It’s all about the tone…
Her: “You know what day it is today?”
Me (internally): “Oh fuck, what have I forgotten?”
Me (reality): “Emmmmmmm”
Awkward pause. And then eventually…
“Happy anniversary my dear!”
You see the pause is what fucked me up. And the fact that I had neglected to remember the date until I heard the tone of the question. That way women have of asking such questions. It’s all about the tone and the delivery.
And my lame attempt at getting out of it didn’t help either…
“I thought it was the 30th”
And in so doing I joined that stereotypical male, idiot grouping who forget anniversaries and birthdays. And I’m genuinely annoyed at myself for doing so. I didn’t think I would ever be that fucking eejit but today I’ve helped further denigrate the status of mankind.
And now there’s no chance I’ll get to see the Arsenal – Liverpool match this evening.
Quango jango…
I’m not a huge fan of eggs it has to be said. I must’ve had a bad egg-related experience as a child. And this crappy slogan isn’t gonna change that any time soon….
Nor this…
Seriously. People got paid lots of money to come up with those ideas and to implement them. And that’s the best they could do to promote eggs?
C’mon, “an egg a day is ok”? What a slogan, what copy. For fuck’s sake. Mad Men they ain’t. They’re practically saying eggs are mediocre at best. And they’re supported by An Bord Bia channelling our taxpayers money for this shitty campaign.
And the gas thing is at the bottom of the promo website it has this… © Irish Egg Marketing Limited 2008. They needn’t worry, I don’t think anyone’s gonna nick those slogans any time soon so they may hold off on the patents.
Six simple words and the truth…
I’ve been inspired by the Radge. Mainly his recent Bish Bash Bosh post. A fine, simple post indeed. In it the aforementioned Radge draws up a list of his very own 6 word narratives. It’s all very literary, being based on Hemingway’s story which goes thus… ‘For sale: Baby shoes, never worn.’ Very deep man, don’t ya think?
Radge specifically did not or does not intend this to be a meme but fuck it, it set me to thinking of my own. So here goes nothing.
1. Six words is not a lot.
2. Red beachball sales go through roof.
3. Jamie Oliver continues to annoy me.
4. Andy should have listened to Giovanni.
5. The leaves will surely grow back.
6. Ernest Hemingway I certainly am not.
7. Six sixty a pint? Cunting Gogartys.
8. Pissing off balconies is quite dangerous.
9. Ciarán Mullooly sounds like his name.
10. Pay cuts are better than unemployment.
11. Fuck me this is quite hard.
12. Ribery makes Tevez look like Clooney.
13. It’s 2009. Why can’t we fly?
That’s about the height of it.
God Bless Me
That is the gist of John O’Donoghue’s going away speech. What a martyr, a hero. Sign him up for a sainthood right away.
What a prick is the real truth. A petty, bitter man with no sense of shame. A product of the Fianna Fáil corruption line. He practically said, “I didn’t even enjoy all the fillet steaks, I only ate them for the good of Ireland”.
Fuck off John. Shame on you.
Things I’ve learned this week…
Bohemians FC play “Hold Me Now” by Johnny Logan at the end of every match.
That is all.
Two sisters, twins perhaps…
A quiet Friday night in. Nice glass of wine and all that jazz.
And then a knock on the door. An unexpected rat-a-tat-tat. Who could it be I thought? I kicked off the slippers, didn’t wanna look uncool. You know yourself.
So I opened the door, a little tentatively at first cos ya just never know. It was one of the sisters from across the hall. They’ve only just moved in. About 23/24 I’d say. Could be twins. Met them for the first time in the lift the other day. Seem nice and pleasant.
“Has your electricity gone off?” says she.
“No, it all seems fine here”.
“Oh, ours has gone off somehow”.
The other sister was standing in the doorway looking every inch the damsel in the distress. Turns out the hair straightener was much needed and now defunct.
Who said chivalry was dead eh? “Let me have a look… if that’s ok?” says I.
“Oh please do”. Two sisters in bathrobes. One says “oh please do”. Good God.
So I wandered across the hall. Throwing the odd shape I’d say.
A quick look at the fusebox on the wall. “Hmmmm, I reckon you must’ve overloaded the circuit” says I. Impressed they were. No doubt about it. Alpha male me.
And then just as I was about to flick the trip switch her indoors wanders across the corridor. “Looks like the trip switch. The grey button there, flick that one up” says she. And sheepishly I did. Straight away the hair-dryer started to whir once more and they all introduced themselves while I was stood on a stool in the hall.
And in one foul swoop one man’s dream had died. Ah well. Easy come, easy go eh?!?
Tumbleweed…
The stat counter looks like a graph mapping the Anglo Irish share price of late. The amount of new comments in the past week mirror the amount of new posts. It’s been like a Roman Polanski film set of late round here. Tumbleweed wouldn’t be seen dead near this place.
Things have gotten so bad I nearly signed up for twitter. But only nearly.
But all is well dear reader. For now I shall offer no new pearls but the world still turns. Just a post about posting.
It happens to the best of us.
As I lay awake last night…
… I wondered… would I better be off grabbing the pitching wedge or the putter if some scumbag were to break in?
It’s amazing what enters one’s head as they lie awake.
To hell in a handcart…
NAMA this, FÁS that, John O’Donoghue acting the prick with his expenses and every other politician afraid to oust him because of their own expense abuse timebomb. We’re falling apart we really are.
I wouldn’t mind if our politicians and social leaders were merely corrupt. But corruption requires pre-meditation and an element of cleverness. What we have instead is incompetence and inefficiency. With Brian Cowen, Mary “Palin” Coughlan, Dirty Willie, and the Lenihans driving the bus that’s not gonna change any time soon.
It must be time for a change, if not a revolution. But we the electorate people stakeholders haven’t the balls to do anything about it. Even the Opposition appear not to want to get in and do anything, they’d rather Fianna Fail try and clean up their own mess it seems.
I genuinely am worried as to the state of the nation we pass on to our children and grandchildren. If this was France there’d be riots on the streets. If it was Thailand there’d be a military coup. If it was anywhere else there’d be public upheaval. But it’s not it’s Ireland. And we settle for this shit.
Darren Sutherland, Rest in Peace…
I just read on the Irish Times site that Irish boxer Darren Sutherland was today found dead by his manager Frank Moloney in his London home. It’s such shocking news. He was such a talent. A real gentleman with bundles of personality but he must’ve felt he couldn’t go on.
It’s so hard to believe the news, I feel a real sense of loss. Reports say he was found hanged in his flat by his manager Moloney, who had a heart attack and was himself brought to hospital but is said to be recovering.
Another young man who went before his time. I can’t even begin to understand his situation but it happens all too often to young Irish men. He had the world at his feet it seemed but it must be he felt he couldn’t go on. Something was wrong but he couldn’t communicate it and instead sought to end it all. It’s so sad.
I never met him personally but I followed his Olympic adventure with great interest and have friends who knew him very well and have nerver had anything but good things to say about him. I really loved the boxing documentary about him called “Saviours”. He was such an admirable guy, Irish sport is a lesser place with his passing.
Messages of condolence are pouring in on his facebook page as I type. It’s so very sad to read.
May he rest in peace.
A Monday Rant…
I intended having a delightful home made lunch today which was to involve bread, grated cheddar cheese, rocket salad, chorizo and raspberries. All bought within the past few days. All with best before dates of September 16th or later. Yet the only thing still edible is the chorizo. The cheese has the beginnings of mould as does the bread. The rocket salad is covered in a brownish liquid and smells like a knacker’s armpit. The raspberries have gone all hairy and bacteria laden. Also like a knacker’s armpit. Which is not good. Not good at all.
And I wouldn’t mind but the salad was sealed tightly and the cheese came in a resealable bag type thing and was airtight. I wonder are manufacturers taking the piss with their best before dates? I’d take them with a pinch of salt but that’d probably be gone off too. So is there a greater conspiracy at play here?
If I wasn’t so lazy I’d bring it all back and throw it at the supermarket’s door in protest. Or get my money back. One or t’other. But the point is this, I am most annoyed that my lunch options have dwindled to just chorizo.
So get your act together food manufacturers of Ireland. Or else. Yeah?
A glorious day…
Sitting on the Bull Wall eating a self made sandwich of magnificent proportions. The sun beaming down. Waves lapping against the rocks. Grasshoppers hopping. Fleet Foxes providing the rest of my soundtrack.
Old geezers swimming. The woman in the habib on the beach is jumping for joy. Even the junkies are scowling less than normal. And why not?
Toddlers toddle contentedly. The fat old man struggles to keep up. “Great day to be alive”, says he.
And he’s dead fucking right.
It sure is a glorious day to be alive.
Sunday Independent = skin crawling rag
Jody Corcoran, is a so-called journalist who writes hatchet pieces for the Sunday Independent. He has apparently walked the walk of life and, according to himself at least, asks “the hard questions” and “then stands over those questions and takes the flak”. Yeah right you cretinous fool.
In his Sunday Independent article entitled, with very little subtlety, “If Tubridy wanted to get personal, he should have asked questions like a man” he does a real hatchet job on Ryan Tubridy, his presentation of the latest incarnation of the Late Late Show and, by extension, RTE. It’s the most blatantly biased piece of work I have possibly ever read. And you’d never guess that the Sunday Independent is losing ad revenue by the bucketload. And it’s just a coincidence that RTE are a major competitor for ad revenue right?
Not like the Sindo to pick on soft targets at all. And it’s funny how they can one week lay into Brian Cowen and then cosy up to him like best mates the next. What’s it to be? Fish or fowl? The Sindo don’t mind. They’ll turn coat in an act just to find their next victim and a cheap headline.
Oh and Jody Corcoran is a self-trumpeting cretin and he writes for a skin crawling rag. The level of bias in that article is cringeworthy. Tubridy never stood a chance of being judged fairly and I’m certain Corcoran had most of it written before he even got to RTE. At the very least a decision was made to lay into Tubridy and praise Cowen. Praise that wasn’t deserved in my book.
Corcoran’s oneupmanship and lack of real critical judgement are there for all to see. He should take his head out of Cowen’s ass and have a look at his review again without the Sindo issue green tinted glasses. But in reality I doubt he has the balls to write a real, balanced piece. He probably doesn’t know how. And his bosses probably wouldn’t let him anyway.
In my opinion Tubridy did a fine job interviewing Brian Cowen. He was assured, confident and clearly well prepared. Granted he might have given Cowen a little more time to respond but then again Cowen doesn’t have the nous or the charm to demand his own right of reply. Barack Obama or Tony Blair he most certainly ain’t. In fact he’s not even close to Bertie when it comes to fighting his own corner.
And as for Corcoran’s “insider” quotes from “RTE big wigs”? I doubt anyone in any position of power would be that stupid to expose Tubridy in such a way. Chances are Corcoran made those quotes up to sensationalise the piece.
Sindo’s editorial team really should read that article with shame. The lack of honesty and/or integrity in their work is shocking. They give real journalists a bad name. If they went bust, with O’Reilly’s fortune going down the drain, well then the world would be a much better, more balanced place. It’s a damning indictment of their rag that I’d much rather buy a tabloid like the News of the World, the Sun or the Star than the Sunday Independent. And don’t even get me started on Barry Egan or Brendan O’Connor, never mind Eoghan Harris. Shower of useless, ego driven, self trumpeting, croneyist hacks of the lowest order.
Did I mention that Jody Corcoran is a cretin? Oh I did? Okay so.
For more on this go to Irish Election. For real reviews (not made up Sindo hatchet jobs) of Tubridy’s opening night go here and here.
It’s never over till it’s over…
You know the way certain songs don’t end but instead just fade out slowly? Well that just bugs me greatly.
To me a song is, or should be, a narrative, a story almost. It has to start somewhere, obviously, and by the same token should end somewhere but very often they don’t they just fade out. It’s either lazy songwriting or lazy production but either way it’s lazy.
Many great songwriters and recording artists are guilty of it. There’s just too many to list unfortunately. In fact I’d say it’s been happening since the dawn of recorded music.
Maybe it’s dictated by a higher power, ie the record company, but still I feel cheated. Almost like I’ve been brought on a journey that trailed off to nowhere. It’s the equivalent of a movie just slowly fading to black in the middle of the third act as the projectionist slowly dims the projector’s bulb. No good. We need closure. We need conclusions.
Whether it ends on a cymbal crashing, a chord jangling or on a final word all I want is for songs to have proper, actual endings. Is that too much to ask?
Indignation with a Dublin accent
The self righteous lad on North Earl Street with the microphone, a chair for standing on and an abundance of anti-abortion fuelled anger needs to chill out a little. He’ll burst a blood vessel with all that fire and brimstone if he keeps it up.
And anyway, nobody is listening.
Fucking dirtbirds…
Saturday afternoon. A new pair of jeans. Looking smart.
A journey to work via bus.
Chewing gum on the seat.
Not looking too smart now. Jeans not so new anymore.
Thanks fucking dirtbirds, thanks.
Celebrity Deathmatch…
If you’re going to shuffle off this mortal coil well then you certainly don’t want to do so having been found in a suitcase stuffed in a Los Angeles bin. Your fingers having been hacked off and your teeth smashed in. The only thing left to identify you the serial number on your breast implants.
All of this by your one time husband who you’d met only a few months previous.
It all sounds like something from a Coen Brothers movie but it’s real.
As I say not a way you’d choose to go. But then again there really are some fucked up people out there. Many of whom seek, and subsequently find, celebrity.
But at what price?
One man and his beat…
2 in the afternoon. The lad at the bus stop was dancing. Taken over by a beat, a beat unheard by the rest of us. And shaking his head like there was no tomorrow. Musta been some good shit coming through those headphones.
People looked at him like he was half cracked. He could see them look at him like that but he didn’t care. Because he was lost in the music. And I bet he didn’t give a fuck how long the bus was taking to arrive. But everyone else was staring up the road counting the seconds, worrying, fretting about this about that. I bet he doesn’t worry about much.
So keeping dancing lad. They’re the ones missing out.
The bus arrived, he bopped on and air-drummed his way into town.
And why not? He’s dead fucking right. I just wish I could’ve heard his beat.
Next time Bolt, next time…
If I hadn’t had those couple of pints of Guinness and a plate mountain of stodgy carvery food in O’Neills then I surely would’ve given the Jamaican lad a run for his money.
Might have been wind assisted though and I’m not sure Arthur’s finest is allowed by the drug testing folk. Ah well, you’ll eat my dust next time Bolt. You just wait and see.
