A Complicated Plate of Potatoes

“no man in an island.. except maybe for the Isle of Mann”

I think it was Basil Brush who said this, and who am I to argue for I’d wager it’d be as futile as trying to blutack an omelete to the underside of a horse.

You’d better get used to these meandering's folks, as I do not have the luxury of choosing when I post anymore. Like Christ spending 40 days and 40 nights without internet, I am reliant on some distant unsecured network drifting towards my new flat in the breeze, offering with it a moments window in which to share my thoughts.

Tonight's connection comes courtesy of WLAN-AP and unfortunately for the readers finds me in one of those moods that generally result in meaningless posts with ridiculous titles..

Disgrace.

Circle in the sand

Talk amongst yourselves while I sort out some internet for this new flat of mine...

In the meantime, here’s something interesting I heard recently:

“Humming along to a Belinda Carlisle song is a bit like arriving at a Petrol station and realising that you forgot your car!!”

Wow!!!

TV3 summer schedule

9AM: Look ‘Hughes’ Talking : Lively chat from the ever flexible Alan Hughes. On this mornings episode, Nobel prize winning politician John Hume storms out after being gunged, and a topical debate on the the dangers of nettles in cruising destinations. Followed by news for the deaf (stereo).

11AM: Brendan O’Carroll on... Wine : The lovable crimin...sorry, Comedian, continues his cultural journey with a guide to the finest wines and vineyards around. Tonight: Brendan gets pissed on a special offer Shiraz and urinates on a Luas.


12PM: Zchewky un Blarti - Ukrainian comedy from Estonia (with Greek subtitles) - A mysterious Welshman arrives in town and unsettles the local Turks with his loud flute playing and disdain for Mexicans (winner of best Maori television series at the Latvian media awards).

1PM: The Afternoon movie: An American Werewolf on the Orient Express (1968). Heart stopping thriller from the producer of ‘Satan visits Fundrerland’ and the Dairy Boards generic cheese advert. A trip on the fabled train turns to horror for a young family of Mormons as one by one they are savaged by a werewolf. Will Jean Claude Van Damme come to their rescue? Unlikely, as he is not in this movie.

5PM: Xp-LOSION: Live coverage of a tragic explosion at TV3 HQ during the recording of Xpose.

5:27PM: Xpose 2: A special episode of the popular entertainment magazine featuring a tribute to the untimely passing of all the previous presenters. Also, why tartan is IN this season.

7PM: Sports!! Sports!! Sports!! : A timely repeat of the Mongolian Trampoline championships of 1977, an event marred by a Llama invasion that sent the shock waves though the world.

8PM: Hammered: The taboo breaking Ulster comedy is back. The McGuiggans celebrate the release from prison of their elderly grandmother with a good old fashioned Ulster Fry (ie they burn a church), Meanwhile ‘over the fence’ the Harpersons are faced with a tough decision when ‘Snappy’, the family terrier, wags his tail during the Sinn Fein Ard Fheis. Warning, contains images of animal cruelty.

9PM: Boomerang Bay: The sex filled Aussie soap is back, and bolder than ever. Tonight, Wanga is horrified to find an orphan in her cornflakes and Greg tells Martha that he loves her, in a series of punches meant to represent sign language.

9.30PM: Cribs, with Brian Cowen!- Leader of the country Brian Cowen gives viewers a glimpse into his private life and explains why he keeps a herd of sheep in his garden.

10PM: Sheep Thrills: - The rape of Dolly - Alarming expose into the recent ‘sheep buggering’ episode that rocked Irish Politics, with an as yet unnamed Taoiseach at the forefront of the allegations. Music by The Script.

10.45PM: - Live Windsurfing ( Not the cool kind ) - All the action from today's goings on in Courtown. Filmed from a distance in the back of a moving car. Sponsored by Chewits

11.45PM: - Mind your own Quizness - The return of the popular Quiz.. Now, with ACTUAL prizes!... Sponsored my Mickey's Hardware - Ballina ' if It's hard and ware, it has to be Mickey's ' Open 3 Days a week.

12.30AM: The Valley - Soap set in rural Greenland. Today, a large snowstorm blows into town. Eué has difficulty shutting a window and a moose is keeping Júúúp awake

1AM: Cagney and Lacy: Disturbing drunken camera phone footage from the TV3 Christmas party where Mark Cagney models lacy underwear for the staff of Copper Face Jacks.


1.30AM: After Dark presents: Nurses in heat (2006). An amateur theatre group form Tallaght hospital present their version of ht hit motion picture ‘Heat’, with Matron (Concepta O’Shaugnessy) in the role of Al Pacino.

4AM: Power Cut - Due to a surprise power cut, programming tonight will end abruptly. See ya in a fortnight, The TV3 'team'.

Things to do in Bristol when you've just murdered

I took one look at Westy and my mind was already scouting locations of where to bury his body. His wife (Missus Westy) stood over his shoulder. Make that two bodies.

I guess it started when I got that pre-travel fear that most of us get. You know, when you’re packing your socks and a sudden image of a burning plane and a mountain side flashes into your mind. Usually, I’m a good flyer, but for some reason I was apprehensive this time. I even cleaned my apartment and deleted my Internet history as I knew my family would be in rifling through my stuff before the black box was found.

Anyway, back to the murdering bit. So, here I am standing in the brutalist centre of Bristol (sort of like a peak hour Dundalk, but after a large explosion or some sort of catastrophic event) looking up at the B&B that Westy had somehow found lurking about on the Internet. If dereliction was a public holiday, this would be Christmas. The other buildings on this street had long decided to pack their bags and it stood alone. Of course, this was Bristol. And being boarded up or showing signs of police tape on the doors didn’t mean it was closed for business. A sign on the door said ‘for B&B’ (and suspiciously, ‘other services’) ‘call this number’. A number then followed. Call we did and eventually getting through a panting landlord who said in that ‘OO-AR’ accent that he’d be round in a bit. My mind was already wandering to that Marriot we saw on the way into town, and when the landlord stumbled around the corner, it was already unpacking its bags.

Looking somewhere between a Spiders era Bowie and a heroin addicted Joanna Lumley, he wobbled up the street in a pair of hot pants and a fur coat.

“Did we get you out of bed?” Westy ventured

“No, just working around in the Sauna” was the creatures response. (The Village Sauna, as we found out, was just round the corner and proudly had a poster urging people to ‘out’ Homophobes).

We entered the ex-building through a broken fence, and stepping over an old rusty cooker, we were led into the bar. In the darkness, we could see the whites of eyes scurrying into the shadows. Like a great chess player I was two moves ahead, and had already swung a shovel, left the bodies behind and was sitting in the airport bar. But alas, I chickened out of mass murder, paid for my room and resigned myself to a night on the set of Hostel.

It began to amuse me actually, we literally had to climb over a roof to get to the rooms. And even though he said with a mischievous grin that there was ‘no other guests, haven’t been for some time actually’, a barking dog could be heard clearly from one of the other rooms. Still, my room was clean (as in, whoever had last killed there had been meticulous in removing all evidence) and I had planned to be so drunk later as not to notice anyway.

And that was the case. We were in Bristol to see the amazing Twilight Sad, and by god, they saved Westy's life.

That and the fact that murder is bad.

Ryan's Slaughter

Disgrace, whilst waiting for Fakey in the transsexual section of Soho books Rathmines (don’t know why he insists on meeting there) uncovered this. The full script for Ryan Tubridy's pilot episode of the Late Late Show. Shudder with me folks...

Opening sequence

(Owl replaced by a floating cabbage. On the intro, Tubridy’s face is to be morphed onto recognisable celebrity faces. There he is with Jordan’s breasts. Next he’s on the body of Stephen Hawking. Hilarious montage follows of Boyzone, each members face replaced with the gurning grin of Lord Tubington.)

Studio

(Ryan moonwalks behind a screen in silhouette, as the Camembert Quartet (renamed ‘Four Pricks and a Piano’) break into ‘Rocket Man’. His face appears and revolves at impossible speed. Several viewers have fits. Cue applause, canned)

(The screen lifts and there he is. The man who put the ‘oh sweet Jesus Christ’ back in Montrose, clapping his hands and jigging. The set looks like a prostitute’s blouse.)

Ryan.

“Well ladies and gentlemen, what can I say about standing here? On the shoulders of giants! Like Gaybo!! That’s only his name folks, it's not a lifstyle!! Taps nose and swings finger towards the band. Boom Tish noise. And not forgetting Pat Kenny before me (grabs crotch). Trumpet solo. I intend to bring you not only top quality entertainment, but intelligent debate, pressing issues and topics that some may consider taboo, in the interest of furthering this great nation of ours. And on that note Ladies and Gentlemen, our first guest, Basil Brush!!”

“Basil, are you an arse or a leg man?”

Break.

Topical political issue next with Fintan O’Toole

“Fintan, what measures do you think the government need to put in place to restore consumer confidence, and more so, faith from the public”

“Well, Pat, sorry, Ryan, if this nation stands up for itself and real.”

“Sorry Finners, got to interrupt you because it’s time for ... (Drum Solo), RYAN’S SLAUGHTER!! Are we ready to embarrass a member of the audience with a secret from their past Folks????!!!”

Edit out groans.

Cue Four Pricks, ‘Y.M.C.A’

Ryan enters audience (make sure he doesn’t take this literally – Producer)

“Who are you?”

“Erm, I’m Bernie. My family were killed in a carpet laying accident and I’m here to discuss the problem with Des Kelly’s recent recruitment drive in Mountjoy. You know Ryan, since I’ve lost my family, I have had all my floors removed. I just can’t face them... blubber... tears... wail.”

Tubs, with a smile bigger than O’Connell Street

“Who wants to see this lady take the ‘truth or SCARE’ challenge???”

He pulls her from her Wheelchair.

EMERGENCY BREAK.

Music from Smokie. It would be funny if Ryan closed this sequence with a witty comment??

“Alice, who the FUDGE is Alice” he shouts, to minimal laughter. Cue gurning!! (Does anyone have Miriam’s number? – Producer)

Next Guest, comedy sensation Tommy Tiernan, who’s routine literally consists of him waving his member in front of the Special Olympics team. (Turn down volume of phones in the office please!! And get Ryan to stop touching it!!)

Cue the band!!

And bring back GAY!!!

“But I’m already here” pleads Ryan.

Questions and Chancers

Following on from the British Expenses row, National Disgrace has uncovered some startling evidence of dubious expense claims amongst our own politicians. Whilst some of the claims may be genuine (Mary Harneys €300 claim for 110 litres of Diet Coke and a horse Troff was up for questioning, but has been dismissed as apparently she has been known to be partial to the boiling a number of hams in the popular soft drink), others such as Brian Lenihans €11.50 claim for ‘a calculator’, have raised alarm bells. It was Lenihans startling admission to Disgrace in a libel avoiding dream last night that ‘He doesn’t know how to operate things with buttons’ which got me suspicious.

Amongst the most astonishing tax claims:

Taoiseach Brian Cowen : €1000 worth of Pajamas (Hanna Montana motif). This has raised eyebrows as it is a well known fact that Mr Cowan sleeps entirely in the nude. The busty brunette also ordered 12 volumes of the Koran, despite some observers note that he has very few Islamic fundamentalist tendencies.

Minister for Defence Wille O’Dea's claims for 'knuckle dusters' and the entire 'box set of Rambo' are not in doubt, but questions marks have popped up over his €13.40 claim for 'luxury scented toilet roll'. Those in the know (ie. the toilet attendants at the Dail and the Limerick gun club) have said that O’Dea (not to be confused with overdose) likes to ‘wipe’ with a live grenade!

John Gormley's (Green Party) expenses raise the astonishment bar even further by putting in receipts for 'two leaking oil tankers' and an ‘instant forest fire kit’. His spokes-goat was unavailable for comment today but Disgrace did receive a knitted note saying that "the Minister rejects claims of irregular claims, and will fist fight Disgrace back to the Internet to prove it!".

Mary Harney, Minister of Health as stated before has an exotic taste for coke boiled ham, but her balancing book it seems is a bit like her weighing scales, under incredible pressure. Amongst the invoices the Minister (often claimed to be the only TD visible from Space) lodged were ‘size ten knickers’, 'Trampoline' and a ‘beard trimmer’. Actually, I’ve just been alerted that the beard trimmer was a genuine purchase.

Despite being hotly tipped to star in the remake of the Munsters, Minister for taking money from people, Brian Lenihan has a very un-Hollywood approach to buying things. Amongst some of his suspicious purchases are ‘Irish Banks’ and a 'Fisher Price Money printing machine'.

Former Taoiseach Bertie Ahern, also lodged his spending with the Exchequer and despite not having any history of irregular financial matters whatsoever, has also been subject to some scrutiny. Mr Ahern, now living in Fagans public house has billed the taxpayer thousands for a ‘goat dressed as a ballet dancer’ and a ‘bucket of rubber gloves’. Some have referred to the reported ‘Goat fiddling’ contests in Fagans of Drumcondra as an ample explanation, others however, have not.

Mary Hanafin, who still to this day refutes the claim to being an ex Christian Brother also clocks up the euros with her monthly expenses. Amongst the ones being questioned from the Minister for mis-education are an ‘underwater school’ and an ‘increase in teacher numbers’.

The list goes on. Dick Roche (‘Panda food’ and ‘the history of the hill of Tara’), Trevor Sargent (‘Prostitutes’) and Sean Haughey (‘Fake mustaches’) all are to be investigated also.

It’s a terrible and sad state of affairs. For the country that brought you the Irish Civil War and Ros Na Run, to be exposed as a corrupt and scandalous society is something that sickens Disgrace to the stomach.

It’s enough to have Dev (12 shillings for 'Internet cafe charges!!') spinning in his grave.

Disgraces Guide to Rathmines - Drink!!

For a Village full of thirsty students, excommunicated fathers living in bedsits and jobless youths, Rathmines has a surprising lack of Pubs. Because of this, and a sticky keyboard, there will be a lot less exclamation marks in NATIONAL DISGRACES GUIDE TO RATHMINES - PUBS.

The first watering hole (and I mean hole) on ‘the strip’ is the Rathmines Inn. It is highly recommended that you skip this place. The Inn lives off the fact that it has a beer garden where al fresco drinking (next to the bins) can be enjoyed. I once asked for a bottle of Erdinger here and the Barman sneered at me. “We have none of that foreign stuff”. I had a Heineken instead. I have occasionally used it for the ATM near the toilet, and have taken great enjoyment in waving my freshly deposited cash in the barman’s face as I head off to spend it elsewhere

Moving on, it’s a fair trek to the next pub, so you may decide to nip across to the Spar for some street beer. You’ll have ample time to down your tipple before you reach the next hostelry, the rather insensitively named Toast (it used to be a fire station). Toast is the middle ground of Rathmines, not sure whether it’s a restaurant or a bar, so it decides to avoid being either. Its stock has de-valued somewhat in recent times thanks largely to a club night hosted by yours truly and a certain Mr Empire.

Pretty depressing so far and things don’t improve at all when you hit the next boozer. Lingering at the crossroads like a luminous sex-offender, the bright green facade and dirty windows greet you like lump of poo in your lunchbox. Where the Rathmines Inn has Carvery, the Madison has people who have probably ‘Carved up’ their victims. They have a Crimeline night where a free pint is on offer if you appear on the show. Disco lights are often in full swing on Dole day and the foods menu literally consists of ‘knuckle sandwiches’ and ‘Mashed Face’. This is high society folks. On Mother’s Day they advertised a special “three course lunch - 11.50 (includes free admission to Man II Man - Strippers) - This is actually true. Note: They actually search you for weapons on entry, and if you don’t have any, they give you some!!

After you’ve picked up your teeth from the toilet floor it’s time to move on. Try to avoid leaving through the front window as some regulars do and head straight across the street to the old world charms of Slatterys.

Slat’s is a haven from the hustle and bustle of busy downtown Rathmines. The image of a grandmother head butting a barman at the Madison is far away now as you take the first sip of the perfect Slats pint. This is a proper pub, where it’s advisable to leave your airs and graces at the door, although they will most likely be stolen by one of the Madison gang. The barmen and ladies have a weird sixth sense too. With a simple nod and a ‘Can I have a pint of stout please Paul’, you’ll be served up a pint of stout, almost certainly by Paul. It’s that attention to detail that makes a visit to Slats a winner every time. Ok, so there are no mirrors in the gents, but your chances of meeting a girl in here are very slim. And if you do, well they’ll have not seen a mirror for quite a while either. They have a cruel sense of humour in here for sure. Pop your 3 euro into the condom machine and rather than a packet of ‘sheaths’ you’ll get a written note.

“Ha Ha, you’re having a laugh right? Get back out to the bar. Another stout?, Paul”.

Where Kildare has Goffs, and Cork has its CO-OP Marts Rathmines also has its own cattle market. Follow the knuckle marks up the street and before long you’ll be stood in the cavernous halls of Rody Boland’s. It is here a man can meet the bearded woman of his dreams. Intelligent conversation is bottom of the list of priorities in this not so-super pub. Wearing a Munster jersey, or simply wearing the face off a woman who’s style icon seems to have been Giant Haystacks, Rodys ticks all the boxes for the sociable ‘sorta’ human. Warning though, the regular punters are quite touchy about the omission once again on the Michelin Star list as apparently the Goujons are impeccable.

So there we have it. Rathmines. If you want to have an enjoyable drink, hit Slats. If you have a hankering for a terrible and soulless experience with the added body blow of a Carvery lunch, hit the Rathmines Inn. If you want to buy some knock-off Timotei or Rolex watches, over to Madison. And if you want play a game off Russian roulette with your sexuality, hit Rodys and wait for the shock the following morning. Whatever happens, be good folks...

Ps, erm.. I love you.

Disgraces Guide to Rathmines - Food!!

I was stopped by some English tourists in Rathmines earlier who were looking for some recommendations for somewhere to eat. I asked what they were looking for and they simply said "tasty pucker!! Kebab in me arse geezer!!". So, for them (and pray Christ, they have been recently been mowed down by a lorry) here's a handy tear out and keep guide to Rathmines fooderys.

Food!!

Yes! Rathmines has food. Lots of it. Whether it’s burger's, chips or simply a rush job sliced pan and tayto combo from Dunne's, this village is sure to have restaurant critics literally going weak at the knees! Boasting more big macs than people, and a seductive strip of flashing neon ‘eating signposts’, you’re as likely to fill your belly in the ‘Mines' as you are to have a human head on your shoulders!! Starting at the canal, and happily racking up the calories towards Rathgar, the choice is mesmerizingly mesmerizing. The Spar at the corner of Grove Park sells a mouth watering range of chocolate bars, chicken baguettes, and for the bedsit boggers, peat Briquettes. Tasty!!

Snack Attack!

Moving on, the Porta Via more than makes up for its complete lack of any customers with a complete and utter lack of safety regulations. Here, and only here, can you purchase TWO snack boxes for the picce of one!! It’s a bargain that only a devout vegetarian could resist. Not enough for ya? The Porta Via also has a jukebox, so you can listen to hits such as Paul Hardcastles ‘19’ as the kitchen staff try to fend off the hungry rodents. Hey, we all need to eat, people!!

Assuming your Spar bought Mars bar and PV double snack box treat haven’t extinguished that hungry fire in your belly, you are more than welcome to discover the rest of this quaint Dublin villages culinary catalogue. Jo’Burger, which offers a SIGNIFICANT DISCOUNT if your haircut is cool enough, serves up MONSTER burgers. Don’t worry folks, they don’t use real monster!!

Rathmines is fun, isn’t it?

Euro-Saver

McDonald's subtle position at the entrance to the Swan Centre (a Mega Mall, so called cos it’s supposedly marks the place where Swans were invented. WOW!!) is marked by a cleverly placed homeless guy who has mastered the art of urinating down his trouser leg to such a level that the run off forms a large glistening ‘M’. Get in there and tear through the Euro saver, but throw him a twisty fires on the way out.

You’ve belched, and what do you know? You want more grub!! Head a few doors up to Kafka! This is the place to be seen in this handsome Dublin 6 suburb. It’s one of those sit down food places though, and it’s courtesy use a knife and fork! Battling for business with ‘Kaffers’ is Burdocks, a chip shop that whilst suspiciously closes and re-opens a little too regularly for my liking, is apparently Dublin's Oldest Chipper. That can’t be a bad thing, cos I was recently a customer of Dublin's oldest Prostitute and she was great!! The Haddock is 5.50, and it’s around the same in Burdocks!

Rape!!

Say goodbye to your belt folks, Eddie Rockets is calling and you’d want to be a freak of the highest order not to fall for their charms. Decked out like the illegitimate child of a semi-authentic 50’s USA Diner, it's a semi authentic 50's USA Diner, right down to the burly Polish rapist-a-like who works in the kitchen, you will be munching down their famous fare with a smile so big so could easily fit another serving in. So do it!!

Horse play!!

Bonanza!! Well, you're a lot heavier than you were when you stood at Portobello bridge, but that’s just as well cause there’s a stiff breeze beginning to blow. Better anchor yourself properly and visit RATHMINES ONLY KFC!! for some of their world famous delicacies. Vegetarians will rejoice in this quick food haven, as none of the meat on offer here as ever been near an animal! Look at the picture!! Even horses think it’s safe to stop for a chat outside this place! It’s the perfect venue to chill, linger over a semi warm Pepsi and lovingly pick the vomit off your dates collar. And when you’re finished, there’s a fist fight waiting you for just outside Rodys!!

Violence!!

Rodys? You’ll see... (in the pub section which follows this)

!!!!

Celebrating Misery

I had just commissioned Westy to do me a new banner.

‘Something with balloons and smiling children' was the brief.

‘So, just like last Friday night?’ was his response, in that hilarious ‘see you on the sex register' sense of humour he has.

See, it had been brought to my attention recently that my blog had become more miserable than ever, and coupled with the fact that the Samaritans had offered to sponsor it, I had decided it was maybe time to cheer it up a little. No more stories about the hole in my roof (which is now officially a grade 3 waterfall), my love life (which has caused such a swelling that I’m unable to wear my watch anymore) or my Job (which is now listed as ‘available), I had now planned to write forevermore with a smile on my face.

Well thanks to the good folk at the Daily Irish Mail I have decided to turn that smile upside down once again. In today's news packed edition which contains a vital piece from “Dr” Michael O’Leary, the guy who flies planes to exactly one time zone from where you actually want to go, where he advises ‘stepsils’ as the cure for swine flu, they champion my blog (in their 'if you only do one thing' section) and inform all and sundry that my “disgraceful” posts and hilarious photos on all aspects of Irish life won’t fail to cheer and that “you can be smug in the knowledge of knowing that there is someone more miserable than you”.

Shops all over the country stock this paper, so pop down, pick one up and you’ll be given an exclusive URL which leads directly to this site. If today is now tomorrow, you could root through your neighbours bins, or check doorways where down and outs may be using it as a blanket..

Careful though, I don’t like being disturbed when I’m asleep.

Why do birds suddenly appear?

Fakey delivers his recession sermon in some style on this post, and pretty much says all that needs to be said. I actually watched Prime Times expose on devious border running the other night and had similar thoughts. I’m a ‘no comment kinda guy when it comes to politics, but I’m heavy on the opinion when it comes to dickwads; And those that drive to Newry to pack the SUV with nappies and shitty wine are dickwads of the highest order.

“Well factoring in the price of pet-o-ral, and the fact that we literally have to stuff the boot full of shite we don’t need in order to make a decent saving, I don’t see anything wrong with paying our dues to the Queen - And you never know, the 6 for 2 deal I got on Marmite was a real bargain. The kids are dying to get it in to them”

Fakeys points are on the sterling. Our quality of life is now so high, irregardless of whatever financial meltdown that’s going on, that there isn’t a denim jacket or a heat saving mustache in sight. The boat to Holyhead isn’t filled with songs of dancing at the crossroads or games of stolen tongue tennis over a milk churn like it used to be. Yes, the government don't really have money, but most of us thankfully, still do.

So don’t be afraid to spend it. Locally. But maybe not in Spar.

Anyway, this post came to me as I stood in the Q for the dole the other day and felt slightly ramshackle looking compared to the suited and booted types that joined me. It was my first time doing it in many years, but I came prepared. I simply rang two of my other best friends (Oliver and Westy) and asked them what they brought when they signed on the day before.

As Prince once said “you sexy motherfu...”

Oh actually think it was ‘Sign O’ the Times’

Work tomorrow.. Yay Hay!!

You know it's time to visit irishjobs.ie when..

You tear your apartment apart looking for a shotgun, but find only (suspiciously, considering the last bicycle you cycled had three wheels and a bell that played ‘chopsticks’) a bicycle pump and wonder if it’ll do. You curse your landlord for installing an electrical oven and wonder if baking will do the same job as a gas one. You produce a spool of string and look for a lofty beam, but give up when you realise that you’re actually taller than the flat you live in. You rifle through your medicine cabinet and only finding 4 packs of lemsip ponder if you’ll either arrive at the pearly gates OD’d out of your head, but dead, or simply make yourself immune from colds until 2017. You quickly realise that any attempts to drown in your shower, with its power rating something similar to a gentle licking from a drowsy cat, would only result in a slight dampness. Your investigation of the bedroom floor reveals no train tracks on which to strap yourself to, and even if it did the corrupt planning process in this country surely would not stretch to building a mainline express route through a third floor Rathgar flat. You curse Gillette for putting safety bars across their razors, but are impressed with the fact that those troublesome wrist hairs have now been dispensed with. You’re frustrated that the expensive ‘handpicked by a virgin from space’ Olive Oil has the same fire warning rating as a block of cheese. You give up and give in to the fact that you have work tomorrow.

...Bicycle pump noise...

A moan again, naturally.

Maybe I’m slightly bitter thanks to my recent break up (18 months ago) or maybe I’m just a normal guy who doesn’t like his early morning bus journey ruined by a pair of nymphomaniacs trying to ingest each other on the seat in front of me. Even above the top volume of my iPod I could hear their slurpy symphony as it played out. I averted my eyes and found some floor to look at but their shadows danced all over it like some sort of seedy puppet show. I closed my eyes but I could soon feel the sickly arrival of escaped saliva on my skin. Each time I opened them to check where we were I’d be greeted once again with their disgusting early morning face wrestle. Tongues dancing around each others faces like out of control garden hoses. I dunno, like Ketchup at the breakfast table, the planned Kilkenny City inner relief road and the child sex trade, it’s just wrong. At 8am on an otherwise silent and slightly depressed bus full of people whose lives had most recently been seen in a rearview mirror the last thing you want to see is someone being happy. That, and Helen Keller at the wheel and/or Godzilla.

Got me thinking though, how did such an ugly bastard get such a hot chick?

Agony Aunt

My Aunt Eileen (whose generosity clothed the young college going Disgrace back in the 90's) wants me to publish this picture of my mothers leg after her New Years tumble. I guess after 2 years of bringing mine to you, it's refreshing to share the misery of others. The disturbing thing is that I'm actually concerned that falling off unstable armchairs and breaking your legs in multiple places may be hereditary.. To be honest though, I'd take it over both their madness!

Recipie for disaster.. the work party.

Take one work do, add a pinch of drinking at your desk since 11am, stir it up and sprinkle with some light urinating in the ladies toilets. Allow to simmer and remove from the heat to cool. While it sets, prepare some buttocks on a photocopier. Once ready, pin the resulting pictures to the walls and continue to flirt with every girl in the office at 220 degrees Celsius. When (forcibly) removed from office, continue to drink in the basement toilets and then dust with the powder of a fresh ‘wrapping your entire body in toilet roll’. The next stage requires drinking and shouting on the lawn in front of the office until some scared tourists accidentally cross your path. Remove self from the oven of potential arrest and slide into a pre-heated Luas. Once on Luas, reduce heat and cover, but crack open some bottles of Duvel and act menacingly. Do not allow to boil or get agro with inspector. Remind your Hungarian, Slovakian and Lithuanian employees that they are guests in this country and pouring beer on other passengers is against our culture. Prepare some green beans in butter, on a low heat.

Remove posse from Luas, and walk immediately into a rickshaw. Gently prise open skin on forehead until the blood runs pink. Immediately separate from the sane members of your team and board the wrong bus. Lightly pepper fellow passengers with loud singing and crotch grabbing. Cover and disembark, further from destination than when starting and gently roll a taxi. Arrive shortly afterwards at best friend’s mother’s birthday party with two of your gang still alive and proceed to enter pub like a visiting scud missile. Flirt at medium heat with best friend’s cousin, grab his father in headlock. Once browned, proceed to dance like a priest in an over ambitious altar boys dormitory. Heat plates. Shake, bake, and embarrass your own father into calling you the next day to say how ashamed he is of you. Try not to remember a thing at this stage, as the memory of talking to your best friend’s wife’s parents (and your ex’s) might cause unnecessary burning. Leave pub like Roy Keane in Saipan, and attempt to have sexual relations with the bonnet of the taxi carrying your besties visiting uncle. Flip, and reduce to a low flame, head home. Once home, visit local take-away and order curry chips. Vigorously empty onto the pavement and eat at once. Avoid the gravelly bits to avert immediate dentist visit.

Prepare a salad, and wait for the calls the next morning...

*EDIT: Just heard that I arrived through the door and shouted 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY EVERYBODY'. More to follow probably..

Oh Cupid...

The Scene was set. The aromatic candles were lit. The Lights were low. On the stereo, “A million love songs” by Take That. Strawberries, soaking in Champagne, winked in the candle-light like little red fruits of love. “Ghost” was in the video player with “Mamma Mia” for afters. A single red rose lay on a fluffed up pillow like a romantic offering from the Gods of love. New lingerie spread out on the bed, ready to be put on and then removed slowly and seductively, and in full view of the neighbours. A warm bath filled with floating petals lay waiting to massage the senses. In the kitchen, Oysters are simmering with passion, ready to be devoured. Matching bathrobes, recently embroidered with cheeky personal messages hung from the door hooks. A bottle of 1999 Amour de Deutz Blanc de Blancs sitting in ice, ready to be poured into fine crystal (or indeed, on the body). A diamond ring hid in the shadows, ready to dazzle and to surprise. Romance filled the air...

A lot of effort for a night in by myself, I think you’ll agree.

Merry Valentines from ND

I live in what you might call a 'kip'

It's what childhood dreams are made of. Days off school, pipes frozen and old ladies slipping and breaking their hips.

To most people, waking up to a blanket of snow is the stuff of dreams..

Not me.

I really should tell my landlady about the hole in the roof.

Seriously

Hair

I spent the weekend complaining to anyone who’d listen about my most recent bad haircut. I mean, there’s people dying of hunger and disease across the planet. There’s terror as war rages in Gaza. A ship has sunk in Indonesia killing over 200 people. Families in the West of Ireland are coming to terms with certain unemployment and a bleak future. There’s a famine brewing in Kenya. And I’m worried about a bad haircut!!?

It’s just way too short, and I don’t like the way it spikes up at the back.

Christmas Greetings from TV3

They were late this year..

“Dear Michael (?), we all know the feeling. You’re tucked up in bed, the soft glow of the landing light (or a visiting rapists torch) drifts into the room like a soft whisper (or silent and poisonous gas). The distant jingle of sleigh-bells (or a lunatic with a bicycle chain) arouse the senses as you start to count the hours until it will be Christmas morning. You’ve never felt so warm (house-fire maybe?) and a smile slowly creeps up on you (like a sleazy uncle on a hot summers day in the 80’s when you got one of those small paddling pools that everyone had). Well, guess what. With Irelands favorite* TV station, TV3, you get not only the best in year round entertainment, but also the best in Christmas television. Starting just before Christmas, and ending sometime after it, TV3’s 2008 festive schedule is packed to the brim with magic, wonder and advertisements. Just look at some of the examples :

An Audience with Alan Hughes - The ever popular ‘front lounge’ weatherman entertains a star studded audience at this specially recorded show. Viewers will hardly notice that the audience shots are from ‘an audience with Lionel Ritchie’, originally aired back in June. – Might want to remove that bit, LOL!!, Ed!

Filthy Carpet Munchers - Fascinating insight into the lives of carpet bugs and lice. Using microscopic microscopes we look at these little...Oh wait, you've stopped paying attention cos you thought this was a sexy lesbian show!!?.. Sponsored by Meanies

Snap! - Brush Sheils hosts this fast paced game show where contestants must battle each other by laying down cards on a table andshouting 'Snap' when two of the same cards appear together. Prizes provided by Graces newsagents, Ballinasloe

The big crazy fucking deadly Christmas movie – The Nutty Professor – Sober tale of a quiet 47 year old Norfolk Professor who is diagnosed with clinical depression based insanity which threatens the stability of his family and job. Starring Terry Nutkins (the Really Really Wild Show)

Live Olympic Games!! - Exclusive coverage of the dog Olympics from Serbia. We’re live from trackside for the ‘Dog on another Dogs back’ 75-metre hurdle and the final of the ‘bark off’. We also have extended coverage of this morning’s ‘Dog and Spoon’ race. Presented in association with Whiskas.

The School around the corner (From Albania) - Children say the funniest things, and this popular show from the former Eastern Bloc country is no exception. Today we meet the students of Zigau girls school who have battled back from the horror and trauma of an attack from a marauding decapitation gang and a serious gas leak that went unnoticed for six years.

Bowling for Coolmine - Behind the scenes documentary, which sees a team of amateur Bowlers from the North Dublin estate cashing in on their close name association to the Michael Moore film

Hammered - The hilarious Ulster comedy continues to win awards and last week was the recipient of the first ‘Pat the Baker’ television hero prize. In this special Christmas episode, Milo is concerned to find his house has been burned to the ground and his car daubed with politically sensitive slogans. Whilst on the ‘other side’ Jamie’s hands are sawn of by the O’Malley twins leaving him doubtful for his wedding later that day.

I think you will agree, that TV3 is simply more than ‘UTV with a different logo’ and this Christmas raises the bar of in festive entertainment.

All the best for the festive season,
The TV3 gang!"


*Survey was conducted in the men’s toilets of Busaras. Question asked “If we threatened to drug you, beat you and send your body in small pieces to each member of your family, would you agree that TV3 is the best TV channel on Irish Television?”. We got 6 yes’s.!

Disgraces Christmas memories..

I once gave an ex-Girlfriend an Epilator for Christmas. It being top of the range and purposely ‘the most expensive they had’ mattered not as the festive tears began flowing.

I suppose you could blame Fakey. I had called him and his (then) Fiancé, soon to be (now) Wife, who was (then) and (still is) my ex's sister and asked if they thought it was a good idea. They literally cheered me on from the sidelines as I bought the thing.

Not the first Christmas/Relationship that Fakey ruined on me, I'll have you know.

Disgrace's 'Back to mine - Please!' mixtape

Everyone’s at it, so I thought I’d crash the party with my own..

May I present (for those special moments when you’re parked at the edge of a pier in the driving rain, crying and saying goodbyes in your head or as you’re waiting for your gas oven to get nice and toasty), National Disgraces ‘Back to mine – Please!’ Mix-tape.

“A warning to everyone that blog posts can be the first sign of a friends impending suicide – Essential stuff” The Metro

“From the opening notes of ‘self mutilation with a whisk’ to the closing ballad of ‘hot head - repeated banging of cranium against sharp edge of radiator’ this collection rarely raises its head above the blankets, but it’s all the better for it. A sumptuous collection of misery” Hot-Press

“Put this on, open a bottle of Red, send the kids to bed and find a lofty beam on which to tie your rope – perfect for when you just feel like ‘hanging’.."- The Irish Examiner

“Not since the Mini-Pops post-rehab reunion album has so much soul been poured into a record. You can hear the pain, literally, especially on track 4 ‘sound of chainsaw in cold bathroom echoing throughout house’” Housekeeping Weekly

“It should be Number 1 forever” Morrissey

Do you want a copy?

Kris my Ass

Why I hate Kris Kindle:

Well, cos I hate everything else.

Also, cos you cannot buy a box of live scorpions for under 10 euro.

Still, I simply cannot wait to get my vibrating man dildo and fake breast apron.

Regards,
Disgrace.

Staying Positive

7am: Alarm (Groovin' with Mr Bloe - Mr Bloe) goes off. I congratulate myself on my playing of a cruel personal joke. 'Nice try Disgrace, I know you've only been in bed for 5 hours' I say to myself and drift back off to sleep. 9 Minutes later Mr Bloe begins his chirpy morning salute once more. I'm a little angrier, but dedicated to my plan, I smile as I hit the snooze button once more. Not long after Mr Bloe is doing the ring tone equivalent of your mother handclapping a rolling pin at the end of your bed. I'm up

7.05am: The smell of petrol in my sitting room is getting too strong to ignore. I decide that despite there being no logical reason for it, it can only be a good thing - for today, in response to Fakeys comments, is my day of being happy and non-moaney!

7.11am: I have failed. My shower head has snapped off. It's impossible to tell what is water running down my body and what is tears. A temporary clitch.

7.19am: In true McGyver style I have fashioned together a 'shower head with 3 books holding it up' concoction that finally sees me clean, fresh and only slightly smelling of unleaded.

7.45am: I emerge into the waking bustle of Rathgar Road. The shy is grey, and the clouds have gathered like a group of big wet bullies, but I think not negativity. Pressing play on my Pod, Bag Raiders 'shooting stars' fills my eardrums with a delirium that literally has me prodigy dancing to Cowper Luas stop.

8.00am: My arrival at the Luas stop is sprightly and enthusiastic. Next tram 3 minutes. Next stop work. That is if I had actually remembered that I require money to buy a ticket. Disgustingly, I check the machine for forgotten change. My smile, looking more forced now, remains where it is for the minute as I decide to travel gratis.

8.03am: "My name is National Disgrace. *** Rathgar Road. I forgot my wallet, Sir".

8.30am: I realise now why I don't wear my huge jacket that often. You could literally cook a ham in it. I arrive into work like a super-split that had been sitting on a dashboard for an entire journey to Athy. Taking a seat at my desk, I gesture goodwill to all, and press the GO button on my computer. As each mail arrives in, like some sort of invading army of red exclamation marks, 'URGENTS' and 'I have covered in your Boss, the Minister for Communications and the Pope', my resolute smile creaks like an old coffin door. Ah!! Coffee!! SAVED!

8.55am: After replying to all my mails in a caffeine filled buzz, and leaping from my seat to tell the CEO how well he looks (she's a woman), I begin the first of my morning naps. I'm jolted into action by the head of finance standing at my desk. 'I don't know who this 'Coiny' is and asking me 'do I like tits' is not the response I was expecting to my request for your approval of credits. I look at my coffee cup. It smugly smirks back. NO WORRIES!!

11.00am: My boss is delivering an opera of catastrophe to me, but I'm tuned out. Must stay positive I say, as I guide Mario through Mario land on my PC. Deadly, just dodged a poisonous mushroom.

13:00pm: The updates are getting fewer, as are my reasons to live. I begin a countdown to lunch. 3600 seconds. 3599. 3598..... at least it's going down!!

14:35: There's a reason Aldi noodles are 25c a pack.

15:40: A twirl bar, a visit to this brilliant fan made video for Nada Surf and I'm staring into the home straight with the smile of a priest at a recently tear-gassed creche. Already today, I'd delivered a stirring report on customer churn that I like to think had people applauding (on the inside at least). Today's mantra 'Isn't life great' is certainly working. My 'rope' drawer hasn't been opened once, and some of the more timid employees have actually approached my desk. 'Are you alright?' seems to be their query. I laugh contently, albeit solidly, for 20 minutes, and toast my overflowing jug of coffee in their direction . 'Hooray' I scream and I spill the scalding liquid down my arm.. I FEEL NO PAIN (until a minute or so later)

17:30: I'm in the lift. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. It's like a magic mirror. I look like shit, but I feel great. I've stayed positive all day, despite my lunchtime dip. Blame Aldi.

18.15: I arrive home. My ESB bill is standing in the doorway like a hired thug. My curtains are blowing in the breeze. There's soot all over my floor. The smell of petrol would make a car sick. The boiler has exploded. "Ha Ha, take that fakey' I shout, triumphantly.

I put on some A House..

"A smile is a frown, upside down' sings Couse...

Take that Fakey indeed.

Alone it stands.. thank Christ

I always used to say whenever World Cup fever hit town that I wished England would win it, only so that would shut the Christ up about 1966. Secretly of course, I hoped that some of their players would be killed by accidentally tackling themselves, the pound would crash and that Margaret Tatcher would burst into flames on Prime Ministers Question Time. The same thoughts came knocking today when I prepared myself for Munsters re-match with the All Blacks. Plays, Books, not-so-athletic-anymore ex players, gorging and dining out daily on stories of their victorious past are all vulgar reminders of the provinces unexpected victory over the touring New Zealanders back in the days when the Internet and fois gras didn't exist. Coiny, an ex-workmate and fellow blogger slept in his Munster shirt (and disgustingly wore it into work the next day. And the next) such was his pride. Their arrogance miffed me. And you know that there was no tears shed in Limerick when Ireland failed to beat the Kiwis last Saturday.

Yet, tonight was sporting history. From the Munster Haka, a terrifying war dance that shows that all acts of masculinity need not involve knives, guns and innocent victims, to the arrival of an army helicopter with the match ball, the occasion was truly awesome right up to the final moments. Literally, throwing their bodies on the line after no little skill and one of the great tussles I've ever seen in modern Rugby. Of course, in true Irish tradition, they boasted superiority from a theatre of dreams that is in fact only a half built stadium. And, when they hosted Ireland V Canada last week it played out like it was a neutral venue, the locals even arriving in the red of Munster despite the colour of the opposition. And yes, they all have unusually large foreheads and occasionally scrape their knuckles along the N17, but you can not help but be impressed.

They didn't win, but they nearly did. And lordy mclord o'lord, that's a victory for us all.


I see Fakey says man bags are not gay. You're right Fakester, they're not (I own 5), but they are when you get an erection writing about them.

And finally

Happy Birthday to Mandy, a good friend of mine who also happens to be a colleague. She's had her downs this year, and sadly, slightly less ups, but she still gets to work with me, which let's face it, is like 26 Superbowls. Enjoy your day Mandy, and my present (a Stapler)

Evil Heat

You may recall me pleading ‘possibly guilty your honor’ to the killing of a funk loving Aussie in my previous post. She had one of those old style Radiators you see. The type of one that literally screams ‘I wouldn’t hit your head here if I were you’. Now, I’m not about to expand on the gory details (we’ll save that for the courts) but let’s just say that she did hit her head off it. Now however, something rather sinister has begun happening at Chateau Disgrace that is simply too uncanny to ignore.

I have a number of radiators in my flat, just your run of the mill ones, unlikely to have ever been involved in homicidal activities like their IFSC cousin. Their brief was a simple one. Heat the place, and do it without fuss. No murdering.

In fact, they never actually worked so I went out and bought a couple of standalone ones and forgot about them. A couple of weeks ago though they began to stir. At 5am one morning, I woke up feeling unusually hot and stuffy. I turned to herself and said ‘Hey, It’s unusually hot and stuffy isn’t it?’ She didn’t reply, maybe because she was asleep, or probably cos she doesn’t exist. Anyway, I got up and immediately noticed that the radiator had come on. This didn’t strike me as too odd, as I knew the Landlord had them set on a timer for the entire building. The next night, they didn’t come on at all from what I can remember, and the following one, they were on as I was getting home late. The pattern continued. They’d come to life at all hours. Humming away and emitting a diabolical and evil heat whenever they felt like it. I queried this with my landlady the other day, asking if she could fix the timer so they’d only come on at appropriate times. She said they were set for 6am to 8am and 6pm to 8pm. ‘Well I’ll be!’ was my response, and when I went on to explain that my ones are coming on randomly and at odd hours she joked that maybe they were ‘haunted radiators’..

Now, and I kid you not, as soon as I hung up on her, the theme to ‘Home and Away’ started playing on the TV.. BUT IT WASN’T PLUGGED IN!! (actually it was, that bit is a lie. The rest however, is chillingly, or maybe not chillingly considering it involves radiators, true).

It’s not going to take a genius to figure what’s going on here.

Do I need a plumber, an electrician or an exorcist?

33 and a turd and/or the whoring twenties

In my 20's I had no morals, no future, and no standards.


The 'nothing years' I like to call them. Your twenties. The decade passes for most people in a blur of new relationships, passing music fads, and desperate fashion (carpet jackets, black Nike high tops and a yellow floral tight shirt that I thought made me look like Jarvis Cocker, when in fact it made look like a total cock). I worked in a petrol station and used to lie to girls in Whelans that I was in the 'oil industry'. I wrote poetry and posted it to the same girls, after they dumped me. 'You'll be sorry' was sent to a long termer. 'Mind the traffic bitch' to another. I made up for a lack of charisma, style and looks with a quirky odour. I parted my hair in the middle and invented the inverse dance to 'song 2' from blur in Whelans, where I would go mental to the quiet bits and stand perfectly still to the loud ones. I lived in a bedsit in Terenure in which my futon literally floated after a flash flood. I was so rock and roll that I used to complain about the noise from the old woman in the flat above me. I had a slug infestation and once woke up beside a pretty little bank teller to the sight of two of them on her leg 'your tongue feels lovely' she said, needlessly reminding me that she was totally and utterly drunk. I once, perhaps, manslaughtered an Australian girl when I knocked her from her bed trying to turn Jamoruqi off the stereo and she hit her head off a radiator. I deejayed in Doyles to 3 people, all of whom were related to me. They reckon I still owe them a refund.

Then towards the end of this troubled era I grew up. I got a better job. I got a better place. I got a better girlfriend. That's really where all the trouble began.

You see, despite the fact that I was an idiot in my twenties, I had a lot of fun. I had a lot of girls. I took unhealthy risks. I killed a Jamourqui fan.

Now, I'm starring into the abyss that is the age of man. I'm virgin (sic) on 33. I used to say to Fakey (who reaches the age of man this week) when he had one of his 'crises', "get off the cross dude, someone else needs the wood!!" now, rather than being crucified like my hero Jesus I'm being told 'just go off and die in the corner there love'. I thought I'd be a doting father by now, with kids. A money man, with money. A home owner who owned a home. Instead, I'm a fuckwit, who can't get ...... Well, maybe I actually can, it's just that the youthful centre parted gung-ho attitude of my twenties has been replaced by a sensible, nose to spite the face, stubbornness that sees me in on a Halloween night watching Ghost World only cos it has Ghost in the title.*

I have become too critical. This blog is littered with my opinions. It's littered with my mistakes. It's littered with a thinly veiled hated of TV3 that those of you with half a brain would already of guessed means that I watch it religiously. What it has not been littered with is stories of Antipodean murders, wantin public sex acts and regrettable encounters with women with beards. Had I of wrote this blog in my 20's, it would of. It would of spoke of nameless women, all stroking my ego and not being given the respect of me remembering their names.

It would of been filled with college tales so outlandish that even I struggle to believe them (such as when I was removed from Fairways hotel disco in Dundalk, only to gain re-entry by climbing a drainpipe, entering a bedroom and passing a couple as they woke to say 'Oh, this isn't the gents'). More near death experiences, such as when I woke up under Templeouge bridge with my jeans on backwards and contracted serious blood poisoning, but ended up in a 4 year relationship with the girl who lured me there. And the time I actually was covered in milk (only I was sleeping in a some random strangers garden on the Avenue Rd, Dundalk: at 3 in the day). The decade that I fondly look back upon as the 'nothing years' was in fact that.

There was nothing like it.

2008, Disgrace, still so-obviously single.

*Written on Halloween night

Obama in a Hiace

Theres a sign on the dreary road that leads into Moneygall (anglicised from the Irish for 'the town of the people who would prefer to be dead') that proclaims that the tiny one-family, 300 inhabitants village to be the ancestral home of the new president of the US, Barack Obama. The sign, which boasts a stylish modern font and thanks to lessons learned from the infamous speed limit pole debacle is actually road facing, is sponsored by T&E plumbing.

The Village, whose previous claim to fame was the fact that T&E plumbing chose to locate there, is a curious mix of the bland and the creepy. Wikipedia cleverly dodges the thorny issue of whether or not the locals eat each other and instead concentrates on the fact the Presidents great great great (ok, we get the message, you think he's great) Grandfather was once the local shoemaker. On Six-One tonight a reporter braved the danger of the rumoured MoneyGall sex beast (a four legged creature made entirely out of sex that has been spotted outside the catholic church and behind one of the towns 2 pubs) and visited the local primary school.

Like a DVD extra from 'Children of the Corn', the students sang 'Obaaaaaama, Obaaaaama' in a sinister unison as the reporter interviewed the schoolmaster. He said he envisages a bus load of 'yanks' pounding the pavement in downtown Gall, pointing at T&E plumbings corporate HQ with a mixture of awe and downright fear and taking snaps of the three headed children as they play with their other heads. There's no hotels in MoneyGall of course, but you'd hardly need one when you're trying to get back to the airport as quickly as his humanly possible.

The house in which the shoemaker Obama was born, was leveled sometime ago to make way for a field but plans are already afoot (see what I did?) to erect a new sign, with a picture of Obama on it to indicate the ancestral home. The sponsorship is available for the highest bidder, which may interest Bergins shop who narrowly lost out to T&E plumbing, the plumbers, last time.

Things are looking good for Moneygall, and this guide is intended for interested yanks, to find info on local services and customs. Thanks to the guys on the 'friends of Satan' forum for their in dept knowledge of the area, and once again, to T&E plumbing.

And who knows, as the picture on the right shows, one days Barack Obama could be driving his cavalcade into what was once a sleepy little village, but will surely soon be over-run with Yanks!

And sure if he ever needs his plumbing done...

Things to do in Dublin when it's dead

Myself and the Fake decided to hit town early yesterday. Since his marriage, his behaviour has been slightly erratic, although the fact that his wife is in the final straight of a PHD might explain some of it. He has been calling me at all hours (6.40am Saturday "Are you awake? Coffee?", 11 am last Sunday "Can I watch CNN in yours?". Anyway, yesterday was no different. Despite a flash drinking session in Slats the night before, I awoke to a 9am call, 10am text, 11 am repeat call, 11.30 text fest and 12pm 'lying in is a sign of depression man!!' voicemail', I finally responded with a groggy and nowhere near finished sleeping response of 'I'm single man, let me be..!'

Anyway, after the usual morning routine of a single man (underpants odour test, self-examination/pleasure, beef and black bean breakfast) I emerged blinking into something I have not seen in many a weekend, the early afternoon. Disturbingly Fakey standing outside my flat, with the look of a man who'd been there for quite a while.

Soon, after a game of dodge the pram on the Luas, we were standing in the green of St Stephen with a 'what now' look on our faces. My eyes wandered to every available woman's arse, his to the window of 'Stock'. I mouthed the word 'pints', whilst he checked the newly weds handbook. He recited rule 2.1: 'drinking during the day whilst your wife was strung out on PHD is forbidden' so we decided to do something else.

Minutes later we were knocking back stout in Grogans.

I don't blame him. It's nigh on impossible to do anything in this City without involving drink. We could go for coffee, but a number of weeks ago I went on a 5 hour coffee session and spent that night chanting and twitching in my bed, so I'm pretty reluctant to binge on it. And anyway, Cafes in Dublin City are like these hipster soup kitchens, full of nausea inducing fuckwits all cramming the pavement in an attempt to be seen. Yes, our kind of place, but difficult to get a seat. Sure we have some Museums and Galleries, but these can all be explored over a weekend if you so wish, and it's not something you're gonna do every week. Your chances of being raped are dramatically increased if you happen to be in a park, so that rules them out. Worse can occur in the Zoo. A lot worse.

The 'craic' excuse has long been redundant. craic, like crack, soon becomes something a lot more hardcore. There are no Big Wheels, no Trevi Fountains, no Eiffel Towers. There is simply nothing to do in Dublin.

And after our last pint in Slats later on that evening, we both agreed that at least it made things simple.

A pain in the dole

I know these are trying times for most of us. Some people are saying though that the Irish are now way smarter than the bucktoothed, pig-under-the-arm, banjo twanging brigade that used to populate this island back in the 80’s, and that we can cope and survive with a recession better now, armed as we are armed with fois gras, B&Q decking and fake breasts. Yes, the smarter do have a greater chance of surviving, but just because you own 3 properties in rapidly declining areas, send your kids to an Irish speaking school and a share your living room with a enormous LCD TV doesn’t make you smart. And even if it did, I have none of those things anyway.

My employmortality (you heard it here first kids) has been staring me in the face for the last few months, and is threatening to reach a head. Simply put, a big giant corporation bought out my little homely and cutesy jobbity and has begun swinging the sword. Christmas in a skip is looking more and more likely.

One thing unemployment might do is finally encourage me to write my book..

The only thing is, it’ll go something along the lines of this:

“The lady in FAS wondered why I didn’t have a moustache. I explained I’m not a naturally hairy person and she gave me one of those looks. You know the type of look, the ones that bitches give you. She stamped the card, and looked at me again. She commented that if I wanted to be a real unemployed person I should consider growing one. I said if she wanted to be considered a real woman, she should get rid of hers. I then jokingly asked her to consider me for any jobs in Freddy Mercury tribute acts, pointing to my obvious lack of moustache. She explained to me that he had died of aids. A fight broke out between a father and son in the other Q, so I left.

After FAS, I was so hell-bent on getting a job that I went straight to the pub. This action is the main reason I’ve had to advertise my liver on Buy and Sell.”

Yep, I need to keep this job. I really do.

Creepy Uncle Disgrace

“Still, at least I’m back blogging”

What a phrase. Up there with ‘Look Dad, no hands!!’ , ‘Honey, I’m having a bath, will you pass me the toaster?... ARGGHHH, I meant soa..BUZZZZZZ’ and ‘I think I’ll trim my pubic hair with a hedge strimmer out on the iced over decking in the garden’ as utterances of instant regret.

I’m actually investing a huge portion of my creative abilities into something else currently, so I will not be as prolific as I once was (I famously knocked out 3 posts in one week earlier this year), for the time being anyway.

Maybe we could work out a routine. I could commit myself to 1 post a week, couldn’t I? Maybe.

For the moment, consider me like a pleasant, but undeniably creepy leather chap clad Uncle who drops by once in a while, gives you a shiny ten-pence, pats you on the head and tells you to run along (only so he can chase you and tie you up in the garage).

Def Leppard!!!

The plan was very simple. Take a week off work whilst the going was good, indulge myself in high brow activity and return to the office a hero. Fresher faced, slimmer and despite the medical impossibility, taller. I even went a euro over budget in the shopping on coffee, just to make sure that I got that extra boost every morning. I also ironed my underpants.

It was a simple plan. Wake each morning in the AM. 8.30 would be fine. Shower,and linger, allowing the smooth fragrance of lemon and tea tree oil impregnate my skin. Dress, like a proud sailor, giving significant time to admire in mirror. Emerge from my rooms of impeccable grooming into the soft glow of a yawning morning and head for stage one of Disgraces 'week off work super plan', the Gym. After flexing and galloping for an hour, I would tease the gentlemen of LA Fitness with my remarkable presence and feeling refreshed, marathon ready and as buff as a racehorse, would ditch the the gym bag and head straight into the eye of an intellectual storm. Day one, i thought, Marshes Library. I'd soak up history. Day 2, The Hugh Lane, I would deliberately loiter and allow the art to rape my senses. Day 3, IMMA, here I would sip a coffee and laugh to myself, like a madman, but look like a pretty cool art dude. Day 4, Collins Barracks. Day 5, the Zoo. All of these excursions would be followed by my arrival at a coffee house, with laptop, where I would alternate from writing my book and winking at the lovely ladies. After my coffee and wordsmithery, I would return home to a meal that involved lots of chopping, squeezing and green things. After dinner, I would put on a Tux and hit the bricks. The city would open up to me like an overpaid prostitute and I would simply charm my way through the night, eventually ending up in bed and wondering how I would get home..

It was indeed a simple plan.

So, why oh why, am I waking each day just as Prime Time is starting, eating a deep pan goodfellas, in only my underpants, and cranking up the Xbox...

Still, at least I'm back blogging.