant meddling in cosmo-theological affairs ?
Nah, a chancer had rammed two bottles of a well known brand of American lager in the proton accelerator.

« Truly, it was the King of Beers ! »
Leviticus 2 :13

Open wide !

And finally, I love to say I told you so at any opportunity, so I’ll just ram home my five centimes here.
When I worked for a certain mortgage lending institution I marveled at the handling and dispensation of annuity to hapless wanna be proud owners of cloned beige houses in estates in soul-less Irish suburban proto-villages. « They are building a centra soon, and a pub in two years ! »
The fools getting the 30 year albatross were matched only in dullness of intellect by the ones promoting the idea that they could possibly hold to it, with zero market speculation.
You know, the majority of people working in the front line in the mortgage lending sector have absolutely NO qualifications whatsoever. None. I worked with them. School leavers, and often from the browner end of the stick. There wasn’t a hint of serious analysis or prognostication going on. A total shambles. And if this is Ireland I’m talking about, I can only imagine how bad it must have been in the states.
And yet, who were the ones being mocked for not getting onto this so called ‘property ladder’?
Ding a ling a ding dipshits ! There is no ladder for you, there never was. It’s just two sticks with one rung, and now you can’t even get off it.

Till next time,

Keep it country.

Snakevalley?! You're joking!

2008-10-06T05:22:00.000-07:00

Fire burn and cauldron bubble, how are you keeping ye scorned and blemished readership?

In another week that would make nearly a year since I last deigned to rattle some keys and paste it to this thing, and what of it? I don’t exist for any of your pleasures after all!

But for who’s then? A quoi ça sert un Gypseys Dog?
The answer I think can be found in the very place where you would set out to seek to find out in the first place, originally, all along as you would have done anyway, do ya.

Or maybe not. Who’s to say? You? Well that would be very presumptuous, think you not? I do. And that’s what counts.

I do, I do, I do. I really shouldn’t, millions wouldn’t, but I do.

Damn my eyes.

Alright then. I hear you, let’s try and reign in this frantic obscurant and hose her down into something intelligible for a fracton here.

We can start answering our question by breaking it down to the base elements.

Where? Paris. Oh yes, nowhere else. My heart.

What? Beyond classification, but we can say enseignant for the moment. And not for too much longer either. Set your watch and warrant on it.

How? By following the Shining Path and my internal compass.

Which? The one with most stripes and blinking lights.

When? Any day now. Always any day now.

Why? Because there’s time.
Whither? Willowy water.

Who? Ah, and know, there’s the rub. Preferably nobody, but realistically somebody. Stay tuned.

If you can look into the seeds of time,
And say which grain will grow, and which will not,

Speak

Good evening, and welcome.

2007-10-18T10:40:00.000-07:00

Snakevalley makes it’s welcome return to the electroinfosphere following a global petition for its ressurrection that culminated in a rally of thousands of free-minded people from all six corners of the globe at a specially organised concert in Villinus last week.

"Never before have so many gathered for so righteous a cause," Alap Kinglake, professor of Modern History at Hashsluss University, told an academic journal in relation to another incident entirely.

To celebrate the historic event, your editor, flushed from the overwhelming clamour for his return, found the mental and physical fortitude to emerge from his Iron lung (defying the medical advice of India’s greatest doctors) and use his staggering influence to invite some notable figures from diverse domains of interest to come together for the first of many planned free debates. These multi tête a tête a tête (s), christened Cerebral Collisions by their language fiddling creator will be transcribed here on this website and all are at liberty to disperse them hither and yon in order to spread enlightenment. As the man himself says of this new venture to reach the media-dulled masses and liberate minds; "Listen, I couldn’t care less who reads it really. Get your hands off me, you’re hurting my arm!"

The first debate, which took place in Ultunrosk thermal baths in Lithuania saw Chinese Premier Hu Jintao, concerned musician Sting, Snooker star Neal Foulds, Libyan strongman Muammar Gaddafi, circus strongman The Great Collossus and rapper Foxy Brown gathered around a floating chess board with one of those timers on the top.

The topic for this innagural debate was, to stay current, Global Warming. "Something that affects us all, from Archbishop to silverfish" remarked the editor, tellingly.

SV – First of all I want to thank all of you for coming here today, getting naked in this finely salted private swimming pool to discuss this issue, and moreover for helping me beat my writer’s block.

Sting – Well….ok. You know, actually, its got nothing to do with that last thing. We’re here for no other reason but to talk about the way the planets headed unless a lot of people change their habits, in a very real way.

SV – Yes of course. But..

Sting – What I, and the other Friend of the Earth want to see in the immediate future is a radical re-thinking of how we’re going to approach energy and that doesn’t just include..

HJ – Ha ha, velly funny!

Sting – What is? I hope you’re not referring to global warming?

HJ – No. Sting say Friend of the Earth! That mean Sting have only one friend!

Sting – No I didn’t. I said Friends of the Earth.

HJ – Not sound like that! Sound like Sting and him friend only ones care about Earth! Ha ha

SV – Well ok, lets the bring the Chinese into the debate. Mr Jintao, your country hasn’t had the best press recently in terms of International environmental agreements?

HJ – That not question. You just raise intonation of voice at end like standard TV journalist. You crap!

FB – The issue stands Mr Jintao. Is it not true that China is planning to build 80 more coal plants in the next ten years? Something that will have disastrous impacts for the Polar ice caps. Already your country has a shocking record and is the one of the most polluted places on earth along with India.

HJ – Is not true you jailbird who drink and drive? You worse!

MG – Look, I don’t think we can be so quick to judge the Chinese. Why don’t we look at the US and their abandonning of the Kyoto agreement? Or what about Scotland? They have many coal mines.

NF – Why are you looking at me? I’m not Scottish. And I don’t even think Scotland has that many coal mines anyway.

MG – You would look me in the eye and say that?

SV – Alright. Lets get back to the issue at hand. What can we do, as a race, to make life reasonably bearable for the next generation in terms of the kind of planet we’re going to leave behind? The Great Collosus?

TGC – You know, I’ve never really thought about it. And to be honest, being sterile, I don’t think I care very much.

FB – He’s right. Hybrid cars are only the first step. We need to look at renewable energy from all manner of diverse fields, wheat, rapeseed, elbowgrease..

HJ – Hey Neal Foulds! You drug addict! Ha ha!

NF – Well, hardly. Those beta blockers were prescribed to me to help me through a difficult time. You have no idea of the what the pressure is like in world class snooker.

HJ – You no good commentator on Eurosport either! My cousin sent me tapes, I laugh till I ill.

Sting – How is this relevant to the issue at hand?

SV – I want to bring Colonel Gaddafi back into this. I think your country could go a long way to helping transform the political arena in the middle east which could pave the way for stability, and thus create the rubric for reassesing our dependance on oil reserves.

Sting – Those are MY notes you’re reading!

SV – Oh, you’re writing is just the same as mine! What a coincidence.

Sting – It’s typed.

SV – Yeah. I meant, the way you….type is the same as me. Same style you know.

FB – Look. I see myself sitting here with all those powerful and influential people and Neil Foulds and I tell myself ‘here is a chance to reach out into so many different areas and really work to change the destiny of this beautiful planet, if we only had the courage to go that extra step’. What we need are more battery recycling plants, less dependance on fossil fuel, more

HJ – What wrong with fossil fuel? It rule. You suck Foxy Brown!

Sting – What we’re looking at here is the need to make bold, strong leadership decisions. It’s not enough for us in the West to develop renewable energy but we also have to convince the developing industrial regions not to follow our historical path of destruction.

M G – So basically to deny them their own industrial revolution despite the fact that your countries got rich off the back of it?

NF – You’re not exactly on the breadline Colonel! I remember I was in Libya in 1993 playing against Tony Knowles in the Desert Classic tournament and we had the chance before the game to visit one of your old villas. I tell you, it was no bled! I remember well, James Wattana making us all laugh by pretending to rape himself with one of your bedposts!

HJ – Ha ha. You lose that game too! You pot white on the black when game should have been won! Have that on tape too!

TGC – Why is there a chessboard floating here?

SV – I thought it would set the scene. Lend an air of thoughfulness to the thing.

TGC – No, no, it does, it does.

Sting – Well I think we can all agree on one thing here. And that’s that carbon emissions are simply not something to be bartered with, this business of trading caps is just a money-making racket which serves, once again, to line the pockerts of industrial captains.

FB – Indeed. Instead of tackling the problem we have decided to turn it into a political game, just look at governor Shwarzeneggers tactics. That’s not environmentalism. That’s lobbying plain and simple.

SV – Did you hear that they were thinking of getting Vin Diesel to play the Terminator in the next movie?

Sting – Really? That’s ridiculous. It’ll ruin the franchise forever. He doesn’t have the presence.

NF – That’s terrible news!

MG – I didn’t think they could go any lower than the third one already!

FB – That’s not fair, there was a few good ideas in it.

TGC – It tried to hard to be T2, for me.

HJ – Me not so sure. Fast and Furious 2 Tokyo Rush was crap without him. He make robot work!

SV –We’ll leave it there.

Warhead doldrums

2007-06-05T13:28:00.000-07:00

In my younger, formative years I became, as many of my generation were, introduced to the idea that the world was ruled by two polar superpowers, America and the USSR. And what was frightening was that at any time the leaders of these countries could press their respective Big Red Buttons which would instantly detonate the world. I missed some of the details surely but that's how I understood the situation. On one side you had the "goodies" the USA, because they spoke and looked like us and had Rambo on their side, led by seemingly kindly old buffoon Ronnie Reagan and on the other you had the incomprehensible backwardslanguaged world of the Soviets with an apparently radioactively mutated Gorbachov at the helm. Where could you even start with the commies? The used the number 3 and a hat in their alphabet! They ruled from twirly topped archaic palaces playing Tetris all day! Their boxers were seven feet tall steroid monsters who could kill Apollo Creed with one punch! Gorby had a hammer and sickle port wine stain on his head, or so reality was twisted for me by Spitting Image. In any event, they were aliens and we couldn't trust them not to slam a mug of vodka down accidentaly on the red button at any given moment. I came to see annihilation as a arbitrary event after a while; the skies could boil at any second, these were the end of days.
Imagine my mild indifference when the Berlin Wall fell in 1989!
Yes, I fondly recall that day, furtively glancing out the window in maths class, yearning to be home as the teacher droned on about the amazing global socio-political impact of a tonnes of mullet-headed East Gerry Bono lookalikes walking through a gate in a dreary looking city. Many years later I would come back to Berlin and marvel at it's laid-back coolness; apologetic policemen and absence of mullets but that's getting away from the crux of my blatherings.
The thing is this, despite the fall of the Sovbloc and the 'reforming' era of Yeltsin the idea of a any kind of democracy in Russia is a comlete farce, they are still as alien as ever. There are four parties in the Russian political setup - all of them run by Putin. One his one party and the other three are puppets to create the impression of opposition. Just look at the events last month when Gary Kasparov (yes, the chess guy) was arrested for merely forming a political faction that wasn't engineered and approved by Vlad. Not to mention all those students who have disapperared beaten to for taking to the streets to protest the sham system.
Basically right, and I know this might lower the tone here, but Putin, right, is a fucking cunt and no mistake.
When I was a kid, I didn't realise that Perestroika and Glasnost were progressive ideas and Gorby would never have led his folk down the road of mushroom doom, I could have slept soundly. But this Putin is another thing altogether, he needs no agitation at all to start swivelling the turrets our way, he's a judo man, the best defense is offense etc, etc. So, y'know, puttting a missile delivery system on his doorstep and saying it's only for last resorts from unprescribed enemies of freedom is just asking for it really. And I'm not asking for it, I don't want it. We have too many reactors that would make perfect targets here in France.

Say no to mushrooms.

Several thoughts

2007-05-09T06:15:00.000-07:00

I know what you're thinking, and you're right.

Remember Magnum P.I used to say that all the time? I do, it's one of those unshakeable childhood souvenirs, I keep hearing the Miami-based snoop utter that one every so often. Usually he'd be on his way back from enjoying a 80's style heavily suckered smooch scene with some gigantically haired bird, a sidetrack from his current case which in fact will turn out to yield the crucial piece of evidence in some contrived way.

As for France, her privileged and mysogynistic population choose to go down the neo-con route as expected and Nicolas (je crois en toi) Sarkozy is now at the helm and a great shroud of evil has fallen. Hopefully his show of good faith with Bush earlier in the year was more about spin than kin or we have potentially another mighty nuclear country working as a client state to the US, as if Israel wasn't bad enough. That was one of the reasons I liked Chirac, the fact that he wouldn't support unilateral US international action, unlike that cocklid Blair and to a lesser extent the troop smuggling Irish government. Though, some will tell you that Jacques was just protecting his Middle East economic interests, and of course Lebanon, but at least the end result was a stong, un-cowed country that wouldn't fall to it's knees for kickbacks. The sadness is that we know Sego would have continued that tradition, but unfortunately, at the expense of top earner's potential to maximise their tax cuts when it came to domestic policy and too much security for salary workers, not to mention a raise in minimum wage which would only serve to further frighten off an already nervous corporate sector. The other problem with Sarkozy is his stance on security which with tougher sentences for delinquency and recidivists will only lead to a burgeoning criminal class as these young kids go in for a year and come out twice as malign and ready for anything, badge of honour sentences if you will. I liked the idea of Military style disciplinarianism from the Left, I wish some developed country would at least try it as a model for a while. But in the end, getting back to why Sarko won, besides the boring old Big Business axiom that while it can be used as a cliche hammer to deflect Pinkos, is nonetheless true, you only have to look at the rally and the after party to see which interests have been pandered to. Who comes back from tax exile in Switzerland to congratulate the 'tranquil Rupture'? Only Johnny Halliday, and the ensuing pictures of hearty hugs, kisses and back slaps says it all.

Oh, and this -

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/6638301.stm

It's a bad time to be a car in Clichy Sous Bois.

But it's not all bad news, the legislative elections are coming up which could severly cripple the Sark, but that would also immobilise the government if he doesn't get a majority. Yikes.

But what about the Irish elections?

I'lk have to get me to an embassy, Brigadier General Alowicius 'Damn the Torpedoes' Fennell didn't fight for our right to suffrage for nothing.

France

2007-04-25T07:44:00.000-07:00

This stuff is better than any You're a Star bollocks this election.

So now, it's down to two to take the prow and lead this escargot on to it's inevitable slimey future. Unfortunately, neither of them are my man, François Bayrou, but he took his 18 per cent with grace and has succeded in creating a whole new movement in the country where there wasn't one before, the centre. No, I'd rather say, the Centre. Because it's high time a civilised country had a strong centre even if such a government is still pretty much unthinkable due to at least three enormous factors
1 - Fear of Change.
The French have this in spades, whether it's governing style or pop-rock, they love the status quo, love Status Quo in fact, love things staying just as they are. now this is great for people who are into nostalgia, and I count myself among them, it's always 1987 here, just look at the amount of roller skates on the streets, but they can't get beyond a straight Left Right political landscape. But Bayrou got over 18 per cent, remember that's like...(stares at fingers) around 7 million people, twice the population of Ireland. So now.
2- Rascism
Is alive and kicking on the continent sadly. Almost alive and gassing. You'd think a region that has seen and reproached so many racial genocides from Armenia to the Third Reich to Srebernica would have gotten it's act together by now, but no. Identity is a big thing in a place where political divisions delineate so many countries rather than water and geogaphical features. Could you tell a Belge from a Frog or a Walloon from a Flem? They can, and they'd all rather do it with a blowtorch. But aside from all that it's the same old story; the spectres of colonial history and the reluctance to accept the humanitarian responisbility of an Imperial past.
It's for that reason that the Front National and their kind rob real politicians of precious votes.
3 - Money.
Always the bottom line eh? Who gets the most votes? Surprise surprise it's the man who is going to look after corporate interests and business, the ex finance and interior minister Nicolas Sarkozy. At 31 per cent he is breaking no moulds with this pattern, how many heads of state became so from a former financial brief? You don't even have to look far, John Major, Charlie Haughey, John Bruton, Bertie Aherne, Thatcher. Of course these people will always be elected, and it's not necessarily a bad thing, for they are the ones who best know how to squeeze the green from the stone. Business minded people will respect that, who follow elections? Business people, what section of society is most politically au fait? Business people. What do most people do in order to get money to pay for their nice life? They engage in business. It's simple mathematics.

So it's down to a straight clash between Sarko and the Socialist siren Sego (lene Royal) which will include the hotly anticipated televised debate.

What will she wear??!

More as it happens...

Lean Cat Oars

2007-04-16T03:45:00.000-07:00

Apart from 'The Beam' in Star Trek; which could, according to Mel Brooks, occasionally make you appear planetside with your arse twisted the wrong way, there simply isn't a better, cheaper, more reliable public transport system than the Paris Metro.
It may have features that some weaker mortals might consider drawbacks such as lack of toilets, endless parades stairwells, bums, violence, broken escalators, stench, rats, and generally unbelievably rude Parisians, but these things are all part of the charm and are far outweighed by the efficacity of the beast. The variety in look/ theme of the stops, most with their own distinctive feel and history, the double-barrelled names as the French flounder to decide which general to glorify, the quaint direction plaques over the tunnel mouths, not to mention the amazing art nouveau sculptures on most of the centre de ville entrances looking like something from a Tim Burton movie.
Each line has it's soul for me. Let me guide thee ont.
Line 1 Yellow
A modern and fast sucker that ferried me to work at La Défense each morning from the Arch De Triomphe. Great because it comes out of the ground into the sun at Neuilly and races the cars into the skyscrapers. Exhilarating.
Line 2 Blue
Not one I take often but it goes through the red light district in Pigalle if you're so inclined and isn't in the best state of repair.
Line 3 Greyish
Goes out to Levallois, but not all the way, which is the furthest place I've had to work and a pain in the hole. Also goes to the Pere Lachaise so you get a lot of tourists in the same wagon as pickpockets.
Line 4 Violet
Ah, the line between Clignacourt and Porte D'Orleans, predominantly the line of black people and a massive intersection with both Montparnasse and Chatelet. A rough line with a high scumbag element but unfortunately often necessary to take.
Line 5 Orange
A useful line that services Bastille and République and so is often packed with revellers at night, nice view coming out of Gare D'Austerlitz.
Line 6 Light Green.
The line of my old haunt of Cambronne. Beautiful, it's the one from Amelie Poulain that you see. The Aerienne with the best views of the Paris toits and spins by Les Invalides, Tour Eiffel at Bir Hakeim, so plenty of Americans and also to Trocadero and Etoile. Has the highest percentage of buskers on any given day ranging in quality from panhandlers to orchestras. Extremely long line too, but slow by compàrison.
Line 7 Pink
Would it be fair to call this the gay line? Well why not, there's always a gay something in Paris., and it goes through the Opéra so that works.
Line 8 Mauve
Extremely useful line that always seems to connect with everywhere no matter where you are, which it should'nt really by logic, but I'm telling you, it does! Actually, a massive area covered from Cretéil to Balard going through the vital connection of La Motte Piquet Grenelle.
Line 10 Light Brown
Goes out to the woods of Boulogne for all your hand job needs. Yes, THOSE woods.
Line 11 Brown
Nobody ever takes Line 11. It's shite, hence the colour. Second only in shortness to Line 3b which doesnt even deserve it's own category having just four stops. Harrumph.
Line 12 Dark Green
Now we're getting there! For some reason I like this line, probably because it goes through nice areas so has very few scumbags and racaille, the line of true toffee nosed Parisian dames and their poodles in their handbags. Snooty name stops too like Marie D'Issy and Abbesses and Corentin Celton.
Line 13 Torquise
Dirty and pointless line that forks off into no mans land in the North and down into the filthy flea markets at Vanve in the south. True to it's unlucky number.
Line 14 Purple
THE KING OF LINES!
A beautifual experience from start to finish. no driver, this robotic, ultra sophisticated machine is like something from Cybertron with it's silent whir, animal speed and Space 2001 voice in many languages. Bombs it in 10 mins from our gaff in Tolbiac to the city centre. Pristine and modern terminus at Bibliotéque Mitterand with, gasp!, Elevators for wheel chairs! The train even can be accessed by the the disabled by dint of it's low cantle. Only one negative point, the overwhelming reek of bitumen at Madeleine. And they are building a new stop at Olypliades this summer.
Goes to Bercy too for concerts. Ah, what a line.

Jesus.............why did I do this again? Oh yeah, I love the Metro. For more information about the Metro consult the RATP or better still, come to visit me in Paris and here me wear your ear off in a condesceding tone.

Ace!

A long time in politics

2007-04-14T04:25:00.000-07:00

Is it yourself?

Sure who else.
Anyway, I have to let you know, everything is brilliant at the moment. Not only is the searing sun turning my skin from it's usual chalky white into a pleasant sickly pale, but I have gone up in the world in two senses. Both are literal and figurative at once. New apartment, has raised us up by five flights and is superior so that's that covered. New job, raised me up by 18th floors and augmented salary and power, in Montparnasse Tower of Power. Check and check. So now, I'm sitting exactly where I want to be sitting and even though I'll admit to a certain few butterflies at the prospect of being a hardcase manager of an internationally renowned organisation and looking after almost 700 students and a team of teachers and support staff whilst trying to reach targets and all that hoo hah, but sure, at this hour of my life it's about time I was the organ grinder and not the monkey.

On to other thoughts, I've just realised one of the key signs that indicates an idiot. It's when a person objects to a generalisation by using a specific case. For example, if you were to say something like "Gay people don't usually like football" and then some rubberhead says, "that's not true! I have a friend whose brother is gay and he is a diehard Liverpool fan!"

Do you see what I mean?
Note it down on your 'spotting retards' checklist.

This week I have bought a fridge, a bed, a table, a couch and a mattress that cost 399 euro alone.
I MUST be a big time Charlie now with that kind of senseless expenditure!

Listen, I can't be inside doing this in such weather, it's a sin. I'll be onto you again.

Go easy on yourself.

You gotta get in before you get out

2007-03-04T07:37:00.000-08:00

Don’t I look very much like a frog in my picture?

By hazzard?

Anyway come and read what I have to say today. I was straightening a paper clip the other day when the thought suddenly struck me ‘How horrible a notion is the one that has flowered and become known as The Music Industry’.

Lets take a look at that word for a moment: industry. A term that covers that enterprize of man concerned with the production of goods in order to create capital.
Does that really have anything to do with the emotion, the rarefied joy that music instills in us? The accumulated knowledge from the moment the first Cro-Magnon blew through a reed to the amusement of his primitive fellows through the goldenright years of Viennese master composers right up to when music hit its creative peak, Kid Creole and the Coconuts, is thus just as banal a product as that which comes from a door-knocker factory day after day.
But the idea has long ago gone horribly wrong. Opiate for the masses doesn’t come near to being derisory enough to categorise the dirge that is produced and disseminated among the populace like Soma from a a Brave New World.
Still, if you look back, it was the likes of Mozart and the rest who first created the idea by trying to escape the prison of patronage that bound those great men back then. They needed a way to sell their works to the people at large rather than having to rely on the whim of the Count or the Bishop or God. Little did they know that their honest efforts to enlighten the world and put crust in the mouths of their kith an kin would lead directly to the formation of the S Club Juniors. Or the Pussy Cat Dolls for that matter. Heinous women. And on that note, Rythmn and Blues music for example has long ago ceased to ressemble its origins, now it’s exclusively pointless wittering and extended note holding over reconstituted slowed down former disco tracks. The worst thing about today is that now everyone has mobile phones onto which the latest program (I refuse to call these songs) has been dowloaded and so people walk around with these things at full volume as if soundtracking their own life and identifying themselves as belonging to a certain social group, as if there were any doubt based on appearances in any case. Regared the laundrette, people must wait for their clothes to dry. Some people read a book, by some I mean, one in a thousand. The rest will stare at their phone as it plays a music video at high volume. One in a thousand cradles their head and weeps for a magnetic solar flare to disrupt all mobile phone communication forever. Remember when we used to arrange to meet each other at a specific time in the pub? Be there or be a dickhead, no texting out of it. Don’t mean to sound like a luddite but lily-livers have it easy these days.

But things are always this way, the more up to date the piece of lifestyle defining consumer technology, the scummer the bag that has it first.

I can’t believe there is now a razor with 5 blades.

That’s just overkill.

Mach 3 forever.

Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité

2007-02-28T09:01:00.000-08:00

Ou la mort!

The catchphrase for these coming presidential elections is ‘Calm Rupture’. And that says it all about the mindset of the French as the country hurtles on into May’s big showdown. The phrase comes from the poll leader at the moment one Nicolas Sarkozy who is the Hungarian originated thorn in the side for the encumbent Jacques Chirac and captures succintly the dual desire for both radical change and eternal consistency with the past. Such is the paradox of French politics,which has to be said, is incredibly interesting and far different from what we’re used to at home.
For a start, not just any Jackie Healy Rae or rich county councillor can enter the political arena. They would have no credibility. Instead, the decision makers here have come through special Universities specifically designed to forge the leaders of tomorrow. The most well known of which is Science-Po, a place a certain Tiger is busily trying to enter. These people can talk and defend themselves from almost any argument or verbal attack possible. In a word : Professionals. And they need to be, because almost every week the appear on lengthy TV shows answering questions from the public LIVE about their proposals for bringing the country back to it’s haughty position of yore. Very, very interesting to watch.
So just who are the main hopefuls for this election? Let’s take a glance at their pants.

The Neo-Napoleon.
http://tempsreel.nouvelobs.com/file/153557.jpg

This is Sarkozy of the UMP whose tough stance on immigration and security are a bit of an obvious backlash to the countries housing, unemployment and identity problems but so far he is leading the sondages and is easily the most cunning orator of them all. A pint-sized hyper-energetic go-getter Sarkozy has been on the political scene since he graduated from SP at 22 and is currently standing down from his position of Interior Minister in order to stab his old master further in the back. Got to respect that at least. Got into trouble with the ethnic communities for using the forbidden word racaille when the cameras were on him but it doesn’t seem to have diminished his popularity. A dangerous man

The Matriarch
http://www.rfi.fr/actufr/images/076/segolene_royal_20060406.jpg

The amazingly well preserved Ségolene Royal vows to gather France to her bosom and not only become the first female president in an outrageously mysogynistic culture but do so with hardly any real policies whatsoever. Paxed to the leader of the Socialist Party, Francois Hollande, Ségo has also been around for donkey’s years (working under Mitterand) but is nevertheless presenting herself as a fresh face for the future. Full of smiles and effortless élan in her chanel suits and seamless poise she may be but it’s hard to see enough women voting for her over Sarkozy because, despite all her talk about family and care, the fact is French women hate other French women. C’est tout Madame.

The Headmaster
http://www.interet-general.info/IMG/Francois-Bayrou-6.jpg

From the centre (Moderation Now!) comes Francois Bayrou who would be my and G’s personal preference for the job. A cool courgette if ever there was one, Bayrou is a former man of letters and it shows in his precise delivery, though not as vociferous or vindictive (Positive qualities in France you must understand) as Sarko, he nonetheless appeals to the intellos. This ain’t his first rodeo either and his policies are well structured, thought-out and convincing. Problem is, not new and in some ways he represents the elitism that perhaps voters tire of. He is old school but not distanced. The turning point for us was the clip (see Youtube here - Check out:http://www.ina.fr/archivespourtous/pop.php?id=2f0163853be19a4de02bb565279df30f) of him slapping a youngster who was trying to pick his pocket at a rally across the face. Brilliant television.

The Nightmare
http://getthepicture.free.fr/Portraits/JPG/Le%20Pen%20Jean-Marie%20-%20Damien%20Lafargue.jpg

And so at last we come to Jean Marie Le Pen a man who needs no introductions other than a shudder of fear. The now 83 year old leader of the Front National is still as popular as ever in this increasingly rascist ‘Maghrebi paradise’. Le Pen hasn’t slowed down and though he laughs and makes points that are purposefully difficult to argue against you just know that once in power it would be a disaster for the liberal way of life. There would be nowhere to hide for the gays, even less chance of employment for anyone with even slightly sallow skin and probably a return to the Franc. And worse, even if he were to die tomorrow, his daughter Marine is almost worse than him and just about ready to assume the mantle. He appears on satirical latex puppet show Les Guingnols as a velour clad urban youth who says ‘hype’ etc. The truth is, he’d burn the banlieus if he could.

So that’s the fancies for this Derby. Valleybet.com will give you:

2/1 Sarkozy
6/1 Royal
10/1 Bayrou
15/1 Le Pen.

However I’ll be offering evens on Royal if she gets into the second round.

On verra...

Hein!

2007-02-17T08:34:00.001-08:00

It’s a great day.

The coquettish february sun is glinting from the windows of the aerienne as a bumbling mouche falls to his caffeinated doom inside the espresso of a surprised Panamian interrrrrupted in mid Foof! at whatever and whatnot could be rankling him and past this picture strides this author on his way to the internet cafe flush from the succesful purchase of a neon bathroom light to make his first blog entry in what must seem like endless galactical revolutions for you.

And it goes a little something like this –
It’s warm again. And Clint Eastwood has been presented the Legion d’honnuer by our twilight President of the Republique for outstanding excellence in the field of scowling.
‘I especially hate spics!’
Christmas came and went and I experienced the true definition of Culture shock according to Cuddihy in La Pizza on O’Connell St when I was over for the mutated forgotten son of the Mother and Father of all piss-ups. But that was nothing compared to the rest of the day which was embryo’s play compared to the following two weeks. Insanity incarnate.
And that was two months ago now. Since then everything has, yes, gone exactly according to my plans with the exception of a few random variables which we’ll just have to categorize as Ka, nod winsomely and get on with it.

So I’m still here. And have every intention of always still being here. If our body cells are changing all the time, after a certain cycle when every cell has been replaced are we still the same person? If I haven’t seen you in nine months then physically speaking we have both completely changed our matter and are therefore not exactly the same person but a reconstituted copy of the memory of that person. We are all in flux, so can we ever truly know a person over the course of a lifetime? It’s like Trigger with his Brush of many handles and heads. I’ve been eating frog food all this time so I’m utterly something else now. How odd.

My brain has changed. A switch went off a while back and now I have dreams completely in French and I no longer have to internally translate stuff. It’s a fascinating feeling and impossible to pinpoint when exactly the transition took place. Probably a Thursday night though.

My social circle is expanding rapidly. There are so many cool people in this town I thank the spirits every day for all the greatchance I’ve had.

There are so many good books in the world and fantastic artists. I’ve forgotten most of the things I usesd to hate, I know they existed but can’t put my finger on them anymore. It’s amazing what a good chef can do with just onions and bread. I’m back in Hyrule and it’s all Gorons and Zora and Kakariko again. Rocky Balboa is a simple, silly and magnificent film that filled my blood with microscopic ring bells of joy. I have fantastic colleagues who like to drink with me on Thirsty Thursdays, Lucy the skelpy scallywag who still doesn’t realy know where she lives or how to pronounce it and Clementine who rolls cigarettes despite being female. Other cool characters are Pierre Paresseux, Ambre Samba, Stella Stellar and Sylvainer Than You.

Oh ro se do bheath abhaile.

Till next time Dirtlings.

In Loving Memory
Of Missy Fennell
1998 -2007

Mission accomplished girl. See you in the Clearing At The End Of the Path with Odie Homer and Benjy.

Thank you for your life.

Update

2006-11-26T06:36:00.000-08:00

Since my life has more or less utterly changed since the last time I reported how my usual days unfurl, see archives if you’re so inclined, perhaps it’s time to do it again for the sake of pure amusement.
So how does it go?

9.50 precisely
My phone alarm will sound to a jocular tune of my own devising and I will slowly open my eyes and become one again with the Living Force. Or, awake as it's often termed. A smile will spread across my face as my brain comes fully online and realisation of my own magnificence dawns anew. Then it's to roll to the left and on shaky legs descend the stair from my nesting hollow, or bed, and see to the mornings purgings.

10.00
Purged, I prepare a light breakfast of either Wellness Flakes or Earl Grey tea and toasted gaufres if it's cold. Then my physical appearance will have to be dealt with. Shirt and slacks donned and ghruaig stroked into some semblance of order.

10.20
Out the door and across the few yards to the Metro station Cambronne where without a moment's pause I leap into the Parisian throng and battle my way to Charles De Gaulle Etoile. At this point, against my better judgement, I'll read the free paper as, like all the rest, I'm a captive audience and so I keep abreast of the latest mudslinging between the Presidential candidates. It's quite exciting at the moment actually.

10.45
I reach the Etoile and scuttle with alacrity and single-mindedness through the crowd to get my connection. I try to avoid the carriages with buskers but virtually always fail. I don't mind if it's the Ecuadorian pan pipe players but i'll be chagrined if it's the tuneless bums singing english folk songs and fucking up the words. 'Nansa me fren is blowin inna win, nasaisblowininawin'

10.57
With moments to spare I reach La Défense and snatch a chausson aux amandes from the kiosk, this igested I enter the workplace, in the shadow of the mighty Tour EDF and prepare my morning classes. This I spend an hour doing, checking the progress of the students and tailoring the coming classes to their needs. In between shaking my head at the miserable morning moaning of my fellow teachers, a Scottish girl and a Kiwi girl. This week i've also had to train the new teacher, a Canadian bloke, Jon Michael. He's satisfactory.

12.00-3.00
Three classes of varying levels from the absolute beginner to the accomplished student who wants to discuss business terminology, idioms and so forth. There is little difficulty encountered within this time. Usually a lot of fun in fact. The students afford me the appropriate respect a man of my standing deserves. I am pleased. To luncheon!

3.00-4.00
I receive restaurant tickets as part of my contract each month. This means I rarely if ever pay for my nosh during the week. That, my friends, is class. I dine accordingly like a Prince in restaurants where I generally have a full starter, plate, dessert and tea. And yet I'm still whippet thin. My secret? The Metro. And good genes.

4.00
Back to work where I spend a further hour ostensibly preparing the evenings classes but often spending an inordinate amount of time surfing the interweb for diversion. I'll collect any work the students have left for me to correct at this point and go through them absent mindedly with a red pen while cackling at some amusing email or other.

5.00 - 8.00
The evening's classes. Can be a little taxing towards the end of the day is inevitable post lunch fatigue sets in but it usually whistles past smoothly enough. After which a bit of computer data work has to be attended to, results and follow-up and so on and then freedom beckons.

8.20
Out that door and into the quite spectacular nocturnal sight of La Défense. All glittering towers and pulsating financial puissance. Nonetheless, I hurry to the Metro unless an after work tipple is called for. This will be brief as bars here are exclusively expensive, this area in particular. If I told you how much a pint would be your brain would simply explode.

9.10 or so
Back in the 15th. I love this place. I step off onto the platform and there shining balefully down at me is Eiffel, with a smirk of renewed smugness that invigorates me I dash to the flat, perhaps stopping at Monoprix to pick up some Bruges de Blanches beer if it's the weekend or one of my countless days off the next day.

And then I'm in and once the Tiger has provided an adequetly savage evening welcome (combat) it's time for tea and a glance at the news to see what's being going on around the world.
Then it's grammar time, I like to spend an hour or so each night doing some French grammar excercises in my book as many of the nuances still elude me. Then perhaps to watch the gogglebox a bit more or joue a bit of video. After, a little hefting of the weights to keep myself wiry and then it's time for cleansing and reading. At the moment it's a particularly difficult but well respected French book 'Zazie Dans Le Metro' I'm reading. But it's good as the expressions and language are advanced and good for my everyday knowledge. When I stumble across a word I don't understand I'll ask herself who'll say she told me already and on it goes. Ah that's not fair, but funny.

After some mind your own business my mind falls into oblivion without warning and that's it.

The galaxy revolves around my unconscious form.

A vintage year for pop, I hear

2006-10-15T08:18:00.000-07:00

I don’t think all of you really understand about Johnny Haliday.

The man is beyond my ability to come to terms with. Or rather, his immense popularity and fame in this country as opposed to his absolute anonymity outside of it.
Hardly a day moves on without my being updated on another little Johnny factoid or glimpse of his puckered age-defying fizzog via some medium or other. If he’s not blasting out in power chords about the virtues of getting two pairs of lunettes for the price of one or having a ‘secret’ emergency blood transfusion, he’s , in some other fashion – there.
The thing is, Paris, and France largely, is far, far more working class than many people suspect. Which would account in some way for the pre-eminence of this Belgian (originally) beefheart. His videos are a disgrace. And, not just suggestively, but ACTUALLY pornographic. His age is beyond reckoning, some paleontologists have put his origin somewhere between the Cambrian and Metazoic eras. His wives many, and distinguished, it is a great boon to be a Johnny cast off. Talk shows and book deals to see you into your dotage. And of course it is here, and esteemed position, that of spurned Madam. His children innumerable, he has the fecundity of, well, a frog. His music speaks straight to the heart of every miserable, skiving wife beater or white van driving kiddy fiddler. He is almost impossible to fathom in 2006. He is an anachronism in his tight jeans and somewhat rascist views. (He is actually a part of Nicolas Sarkozy’s carnival for May’s Presidential election; of course)
If Bruce Springsteen were an action hero in a movie then Johnny would be his evil counterpart, his old buddy who turned to the dark side.

He is a terrible cunt altogether.

And still, I’d take a hundred of his kind rather than go back to hearing about Pete Doherty.

Here are a summary of things that have been going on since my last entry.

- I made one of my students cry by failing her and asking her to re-do a class. She later apologised but this served to remind me that some people actually take life seriously. Beats me why.
- I failed to get my Carte Vitelle due to Birth Certificate written in Irish. The Irish Embassy failed to aid me in any way whatsoever. But a woman at the gate cheerily told me, “I had trouble with that too. Sure you know yourself” Unfortunately I do know myself. I’ll have to find a solicitor to verify my ‘existence receipt’ Fuck you once again Irish government.
- My moustache has gained admiration and applause wherever I wander. I’m getting invited to all the exclusive gentlemens clubs and have even been challenged by Old man McGuinness at the Reform Society to circumnavigate the globe in just 80 days.
- The leaves are starting to turn brown. It’s magical.

I had a funny feeling the other morning though. It was a queer sensation, and I realised what it was after a few moments frowing at my feet and scratching my neck – I wasn’t too hot.
Now don’t get me wrong, I won’t be reaching for a coat any time soon. But there’s a strong possibility that a light jumper might be brought along to work, just in case the unthinkable happens.

Good day to you.

He likes Celtic Mysticism

2006-09-15T08:14:00.000-07:00

The years just keep rollin’ on, like some kind of adequate metaphor or simile.
It only seems like last year when I wrote about Electric Picnic 2005, and so it was, and here I am already putting temporal units of measurement between myself and Electric Picnc 2006.
That’s the space\time continuum for you, fucking remorseless man.
Now there’s a bit of talk about it not being quite as good as last year’s extravaganza, but if that’s the case then it’s down to smaller numbers and not all camping together. But I still had a jolly good romp of it. The rain though, it was a bit too much. Constant rain is too much rain in my estimation, especially when you have a pourous tent. Flooded tent, unbelievable horror that it is, has happened to me three times already in my lifetime. Ca suffi I think.
The music was, there, I guess. Alright, but you know yourself, you never really ever get around to the music at music festivals. Too many Nordy’s there too. Never good, especially when you’re rasist against them, like me.
So, I’ve overcome my periode d’essaye in work. So I can wave my CDI contract in the faces of all the Algeriens who live in cardboard boxes on the banks of the Seine up at Bir Hakeim at the end of our road.Well, I won’t really, I’m afraid of their like. But the point is, I got my Cheque Dejeuner book so it’s seven quid off my lunches each day in most restautants. Get that fucking done. Eating like a king everyday. Steak meals with desserts to follow for two or three bob. I’m only saying this to make you feel bad you understand.
Got a telly at last there the other day. Brilliant. I know I used to be all anti-telly back in Ireland, and I still am when it comes to most of the shite on Irish and UK channels, but I’m liking it over here because there’s heaps of documentary channells and wierd old movies that are dubbed and, I dunno, it’s just more interesting. Maybe it’s still the exotic factor and the smug internal thrill of understanding telly in another language. Oh, and I finished The Dark Tower at last. What can I say ? My life has been augmented by that series of books, is all.
Sure, that will have to be it for now.
Other stuff of note –
Aquaboulevard – Splish splash , wallowing in hot amphibian soup. Better than it sounds.
Ete Indiene – It’s still hot as a mother over here, after a bad enough August.
BD – The addiction goes on. Murena, Clone Wars, Lanfeust, and that’s just a feather stroke off the iceberg.
Muslims – Stupid cunts.
The Wind That Shakes The Barley – Or Le Vent Se Leve over here. Class. Get out ye Black and Tans ! Etc..
The Black and Tans – Cunts.
Utd beating Celtic – G’man Ole.

Excellent word from the English language # 34
Luncheon.

Now get out of me site !
Ha ha.

The singer from Mexico, and other tales.

2006-08-20T07:43:00.000-07:00

Yo ! Yo ! Yo !

I don’t think I’ve ever started a sentence like that in real life. I might start though, I miss the general atmosphere and phraseology of 1991-92 when it was, through the Good Ray Cokes Era of MTV, acceptable to say that again. Around about the time when Snow was protesting his innocence : he never stabbed that guy down the lane, a liggy boom boom down !
Have you seen Radge’s blog lately ? It looks class. He knows how to put pictures up and all now. I know how to as well. I haven’t got the time though. I’ll paint pictures with words for you. Obscure words that don’t sound like they belong together in a clause ; that’s the usual way I do it and I won’t be changing me ways at this hour.
So I’m not long back from a holiday in Brittany so I’m not. There I scratched off, very firmly, one of the entries in my gold bound TO DO life list. Sailing.
All the same, Never fucking again. Granted we went out when the weather was stormy and tossy as fuck but still, it’s not a nice way to pass time. And a lot of time, five or six hours it may have been. On a boat that was almost completely vertical was is the inquitetude of the waves. Vertical. Meaning that my wet, cold, lifejacketless ass is hanging onto one side in order not to tumble down to the other and into the deep onky where shock and doom await.
To be perfectly honest, I was terrified. Not seasick, as I don’t suffer from that. Unlike the pregnant woman and six-year old child who were upchucking and crying for the whole journey, but sincerely frightened. I thought for sure that this voyage was going to send us all straight to the Clearing At The End Of The Path. But it didn’t. Don’t ask me how, perhaps through the power of prayer or maybe the miraculous skills of the salty old sea dog and his son who were piloting the forsaken thing, but eventually we got back to terra firma, all aged prematurely after the experience. And at least I can say I’ve sailed. Can you ?
That aside, a fine time was had down at Rennes and Saint Malo. Forbidding weather but that didn’t stop the Guingouains from jumping half naked into the brine. They are mad hoors the French.
Work is cracking along fine. I’ve really found my groove and rhythmn so it’s all gravy now. I’ve got the life right now which affords me plenty of time to do the things I want to do. This is just how I wanted it all along. Nice to have the weekends back too, and I nearly always have a long weekend with every third week giving me a super long weekend running from Friday to Wednesday. Get that fuckin’ done.
Here, I can’t be on this computer all day long, I’ll get back to yiz soon.

Anyone know of any tickets going for the Electric Picnic like I asked yiz last time ?

Seriously now.

Other quick things of recent note that ruled -

Petanque with Dr. Fell at Tuileries

Getting rubbered in Bastille with Simon

Laughing as a seagull swooped and stole a sandwich out of G's hand, her actual hand!

My music award.

Oh, I never told you about the singer from Mexico!

No time now though.

Sturm und Drang

2006-07-23T09:36:00.000-07:00

You wouldn’t want to break your leg in this city , I’ll say that much.
You’d be fucked is why. Paris, particularly it’s primary people chute, the Metro, is a labyrinth of stairs , stairs and stairs. I’ve not seen one wheelchair access or ramp since I’ve been here and must conclude that anyone with ambulatory difficulty takes the bus. There’s no way you could do it on crutches. Simply no way. I only stopped to think about that as I was doing my usual rith through the subterranean maze to work (everyone runs in the morning, not by choice, but by physical necessity as you are propelled along by the surge of habitual punctuality), and I said this much to myself, you wouldn’t want to break your leg in this city.

Funny phrase that, ‘break a leg’ . And people use it as a way to encourage others. When if fact breaking a leg would be a hindrance during any endeavour. But luckily, my legs are in good nick, and they’d want to be given how Paris seems purpose-built for the hale and hearty. No wonder there are no fat people here. Isn’t this heatwave a great thing altogether. The mercury was bubbling at 40 degrees there the other day in La Dèfense. So what have I been up to ? Getting the gaff in order mostly. IKEA furniture – to be frowned at. Fuckng things never have the right screws or holes in proper places. Still, the effort will reap it’s rewards. Glad we destitutised that grumpy old armoire. Just fucked it on the street. I didn’t tell yis about the time I locked myself out of the apartment after work when throwing out the trash and having to get the last train from Paris to Chartres to turn up at Chez Guingouain at 1 in the morning did I ? Well I have now. Rather embarrasing. What about the Bastille Day celebrations ? Good craic in the beautiful countryside. Tug of War against the filthy french farmers who duly pulled us across the grass, G in a wheelbarrow trying to stab some spuds, getting a bottle of Ricard by default and generally enjoying myself incredibly at ye olde rustic farmhouse and seat of the GrandTigers, La Cayenne where a man has scarce felt more welcome and happy than I. Including the honour of having GrandPere H show me the inside of the Le Grand Livre itself !

Check out that Israel man. I’m not chuffed with that. Diplomacy has gone to hell in a handcart it seems. A ridiculously heavy handed response to the kidnappings and the world seems keen to turn an uncaring eye to it. If you ask me, we’ve never been closer to another World War the way all the players are stacked up. Syria I’m not overly worried about but this whole mess has the smell of Mahmoud ‘defiance is my raison d’etre’ over in Iran. Worrying times.

So anyway, what next ? Oh yeah, The Electric Picnic. Anyone have any tickets to sell to me are am I busting in the tried and trusted Fennell way ?

Hmmm ?

I see.

Still on the path of the beam

2006-07-10T08:07:00.000-07:00

Oh My !

How are you all dangling ?
Found a proper internet spot at last, somewhere I can go to with regularity. Saint Michel, where the amphibian thighs sizzle and the yanks have their fanny packs reefed by the rascails.
Difficult to squeeze all the happenings into these updates as never a dull journee is passed.
Suffice it to say that Dublin sucks sweaty balls while Paris downs the Eiswein when it comes to putting on free shit for the gens to enjoy. Take for instance the Cine sous les etoiles the other week which was on in Saint Cloud. Huge inflatable screens in the park showing free movies all through the night with blankets and pillows available and a breakfast in the morning should you want it. Gratuit! Watched Pirates of the Johnny Depp with some bottles of cider and other free snacks and drinks given out. Do you heed that word? Free?
There’s always heaps of free dodah like that. Expositions, concert, open air spectacajiggers and whatjamafiggers. If you’re bored in Paris you must be a no-account bum. And even if you are there’s plenty of heroin to be getting on with it if you want to kill yourself in a stupor in some alleyway. Don’t worry, nobody will bother you; the homeless may as well be invisible. If only they were inaudible too. Ah well. As Ding Dong said to me, the only problem with scag is that it’s not lethal enough.
But back to the blinkered naïve view of the étranger. We done had our Summer Beach party in work too which was a good larf. Just got the students to neck some firewater and play some games. I must see if I can send on the photos. The parks over here are wonderful places too, like the geometrically astounding Andre Citroen or the jarring yet dynamic Villete where we went to the Star Wars Expo. Won’t go into that too much, you all know how much of a Lucanerd I am so you’ll know I had a blast(er). What about problems? Precious few. Bit of a discombobulation with the plumber but it sorted out easily enough, I’m getting used to dealing with the tradies now, the IKEA trip was a bit of a bore but at least we got the stuff we needed and won’t have to go through that horror again for a while, or if we do, we go alone. If there’s one thing I can’t stand is burning up a good day waiting around for folken.
Be the hokey! Regarde l’heur!
Best be getting a move on. I’ll say one thing about the World Cup – it was loud.

PS Tyrell and Kevin Murphy, Almost finished Song Of Susannah. Fucked. Up.

Time of night for singing songs about the local news

2006-06-19T03:50:00.000-07:00

Savage.

I finally got a gaff to live in. Let this be a warning to anybody as foolhardy as me. Don’t attempt to find somewhere to live in Paris – unless you are pulling in 50 big ones a year – you will fail.
The propietaires over here don’t give a toss how early you come or how far you travel or how nice as pie you are, it’s all about that bottom line: Money. I knew it was going to be difficult to find a crevice to house me here but I wan’t aware it was the most difficult city in Europe to rent accomadation.com.
Then how, says you, have you found a place? Well, it was teamwork. But I’m going to have give the Lion’s share of credit to G for ekeing out the place and arranging the appointment and the Leopard’s share for luck for making the landlord American with possibly Irish descent and I’ll take the tabby’s share for wearing my best suit and being my most pigeon-faced during the interview. And guess what? I could hardly ask for a classer place at the price.
The location is unreal, we’re equidistant between Towers Montparnasse and Eiffel so it’s difficult to get lost. The sung little place has style, it’s actually the lodge where the concierge would have stayed in your typical Parisian Haussman building and since the ceiling is so high the bed is upstairs in a mezzanine. That kick’s ass. A short walk around the corner and you’re actually at the Champ de Mars where it’s kickin’ every single night for no other reason other than it’s Paris. If anyone knows the town, we’re in Cambronne which is in the 15th. A terribly, terribly cool place to live.
And another good thing about Paris – It’s the most beautiful city in the world. Every so often I get reminded of this I’m doing my flaneur thing and stolling around. The sheer pomp and arrogant grandeur of the place pulls me up short more times than I care to count. This is the place for me. I just fucking love it.
Divil an internet café though. There’s only a handful in the whole place, it’s not like Ireland where half Parnell Street and Camden Street are wireshops, they just don’t have the culture of it here. More interested in sitting outside the real cafes talking shite. And expensive too, so I won’t dally here. But I’ll endeavour to keep these missives regular.
So anyway, I’m off now to Shakespeare and Co. that bookshop from Beyond Sunrise/Sunset which is just outside the window here. Raging Radge? You should be.

Who won Big Brother?

Ha ha ha.

South Korea for the Coup De Monde!

The past of the auxillary plus the ED form of the main verb

2006-06-02T07:35:00.000-07:00

Top of the morning to yissers. Morning for me, I just woke up after the sleep of the dead. Seriously heavy going week that was so it was. But now i'm primed. I just got shown how to an apostrophe on these frog keyboards now so that's a massive weight off my shoulders too. I was under the heavy scrutiny by the powers that be in Wall Street this week who wanted to see if I could cut the mustard in the classroom. This meant that there were observer spies in some of my classes furiously scribbling down notes on my technique and ability to impart knowledge of the present perfect continous tense or the use of modals and other such tricksy fare. A lot harder than it sounds to clarify that stuff for foreigners. Luckily for me though, I'm a clever enough cunt and passed with flying colours. The feedback was all positive with the spies reporting me as a natural dispenser of wisdom. I must admit though Richie, i downed gallons of Rescue Remedy before the examinations. That stuff is basically pure grape alchohol, I opened the gap and drank down a whole bottle, no wonder they thought I had a 'very relaxed and intimate style with the students' and 'put the class at ease with humourous and energetic teaching methods' - I was half pissed!
In other news, I'm still commuting from Chartres everyday which, although it's pictueresque, is a pain in the brown. But I have a few appointments to see places over the weekend so mickeys crossed everyone. Landlords need blood samples and DNA tests before they even look at you over here. As for opening a bank account? I had to make an appointment for a fortight's time. Crazy. they just love paperwork over here. The amount of forms I've filled out. Still, the rail strike is over, and there's no such thing as chuggers over here. Charity in France? Don't make me laugh son. Off to buy a french phone now as the Irish just costs too much.

Continental Action Star watch #2 - Jeanne Claude Van Damme. His new movie over here is called 'Ultimate Menace' You couldn't make it up.

Riddup.

A giraffe iz taller zan a panzer, no?

2006-05-25T08:47:00.000-07:00

I told you I was moving to Paris! But I tell you another thing; there`s gonna be a lot of typos on the old Valley for a while as I adjust to this damn French keyboard layout. Deal with it.

Living in and out of my suitcases at the moment. Haven`t had a moments rest since last thursday what with orientating myself in the new job, putting food in my mouth and kipping on a different floor or bed each night. Bit of a pain in the bollocks but to be expected, and i,ve been down in Chartres too, as idyllic a French country chateau as you`re gonna get;

Fuck this keyboard is laborious: This country is mad in the fucking head. All anyone does is go on strike. Right when I need them too. The trains; the busmen, the hoors, the balloonists, they just down picks at the drop of a beret about four times a week, and the frogs just shrug and accept it. They know full well how to surrender says you wha?

I'll tell you a few more observations: The beggers on the metro are gas. I spend Most of my time scuttling through that arid warren of whooshing stank. anyway the bums come on and in true french style make a prentation to the passengers giving their name, age, and explain why they are down on their luck. That finished, they take any questions there might be then proceed to move through the carriage collecting money. Fuck all money at that. Speaking of the Metro, there are posters all over the place for STEVEN SEAGAL: IN CONCERT! yes. The same bloke. He' s a famous singer over here for some stupid reason. You wanna see the posters. Disgraceful. Though the meks over here love him. Everyone is a mek here. mek, mek, mek. thatès all you ever hear. it means guy; when two meks get drunk and have a fight is it a mek war? Very Manga indeed.

Right, I;m sick to me stones with this computer, I'm off for now. Have an exam on Monday of all things. The food is great though, even the Quick Burgers, but fuck it I,ll tell yis again.

Oh, and I saw Da Vinci Code. It was fucking shite in French, never read the book but from what I could make out Tom Hanks is queer in it? Fuck thAT!

Sharif don't like it!

2006-05-05T09:59:00.000-07:00

You know who are sad bastards altogether?

Blokes who spend a lot of time hanging around with women. I mean, more women than men. Now before I get baled out of it, allow me to qualify-

I DON’T mean lads who have friends who are women.

I DON’T mean lads who enjoy the company of women.

I DON’T mean to say that there’s ANYTHING wrong with women. I love them in fact.

Love them. Got that?

Now. The type of bloke I’m bitching about here was best exemplified by a chap I saw down my favourite local Greasy Spoon the Take Five Café just behind Trinity; near the National Gallery do ya.

I was sat there happily, very happily actually, munching down my chilli and chips when this fuck comes up with three birds and sits down and proceeds to motormouth it throughout my entire gustation.

And, quick and ruthless (and probably unfair) character assessor that I am, it rapidly occurred to me that he was the world’s biggest cock and utterly insecure in every conceivable way.

The noise of him, he wasn’t listening to anything his female friends were saying but just trumping each story every time in a loud, bombastic, ignorant and painfully dishonest string of boastful balderdash.

Fucker punctuates this by commenting negatively on practically every person who walked by outside. He used the following words and phrases far too much, and more often than not, redundantly

– LITERALLY,

– BlATANTLY

– HONESTLY

– I SWEAR

– SO, DOES NOT

Oh, and he seemed to have to prefix most of his shite-talk with ‘I don’t care, I..’

You see. I got the impression he was just another in a long line of arses I have met who are quiet around men, peers of their own age and background, but prefer to hang around women in which case they suddenly become hyper-confident and obnoxious. Here, they think, is an audience that will appreciate and respect practically anything I say! Let the good times roll! No, you sac. It’s just that the girls have more patience and tolerance towards your sorry ass. When you go to the jacks they call you ‘harmless’.

Anyway. That’s them.

What else, crap journalism. Namely The Star newspaper. What a stack of shit that is. Principally some moon-face called Annete O’Meara who wrote a ‘review’ of Mission Impossible 3. Actually, maybe I should put those smart-arse apostrophes around the word ‘wrote’ as well. And in doing so I did. Hmm.

So she writes her thing and it’s woeful of course, getting everything wrong and shoving in all the clichés – “It ticks all the boxes” “Should he choose to accept it” etc, and saying that Jonathan Rhys Meyers’s Irish accent is all over the place. He plays a fucking Irishman, Declan Gormley, in the film you dull bint. Although, that’s probably just the Irish thing of Irish audiences hating to hear Irish accents in a Hollywood movie. It’s why they couldn’t give Alexander a chance as soon as Miley showed up on screen. Aside from all that though. The thing that galled me the most was that she finished it with this staggeringly vapid and unoriginal bleat – “This movie is like Ronseal paint – it does exactly what it says on the tin.”

Jesus Christ.

Bad enough that you hear the man on the street (cunt that he is) whipping that one out every time he experience something that mildly satisfies him, but to pay a journalist to come up with that for a film review? And it didn’t come in a tin anyway did it?

Right. Time to positive it up again after those gripes –

Cool stuff:

- I just bought Stadium Arcadium, I don’t care what anyone says, they are, and always will be, my favourite band.

- Shakira will open the World Cup ceremony in Germany. Get that done.

- Just six euro to rent three DVD’s from the World Cinema part of Chartbusters for three nights. That’s where the most violent and nudity packed movies are! But, eh, y’know subtitled, so I’m actually being high-brow.

- Leaving the curtains open when you go asleep, the sunlight wakes you up sweetly at 6 with plenty of time to go. Refreshing. Add to that my new phone has a great alarm, a lot like Link opening a treasure chest in Zelda. Happiness.

That’s your lot for the minute.

In other news, I’m moving to Paris for good.

Can you feel the voltage?

2006-04-19T09:46:00.000-07:00

You have to take your pleasure where you get it.
It does grow on trees but you have to bother your arse and arm to reach up and pluck it from time to time. You could wait for the windfall but you’ll often find that it’s rotten, or there could be a worm in there, just waiting to fuck up your day/life.
So remember, each human being has only a finite amount of breaths to take before they end up for the crows, so why not make them long, luxuriant breaths? Ideally in between doing stuff you absolutely love to do. Right, enough of the Dharma. Just be mindful of yourself.

Anyway, tell me this: Whatever happened to holograms?
Eh? Huh? Holograms? Where are they?
You couldn’t turn around on your lolo-ball back in the eighties without seeing a hologram somewhere, whether depicting Tony the Tiger on the back of a Frosties box or on the chestplate of your 7inch Mattel Visionary toys. They were heralded as the closest thing to 3 dimensional reality that science could create. But only in a uniform blue, green, yellow or red on a black background. And don’t get water on them, blurs the image.
Tomorrow’s World used to fall over itself telling us how great holograms were going to be in the future. We would visit hologram doctors to avoid embarrassment, we would have Star-trek style holo-decks where even the laziest of us could experience the wonders of the world (like a mush/pot bar in Amsterdam) or we could watch hologram movies from the centre of our room, like your own personal, live, play, seen from all angles. If you get me.
But it was all bollocks.
Holograms are only used on ATM cards these days, tiny little pictures of eagles in the corner. And even those don’t have any particularly worth and are being phased out. Sad really. And whose fault is it? Certainly not Hungarian physicist Dennis Gabor, he invented holograms after all.

Saw The Road to Guantanamo the other day. Radge reckons those boys got what hey deserved, the stinking sand kikes (or something like that, I can’t recall) but I reckon there’s got to be something done about this carry on over there. You can’t be torturing people, that sort of stuff will really come back and bite us from the Islamic world. And there’s a very good chance that this bite will take a violent manifestation. In fact – we’re fucked. And through complacency maybe we deserve it to an extent. For are we, through our ignorance complicit, or at least not exempt from blame? Just like Hitler’s secretary and her mates.

So that’s it for now. And don’t forget, the world gets hot when you take a dare.

Slan.

Sur ton chemin

2006-04-10T09:38:00.000-07:00

The next person to reply, when I ask them what they’ve been up to lately, that they have been “off traveling around the world” when in actual fact they have only been drinking for the year in Australia via Singapore, stopping off in Thailand for one day or something, gets a spinning kick to the temple.
I haven’t met one person yet who has come back with an embroadend mind from such trips. At least some, like the brother, says it is what it is – a year long piss up with little or no culture but some nice desert scenery and a sense of adventure. But let’s not have any of the Michael Palin shit please? I mean, unless you’ve trekked alone across the arctic tundras then spent some time living on your wits in Sierra Leone before exploring the mangroves of Borneo then fuck off.

Let’s see, what’s currently on my mind. Well, I won’t go on about the annual culling of the harp seals in Canada again as many are sick of this subject and it’s going nowhere. Suffice to say, I’m with Bardot and Morrissey on the issue. There is absolutely no reason that humans need to interfere with an animal population in such a grotesque manner. The argument that there are somehow too many seals is cod designed to justify an industry that brings in irresponsible and thrill seeking hunting tourism to fill up the local town bars, restaurants and whorehouses for the season. Cruel whooping motherfuckers who get off on legally being able to mutilate animals are definitely not cool. And it shouldn’t stand. Nature sorts out imbalances itself. If there were too many seals offshore they wouldn’t starve as the hunting committee maintains, they would simply, after a season or two, decline naturally in reproduction numbers. That’s how it’s always worked. If there isn’t enough food available in a biosphere then the predators will decrease. As I said before, isn’t it funny how animals that somehow ‘need’ to be called always have a valuable bi-product for industry such as seal-fur? You never see a cull of badgers or rats.
Oh shit, I did go off on it again. Ah well.

Freedom of Speech is another thing that seems to be under threat. Look at David Irving. No matter what his stance on the holocaust is I can’t see how locking the man up will do the world any good. People can argue all day that his works could be twisted and used to fan flames of hatred by misguided groups, (just check out those jokers on Stormfront) but how is imprisoning him going to create a healthy dialogue about this sensitive issue? If anything it falsely puts martyr quality on his work in the eyes of the dissident lobby, something Irving himself would sorely want to distance himself from now. Simply put, the punishment does not fit the….well; it IS a crime to deny the pogrom in Austria, and Germany too. Illegal, and punishable with prison time. That is a little much. All he did, as an historian, was lend a controversial perspective to a contested issue in academic papers; he’s not a God damn rapist, it’s his job to gather knowledge and provide a clear interpretation of the past, which, is after all, the past and unknowable to us in the present. But I’m getting into murky existentialist territory here. Enough that I think that it is a great oppression itself for any government or body to disallow anyone from promulgating controversial thought, whatever the subject. Are we not enlightened enough to discuss these things? The guys throwing bricks on O’Connell Street were probably not Irving scholars! It’s simply not that much of a danger to society, and certainly less than censorship is.

Other assorted gripes :

Scottish People in Dublin - Fuck the fuck off with your kilts! You don’t wear them at home!

Music in Pubs – What’s this shit? Come 9 o’clock and suddenly you have to compete with Brown Eyed Girl, The Proclaimers and that utterly shit Pulp Fiction tune Black Eyed Peas tune? Get out of it.

Dublin Doctors – I’m no racist, but the last three doctors I’ve spoken to were completely unintelligible. Why are all our doctors Indian or Pakistani? Where are the Irish ones? Seriously like, what’s the deal with that? I couldn’t understand a word this guy was saying, and he was holding my dick at the time, very dangerous.

And to be less downbeat, some current likes! –

Legging it past chuggers as if you’re in a desperate hurry, then stopping and walking again as soon as you’re past ‘em.

Kombucha. The life-sustaining herbal drink of the Gods. The Gods I say!!!

The Way The Cosmos Works.

You gotta love that, life is scripted man. And it’s great!

Movie defeats book! (lazy re-paste)

2006-03-18T09:01:00.000-08:00

Here’s a rare case of a movie being better than the book – Dune.
I think that’s a well-under-appreciated film and has some amazing imagery
that has stayed with me ever since watching it as a kid. The hideous
Harkonnens, the twisted mutated Guild Navigators, the shield battles, the
vocal guns, the sand worm riders and the fucked up nuns with their pain
boxes. And Picard is in it!
Now the book, having just finished it, was a bit of a disappointment
seeing as it won all those awards back in the day. I suppose it was
cutting edge at it’s time having been written in 1968 but I found a lot
of it very dreary and over-bloated with faux religious quotations and cod-
Islamic nomenclature. The political aspect of it was very intriguing and
that’s what kept me going but it never really delved into the mysteries I
wanted answered such as how did the Mentats operate, what became of key
characters, how did the Guild control the Spice. It was all very sketchy.
I know there are a few sequels but I’m not really moved to read them
based on how dry and funless the first one was. I mean, there are huge
tracts of text describing ecology and desert vegetation but when it comes
to a knife fight it’s given a few lines and a couple of well built up
characters actually die ‘off-screen’ like A – The Baron’s NUMBER ONE
assassin.
B – The Duke’s NUMBER ONE
paladin.
C – The Harkonnen military
tyrant the ‘Beast’ Rabban.

Scores of pages building these guys up and it never even shows what
happens to them. And another guy who is built up as this unbelievable
warrior all the way through the thousand pages ends up not bothering to
fight at the end.
At least the movie had the sense to insert scenes with all these guys and
showing what happens to them.

Well done David Lynch for making such a good movie out of strangely
limited source material.

Rant over.

They be moving in schools but everyone's a teacher

2006-03-09T08:53:00.000-08:00

As it occurs, I’m back! (Once again with the renegade master, default
damager, power to the People etc)
Circumstance and mental gridlock has kept me away from the
electro-journalising game for quite some time, in fact, none of the start
of this momentous year seems to have been laid down for my small cadre of
readers. But what of it? I’m not a performing monkey.
But what I will say is – I’m back from a most refreshing sabbatical down
in the whippity winds of Kerry. I had a splendiferous time. It was great
to get away from the rows of street pizza, the brown belt brigade, the
gumsnackers and the prambackers of this dirty auld tow-en.
But I tell thee this, Minister for transport Martin Cullen is a charlatan
and a popinjay! 155 euro for two heads, single mind you, single fare to
Kerry from Dublin. Would you FUCK off!!? Honestly, that is a sickening
amount of money for a rather uncomfortable rattle in sluggish locomotives
that haven’t even got bins for your rubbish on them. Some old horse-lip
spilled my boiling tea all over my while I was at it. I’m getting onto
Liveline.
Despite that irksome fiscal blow, I compartmentalised the loss and focused
on my personal enjoyment. Easy to do in Dingle, the scenery is class, the
sort of stuff Irish people generally ignore or consider bland. I have a
fresh appreciation of it though; you just have to see it through the eyes
of someone who considers it exotic. An easy mental exercise and very
rewarding. A four and half hour trek up and down the Connor Pass will
swoosh any lingering city cobs out of your skull let me tell you.
Spectacular vistas on display, sort of like the Emyn Muill in Lord Of The
Rings. You could almost hear the Braveheart soundtrack on the air as you
gazed off into the mists. Either that or you start thinking of music from
A Woman’s Heart. Depending on how mentally frail you are.
And here, that dolphin, Fungie, still swimming around the Bay since 1984.
Gadzooks! I remember reading about him in primary school when I was a mere
striplet. Well, he’s still kicking it there. Lost his missus you see, they
mate for life and so he stuck around Kerry, forgoing further aquatic
action. Each to his own. I would have moved on personally. Still, that’s
one big mammal, I was expecting a lithe little thing, but he’s a wide
load. Followed the boat for a goodly while, hopping up and down. If you
toss him a fish he’ll throw it back in disgust. Likes to do his own
hunting you see, gotta respect that.
Interesting, the whole town is based around that dolphin though. All the
shops and bars and murals and trinkets and a bronze statue. If he ever
fucks off or when he dies they are gonna have to think of something. My
advice – rubber and hydraulics. The yanks won’t know the difference.
Pubs!
Yes the pubs in Dingle are of the very highest cut. And there is no
shortage of them. I had officially my finest pint of Guinness that I’ve
ever tasted in my life.com. In John Benny Moriarty’s, oh God it was like
manna. A single tear flowed from my eye as the last mouthful sank down:
because I knew I’d never be as close to heaven again.
Other top pubs of note are of course Dick Macks (You know where it is)
Foxy Johns and An Droichead Beag. Gotta love this alehouses that sell
bicycle helmets, seeds, tyres, hammers, wellys and pints all over the same
counter. Marvellous.
If you ever go down to this part of the world, don’t go to a hotel, go to
a B&B. The little touches are great, big slap up Irish breakfast preceded
by fresh strawberries and banana, shitloads of tea and toast and folk who
run around at your feet making sure your every comfort is accommodated. Cool.
Anywherefore, the point is, Player 1 has re-entered the game, Press Start.

Lay on.

Small nature

2005-12-31T07:13:00.000-08:00

People are faggots.

This ‘sick’ business makes me laugh. There’s no constitution left in people anymore. Either that or they are lying. Actually, that is definitely the case. To that end. I am providing an ailment translator for any who wants to consult it –

Flu – Cold

Cold – Sniffles.

Throat infection – Sore throat

Chest infection – A cough.

Sick – Hungover.

Unwell – Drunk

Under the weather – Hungover after a few days on the booze.

Not feeling the Mae West – Hungover and worked through the pain, in work like.

At the dentist – Unexpectedly hungover.

Dentist appointment – Expected hangover.

Hungover – Doesn’t fancy going to the pub based on who will be there.

Dying – Hungover and genuinely remorseful.

On antibiotics – Taking a few days off the booze for good of health.

Tired – drinks too much.

Down in the dumps – Dumped.

Drunk – At desk.

I dunno. Sick my arse.

There, I said it.

Why I masturbate, and write.

2005-12-17T08:37:00.000-08:00

Over a month eh? Yeah, I suppose I can’t argue with the ceaseless passage of time. I’ve been way too busy simply trying to deal with the overwhelming enormity of daily existence to manage to bring news of my cumings and goings to this portal.

Great doings have been a-transpiring though, don’t you worry about that. Some interesting, most illegal, everyone of them almost completely forgotten by their main protagonist: Me! Fennell!

Dispense thee with any worries that I’m about to quit a la Cowzer from the blogging game, there’s plenty of life left in the old snake yet. Or so each one of your mother’s tell me every night.

Hallowe’en party was savage, but instead of wittering on about it here, and because my STM is so fucked that I can barely recall any of it myself, you’ll just have to go to http://www.flickr.com/photos/21363973@N00/ if you want to catch a flavour of all that. Including Radge’s birthday party. Which reminds me, I brought the Disgracoscope to the Setanta Christmas party there the other day. Not classic pictures it must be said, but I might throw some up anyway.

Ah now, what else? Well, actually my musings have ended up more on Radge’s blog than my own, I am both 5X and Une Starkos by the way. Might as well dispense with that subterfuge at this stake or I’ll never get credit for ANY writing.

Radge’s often heartbreaking/tragicomic blog is reached here - http://www.radgery.blogspot.com/

But the truth is I actually am doing a hell of a lot of writing these days. Aside from the usual big projects that will probably haunt me for attention for the rest of my days (unless they ever fucking come to fruition) I’ve been getting back into what I can only describe as ‘Righting’ – that being writing that I do just to make myself feel right. The sort of stuff that erupts unbidden from those sub-atomic universal micro-tubule doors in my think-sponge (they exist there Richie, I tells ya!) and burns down into my quivering/welcoming fingers. It’s a lot like needing a wank, but different. When you need a wank it’s sort of like this surplus of physical energy that needs to go somewhere coupled with a generally unshakeable fixation on some recently observed female form or imagined scenario that won’t dispel. Once that enthusiasm and desire has been brought into gushing, sticky reality the urges instantly vanish, often replaced by a sense of dissatisfaction or deep melancholy. Not so with the creative urge. After the shaft-blast the usual weariness fails to descend and the motivation to accomplish something remains. And just like that kid in the anti-teenage binge drinking ads when he spots the bottle of vodka and all his previous nights misdemeanors are brought fondly to mind, I realise just what the problem is and go for my refill pad and or laptop. (After a hasty dab down or possibly a shower If I wasn’t already there)

Now this makes it sound like my writing if fairly wanky, and to a degree, it is! In so far as I’m definitely doing it to amuse myself more than anything else, and I doubt this idea is untrue for anyone who says they enjoy writing. But at the same time, I do like to try and make it a bit fun or interesting for the consumption of other readers. That’s the hard part I suppose, you don’t want to write like Cecilia Ahern but even less do you want to come across like an elitist prag. I’m not French after all.

But yeah, I am given to be a little purple in my prose sometimes and probably somewhat cryptic. Something to work on that, making myself more digestible or at least accessible. But fuck it; I ain’t going to compromise too much. I yam what I yam as the Sailor Man used to say.

Now. To Christmas and the ancient and noble pursuit of getting completely fucking destroyed. The Tiger has flown back to Paris for the Noelle so I won’t have to hold anything back in the destrucity (word courtesy of The Ultimate Warrior circa 1989) stakes which will either spell my well-deserved death or, er, a more desirable result like continued life but heaps of good times. Don’t want to sound like I don’t have good times when the missus is around, I do, usually better times actually. We get on tremendously. But there has to be a few weeks set aside for me to truly push this kempo/yoga stretched chassis to its limit. Why? Because, as Hilary said as he gazed up at Everest, “its there!”

And how will I handle three weeks without any (depraved, you all saw my tools) bedroom action?

Why, temporary chemical castration of course!

I’ll leave you now, for no reasonable reason, with my chimpanzee impression for Dave Maher.

OOO ooo ooo aah AHHH AHHHA!! AAAHHH!!!!!!!

Ka and Ka-Tet

2005-10-27T10:18:00.000-07:00

Hasn’t been a blog for a while, up to my eyes is why.
If there’s something very interesting to report, rest assured, it will be reported.
What am I up to my eyes with? The normal hump and drag of life is all. Not that I’m complaining; it’s all good. Just very little that I’d like to share, or that would be interesting from another person’s point of view, in my estimation.
But things have been going on, shit has been going down, make no mistake.
The brother is back from his antipodean adventures. Plenty of disgrace, and more to come. He has been replaced in his capacity of unofficial Uncle Travelling Mac Fraggle by Steam Warrior Johnson, out there in the tropics with Agent Oldboy Curtis whose rantings are the maddest I’ve certainly ever read in my life. Hats off to Crazy Terry.
It’s lovely for them.
And it’s warm here for the time of year isn’t it? Hardly any need for a greatcoat at all, let alone hand-muffs.
For the largest part it’s reading that takes up most of the time in between partying and working. I don’t know how people can squeeze telly in these days; I’d never get anything done if I spent my evenings in staring matches against the Hypnoclops. I keep starting too many books. And I can’t bring myself to walk by a second-hand book shop. Their musty lure is too much for me.
What books am I in the middle of now? I always seem to be in the middle, some books just keep you in the middle forever. I’m beginning to think Catch 22 only has a middle. I read that book once a year as I always find something new in it to either just laugh at or learn from so all-year round the bookmark seems to be in the middle.
Here’s what I’m dragging my reddened corneas across this weather –
The Wastelands:
Being the third book in the artist formerly known as Richard Bachman’s mind-twisting Dark Tower series. All credit to Kev in work for lending me this. I’d like to bang on about how great this one is but as Tyrell might be reading this……I can’t tell you yet!
The Tragedy of Faust:
Still struggling away at this. Mainly because the pages are all stuck together as it’s a first edition nicked from the Trinity College library and the leaves haven’t been cut. I didn’t steal it, guess who did?
Dude, Where’s My Country?:
Yes I know it’s a populist airport book but you need something to ruminate with over your tea and crackers. See, I don’t mind if bits of cracker get stuck between the pages and the chapters are named like Burger King Whopper combos so it’s readily digestible polemic.
Les Forets D’Opal. Vol 1&2.
Graphic novels actually but it’s taking me ages to read them for obvious reasons. Animal story, and surprisingly hardcore. At least I think so. Not Preacher hardcore but there’s still a few interesting dismemberments.
Endgame:
It was lying around the house so I though I’d better read it before someone mentioned it in polite society, or God forbid, quoted some of it and I didn’t know what they were talking about. I’d be mortified. It’s good though.
Memento Mori –
The gaff is full of Muriel Spark books at the moment as herself is doing a thesis on her works, I rattled through a third of this one while in the jacks and it was so good that I picked up -
The Comforters: Which is even better, amazingly original plot devices. Who knew? I’d never even heard of the woman.

Shit, it’s nearly half six. What am I at writing blogs when I’ve a Wax to be going to?

And there’s Cuddihy off, he’s meeting a woman I’d say by the cut of him. Said he didn’t want to go for pints but devil the going home he’s doing. The truth will out…

Oh here before I go, I found this on the internet today - did you know that Elton John first hinted about his deviant sexuality in 1975 album Captain Fantastic and The Brown Dirt Cowboy?

Ha ha!

Gays are gas.

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

2005-09-29T05:51:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-09-19T08:30:00.000-07:00

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

2005-09-08T04:52:00.000-07:00

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!!!

I speak so well – uh.

2005-08-15T07:50:00.000-07:00

Alright motherfuckers.
You can send yourself on a flimsy aluminium wing and a prayer and come crashing down aflame amongst Greek rocks or you can rock gently across the waves and spot a whale.
I know where my chips are thrown. I trust Poseidon far more than Icarus. The friendly cetacean was an augur of a great trip to come, just popped up to blow some baleen blessing on the whole endeavour. I was gladdened.
I can’t tell you how I love to beat my own path through the continent, each choice, as trivial as where and when to take a bite or a pint in places that surely must be mundane but appear exotic and fresh to the Hibernian mind. That wears off but the initial buzz is always a minor delight. No cabins or bunks for me, sleeping bag on floor and wash in public jacks, that’s the way to travel, anything else is faggotry.
I guess I should recount what went down. The telling will be far less interesting than the living, but you all have your own lives, I’m just chronicling so I can look back fondly myself and to be honest, I do way to much to reasonably remember. Note however, I was never drunk once on this trip. Never drunk once you say? Never drunk once. And not more than once either.
Before any furtherance however let me extend congrats and thanks to Radge for rehousing Pump and keeping the hobbit hole warm. Must buy some disinfectant later today…
There are an awful lot of dogs in Paris, maybe four less than too many at one time, but enough to make you think there’s slightly more than way too few than there should be. At least that’s how it seems.
I love Montmartre, and yes, it’s because I’m a sucker for the fabulous destiny of Ms Poulain. You’d have to be dead or an Englishman not to be. I was amused to find someone had painted those little arrows all the way up the steps from the carousel up to the telescope. Les wags! Though it has to be said that the Abesses station has lost a lot of its charm while the renovations are underway. I couldn’t even find the photo booth!
Whilst breezing and keening like Phil Lynnott through Parisian Walkways I was compelled to go to the Pere Lachaise and see where the Lizard King was buried. A simple plot was at last located amongst the many mighty mausoleums. Two sparse flowers atop and an illegible legend. I’m older than him now. I wondered absently if he found what he wanted as he passed through the Threshold of Perception.
The twins Fred and France put us up for the night in the City University, sleep was not on the agenda.
In the City of Light I finally met the inimitable Florian. A guy whose fascination with onanism and sexual deviancy almost rivals my own. We hit it off. Under the tower, which had the good grace to sprinkle into coruscation every hour, a memorable evening of cider and parlour games was had. Can’t recall all the names of the merrymakers, you know the way it is, but none were busy. It was the sort of grand night that would normally have me reaching to the darkest depths of my wallet for whatever I might have stowed within twisted pieces of cellophane. But it didn’t require it. The night stood up for itself.
Eventually we got to Rennes. Big hand for Albin for leaving us custody of his apartment while he was off up to his own devilment. A fine-ass sucker of a gaff too. Great town. No bawk-bawk heads, no stomach art on the street. Every meal was gallettes crepes and cider. The good stuff now you understand. And cheap as chips too. And some things free as frites. Medieval in tone with crooked timber houses and dozens of just…chairs…on the streets, Rennes is a comfy place.
The best was St. Malo though. And I knew it would be. It’s where the frogs themselves go to paddle so there’s little need to pander to the Anglophones. This is what I prefer; a little bit of immersion makes a holiday. I can’t be just be scowing snack boxes and inquiring ‘Do. You. Speak. English? Where are les jacks?’ of perfectly intelligent people. Call me a snob if you dare but I cringe at that shit.
And so luckily I saw hardly any of that. Ah St. Malo. It’s a place I’d like to die.
Clear and deep water that’s cold enough to remind you you’re alive but warm enough to keep you that way. Watch out for the medusae though. Fantastic rocks that lend themselves well for scarpering up and rappelling down. G was her mad self, industriously smashing rockpool limpits with a stone so that shrimp would come out and feed on the displayed innards. Patiently she would wait until grasping one foolhardy arthropod; then it was the lighter for it. A few seconds of squealing in incandescent pain then the ass would be cracked and the meat slurped down. She’s so primal. Rar.
“Come to my barbecue my darling my dear,
picking a chicken with me”
And along the barbican, the whole town is revealed as a promontory jutting out into the Atlantic surrounded by massive, ancient walls whose most legendary protectors and romantic idealists are entombed in the encircling rocks not far out, and reachable at low tide. A deep sense of history and pride is palpable, enclosed and condensed.
I will speak no more of St. Malo; it won’t and couldn’t be the same for you.
The rest of the time was spent in Rennes, and never a boring second was registered in my mind. Not a millisecond. I have never been so constantly unbored. The food was unspeakably good and every sitting was lavish and extravagant yet laughably easy on the pocketbook. I envy the French for their bande dessinee. We, and the Americans too, have nothing on them. I thought I was the man when it came to knowledge in the field but it turned out I was but a bald-armpit novice. And unlike here there is no ridiculous stigma attached. The attitude is spot on. The stuff is true art and appreciated as thus. I could have wept when I saw the endless shelves and rows and columns of hardbacked joy been leafed through and bought by schoolboy, van-driver, businessman, punk, Goth, athlete alike. Surreal.
Did you know that you were not allowed to wear shorts to a French swimming pool. Hmm, indeed! I tried and was whistled at. You are required to wear Speedos. And I was given some, well it was more of an elastic band about 3 angstroms across. You see the male genitals must be visible at all times in a state of relaxation in an effort to keep perverts out of the pools. If anybody becomes visibly excited then they are netted, removed from the piscine and presumably, executed.
I thought this was an hilarious state of affairs, until of course it was deemed a diverting game by another to try and coax some steel into my rod. Only deep meditation on how Bella Emberg’s inner thigh must taste saved me.
Any the way, there’s too much else to go on about, and how irrelevant it will be to you. What does it matter to you about Tinette and Cassette? About pewter fee and honey wine? About how les petit canard font coin coin? It’s pointless, and so would your precious stories be to me.

On with your lives.

Territorial Pissings

2005-07-23T09:44:00.000-07:00

For lazeness sakes I'll just paste the email re- my pussy irritation.

I've had some serious run ins with Pump over the last few days. One episode involved him slinking into to the gaff as I had the door open, just doing my thing or whatever and when he saw me he fled. Outside I thought. later that night I'm in bed and I hear a purring, I get up and look behind my bed. There's pump. He sees me and bricks it again, cut to a ridiculous scene with me chasing it's ginger ass around the place and it FREAKING the fuck out. It gets into the shower then and knocks everything the fuck over and even tries to climb the shower wall. Eventually he makes a break and gets outside again. I sit down, have some vodka to calm my rattled nerves. Today I had a plan to lure him back in. I laid the fish bits out in a trail into the bathroom. The kitten follows the trail but still knows there's something suss about it as he's looking this way and that. I'm observing his progress from behind the window. He can't resist though and follows the trail until he gets to the motherload- a whole bowl of the shit. As soon as it look like he's engrossed, I spring out the window with a view to scaring him into the house where I've set a series of traps. However, I fuck up. My heel clips the window as I bound through and I crease myself onto the patio. Pump turns around in alarm, sees the situation then leaps over me quick as you like and back into his hiding hole, I made a futile grasp for it and shouted 'Yarracunt!!' before it went which has only strained relations between us more.I rang the cat rescue people, they're sending me an actual cat-trap tomorrow morning. The die is set Pump.............you've done well this far...but now it's ENDGAME!!

Shaolin shakin' for the sake of his soul

2005-07-16T10:33:00.000-07:00

If only I had loads and loads of money.
Actually, I don’t really want that, I just want enough to keep me in easi-singles and the odd half-pint of cider of a weekend.
Unfortunately though, as Mick Hucknall used to lament, money’s too tight to mention.
Where in the name of all that’s wretched does it go though? I live a very frugal life in a rather Spartan dwelling. No fancy clothes, no ostentatious lifestyle accoutrements. I even stopped shaving to save money because blades are so ludicrously priced. Now granted I have grown a majestic and luxuriant beard but I’m still in an awful state of penury.
I think perhaps that my only choice now is to hold a public auction of authentic Delmorabilia. This is a one time only opportunity folks to own a little piece of me!! And remember, everything bought will only go up in value over the years. Just think you could be on Bargain Hunters at some point in the distant future pawning some of my anointed toss-rags for a massive fee!!
Lot#1
Tasteful Triton shower unit. Used. Displays some elements of being broken. Façade missing but can easily be covered with cardboard. Some minor work needed. Electronic components/motor missing.
Lot#2
Selection of brushes and scrubbers. Suitable for ‘heavy’ toilet cleaning tasks. Barely used. Range from nylon to stainless steel. Some discoloration/odours.
Lot#3
Range of authentic items of clothing. Includes: Xerox Support Staff Fred Perry style polo shirt, Pair of unique ‘crotchless’ boxers (next seasons fashion now!!), two pairs of socks in ‘Harry Potter’ wizard black.
Gay looking shirt that belonged to Tyrell with visible nipple feature.
Lot#4
Collection of skin and hair sheddings from my ACTUAL body!!
Plug hair starts at e1 a bag. Pillow/duvet hair at 2. Bed skin and carpet scrapings a mere 50 cent. Any body detritus or fluid collected on buyer’s own tissues - half price.
Lot#5
Set of three juggling balls upon which I first learned to juggle. In three attractive primary colours. One ball missing.
Lot#6
Massive range of DVD cases. Have a pirated copy of Commando? Put it in its original case at last!!
Lot#7
Mobile phones used by myself over the last five years. Stylish black Motorola. Hip Grey Eriksson, Trendy silver Siemens. Each with authentic ‘worn’ look. Can be easily repaired for just twice the price!
Lot#8
Rucksack rental. Here’s your chance to virtually own my Jack Murphy Discovery 800 L rucksack. Many patches, including Slovenia.
Lot entails full use of sack whilst I’m not using it or on holidays. Just think, that’s nearly 340 days a year! Note: Sack must not leave the Republic or North Leinster.
Lot#9
Vicarious friendship with Radge. That’s right, this offer guarantees full round the clock access to Tony ‘Radge’ Cuddihy as his life-partner and confidant. Just imagine, at almost any time you can text slogans at him or listen to his problems over too many pints. Or, picture yourself openly questioning his sexuality and getting away with it, or chanting ‘get it up lad’ as he vomits on the street outside Doyles.
Lot#10
Headlock voucher. This ticket entitles the owner to have me slap an inescapable slav-lock on the person of their choice. Anytime anywhere. And for a maximum duration of 11 seconds. Target must be female and or enfeebled.
Lot#11
Harridan removal.
Unsettled that your ex hasn’t gotten over you yet? Wish she’d just get on with her life and stop trying to get back with you? For a nominal fee I’ll erect myself as a sexual obstacle to her further hassling of your good self. After just one torrid night the memory of your bedroom skills will have been dispelled forever allowing you concentrate on your new bird. It’s win-win-win!

And that’s all for now. Bidding will commence on all lots immediately on this forum. No price ceiling applies. Everything must go, get your bids in early and high to ensure maximum satisfaction.

(Please note – Payment does not guarantee receipt of item.)

'This town needs an enema!' - Jack 'The Joker' Napier.

2005-06-12T06:50:00.000-07:00

Snarl!
When will a real rain come and wash all the scum off the streets?
Walking around town on a Saturday night these bloated days is simply a sickening experience without the benefit of alcohol or other intoxicants.
The mindless herds of chickenheads with their hate-handles sloshing around their exposed midriffs, like dough being swirled by an over-enthusiastic Italian pizzamaker, and their rubber-headed white-shirted men pissing and whooping along the street - an amorphous mass of homogenous inanity.
I can barely stand it anymore.
The worst part is the depressing sameness of it all.The Joycean paralysis is pretty much fulfilled. The complete extent of the control that is held over trends is apparent. The magazines tell the biathces what’s in style, the shops sell it, they buy it. And it’s the same clothes in every shop, the same ringtone on every phone, the same records in the collection, the same DVD’s, the same views, the same venues, the same attitudes, the ability to think creatively and independently is not only absent, it’s actively shunned. These people seem to crave similarity and abhor anything that might set them apart, except for seeming to appear affluent.
Scores, of cluckers pile out of the Q-Bar tottering on ungainly stilettos, all intentions of looking graceful banished in the act, the uniform is easy to imagine. Flimsy little skirt with big brown belt, perhaps some sparkles or rhinestone. Shimmery little top, blasted by the elements, with goose-pimpled breasts spilling out in a vulgar little burp. GHD straightened hair, probably blonde and layered with an oh-so boring ‘funky’ fringe. That damned contrivance should stand for Generic Homogenous Drone. What happened to spirited, curly, wavy wild hair? It looks like an army of fucking mannequins out there. Then there’s the bag, the things are so small and pointless, you could carry, what? One johnny in there? You’ll need more than that love. The men are even less original. These accursed white shirts. Collars and cuffs open, Ibiza chest exposed, hanging loose but tight around the shoulders and ‘roided out biceps. The fucking neo- mullet is de rigueur.
This pansy-ass little effort that requires a tub of dax to coax barbs of half-dyed blonde hair into faggoty little spikes at the back and front. Remember the Fishhead look from Travis about six years ago? All the nonces had it and this is the new one. I wouldn’t mind (well, I would) but surely the role models for this cut are the campy metros that are to be found on Big Brother? What irony. Still, they don’t care, it says in the mags that this is what the buurds want so that’s what they’ll sport. Prags.
You can’t even speak to them. The mouths open and only static-like television noise comes out. It’s all media regurgitation, not a single inspired thought or concept. If they’ve read a book it’s the Da Vinci Code, if they’ve bought a rock album it’s The Killers. That would be fine if it wasn’t FUCKING EVERYBODY! But that’s the attitude y’know? Go into a shop and they’ll look to see what film or music is declared in big bright imbelice proof letters saying NUMBER 1, and that’s the one they’ll buy or rent. I hert dats gut! I hert dats not spowst to be any gut!
I hert lowds of people say tha was shi. Its spost to be shite. It’s ‘supposed’ to be? As in the makers went out there with an agenda to purposefully make it crap? I can imagine that to be the case actually in many instances.
I heard this one in the cinema queue – ‘What do you want to watch? ‘ says the sac to his Sac-ette (See? They haven’t even considered yet if they would like something or not, they’ll just go with the blind faith that their diminutive minds will be entertained, or numbed)
‘I dunno, what about that?’ (Points to poster of Inside I’m Dancing)
‘About a lad in a fucking wheelchair? Bollocks to that!’
‘It’s affin getting four stars though.’
‘Oh?.........Must be gut so’
And in they go. Lord Almighty.

I can’t fight the Bland Band on my own! Fewer and fewer are my allies against the tide of gormlessness.
Fuck the magazines, fuck the legal greed, fuck the nothing scene.
I shouldn’t even have to mention the misnomer of celebrity. But everyone knows the problem there. Don’t complain about it, just don’t buy it! Don’t buy the fucking things, don’t subscribe to the digital celeb channels, don’t wear logos on your body. Would you wear a t-shirt with McDonalds on it? Then why wear one with Tommy Fuckfinger? Don’t be a sandwich board.

Dublin has been eaten, what you have around you now are the leavings of a million cathode-ray lobotomised consumeroids.

Bullshit.

Whoso would be a man would be a non-conformist

2005-05-29T08:12:00.000-07:00

What utterly pointless devices are car alarms?
No-one ever cares when they hear one, they don’t leap to the phone in a fit of civic duty to call the police unless to shut the thing up after 3 hours wailing in the wee hours.
They fat cat cunts who own car alarm companies are sleeping soundly in their Ivory towers whilst those who dwell in basement flats have to endure the endless cacophony night after night. The damn things are way too sensitive as well; a cat lepping up on a car sets them off. And the worst of it is that they offer absolutely no deterrent to theft. If a scummer wants your car he’s gonna take it and no alarm has been devised that can’t be jimmied. Even if it does go off who is gonna care? Nobody. Car alarms, like cars are a complete absurdity.
Except for Herbie, especially when he went bananas. Or to Monte Carlo.
Now since the final chapter in George Lucas historical drama ‘Star Wars’ has come to a close, and I’m wearing my gambling hat, I want to take this opportunity to try and clarify the clumsiest and messy part of the entire saga – the podracing bet!

My major criticism of the Phantom Menace, Jar Jar aside, is the
unnecessarily complicated bet that Qui-Gon makes with Watto.
For a kid's movie I think this is way too hard to follow, as a gambler
myself I still am not totally sure I get it, God knows what the casual
fan thinks.

I reckon it goes like this -

Qui-Gon has no money so he proposes that he enters the Boonta Eve race
with a pod he has recently acquired (the fastest ever built)with Anakin
to pilot. All he needs is the entry fee so he asks Watto to plump for
that. In return Watto gets a meaty 'each-way' prospect in the shape of a
bet that promises that; if Anakin wins Watto will receive the prize money
but have to relinquish the T14 hyperdrive to Qui-Gon. But should Anakin
lose, Watto will not only keep his hyperdrive but also gain the Queen's
fancy starship (Ah..Nubian eh?). Though he still loses the entry fee.
The bet is further complicated when, after Watto crows that he's also
betting heavily on Sebulba, Qui-Gon says that he'll 'take that bet'.
Now what he's talking about here isn't clear and understandably throws
Watto slightly. Qui-Gon apparently now wants to alter the bet to forecast
a definite win for Anakin over Sebulba which will adds to his possible
jackpot Anakin's freedom, along with the hyperdrive. Should Anakin be
beaten by Sebulba Watto will receive the prize money, the Starship, and
the new pod (which, if owned by Anakin should theoretically already be
his too!). Now, does this mean that if Anakin finishes second and Sebulba
finished third will Qui-Gon win the bet? Or does everything depend on
Anakin's win no matter where Sebulba places? Either way, the audience is
confuddled.

Kildare are playing Westmeath now so I’ll leave you with what I told Johnny ‘If anything, what’s the value?’ Ward a minute ago - I once stood beside Tadgh Fennin, and I couldn’t tell us apart.

And another thing, what’s so bad about the shape of a pear anyways?

Some circumstantial evidence is very strong, as when you find a trout in the milk.

2005-05-18T08:32:00.000-07:00

BAM!!
I am returned. With the forehead and nose peeling away from me due to Sol’s ungentle ministrations. I didn’t expect Inishmor, the big Aran Island, to be so searing but that’s what it was. Headed over to the tribesland last Friday for some R&R, and by Palpatine’s wattled neck did I need it!
Galway is a fine place if you can avoid the tourists and Supermacs, and there’s an amazing lack of Chickenheads and Metrosexuals.
Up with the birds on Saturday morning and took the Super-Currach over to the rock where myself and herself demanded a tandem bike to get around. We received one, much to the amusement of Fear an rothar and his lackeys but the last laugh was on us as we went on to laugh much later than them.
The double bicycle was a hoor to get going but once mastered I had everything under control. I did the steering, one attempt was made the other way round which resulted in an IMMEDIATE crash into a stone wall. There were no more attempts.
Many were the times we managed to get ourselves lost; you would think that difficult on an area so small and bereft of trees but never underestimate my ability to underestimate.
Plenty of cool things were taken in, the fort of Dun Aenghus, the This of That, the Something of Someone, can’t remember it all, that’s why I took pictures. Maybe I can slap them onto this blog since my camera is both digital and kick-ass? I’ll look into it.
Can’t remember the last time I had so much fun condensed into so narrow a time over those four days, honestly. Took trips around the fascinating and unique limestone landscape of The Burren, went poking around the Ailwee caves, crawled on my belly to peer over the majestic cliffs of Moher, a place I hadn’t been in 18 years. Took a photo of myself standing on the very spot where another picture of me was taken back then. Compared the two – I’ve gotten a little taller, and a lot cooler.
Thence back to Kildare and a ramble out to the old, old, old haunt towards Caragh. They’re building a road through the fields of my childhood, it was quite something to ruminate upon.
The fucking bastards.

Anyway, I have a new hero – Henry David Thoreau.

Read the best books first, or you may not have a chance to read them at all.

Voyage through Laputa

2005-04-30T09:43:00.000-07:00

Forgive me father, for I have sinned.
It has been nearly a month since my last blog, and in that time I was mean to my brothers and sisters and I stole and I told lies to people.

It’s mad when you think about it now that when we were whelps we were forced to go into dark, forbidding, confession boxes and tell that shit to mouldy old priests with chalk for blood. The whole fact that you had to rack your brains to come up with things that sounded worthy of ‘confession’ just showed how ridiculous the exercise was. Again, though it was just another system of control. Another manifestation of the subtle bullying that you’ll occasionally but persistently have to deal with. It’s a thread that reoccurs throughout your whole life – you’ve got to be very careful as you walk through the jungle, you have to sniff around and search the perimeters and finally realise that you’re actually in a zoo! A menagerie that is carefully monitored and most insidiously, cunningly designed to make you feel secure whilst the vampires take what they think they want and need. But they don’t really if they think about it. But they don’t have time – they’re busy. Unhappily so but there you go. The important thing I guess, and cliché as it may be, is to keep reminding yourself who you are and where you’re coming from and never ever to take things too seriously. Remember, you’re just dust, star dust to be sure, but your ass is going back to the ecosystem before long and all your wealth and acquisitions won’t rot with you. Some other busy slav will take em! HA!

But don’t get me wrong, I don’t claim to have all the answers. I don’t even have decent questions. I’m not a bad dancer though. Seriously.

Woooh, this is a real ‘stream of consciousness’ sort of blog eh? Cool, haven’t done one of them for a while. I mustn’t be hungover. Well, why would I be? I’ll tell you what I drank last night. It was tear-jerkingly delicious. A bottle of 19 year-old wine from the deep within the bowels of the renowned Trinity College cellar where such literary giants as Jonathan Swift himself would take his tipple from. Like I told the lads, it was every bit as sweet as breaching the maidenhead of a damsel who had managed to reach that very stage of maturity intact. A rare and sacred spice indeed!

Did you ever wonder what sort of person you’d be now if you went to a different school?
Or if your parents had split up, or hadn’t split up if they had? Or if you were an only child or had loads of siblings? Or were born without arms, or had an hilariously massive head?

I never do.

Sure what would be the point?

Weblog entry

2005-04-03T08:09:00.000-07:00

Let me bring you through the agony and the ecstasy of a normal day.

A work day, if I made it home the night before.*

9.am –
Wake up screaming.
9.15am –
Slowly come to terms with reality and begin to separate the residue of dreams from actual waking experience.
9.20am –
Begin to move, slither out of bed using my hands and drag my groaning corpse to the jacks. Using the door handle, I pull myself to my feet turning the air blue with profanity.
Then will begin the brief early morning grooming process. Not much time is spent on this; most of the morning will be taken up with swearing and sock locating activities.
9.30am –
Simple breakfast which consists of a swig of cranberry juice straight from the carton and perhaps a slice of Dubliner Cheese. If I found the socks in good time I might cram a handful of Kellogg’s ‘Start’ into my mouth and wash it down with a gulp of milk, again, straight from the carton. Then, out the door.
10am –
A pleasant amble along the bowers of Gardiner Street where, not having a timepiece, I gauge my progress in direct relation to how early I encounter an old Jack Russell that might once have been white but now is gun-metal grey from walking beside the fume filled roads each day. If I lep over him at the flats I’m doing well.
Thence into work.
10am -6.30pm or so –
Earn bread.
7.00pm –
Two options. (A) Go home and get ready to go to the pub. Or, (B) go straight to the pub.
If A then a light tea may be taken. This will consist of a cup of tea. If I’m going somewhere swanky I might take this opportunity to put on a tighter pair of pants.
If B then I’ll be already drinking by -
7.10pm –
A modest half will be taken.
Many times over.
9.00pm-
By this stage I’ll be looking for something to do, be it a gig or just an interesting place to continue gargling. It wouldn’t even be unknown to head to the pictures around this mark.
In fact, it would be common.
10-11pm –
I’d generally hope to be drunk around this time. If not I must be doing something terribly important. And that could only be sex. And if I’m not doing that then I CERTAINLY would hope to be drunk. And pursuing sex in some grimly determined manner.
Midnight –
I’ll probably be in some shit-hole club or late bar at this stage. Up to no good. If I have a drinking partner then this will be the time when we unravel the inner mysteries of the multiverse.

1 to 2 to 3 and 4 am –
Voyaging through the realms of inebriation. I might read a book at this stage and understand it in completely the wrong way. Usually enjoy the old ‘how’s your father’ at this stage if the cards were played right.
5-7am –
I’ll take a little ‘time-out’ as they say. Relax for a bit, maybe make a colossal sandwich.
8am –
Total body shutdown. Sleep through neighbours banging on wall to turn down volume of stereo. Cheat death for another day.

And so on…

Next, I’ll bring you through a day off.

Keep away from yourselves now.

*Has been known to occur.

Football Special

2005-03-19T08:45:00.000-08:00

Sure where would you get the time to blog like?
My life is too full of stuff going on to really get a chance to chronicle it accurately, or interestingly.
What I can say is that I had a chance to get out of the shmoke for a while by heading up to Donegal for a spot of surfing. And by Rod did I seize it with both hands.
The cold unforgiving Atlantic did pretty much own me for the majority, and the board coming up after a bail to rack my nutsac was less than ideal, but still, good fucking fun was had by all.
The gaff we (Eavan, Tryl, Dee, Hamo) were staying in was fairly sweet at that and after an arduous six-hour drive the scenery and fresh air was, it must be said, rather awesome.
Friday night and we re-created the ‘old school’ Wax experience in the kitchen with faithful tunes, flashlamp and some titter skittles.
Saturday night was shroomery but those Amazonian babies didn’t have the expected blast-off despite JT following the tea recipe to a, well, T. But a game of Trivial Pursuit became Pertinent Pursuit and everything that was said during those hours was intensely funny and gigglesome.
So now, two weeks off from the Tiger as she’s back to Paris for a few lectures and what have you. To be honest, I certainly need it as I’m in a fucking heap every night and morning. Remember my other blog a while back about getting fit? All gone to bollocks.
Anyway…

Queers, right?
I used to be able to deal with them and accept their existence and all the rest but I’ve just had it with them now.
Fox coaxed me along to Fraziers to support a friend of a friend’s , I dunno, DJ set I suppose. Arra I haven’t a clue what you’d call it but it was far from music. It seriously just was a lot of unpleasant cacophonous noise. As Fox himself put it, it was just like a Commodore 64 tape loading up. Load of arse. So we moved on. I won’t say where but at the heel of the hunt we were all back in Eavan’s and that was cool except for this one dude, who’s a raging benny, had it in his head that he was gonna score with me!
And the fucker was pretty adamant. Fucking gays, they’re the worst.
I sorted the issue out with him, I thought, but as the night wore on and I just wanted to crash on the couch he kept coming back to try and drop the hand, at one stage actually kissing me on the back of the neck the filthy cunt! I thought when I elbowed him then and had my ‘Don’t fucking do that again buddy or it will all go wrong for you’ face on that would be the end of it. BUT NO! Out on the balcony this fudger (who was Spanish as well, y’know, with that lisp) grabs my arm, draws close and says ‘This is your last chance’ and tries to kiss me, I mean, for fucks sake like!. So I stitched him a header. And he wasn’t happy with that, went sulking for a while but then later STILL goes on about how much he wanted to bone me in front of everyone. The fucking steamer. Can gays not talk about anything else but being gay?

Boring cunts.

And they’re faggots!

No, I wasn't happy with all that shite at all.

In color

2005-03-07T06:01:00.000-08:00

If it wasn't for Wes Anderson.
What magic he weaves.
He created a great-big smile in my heart with his latest monument to the absurd - 'The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou'
I've already e-mailed, and phoned, and texted and face-to-face 'liased' with people about this movie so much already that anyone who knows me has probably heard any and all juxtaposition of superlatives that I have at my disposal to try and capture and convey how magical this cloudish, yellowy romp really is. Because sometimes when you've used all the old words you just have to rely on wrong words that sound like they should actually mean what you're saying. Think the hookah sucking caterpillar from Alice in Wonderland.
So I won't go on much more and will summarise thusly-
A wonderful-ass movie that will reveal to you whether you fall into the 'get it' or 'just don't fucking get it' category of humanzee.
So that was good, what else?
Ah yeah, Ollie's send off the other night was creamy and a little bit glimmering towards the end when we were in the Hub. I had one of those magnificent moments of clarity as I frugged away on the stage, as drunk as a monkey and content as a gent I was gifted with a brief look into the corazon of the cosmos - through pure beer!
It's nice to know it can still be done.
May be suffering a bit from 'CDS' Cowzer's Dualcdretail Syndrome. I find that I, too, must now buy CD's in two's. I tried to just buy one, that Nouvelle Vague album that I heard in Eavan's and fell in thrall to, but as I was halfway up the queue I started getting all feverish and panicky - was the wait justified the purchase alone? What if I didn't like the CD? I better get something else to make the trip worthwhile - these imbecilic thoughts ran through my head. So I relinquished my place in the line, just two places away!, and went back foraging. In the end I bought another copy of Room On Fire as some shit-stab nicked my last one. It placated me. I now know your pain Scowze.
The song that had me so captivated by the way is 'In a manner of Speaking' a cover of some post-punk tune done with some achingly gorgeous, swooping vocals.
I also like the cover of Dead Kennedy's Too Drunk to Fuck. TOTALLY different from the punk version, but shiveringly exciting nonetheless.

In other news,
it's too hot in this room, it's stupid.

Antonio Banderas.

2005-02-23T08:40:00.000-08:00

I’m firing on all cylinders.
Gone are the days of……..rainbows….no, no, wait that’s Nick Cave, gone are the days of feeling flaked all God-damn the time as I’m back to 100% maximum fitness.
It was a painful struggle for a while as the pegs and lungs strained against months of inertia and produced more lactic acid than you could shake a shivering hamstring at, but alls a-poppin well now.
I’ve been running and stretching and pumping and pulling hard this past while and finally I’ve hewn my body back into its optimal shape.
You see, it’s just much easier to get shit done when you’re not fagged and fashed all the live-long day. And what with often having to forego sleep due to taking it to the Outer Limits, I need all the extra reserves I can muster.
So what’s there to blog about? Well your honour, I’m so confident in my client’s innocence that I’m willing to waste the court’s time by rating the super-hunks.
So here we go!!
Dom Cruth –
Gotta pronounce it like a swarthy voice-over guy from Italy. Dom is pretty good for action films and the like of it. I suppose I like him for Napoleonic reasons. And he seems to be a bit of a Go-Boy with the ladies. Some good performances under the belt, Magnolia, (I swear I’ll drop-kick that motherfucking dog if he goes near me) and Interview With The Vampire.
Four out of five Swoons!
Brad Aniston nee Pitt –
Slowly getting his identity back after shedding his NOW! Magazine image along with his big-nosed bint. A seriously cool actor and seems like a good guy. Can he act? Who knows, but he does a mean knacker, and for that he gets the nod.
Three and-a-half Knee-Wobbles!
Huge Grant –
What a fuckhead. I’d burst his lung with a biro if I had to share a waltzer cup with him
0 heaving bosoms.
That Lad from the Women’s Films –
I loved him in that thing I saw him in. The one where he knobbed all those women and they thought he was great and fell in love with him. Oh yeah, Hugh Jackman.
8 Adamantium claws out of 10.
The Hunk Of Ice That Sunk The Titanic-
What a bastard. I can respect sinking a ship and drowning loads of toffs but if he hadn’t done that then that fucking movie would never have been made which means that song would never have been screeched. Boo!
1 floating corpse out of 400.
2004 MN4 –
The asteroid that’s due to hit earth and destroy it in 2029. What a prick of a thing to do. Could it not just star in a dreary coming of age rom-com with Lindsay Lohan?
I’ll only be 51. Yeah, worst hunk ever.
-six mlllion years of evolution out of 84.

Ah, I’ve enough of this.

Keep away from yourselves.

Rails succumb to run

2005-02-19T06:00:00.000-08:00

So, he did it.
John Frusciante that is. My favourite artist. What did he do? Well, he promised to release six albums in six months starting from The Will to Death right up to Curtains which I purchased on Valentines Day. Brilliant stuff the lot of it. It’s hard for me to rate the albums as they are all so different and you need to be in a certain head-space for each one. I’ll try though. Including the first two albums outside of that project.
To Record Only Water For Ten Days –
Outrageously sublime in almost every respect. His voice range is stretched to its awesome limit on this one. 9/10
Shadows Collide With People –
Blew me away as the electronica was so intriguing rather than just pure guitar driven pieces. So many instruments messed with, vocalisations fucked around with and the depth of feeling in the songs is profound. 10/10
The Will To Death –
Less experimental than Shadows, more like the first album than anything but still more restrained and the lyrical content is less obscure. 9/10
Automatic Writing –
Not so much a John record as it was released under the Ataxia name and so is 50per cent Josh Klinghoffer. Very strange and more like a soundtrack or movie score. 6/10
DC.Ep –
By this stage you just want the songs to return to his cathartic voice and virtuoso riffs. Not long enough either. 5/10
Inside Of Emptiness –
Ah. Brilliant. I love this album so much. It reminds me of Raw Power era Iggy and boasts the most lyrics that I wish I had written myself. Soulful and frightening in it’s power.
If ‘Look On’ was the only song I could ever listen to for the rest of my life I would be content. No, delighted! 10/10
Spheres In The Hearts of Silence –
Took a lot longer to get into this one than any of the others and there’s a lot of loneliness and lack of hope throughout. Doesn’t often get a spin, but Josh outsings John on this one interestingly. 5/10
Curtains –
I’m still living with this last record and I’m enjoying the life I’m living no end so does that colour the music better or is it reflecting as it would anyway? Still, back to basics on half the songs and wildly experimental on the others. The result is, well it’s genius.
It just sounds like your ear was designed to hear these sounds as presented in exactly this form. A great finish. 8 or 9/10, I have to see how it layers onto my brain.

As for Love Day itself, that was grand. A couple of bottles of Le Terroir and Bayeux, The Village on DVD. Carefully avoided all commercial cheese and in fact, all went swimmingly. A ridiculous amount of other stuff has been happening but I can’t even begin to start to commence attempting to remember any of it. So I’ll just do last night.
I left Dr. Fell to look after the Tiger (TCB man, cheers) while I went to Erol Alkan in Temple Bar Music Centre. What could we do there only get fucked up? And that came to pass. You meet such nice people at these events, then headlock them. A bale-back to Eavan’s was had later, thankfully no more tidying up D’aungier Street for me, where everyone chilled and painted. It was like some psychedelic primary school art class. Only with the people I know! And I love all of them,…hmm….residual effects there…Ah no. They’re good. I’m blessed.
Finally headed back to the lair at about 5 or so, and she was up, and I was UP and also UP!
Whack! Bang! Smack! Kiss! BANG BANG BANG!

Ah, Shtop.

Hi Mum!

2005-02-05T09:49:00.000-08:00

I couldn’t be better.
Well, maybe I could do without this skull-shattering headache, but all in all I can’t complain.
I just fucking can’t.
Three different colours of wine, some beer, some this that and the other are responsible for the relentless pummelling behind my eyeballs but it’s only pain, and it was fun creating it.
I’ve been drinking a breathtaking amount of booze recently, truly inspirational. I like to think that people might look back at my gargling life one day and present me with an award for Outstanding Achievement in the Field of Drinking, or some such ball licks.
Last night was a handy one. Nice soiree in Eavan’s with food from her fair hand, chilled out had Chinese drawing session with Leo, the haze of craze soon descended and everyone was banging or twanging some instrument or howling blissful little snippets of no tune whatsoever. Spice o’ life.
Sorted La Grenouille out with a gaff so I did
I’m a great man, she was looking for two weeks with constant failure until I sat down with the Herald rang the first number, got the address, went down and told the landlord what was what and that was that. None of your shite.
Where? Gardiner Street. Back of the net.

So, since Cowzer listed 29 things that suck – ass and I took him to task over it (And I see it’s not 5x anymore!)
I’ll have to dig deep and retort-
Things That Rule –
1. The saying: "Fuck you you fucking fuck."
2. Roidin’
3. Boozin’
4. Rock.
5. Football. (had to get those four out of the way)
6. Text messaging! You don’t have to talk to otherfuckers anymore!
7. Radge.
8. Radgery.
9. Radging .
10. Bill Hicks.
11. Ghostbusters
12. Family Guy.
13. Manchester United.
14. The way Liverpool fans think they have a shot at the title every year.
15. Gary Neville
16. Al Pacino.
17. Not ‘working’ as such.
18. Deriding others who fail to share your worldview.
19. Punching someone in the face.
20. Cracking one off in the shower.
21. Pixies.
22. Breaking on thru’
23. Being the impaler and not the impaled.
24. Living alone.
25. Accumulator’s coming off.
26. Die Hard.
27. Headlocks.
28. Reading the Sunday papers on the jacks. Plus supplements.
29. Living on credit.

And that’s just me lazily converting your original answers.
Other stuff rules as well but I’m not arsed actually drinking too hard about it.
Here, something interesting, go to www.cowser.blogspot.com. Fancy lady? Well fancy that.

Go with God.

Out, vile jelly! Where is thy lustre now?

2005-01-22T07:28:00.000-08:00

No.
THIS is it. THIS is the most tired I’ve ever been.
In an absolute jock so I am. What’s new eh? Grapefruit juice and Peach Schnapps together that’s what. It’s called a Gloucester, because it affects the eyes first.
I made it, fuck off you.
There’s nothing left in my skull cavity save a mere impression of a brain, an insubstantial artefact, ephemeral and impotent.
I’d love to give up the drink but it won’t give me up, such is the path of the alcoholist.
What’s that? You want me to drink you? Oh , but I can’t… Can I?.. ..mmm……brownest of browns…
G is for the rotting entrails in my gut, U is for the unusefulness of my mind, R is for the red eyes squeezed tight shut, N is for the nob worn down in the grind.
GURRNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!
Watched big fat King Lear tread the boards and cover the less bombastic thesps in lashings of spittle. Never able to concentrate all the way through that sucker but tried really hard this time, even still I was confounded by the machinations. It must have been the acoustics. Which fucking one is Albany again? Too many characters, I’ve said it once and I’ll say it once. Highly enjoyable for all that though, and at the risk of sounding busy – Best Edmund Ever!
Been drinking hard, damn hard this weather, and while I’m not on the subject I don’t know if I’ll bother getting telly in or not. I’ve been quite content beavering away with intellectual and creative pursuits in its stead, and DVD’s, and gamecube, and, well, you know yourself.
So maybe I won’t bother my hole getting the cable in………oh wait……..Champions League soon………scrap that last.
A good ‘un in Doyle’s last night, Dr. Fell up to his old tricks, manipulating things from above like the marionette master he is. And Dockers up to his old tricks but the language barrier was all too much for even him to penetrate, ah Dockers, if you had pulled her I would have bowed down to the true master. In defeat, I can barely bring myself to look at you.
Later yet another titanic battle up Mountjoy way, I’m bruised and battered and wrung out and wasted.
But happily so for now,

I’ll keep going.

Oh, and Alexander is a good movie. Suck my balls General Consensus.

I caught you a delicious bass.

2005-01-12T08:32:00.000-08:00

Relax, relax I’m still around.
And I’m going to be even more arounderer now that I’ve finally managed to secure some new lodgings for my lily-white ass.
Mountjoy Square, which is really an excellent name all things considered, is the new black this season. All the mod-cons and that bollocks, separate bedroom, nice roomy jacks, weird door to the Mobius continuum. The usual.
The landlad seems like a decent sort, I had to front jack-shit of a deposit and could take my pick of how regularly I wanted to pay the rent. I said in jest, ‘Sure we won’t bother with the aould rent for a while till we see how we get on!’
He stopped chuckling then and looked worried and you could see his face furrowing and his mouth bulging against the barely constrained ‘fuck –off!’ that was on it’s way until I clapped his shoulder and informed him jocularly that indeed I would honour his feudal agreement.
So the keys were slammed heartily into the hand and we parted with many a ‘Right so!’ ‘Hup’ ‘G’luck’ ‘Seeyagain so’ ‘right’ ‘take care’ ‘unintelligible noise of vague camaraderie’.
I’ll have to get a shady lad to hook up some NTL though, can’t be living with just standard wavelengths on the (amazing!) televisomatogramograph.

This new regime of solitude can only be helpful to my state of mind as now I can concentrate in peace to what the giddy little voices are whispering. It’s also a good, stress-free, haven for the philandertron 8000. Ah no, but seriously no……yeah. Ah. Well, no. But, hmmm.

So now you know.

What’s being going on? Divil a bit to be honest with you. Just thought I’d pop in and say hi. All is well with the psychofrog, she brought me back two bottles of farm cider from Brittany which taste, and I exaggerate not, like the very thought of sexual intercourse distilled and made liquid. MMMfffff.!
Right, enough of this!
When something decent happens I’ll blog.
‘Hup’

Time wounds all heels.

2005-01-03T06:07:00.000-08:00

Xmas. What a hoot!
To be honest it all fizzled by almost unbeknownst to me. Great telly, ocean’s of booze, party upon party. I’m plum tuckered out. New Year’s Eve, for the first time in about five years, was actually good this time! It’s usually a pile of yakshit, most overrated blah, blah, of the yah yah, but it has to be said the Backlash boys put on a scintillating show. They excelled themselves when they played the one that goes eeeh oooo eeeh aaa ooooh. That’s money that tune.
When the clock digitally switched to 12.00 I vaguely recall bouncing on the seats swigging a bottle of champagne and gurning to beat the band. (Ehh….The Flying Pickets)
Then, despite making an oath that we wouldn’t all pile back to my gaff for a disgrace, we all piled back to my gaff for a disgrace.
I’d love to know what went on then but we were all in a jocker but it’s safe to say everyone was in good form and friendly to one another. Kip was had at about 11 the next morning, so New Years Day never happened, spent the entirety of that bad boy in World 2 enjoying the amazing wonders of the cinematograph presentations that my mind was providing for me just in front of my pineal gland.
So, I’m finally, actually and irrevocably moving out of D’aungier St tomorrow.
There’ll be a tear welling up behind the nictitating membrane let me tell thee. It was an animal location and its walls have seen much adventure, mashing, twitching and plenty of hank being panked during my tenure.
But all things pass and I’m eager to see what the fates have in store for the likes of me.
I like the sound of 2005, and the look of it too, it’s a dynamic sort of number, look it at there, so cute with its little boobies sitting snugly between a nostalgic two and a hopeful five. We’ll give it a chance so, but it’s got a lot to do to beat that bad mofo ’04. If it’s half as disgraceful as that then we’re in for a treat.
Onward and gee-ward.

Meltdown of the year – Oxegen.
Richard of the year - Richard Roche.
Motorbike recovery of the year – Simon’s moped.
Toothbrush of the year – My yellow one, the one I had before the one I have now.
Spider of the year – (Cancelled due to lack of entrants this year but special mention to the Very Big Moth which we saw in Italy in August. It was appreciably larger than a normal one.)
Elvis/Mummy film of the year – Bubba Ho Tep.
Gazelle of the year - Impala.

Six helluva Tough Guy sayings

2004-12-23T09:37:00.000-08:00

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

2004-12-11T09:36:00.000-08:00

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.

2004-12-07T05:50:00.000-08:00

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.

2004-12-02T05:46:00.000-08:00

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!!

Fuck.

2004-11-27T07:24:00.000-08:00

Hahahahhahahhahahahhaha!
I don’t know what I’m doing at all. Yabble.
Thursday night at ‘Backlash is 1’ was just top - a miasma of sound and vision, anxiously, floating, falling, I remember holding hands with someone then -Fzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Bam! I’m rubbered.
I’m not sure what everybody else was doing but they all seemed happy, I just stormed around looking for more and more things to regret. If anyone was there can you fill me in? Averill, it must be noted, excelled himself sonically. Encore.
Somehow I did the old, ‘Everyone back to my gaff!’ line afterwards and, Jesus, I dunno, young ones these days, what are they thinking? With my reputation?
Never let it be said I’d leave anyone wanting.
I expect to be murdered very soon by my flatmate – and with good cause!
Ha!
Fuck it.
Then as for last night.

Where do I begin?

I don’t think I will.

Gurrrrnnnnnn….

No Hay Banda! Don’t you get it?

2004-11-25T09:37:00.000-08:00

Ah yeah, it’s been wild enough alright.
For a nano-second I considered slowing it down but then I thought, here, bollocks to that.
Though I did have A VERY GOOD SLEEP last night. I can’t stress that enough.
Can’t stop smiling and laughing at everything today. Radge says that Johnny Fitz was (WATCH) like this the other day too so it must be some weird sickness that really cool and original people get then eh?
I’ve been spinning the plates with even more celerity than usual this weather, time demands, I think it’s the dark nights, people like to be held. Or if not held, the LD as Shaft would say.
I’m an obliging dude.
Huge itinerary (MULHOLLAND) of disgracefulness coming up.
It’s Waximus Maximus tonight, 1st Anniversary of the Backlash. Promises to be an unholy night. Unholy!
House call on Friday night. No, I won’t lower those eyebrows.
DJ Food on Saturday. Bella, bella.
Multiple birthdays coming up too, Dr. Fell, Radge, and a whole (DRIVE) heap of other disgraces.
Endless festive parties and shindigs galore. Man, I love this time of year. Yeah, I’m one of those.
I don’t even get(IT’S) the post-Christmas blues, I’m such a cock!
Scum is off surfing in Sydney.
Tryl says that(ALL) surfing is the new ‘you know yerself’, no, the FREE ‘you know yerself’.
Despite it costing a planetary defence budget in wetsuit, board and proper accoutrements.
And your life.
Still, I’m down with that and ain’t getting a mortgage soon(AN) so cowabunga and count me in.
It’s great not to have a solid five-year-plan.

Everyone dies, not everyone lives.

ILLUSION!

Lust's passion will be served; it demands, it militates, it tyrannizes.

2004-11-21T06:14:00.000-08:00

Lawks. I can barely remember anything, y’know, all that stuff that happens to me.
Events. Occurrences, happenstances. They pretty much bleed into one another to the extent that struggling to remember them is just too much of a torturous and tiring effort.
I think I’ll stick to safe territory and write about riding, and drinking. Nah, just riding. You can learn all you need to know about boozery on Radge and Cowzer’s pages. They are both drinkists of the first water.
I fucking hate birds that just want to ride ‘that way’. The convent way. The face-to –face-not-really-able-to-see-all the-good-junk-style- favoured by raping priests. It’s insanely boring and embarrassing, you feel as though you should be having a conversation. I don’t like the way it humanizes the whole deal. I want it to be animalistic and raw. I don’t want to look into the eyes of someone I’m bludgeoning in such a crude manner and read there the faint flickerings that suggest shopping lists being mentally drawn up. If we’re getting it on, we’re BOTH getting it on. I don’t want to just fuck a girl; I want us to fuck each other. Damn catholic Ireland hangovers still haunting our women. To hell or to Connacht with it. You just don’t get that shit off foreign birds. And I’m not just saying that, it’s a statement of fact and if anyone disagrees I’m fully prepared to back up my argument with my fists and feet.
Er…right… Friday night. Some of it’s coming back to me now. Yeah, it was billed as a big night and almost went completely pear-shaped due to logistical and distribution problems but it managed to make a decent one of itself.
Unfortunately that necessitated having to go to The Worst Nightclub In Dublin ™ in order to get things going.
I won’t mention the place due to my utter shame but suffice to say that it is a place completely, totally devoid of that from which it takes its name. Chickenhead central, White shirt haven, the busiest place on oith.
Still, the point is, we didn’t stay there very long. Or did we? I’m not sure. At the heel of the hunt we ended up back in Tyrls gaff, I don’t know what happened then. No idea at all. Except that half of my inner cheeks were digesting in my stomach when I woke up.
As far as my fucked-up home life goes – over the last few days I have been attacked with:
(1) A breadknife
(2) A meatknife
(3) A Cup of ginseng tea
(4) A pint of water.
(5) Teeth
(6) Nails
(7) Candle wax
(8) Radox ‘Fresh Burst’ Shower gel.
(9) Some sort of weird finger blade. (why not?)
(10) Juggling balls. (To the balls)
Ah, I dunno. How much more can I take?
Actually, loads.

Forever Cuttin' Headz

2004-11-16T07:00:00.000-08:00

Oh Baby
I dedicate this to all the pretty girls
To all the pretty girls...to ohhh...
All the pretty girl in the world,
And the ugly girls too...
Cos to me you're pretty anyway baby

Bit of a pastoral break there yesterday.
Took a minor sabbatical back to the shortgrass where I was bewildered to find myself sawing down trees, pulling down briers and feeding hens in the warm November evening mists. Felt quite good actually, even though I was humming Mylo while moving the saw. The rhythm is too deeply ingrained into the part of the brain that stores these things so now even the slightest drone can set it off. It just seemed so out of place in the setting, and the company - my incomprehensible Granddad.
Says he holding the bottom of the ladder as I hewed at the offending bough:
‘What’s yur name agin noy?’
‘(Sighs, says name again)’
‘………(shakes head)…..that’s a strange name..’

This man has known me for nare-on 27 years.

Bizarre.
It must be a mad trip to lose your mind like that. I reckon I’ll reach that stage at least 40 years earlier than he did though.

Anyway, the world just lost a magnificently rare talent with the tragic death of ODB aka Big Baby Jesus, Dirt McGirt, Russell Joooones mama!
Sakes like, all the heroes that have dropped recently – Tackleberry, Superman, Rodney Dangerfield, The Big Boss Man……as Johnson said, Donovan from V must be bricking it now.

I’ll let Rusty take us out…

Word up, I bust that nigga ass right now!
Ain't none of them niggas can't fuck with me!
What? Nigga you could never fuck with me, my nigga!
Dirt fuck you up right now! What? What? What?
I bust your motherfuckin ass boy!
I ain't no motherfuckin joke, you know who you talkin to
(Word up, bust that nigga ass, word up)
Ol' Dirty Bastard, I fuck you up right now
Yeah, what? What? (Shame on that nigga yo
He ain't sayin nothin, fuck him!)

Terror, terroir, tear her,.

2004-11-13T08:42:00.000-08:00

I think sometimes, that the most detrimental illusion that many people are under is that of the one that compels them to think that there will come a time when they feel, for certain, that they have reached a point of achievement. One that is totally knowable, satisfactory, deserved and earned. That when this point is reached they will be filled with a sense of completeness and happiness.
A moment where you can say: ‘Ah! I’ve done it. This is what I’ve been working towards. From this day on I shall be contented.”
But the greatest possibility is that this is just an artifice of fear borne of an unwillingness to accept the complete, uncaring randomness of the universe.
There is no glittering end to the trail, there is no moment of ultimate enlightenment and ascension. You won’t enter any perfect matrix of happiness in this life - unless through madness.
Most people don’t realise their goals and dreams. They die unfulfilled.
There is no special person for everyone, most people die lonely.
Happiness is only fleeting, and as Tom Hardy put it, merely punctuates an existence otherwise based on pain and the efforts to avoid pain.
Nothing is real but what is determined by your own perspective.
Nothing means anything, it’s only the limitations of the human mind that force it to seek meaning where there is nought but a sequence of accidental occurrences.
Religion is fear. Orthodoxy is to humans what a knotted-nest is to a viper or a hedgehog curling up in front of an onrushing truck. The illusion of safety and endurance in the face of the unthinkable - the end of experience.
You’ve got to understand something in order to not be pissed off or stressed out about this absurdity known as sentience.
Not just read it or be told it. Understand it. –
You are going to die.
And that will be it. No second chances, no steward’s enquiry, no better luck next time.
Deal with it.
Relax.
And cheer the fuck up.

Back to matters within the deception.
Went to see ‘Comme un image’ yesternight. A nicely shot slice of miserly realism. A lot of the comedy might have been lost in translation but I got quite a few chuckles out of it.
The lead actor, who draws some water apparently, was very good indeed. There’s nothing more refreshing than a protagonist who is a completely egotistical tyrant who leaves a trail of emotional devastation around him while feeling hard done by the world -especially when the movie doesn’t cop out and provide any final redemption or change of arrogant and mean policy for the guy. Just like life doesn’t (See opening rant)
The whole thing was opened with a tasting session of some sublime ciders from Brittany.
I’ll be getting that in. Unfortunately though, I didn’t have it all my way as I didn’t get to meet Jane Birkin. I thought she was going to turn up the other night but I got the date wrong.
I wore my hair in the way I though she’d like and all. Ah well, next time. I’d just like to hear her pant a little bit. Just a smidgen, just for me.
Amusing episode in Trinity College the other day. After going to the national museum with the maniac I live with to show her the old tat that defines the history of this rain-blighted rock, we headed to her office for luncheon.
The usual grapplefest broke out and why wouldn’t the door suddenly burst open and one of her colleagues (supervisor, in fact) come into the office to find me a-straddle she across the table in the most stereotypical of fashions?

There wasn’t even any point in stopping at that stage.
And so…

Dems jus jokes!

2004-11-11T09:53:00.000-08:00

Hmmm.
It’s Thirsty Thursday.
I’m pawing playfully at the idea of having a half*.
And………………..yes. I’ll have a half.
All is well and swell and full of things I can’t really tell.
I managed to get my hands on a DVD I’ve been tracking down for ages. None other than the Dark Crystal, it freaked me out as a kid so it’s gonna be a right headfuck to watch it when…like...y’know. And the end of a party like.
Ah shutup.
I’ve been sleeping in a new room lately. It smells much better than my own. In fact my own has become little less than a sock and jock depository while this thing works itself out. That’s the best thing about Things, they always work themselves out. At least they have done so far.
Some interesting embellishments made to this room I noticed. Graffiti on the walls. That’s a strange one, odd quotations and cryptic messages. All on the corresponding wall over my head on the other side if you get my drift. I had a feeling I was being hexed alright. The Stanley knife on the bedside locker is a concern I could live without though. That’s when playtimes over baby as Raw-era Eddie Murphy would warn.
But yeah, I’m having this fragrant new nest, even though sudden attacks can come at any time in any shape or form. Truly exciting and odd. Rum and lurid as a matter of fact. How fitting.
There is, I notice, also always some bizarre retribution any time I transgress.
A Trojan bout ended with a slavlock, a punch in the mush, (accidental! I cried, failing totally to prevent my ill-advised laughter erupting) and my using my rubber duck to torture the defeated ears of my pinned foe with triumphant squeaks.
Later, I emerged from the bathroom, freshly talced and ready for round two.
There, on the ground in front of me lay a grim sight –

My rubber duck had its throat cut and its squeaker carved out from its fundament.

Things just got personal.

*A fucking shitload of alchohol and substances.

Burning plasma descend all the way

2004-11-07T05:38:00.001-08:00

Hi.
Big thumbs up for Radge for being a gutless cur and slinking off onto a bus after work, fleeing in terror from drink and good times.
His cowardice provided another cosmic collision that led to a merry traipse around the dirty old tau-wen.
Though it started on a shaky note with a visit to the Front Lounge where I was blasted with the vapours of a thousand steamers, I mean, men were actually drinking halves in there. Halves!
Disgraceful cunts. Finally the others were located in Solas which is nearly as busy a kip, full of the like of those insipid characters that wear the reprehensible white shirts that have oriental style designs up along them. Wankers of the first water.
Still, I brightened up when approached by my first groupie. She spotted me across the room and I spotted her spottage too. She drew near tentatively, and asked me if I was who I am. And Indeed I am, and was. She gushed and fawned and thought everything I did was ‘kewl’ (Being 21 and, I might add, a sweet enough little bangtail) but nice as it was, how can you respect someone like that? Only with mickey ministration. She was from Rathmines film school and had seen Horace, Nocturmoil and Remote when they were shown there. Anyway, it gave me carte blanche to be a pretentious Slav; and man, I can see how it could get addictive.
Thence to Eavan’s newly carpeted lair where our old friend theology was dragged mewling and coughing back into the conversation over some j’s. As usual, the inner mysteries of the universe were unraveled with made clear and laughingly obvious only to be forgotten in the next puff.
Then it got interesting.
G had her set on destroying the new plates I was given for the gaff, she found it an affront to our initial pact that we didn’t try and go through the duration of cohabitation with just the two plates. I wholeheartedly agreed and in fact never wanted the new delph, but I was in no position not to accept them since they were symbolic and representative to someone.
So we fucked them off the roof of the complex.
It was a tricky operation since we had to climb out a window to get up onto the upper reaches. It was beautiful up there as always, a nice orange haze, and lots of invigorating danger. I think I’ll bring up a sleeping blanket next time. Smashy, smashy.
Of unnoticed interest was me cutting the fuck out of my finger up there. Having had our fill of whatever it was we were doing it was time for G to flip out and decide to cut the
equivalent finger on her own hand. Yes. You heard me. She’s like that.
In fact, I can’t even tell you the rest, but I’ve always enjoyed pushing pain to the point of pleasure and vice-versa so it’s nice to find a like-minded maniac.
Candles and blood, vandals and wood.
It doesn’t suck to be me.

One is an oeuf

2004-11-05T09:12:00.000-08:00

Let’s not talk about that warmongering, morally defunct clod across the pond.
It won’t do any good; things are as fucked as they ever were. No, more so.
No, as.
It hasn’t stopped though you might be interested to learn. Last night was a nice return to form in Wax. Quality tunes from Jack the Cunt, plenty of free and easy medication from Doctor Phil, and booze and birds aplenty. Aplenty! And oh how I filled my boots of each delicious vice.
Six fish.
Radge there, he’s had some very good blog entries lately. He’s really upped the ante on me. I won’t try and outdo him as that would be too obvious. He’s hitting his peak and quite frankly I’m proud of the lad.
Too many birthdays are happening all at once. It’s a pain in the brown actually; there are always too many places to have to be at the same time. And my bi-location skills are dodgy at best. I’m going to have to prune down this over-extended network of associates.
The livers are at me too. I had to actually leave early from the Market Bar d’other day, poisoned through and through I was, still there’s ‘comfort’ on tap now to be found in Disgracland so I didn’t mind going back.
And I quite like it. Probably a terrible, terrible mistake but sure, it doesn’t really matter does it? In the long run like, who gives a fuck?
I’m a bad bastard. But hey, long time dead and all that.
Time to buy winter clobber it is, in fact I owe myself a bit of indulgence. Some CD’s some DVD’s, actually I have to buy more porn, getting bored of what’s at the flat. The price of them though, a decent skin flick (good looking birds, ass, facials etc) costs 50 beans in the blacked out shop down from me.
Another fine example of rip-off Ireland. Why do we put up with it eh?

Hmm, there’s a free French cider-tasting extravaganza at the IFI tonight to kick off their French Film Festival. Can’t see the harm in dropping by, though as Roche says, they probably don’t allow professionals to take part.

Festival Grotesque

2004-11-01T06:10:00.000-08:00

Well that’s me cored for a few days.
I’ve exhausted all my piss and vinegar but it was well worth it.
Friday night was a party in Docree’s which was a right giggle. It was the evil medical duo of Jack The Ripper and Dr. Lecter that went instead of us. The next night it was Jack again (and ripped Billy Jean by the sounds of things, you old dog) but for me, Zorro, and G made an intriguing Lavinia. But top marks had to go to Docree for his improvised ‘Ocean’ rendering – Simply a fish sellotaped to his head. I had no choice but to confer instant sect membership to him for that one. A high rank too, Lord Neptune.
Last night, Whelan’s, slightly shambolic music and nothing disgraceful happened but I was wallowing in the midst of some ebullient mademoiselles so can’t complain at all.
In other news, American elections coming up – see Reuters.
As far as luridity goes, well, call me Charon or Demetrius.
The Lecter mask stayed on.
Aw Mama..

When Goths were Goths and Tamora was queen--

2004-10-28T07:11:00.000-07:00

-- To quit the bloody wrongs upon her foes.

Success.
Though I owe most of it to the inclement weather, my being able to take it easy for a few days that is. Using willpower to try and stop shindigging is not an option. Willpower to me just relates to my awesome power to say “I will!”.
So, Wednesday was spent in blissful stasis.
On Tuesday evening it was gritty Korean cinema (Oldboy, a must see if you want to feel all hollow and grimy inside) followed by vicious existential sparring in The Market Bar. It’s getting to seem like every evening an examination of the futility of life is played out between myself and La Sorciere. My indestructible spark of optimism antagonizes her burgeoning nihilism. It’s all an illusion so why endure the struggle? I’ll tell you why, because we can learn to manipulate the illusion to improve the sensations to which we are bound. To what end? Because we can only go off what we perceive a priori, to hold firm that the end is the end is more folly than to remain open to all possibilities.
Certainty is an absurdism, so we have to trust the pseudo-certainty we have available.
And so on and so forth. We’ll know the answer one day, and if we don’t then we won’t be in a position to rue the efforts in trying to figure it out as oblivion takes its claim.
So don’t worry about it.
The glass might be half empty or it might be half full, but either way, there’s a glass there, we have to accept that much.

Tsk. See what happens when I’m off the beer?

Talk to yissers later.

How can poodles exist on earth in 2004?

2004-10-25T04:37:00.000-07:00

Good grief I’m in a heap.
Time to retire into torpor for a while and refill the maxing tanks.
I’ve been denying myself sleep and poisoning my body far too much of late.
(See - http://www.bodytonicmusic.com/forum/viewtopic.php?t=1749 for evidence)
Not by choice but through circumstance I tell you.

In sport, Arsenal have been defeated by Manchester United, ending their 49 game unbeaten run in the Premiership. The match was clear and decisive with each team adhering closely to the rules and regulations of Association Football. United scored two clean goals that were beyond dispute courtesy of Ruud Van Nistlerooy and Wayne Rooney. Arsenal boss Arsene Wenger conceded after the game that his side were emphatically defeated by a better team.
That’s how I’m going to remember it anyway.
There are other sources who may give slightly conflicting views of this analysis, such as ‘the media’ but I would take all those other treatments with a sea of salt.

The last few days have been fairly hectic.
Fox’s birthday turned out to be quite a mess. Good larfs had in the Bleeding Horse but drunkenness descended all too suddenly and the group, which was far too large to reasonably handle anyway, got broken up into dissident factions and spread like a twitching plague across the city.
An aborted attempt to infiltrate Belvedere got me in hot water with the Pretresse, not helped by my busy behaviour back in the flat later when we were Outre de nos têtes and I learned that Starman is really just Over the Rainbow with different words.
So thence to Metropolitan where memories are but refracted shards of oddness, I THINK I had a good time, but can’t be totally sure. Mitsubishi test-drive the night before the full rally had me well soused.

Gonna try and take an early one esta noche , but I doubt I’ll be let. I smoothed over les eaux variables by purchasing Bjork’s Medulla as a birthday gift and peace offering. It went down well.
Did I say it?
You know what I mean.

!

2004-10-22T09:18:00.000-07:00

Here!
What the hell happened to my blog previous to the one after this one????
It was called TCB Baby and it was really, really important.
And now it’s gone?!
That pisses me off!
I can’t be chronicling my disgraceful adventures if they are going to get arbitrarily deleted like this. Well I'm not writing it again so tough!
For fuck snakes like………(fume)

Give what back?

2004-10-22T09:03:00.000-07:00

Bizarre how the human brain reacts sometimes.
It should have been a struggle today to contrive all the stories required today but I actually motored through them at twice the clip as normal.
And I was caked last night, completely munged, snapping the face of myself.
But I feel fantastic now! Actually 110 per cent. Now that doesn’t make a lick of sense.
Although, I was late making the desk, which is unusual, as I only finally hit the hay around 6 after taking it to the Wax. A very successful Waxing it was too. All has been sorted now for tonight which is a celebration of the life of Fox. We took a test run last night and everyone, (well, Fox, me and Eavan who were the only hardcore out) agreed on the quality. Oh, kudos to Frenchy Jon too, he may have hardly any eyes but he uses his keen nose to root out the truffles for us.
Don’t really know where we’re going or ‘owt but probably be checking out something from the DEAF line-up of treats. Nyesss.
Question is, will I bring a ready-made companion for the night or will I mine the gibbering gestalt for something new?
Either or, it’s all gravy. Radge has me well sussed, despite my best efforts to try and convince him that I had any capacity for fidelity.
Have to make sure the Slav Johnson gets well head-locked tonight. He has been seriously lax in his disgracefulness recently. It just won’t do.
Let me see, that’s it.
¡Él nunca paradas!

Oh, by the way, Fidel was tripped!!

And certain stars shot madly from their spheres

2004-10-16T06:14:00.000-07:00

Well I don't know.
I don't.
Honestly.
Wax on Thursday sans Uncle Phil. A strange one, had Fox not thrown up his hands and called for the Jagermeister then it might have actually been sub-par.
As it was I managed to get learning - impaired as opposed to totally retarded. The pressure was finally dropped to satisfaction, but that was the only thing that was.
Four nights this week in bed after six am “I have had a most rare vision. I have had a dream, past the wit of man to say what dream it was.”
Too much, demasiado, I am struck dumb and blind by the all-ness of it all. I am sitting on Puck's promontory. I am Kant at his steeple. And it's still no good.
The apple has been bruised.
It won't keep, Consumption or putrescence are the only options.
And so the coils tighten in glee while Titania bears her neck.

Alas!

Telescopage and Cosmic Collisions

2004-10-14T05:50:00.000-07:00

Lord God Almighty.
Sleep deprivation is an inexpensive but dangerous drug. And one I have been abusing so much these last few lunar cycles. I feel like I’m really a smaller simulacrum of myself inside my body working it with controls and dials; sensation is dulled and there’s a serious time-lapse between perceiving outside stimulus and actually feeling it
It rules!
Well, except for the tense, nervous headache and shattering pain running through my bundesvessels.
But it’s cool because I’m in such constant physical discomfort that it’s almost impossible to get annoyed by anything else.
Another late late early early night last morning. After watching the respectable but dull dispatching of the Faroes Fell and I headed to………sigh……The Globe. Actually, cancel that sigh, have avoided the place for half a week or more so that ain’t too bad. No, don’t cancel that sigh. Hold it over till after the nest sentence.
So anyway, I succumbed to the Sicilian Succubus again. ( )
The pazza ragazza was irate that I was ignoring her recently so I earned myself a full – blooded wallop in the mouth. The same mouth she was kissing a second before, you couldn’t be up to these Aye – Ties. Good laugh though, So after that we lingered around in Ri – Ra, but it was full of the new crop of first years from the local colleges all trying to re-establish their egos from secondary school, as busy a bunch of busy cunts you’re ever likely to hate.
Fell and I descended on some innocents, just to see, like. But it ended in ignominious failure, to be honest; neither of us could have given a gnat’s nuts for the fare on offer.
And thence home, where confusion incarnate awaits as usual now.
Arm – wrestling, modern jazz dance, the splits, Eridu Arcane, judo, sliding in slippers, rolling across the floor, Rompity – romp.

And so bed.

At 6.00 am.

In work at 10.

It never stops, it really doesn’t.

Subversive rear naked chin lock

2004-10-12T06:34:00.000-07:00

Slipped on a banana skin on the way to work this morning. Fell arse over tit.
With such early doors high comedy like that, I thought, this day is just going to be all down-hill from here.
But it hasn't really been, the day has glided along at a constant gradient.
I should be more tired than I am. Gersende and I had a war of attrition last night. I'm convinced she was trying to see who could stay awake the longest. We watched the full rotation of Euronews about 5 times. (That damn Berlusconi..)
Every hour that leaked by someone would say 'Are you tired?' and the other would say 'No! Are you!'. When [plainly bought of us were shattered. Exhausted mostly from the wrestling lessons I was giving her. Now, many people would know that one of my passions is inter-gender wrestling. In fact, it's a sort of dark, sick obsession.
And here is a girl who indulges me in it completely. Instant wood.
Then she wants to use the weights, then she wants to show me some fencing moves, then she makes me herbal infusions. All the while I'm struggling not fold her over and blast her like the genetic jack-hammer I am. I mustn't. It's that simple. But something's gonna give. Especially when she insists on coming out of the shower and lounging around in her skimpies. Finally hit the sack at 6.28 after some frottage.
So basically, my home - life is in utter disarray. So lets move on.
What are the other things on my mind?

Wait a minute………..WHAT ARE THEY!??

Stupid gay testosterone.

That's it, if she wants a trip to Space Mountain so be it.
Better start looking for a new flat on Daft.

L'Anee des Meduses

2004-10-09T06:33:00.000-07:00

So on Thursday I went to see a production of The Man Who as part of the ongoing Fringe Festival. (Which sadly doesn’t include an exhibition of the more favoured hairstyles of the Dublin peasant – classes)
And I saw that it was good. An adaptation of Oliver Sacks’ engaging work (The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat) wherein the human side of those suffering from brain injury or neurological disorders is brought richly to life.
The performance was an amalgamation of many of Sacks’ case studies from the tourette addled Witty Ticcy Ray to those poor souls suffering from Visual agnosia (seeing the components of an object but not the overall form) or Werdicke’s aphasia.(A disassociation between words summoned and meaning conveyed)
(The girl who played that last role was phenomenal, how she learned that weird, flowing, rhyming language will always be beyond me)
The book brings to bear the bizarre existence of those whose limbs have become alien or who have been dismissed as retarded yet are gifted with uncanny artistic or mathematical talents. The like of that. It illustrates the true fragility of our sense of reality. Which is hardly there at all when you think about it. So don't, you'll only lose sleep.
So the play had four actors who interchanged roles very well, playing patient to doctor from scene to scene. Hard to say it was enjoyable, apart from the ticker, but it was damn well acted. There was one minor technical hitch where the overhead camcorder device fucked up and the sound was a bit dodgy but overall it was cool.
Apart from that, I’ve just been trying to get my finances back in order. That holiday pulled me inside out from the arse. Life has been pretty strange recently, for a few moments there over the last couple of days I lapsed back into 5X version 2002, a poor imitation. But I shook it off, it was just a blip. I’m right back on top now, perhaps a little TOO on top. Ive got to resist the urge to put my co-habitor to the sword. But it’s so very hard. I promised I’d keep it Plato for at least a fortnight but last night was a strain. Everything was against me. Alcohol, Check. Quiet night in, Check. Filthy french film on the telly….sigh…….Check. ‘Too close to the bone’ sexually charged conversation, Check. Chick having ridiculous amounts in common with me, ARG! Checkity fucking check!
I give up

Wee head rules the big.

I’ll let you know.

Rene Artois just wants enough peace and quiet to run his cafe and "'ave it off" with his waitresses without his wife Edith catching him out.

2004-10-03T08:42:00.000-07:00

If the last few weeks were goombah in flavour today is definitely frog.
The new flatmate moved in yesterday, moved in, in fact, to a glistening apartment after I spent most of yesterday scrubbing away the funk of forty thousand years, or more accurately, six months of grimy maximilisation residue. It was hard work, especially seeing as a rough and tumble night was had there after Wax on Thursday night. By marvellous quirk I managed to hook up with my old philosophy mucker Ev Condon for a five – star drunkening. He’s off to play music in San Diego and Las Vegas soon so was well up for the oiling. After a few cocktails, one of which was truly an unholy concoction that for about an hour seemed to have exploded his liver, we decided to head to the Backlash and get retarded.
Doctor Phil was there and soon we were happy as larks, later arrived Tyrl, Hamo,Eavan and Leo and as time ceased to run in the correct order we ended back at disgraceland and then everything sludged down into a Battle Royale, bruises and chokes, spumante and jokes. Everyone was gone when I awoke half a day later and the place was a kip. The usual then, but probably the last one for a goodly while.
This last out of deference for the new girl, Gersende. She is a Parisian and says ‘In Fact’ a lot. It’s her version of Jacques Santini’s ‘Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuurhh’. Though thoroughly less annoying. But she came with cash and seems laid back and intelligent. We both like Bjork and hate flying so there’s a start. Should be an interesting time.
The other reason why today is frog is because I have to write a lot about French horseracing today. A loose connection but since I keep having to write Prix de l'Opera Casino Barriere d'Enghien and Prix de l'Abbaye de Longchamp Majestic Barriere.and the like of it I feel justified. Also, there was all that stuff about the protestors in Cherbourg not wanting the plutonium ships coming in. Which doesn’t make much sense as the crap was being brought over to get processed down from weapons grade as the yanks don’t have the facilities. But sure, y’know. Fuck it. There are enough half-baked polemicists out there with their own blogs so if you want that sort of guff you know what to do.

One.

La Terra Del Ritorno.

2004-09-30T04:31:00.000-07:00

Well if it isn’t me?
It is.
Allora. Hope you are all well and plump with the milk of human kindness for one another. Cos I am.
Italy always does that to me, I have a great fondness for the place.
It’s the betterness of the country that does it I suppose. The women, the weather, the way of life, the food, the public transport, the prices, the this and the that and the what have yous are all better.
I’ll leave it at that as it’s always boring when someone shites on about how great somewhere else is. Suffice to say – it’s better in every conceivable way. Deal with it.
Though I must say I’m going to miss lazing my ass around drinking White Russians and hitting 7 – 10 splits down the Elefante Rosa, but I have taken something back inside of me from the whole thing. An enhanced feeling of disgust and appreciation for my fellow man in equal measure. We are delightfully repellent race with beautifully ugly tinker blood flowing through our cholesterol packed piss pipes.
This truly is the land of Ire.
Doings that transpired -
-Miss Italia was won by Miss Torino.
-Hurricane Ivan came a-stealing on our last three days and kicked the fuck out of us then turned us around and kicked the fuck out of us again. It was exhilarating.
-I rolled four strikes in a row and was only defeated on the last day, narrowly mind you, due to a pulled fore-arm muscle.
-It was observed that it is still 1983 in Vasto.
-Also that Sharks can frown.
- The Carbinieri almost shot us all in our faces.
-Capriosca Alla Fragolas and Tennants Super were combined, a procedure that should never occur inside a human stomach.
- The curse of holiday hair has left me with a fledgling mullet.
- The Demon beer was drank in the Wast Coast (Spelling correct) 12 per cent.
- I discovered the joy of fagotino. A foodstuff comprised of Mozzarella de bufala wrapped in prosciutto crudo. An indescribable joy.

And other events of a ribald nature.
Including this diatribe from Martella which will go down in history as the most indicative thing of his personality that he has said yet. Deadly serious and drunk-
‘Lads you have to make sure of one thing if you ever consider having offspring. You must ensure that the mother of your children is far less intelligent that you are. This is important, because the female gene carries forth the intelligence. Therefore you prevent the chance of your child growing up ambitious and then overthrowing you.’

Overthrowing you. I was quite taken with that.
After a smooth return I found myself quickly bedevilled by one of the succubae.
Apparently I’m back in favour. So keeping with the ideals of cultural enlightenment nurtured over the Vastasian experience I spirited the ragazzas (for there are always two) to the IFSC for the Fringe Festival. It was a mixed nutsac of curios.
The compere was the shittest comedian I have ever seen (Far shittier than Des Bishop, shittier still than Jason Byrne, and shittier yet than the American cunt of Have I got News for You sometimes.) but there was a number of good acts.
The Warlords of Pez were top. Hilarious shit, they even sung a song that just had the lyrics ‘Johnny Alpha. Wulf Sternhammer. Agents of The Future’ Anyone who knows will know.
And another called ‘Fat mudderfukka from hell’ Brilliant. I’m now a fan.
Also a barbershop quartet who sang ‘Baby on Board’. What more could you ask for?
Sex maybe?
I had that and all.

Smirk.

So it's Rorschach and Prozac and everything is groooovy!

2004-09-14T15:06:00.000-07:00

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah. That’s the stuff alright.
As a cost cutting measure before I head off to Vasto I have returned to my wombland.
Seat of the Kings and home of the Road- ball (or autosphere), AKA Disgraceland.
Here, I took custody of Scum’s pass for the Gym in TIME and use it wisely I did.
Now TIME isn’t all that, in fact it’s a hotbed breeding ground for White Shirt Men and Chickenheads, and the music is the sonic equivalent of Big Brother.
But they have a mean – ass gym and no mistake. Y’see I have to look my best for the ragazza’s on the beach. In many ways, I’m a shallow, shallow man.
Anywhich. I burned out on the exercise equipment and struggled through 10 laps of the pool (I normally treat my body like a funfair but hey! Sometimes you have to let the carneys do a bit of maintenance) but the reason I’m mentioning this at all is to cream myself about the relaxation rooms they have. Oh sweet lord, I shined up my scales well. First, the sauna, then the foot salt baths, then the weird room with the seaweed and mineral sprays, then into the crystal steam room (not too long in there!) and finally the shower that simulates tropical rainfall followed by artic blast.
I came out feeling like American Psycho. Though I most likely won’t be able to move tomorrow. See? I even take my relaxation to the max.
All this is done to prepare my body for the shock and awe that it will experience in Vasto. Purely alcohol mind you, but in the heat that’s all you really need to get laid low. We are off on Thursday so I probably won’t make another entry for quite some time. Or maybe I will from Wop. Who knows? Who cares?
Right so, look after yourselves. And enjoy the encroaching cold front.
And call your mothers sometimes. Just to say hi.
They worry.

Crack baby crack

2004-09-12T06:32:00.000-07:00

Solaris.
Now there’s an interesting piece of film-making.
Had cause to sit – in of a Saturday night last night and watch it.
Yes, I said a Saturday night.
I know!
Now before you begin to lose respect for me and wonder if the snake isn’t slithering on all cylinders these days, allow me to splain myself.
A very dear friend of mine came face to planetary plane with Gaia and found that the destructive impact to her overall structure was far, far more significant than that of her rival.
To put it another way, she fell on her face, and it opened.
So it was then that I took up the mantle of Convalescer In-Chief, utilising the twin medicinal swords of Smirnoff Ice and M&M ice – cream to detract from the agonies being endured.
So now with my reputation safeguarded, back to Solaris.
Some people would say that it is interminably slow, ponderously shot, over – achingly deliberate in exposition and, yes, even somewhat boring.
Those people are imbeciles.
What it actually is is something really unique for the realm of sci –fi.
Essentially it’s a love story, but the main theme is how the memory of a loved one may often be different from the reality of the person themselves.
Sometime what we love is merely our fragmented, selfish and actually incorrect impression of the ‘idea’ of someone rather than how they really were.
This holds true because the human memory function is completely unreliable as a record of events.
An esteemed friend of mine, Dr. Richard Roche, a neuroscientist and noted malanderer, can back up this statement with greater authority than I. With an intimidating abundance of notes, graphs and statistics to back it up. But for now, you’ll just have to believe me.
But I think the truth is self evident, watch a film you love but haven’t seen in ages and you’ll often notice how some scenes differ, often markedly, from how you recall.
So you can imagine how warped our memories of the times when we were in love are.
In Solaris, the protagonist, portrayed impressively by George Clooney, is a psychologist who, through circumstances I won’t reveal, has to grapple with such concepts.
What does he love more? The woman he remembers loving or the actual woman who he drove to suicide?
Apologies for the mature, and reflective tone of today’s blog, but that’s just the way I feel right now.
Motherfuckers.

Oxx confident Tarakala can cope with trip.

2004-09-08T10:14:00.000-07:00

*Note-Inserted from saved draft hence temporal inaccuracies -

Got some serious pink-eye today.
It’s probably all this inter – male sexuality that you see in the papers and on the late night TV shows that’s doing it.
I’d like to say it won’t catch on, but then, I was wrong about the Euro.
I think my body might actually be rebelling against my lifestyle, if it is, it’s being a complete prick.
I have never done anything but feed it with sensuous pleasures whenever it asked for them, whatever the time, whatever the circumstance.
And this is how it repays me? Be making me look like a laudanum addict?
Well this aggression, will like, not stand man!
I’m gonna go out on a blitz and stay up and hyper for all hours and not give the little blighters any rest! That should soften their coughs.
Ireland V Switzerland tonight. The battle to see who is the most neutralist once and for all! I met very few Swizzlesticks in my life, but I must say, they are pretty neutral when you meet them face to face.
I think their powers of neutrality might just pip this nations tonight and we’ll end up with a nicely balanced nil - all or one -one draw. Sabres will be held tautly to avoid any hint of a rattle.
Brian Kerr, as I said to the Radger earlier on, I think he’s great. He always looks in interviews as if he is going to break his shite laughing any second. As though fondly remembering something funny a childhood dog of his once did.
He can never look the interviewer or press in the eye either, it’s as though he knows he’s going to fart any second now and it won’t just be a squeaker.
In short, he looks like a chancer. And I like it. In life, in everything - 'Gotta have ball this big!' (In stereotypical Italian dad voice. Think the Dolmio muppet)
That’s enough for now.

The rue, as promised.

2004-09-07T06:03:00.000-07:00

Looks as though the Electric picnic was somewhat of a success as evidenced by the new pics on www.busyslav.com.
Mashidy Mashidy. (sighs and repeats softly with powerful regret).mashidy....(sniff) ...mashidy.
I missed a good 'un alright. However, I have to stay on target for the greater cause. To return in shimmering glory and scintillating splendour. Ideally.
You'll got nothing but vagueness from me today as such is atmosphere I must cloud myself in these delicate times. I'm only blogging as I'm sitting in Lemonjelly having a mozzarella and pineapple crepe and they have fast p.c's here.
The muchacha behind the counter is a minx.........stay on target........Stay. On. Target.

What's that floating in the water?

2004-09-04T08:55:00.000-07:00

Things are coming to a head.
Can you feel it? I can.
I can feel the inexorable pull of the cosmos drawing events towards the inevitable smash and clash and oh! how very much different and the same all will be at once and again and forever and never.
Yes. There's still a lot of alky coursing through my booze pipes.
It was an interesting one last night. Can't go into specifics but several significant events happened with a few key individuals. Exciting eh?
I feel somewhat liberated though. Two less succubae to have to keep tabs on.
And a new one thrown into the mix as a result. You see? Destruction is the great creator. The fire consumes the forest to get rid of the dead and dying trees. The ash provides nutrients for the emergent foliage.
Ollie went down to the Slavlock last night outside The Globe. I didn't want to do it but he looked at me askance.
Can't be having that. And Radge was again his own worst enemy (after me) last night. He was so close..........closer than he knows, yet he took his eye off the shuttlecock at the vital juncture. Textbook. Now if he grew the moustache he promised me things would have been oh so different.
Anyroad. Back to the great turning of the wheels of providence. It's official now, my new flat mate has paid the brother and will be moving in very soon.
Things are going to be in different in DisGraceland as a party – lovin' max – taker is replaced by a prim and quiet young French girl. May God have mercy on her soul.
(And may Vishnu have mercy on her body)
Italy on the sixteenth. Bert is already over there and has assured us that the temperature will be 28 standard heat units when we arrive. You'd think I'd be sick of all things Italian by now. But I have a huge tolerance for beauty.

"Somethin's gonna happen, somethin' very soon. Transcending flesh could be a breeze sending me over the moon."

Wax on? Wax off?

2004-09-02T09:29:00.000-07:00

Doing Radge’s job today as he was down with the Syph.
He won’t be told that lad. I says to him I says “Radge” I says, “Don’t be all the time whoring your way through the sordid underbelly of this foetid city in order to bring some glimmer of excitement to your life. You’ll only get the shaft - shingles again.”
But did he listen to me? Did I even say that? Did he/I buttons!
So here I am in the cud-bucket. Making sure only the choicest of filthy websites are ingraining themselves indelibly upon his temporary internet files.
Did you know that Gary Glitter’s computer that he foolishly brought into P.C World to get repaired had one folder on it called ‘My Gang’?
That’s how he was caught.

In other news, I won’t be taking it to the Max in Wax tonight. The first Thursday in a long time that I won’t be burning up and melting down in my dear mecca. I won’t be going to the Electric Picnic either it would seem. A choice I’m probably going to rue. Rue hard.

Or will I go to Wax……?.

Good idea or Bad idea. Either way, it's gonna be in code.

2004-08-31T09:54:00.000-07:00

So I have succumbed.
Much mirth there was and is to be found in the blog musings of some of my fellows, so much so that I’ve decided to enter the fray and hopefully up the stakes in this curious literary sparring. So lay on Radge, Scowzer et al!
There won’t be too much detail about my ‘life’ and so forth. Which is a both a good and bad thing for any potential readers.
But rest assured I will try not to bore overmuchly.
So, sitting discomfited?
Then we shall begin……….