Merry New Year!!!!
For me personally 2008 has been a bit of an enigma wrapped up in a mystery. An abundance of drama and turmoil. Plenty of funerals. Even more weddings. Tragedy and comedy in plentiful supply. Lots of highlights. No shortage of travelling. New places. New faces. And plenty of friendly old ones.
Plus something I’m proud of was published in a fine book alongside some serious blogging luminaries. So not a bad year all told. I will leave it with a smile.
I hope for more goodness in 2009. With less funerals. And even though a recession is not only inevitable but happening as I type.. may it’s bark be worse than its bite. It could well bring us a much needed reality check. If anything I hope it brings with it a sense of humility that we may well have lost, certainly here in Ireland. Less scowl please, more smile. A renewed sense of community, of social interaction.
So with a nod and a firm handshake I wish you a healthy and happy 2009.
May it rock, and/or roll.
Cheers,
NaRocRoc
Merry Chrimble y’all…
The staff at The NaRocRoc Weblog, ie. me, would like to extend our humblest of festive greetings to you and yours. Do enjoy it. And consume like motherfuckers!
Many thanks for dropping by and commenting in my first few months of blogging. It’s been real. It’s been most enjoyable. I appreciate it.
Cheers!
Ladies and Gentlemen we wish to welcome…
The searchlights are searching, the velvet curtains are ready and the envelopes are loaded. So fix your bowtie, check your toupée and get some cheap champagne intoya Cynthia because here we go. Trumpets fanfare and drum roll please…
The first award is the world was way less broken when I agreed to do this now what the fuck do I do because I’m not sure if in fact we still can award goes to…
The next award is the get out while the going is good then karma pushed you down the stairs and broke your leg award. It goes to….
The Bertie never told me about this Lisbon lark or that the economy would go through the floor now what do I do award goes to…
The doom n gloom cheer the fuck up award goes to…
The should’ve known better lead balloon gobshite award goes, jointly, to…
The I’m an arrogant twat and I love my greasy jowelly head award goes to…
The still a cheeky fucker award goes to…
And the final award of the year is the if its good enough for Take That its good enough for us cos Mikey and Shane need the cash award. It goes to…
And tada, that’s it folks from the inaugural NaRocRoc Weblog Awards of 2008. We hope you had a good time. Please vacate the building as d’bingo starts in 5 minutes. Oh and make sure to tip the valet guy on the way out.
People make choices…
I’ve been out all evening, keepin it festive which is all good. However I’ve had to get two short-hop taxis. And I’m not impressed. I am aware taxi rates have been increased recently. I know. But still.
Beforehand the two taxi journeys would’ve cost me a bearable 9 Euro each. They now cost me in the region of 13/14 euro. A price that makes me now say… “fuck that I’ll walk / wait in the rain for the bus”.
Taxi prices really were at their limit before the recent increase was approved. And that was all pre-credit crunch, recessionary madness. Before the George Lee-induced fear kicked in.
Taxi drivers really will suffer so much on the back of these increases. I for one won’t pay the extra rates, and I’m quite loose with my cash, especially where socialising is concerned.
But people make choices. And taxi drivers really will regret the fare increase after the festive-season good will runs out.
Empty taxis make very little noise.
ZZ Stop…
I saw this yesterday in a corridor in work and had to take a photo.
It’s an extractor fan. I love the colour, the shape, the symmetry. It’s most cool.
On another note entirely…
I had a busy evening last night. I hotfooted it to a couple of festive engagements with friends and a family gathering. Most enjoyable. I spoke to/drank with many people. And you’d think Christmas would be top of the conversation list. Alas, no. It seems my facial follicles were top of the agenda.
Everyone seemed amazed at my, quite unremarkable, beard. It’s not exactly ZZ Top standard but hey what can you do?
I wouldn’t mind but I have a beard more often than I don’t. It’s a common occurrence due to my laziness when it comes to shaving.
Maybe people just never noticed until last night? A little bit bizarre.
Have you ever felt…
… that the only way you’ll get everything done that you would like to get done in this life would be to clone yourself?
No? Okay it’s just me. I’ll carry on with it so.
Lemmings...
The difference is….
Dunnes Stores have a slogan on their radio and print ads which goes like this….
“THE DIFFERENCE IS WE’RE IRISH”
It bothers me somehow but I can’t put my finger on exactly why.
They say they are “intensely proud of the fact that it is an Irish company with a primarily Irish customer base” and that’s fine but the slogan bothers me somehow. Why I’m not sure. Is it just me?
They don’t seem to use the one that says “Always Better Value” so much anymore, perhaps because they are simply not always better value.
Cruise control you say?
I can’t drive. The main reason I can’t drive is that I come from a suburban family where neither parent ever drove. And none of my siblings ever bothered either. We never had a car and we have always gotten by just fine. Simple things like getting a Christmas tree home were always epic tasks but we turned them into fun-filled, festive events all the same.
I cycle a lot and am more than happy to do so. The bike and public transport work for me for the most part but, I admit, I have been thinking of late that a man of my vintage should be, at the very least, capable of driving if necessary. So I’ve been thinking I should learn to drive.
In order to do so I figured I needed some form of vehicle to make it happen. Get the wheels in motion, if you’ll pardon the dreadful pun. So anyway, I was looking on a prominent Irish car sales website when one model in particular jumped out at me; a 2004 Audi A3 with all the trimmings. Fancy I know but the price was listed as only €4200. A bargain I thought. Models of that year and mileage usually sell for about €10k minimum. Better get in touch before someone else does. Early bird catches the worm and all that, you get the picture.
So I emailled the contact given. His name is Robert Pest. He promptly got back to me with this…
Excellent Condition, the car was kept in a garage , it has service book, the tires have been changed recently, and doesn’t need repairings. It has no engine problem, no scratches.
Registered in Ireland. The car is at the moment in Manchester, UK.
I live in the Italy, I bought the car for my brother who lived in Ireland and then moved to UK. Unfortunately he died recently and I cannot take the car with me. You do not have to pay any taxes for this car. It is very easy to register it to your name . I have all the documents ready for sale. The car documents are on my name, so it is very simple.As payment I only accept cash and we will have to meet in Manchester for the sale.
Thank you and I hope you will decide to buy my car.
Many thanks,
Good aul Robert Pest. He even included some photos. What a guy.
So does anyone fancy going to Manchester with me to go halves on an Audi?
Didn’t think so. I think I’ll stick to the bike for now.
This is the farewell kiss, you dog…
This makes for such compelling viewing…
And we’ve learned that “In Arab culture, it’s considered rude even to display the sole of one’s shoe to a fellow human being… The sensitivity about feet and footwear is related to the fact shoes are considered ritually unclean in the Muslim faith…. But beyond the Islamic significance, the dirty and degrading implication of the sole of a shoe crosses all religious boundaries in the Middle East.”
So throwing both shoes at a man is one of the greatest insults in the Muslim faith. It’s just a shame George W was quick enough to duck. Even despite the shock he still looked like a buffoon. Smirking like an idiot. There really is nothing behind those eyes, between those ears.
‘This is a gift from the Iraqis, this is the farewell kiss, you dog!’ A fitting finale for such an idiot. And with that Muntadar Al Zaidi’s place in history is sealed.
Still, some people have way too much time on their hands….
Fuckin’ hell, did you see that?
Sitting at the back of the Number 34 bus as it drove through Phibsboro circa 1996.
“Fuckin’ hell, did you see that?”
“See what?”, I said.
“Just there”
“Where?”
“On the street”
“I didn’t see anything”
“For fuck sake. A black bloke”
“Ah c’mon”, I said.
“No seriously. He was walkin’ that way. And another black bloke walked right past him”
“Yeah so?”
“You didn’t fuckin’ see? They walked right by each other. And they didn’t even know each other. Fuckin’ hell”
I put my head in my hands, didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Thankfully we’ve come on a bit since then.
I need your help…
I’m trying to compile a list of decent cafés in Dublin City Centre and I’m hoping you can help?
I’m looking for cafés with ambience, character, a welcoming atmosphere. Cafés with decent, and varied, food. Cafés with a variety of teas and quality coffee. The kind of places you can sit in comfortably for ages and get lost in a good book.
If you can think of any please, please drop me a comment.
Cheers. Oh and Uncle Sam thanks you!
A little milestone indeed…
Homepages, a unique collection of stories and photographs, the first of its kind in Ireland, has hit the virtual shelf this very day.
All proceeds from the sale of the book, compiled on an entirely voluntary basis, go directly to Focus Ireland, a very worthy cause who provide services and support for people who are homeless across Ireland. I contributed a photograph I took a while back to the collection and am very proud to have done so. I really hope it sells a shitload of copies.
Catherine Brodigan is the curator of the project. So hats off to Catherine for having the imagination, the initiative and the will to make it all work.
Catherine describes Homepages as “a unique collection of stories and photographs, the first of its kind in Ireland”. The contributors are a motley crew of Ireland’s best bloggers who “hold forth on the theme of ‘home’, covering everything from pets and expat life to parenting and the Kellogg’s Variety Pack. By turns hilarious, heartbreaking and thought-provoking, it promises a captivating read and showcases some of Ireland’s best undiscovered writing talent”. The list of grade-A contributors is available here. I personally can’t wait to get my mitts on a copy.
Oh and it’d make a most excellent Christmas present for those you hold dear! It’s available online at Lulu on a print on demand basis for a mere €14. To buy your very own copy or one for a loved one go here.
Catherine will be virtually launching the book with a couple of drinks from 7pm this evening at Le Cirk on Dame Street – all are welcome to come along. She’ll be the redhead in the corner with the double espresso!
Also at Le Cirk this evening some fine folk will be live blogging to cover the final of The Apprentice. Excellent stuff. What a combination!
It’s just the way of the streets…
Having read Rosie’s short and sweet review, I went to see the Irish movie Kisses last night at the stunning Lighthouse Cinema in Smithfield. It’s flawed, sure, and not strikingly original but that said it’s a fine, tender movie. Well worth a tenner of your hard earned.
Written and directed by Lance Daly, Kisses tells a Dublin story in a real, true to life way and it’s rare enough we see such on our big screens. It’s not twee or patronising and for that, and more besides, it must be commended. Here comes the pigeonholing… Prosperity meets Pavee Lackeen meets Les Amants du Pont-Neuf meets Somers Town. All on the mean streets and canals of Dublin, carefully told with the right accent.
When I got home I stumbled upon a new Louis Theroux documentary on BBC2. Called Law and Disorder in Philadelphia, it’s a really fine, engaging doc. Theroux joins the Philadelphia Police Department patrolling the most dangerous neighbourhoods of one of the most violent cities in America. Ross Kemp on Gangs it isn’t. Thankfully.
As he takes to the violent, crack infested streets, with Philadelphia’s rapid response team, Theroux is way out of his usual quirky comfort zone. Yet it really works. His trips in the backs of squad cars took him from addict to dealer to killer to corpse. The level of access was amazing and the insight given frightening. There were no holds barred as Theroux spoke to cops and killers in equal measure, resplendent in his stab vest.
Theroux has a way of getting people to trust him, confide in him and engage with him. Even when standing beside a recently deceased, freshly OD’ed junkie. A shocking yet compelling portrait of a city where drug dealers work on every corner. In “Killadelphia” homicide and thug life are “just the way of the streets”.
By its very nature America is a very fragmented country but this doc shone new light, for me at least, on how broken urban America actually is. Broken in a way that no-one, Barack Obama included, will ever fix or even finetune. The American dream has a dark underbelly and a lack of faith in the police and “the system” itself mean neighbourhoods, black ones in particular, won’t be in any state other than disarray for a long time yet.
And it set me to thinking of how good we have it here in Ireland, in relative terms. Of course we have our societal ills along similar lines. And the film Kisses details much of those ills in a realistic, gritty way. Heroin problems and homelessness are there for all to see in inner city Dublin. And of course our papers have headlines blazing about Gang Wars etc. But we’re nowhere near the shocking implosion seen in Theroux’s Philadelphia doc.
Here, there’s much less a gap between government and people. Our institutions seem closer to those on the ground. Our welfare system does have its merits. And our police don’t carry guns. It all just seems more normal and stable. Not quite dreamland but it could be a whole lot worse.
One final thought… Philadelphia’s junkies seem so polite, eloquent and engaging in comparison to their monosyllabic, monotonous, skaggish Dublin cousins. Why is that I wonder?
Roy Maurice Keane…
Word is spreading like wildfire that Roy Keane has left Sunderland. What a complicated, complex character Keane is. It’ll be interesting to see where he goes from here.
I saw this piece here this morning and thought I’d share it with you…
Roy Maurice Keane: My True Story*
Stand up. Mirror. Staring. Can I do it? A moment…NO. I’m ready. Get the dog lead. Get the wallet. Focus.
“Will you be going to the shops or not then Roy?”
It’s the wife. Hands me the shopping list. On a post-it. Yellow. Like a card. Not red. Going for the ball.
“I’m not going to those f****** amateurs in Tesco again,” I tell her. “Do you think Felipe Scolari’s doing his shopping pushing a trolley with a busted wheel?”
I’m angry now, running it back in my mind…last time, the trolley, the big stack of baked beans half price, the wobbly wheel, children crying, losing control. Beans.
I’m sitting on the floor in the hall. The wife’s standing there. “Just get a pint of milk from the corner then, love, ” she says.
I get up. She comes at me. I kiss her, hard. On the cheek. The cheek was there (I think). “Take that,” I think to myself.
“Take what?” she asks. I go out of the house.
Corner shop. Corner. Defend it. Zonal. I TOLD YOU TO PICK HIM UP – THAT WAS YOUR MAN.
Milk. Milk. Focus on the milk.
“Morning Roy.” It’s Mr Patel.
“You’re a f****** crap newsagent and you’re a f****** crap person,” I say.
“Okay,” he says.
I turn and look for the milk. Stuff, money, bag. Walking again. Blind man. Dog. Stick. Can’t he see? Why can’t he see? Can’t he see that was offside? What is he doing?
I’m in the kitchen. Wife’s unpacking the shopping. She’s not happy. Teacups?
No. Shaking head.
“What’s all this stuff, Roy?”
I don’t understand. Stare.
“Roy. I’ve asked you out for a pint of milk. You’ve come back with four packets of rubber gloves, a Sodastream – I didn’t know they still made them – six biros, not one but two copies of New Scientist, a case of Doctor Pepper and 400 Silk Cut. You don’t even smoke, Roy.”
“No,” I say.
“And how much have you spent? Turn out your pockets,” she says.
Coins, notes, clank, receipt.
“Roy.”
She’s talking.
“Roy, you’ve spent 85 quid on rubbish. Absolute rubbish. What were you thinking? And where the hell’s the milk?”
Focus. Got to focus. Keep looking straight ahead. Focus.
* Not with the bollix Dunphy
Written by Alan Tyers and John Nicholson
Folk….
You know those days when no-one calls, texts or emails? We all have them. Very few hits on the blog, fuck all comments etc. You start to wonder why the world has abandoned you and all you want is a bit of attention.
And then there are the days when you’re inundated with all of the above and you wish the world would leave you alone. The phone is jumping, there’s not enough hours in the day, no time to reply to all the emails etc. Peace and quiet, a bit of time and space is what you crave.
And then when it’s hot, it’s too hot. And when it’s cold it’s bleedin’ freezin’.
You can’t get happier than happy but we’re never even that are we?
As someone’s Granny once said… “there’s nothin’ as quare as folk”.
Some of the things what bring people here…
Oh and there were a few searches for “Kenny Egan Boxer Naked” too. Can’t be forgetting Kenny.
I swore never again…
One Autumn evening, when I was about 12 or 13, my Uncle asked me to give him a hand clearing out an old shed at the back of his garden. Being young and impressionable enthusiastic, I was only too delighted to help.
There were lots of old building materials and the like which I was to illegally dump discard in an old, abandoned field behind his garden.
So I started into it. After a while I walked with a cavity block towards a dirty old bush of briars and brambles. I hurled the cavity block into the centre if it. And in so doing unleashed a fury the like of which hell hath never seen. A frenzy of angry bees. Very upset at such a concrete disturbance, they made a beeline for my head. It was like that scene from My Girl. Although thankfully without Macauley Culkin and the saccharine music. I ran like fuck. And almost got away. Almost.
One of the little fuckers wouldn’t give up. He got me. Right in the corner of the eye. The bit where the skin ends and the eyeball starts. And boy did it hurt like hell. It started to swell immediatley. Like a sliotar on my face. It affected my senses and I think I might have a subconscious fear of bees since.
The thing is I deserved it. If some prick threw a cavity block threw my window I’d be rightly upset. And you can be sure I never did it again.
There’s an old saying that says… in Tennessee, I know it’s in Texas, probably in Tennessee, sting me once, shame on — shame on you. Sting me — you can’t get stung again.
Or can you?
