Swine Flu anyone?
Taken from the freakishly cool Scary Good Face Painting found via RapturePonies
Is there anything sadder…
… or more soul destroying than seeing a young woman sitting near Connolly Station, in her pyjamas in the afternoon, with a can of Dutch Gold in one hand and a cigarette in the other?
Yes, unfortunately there is.
A heavily pregnant young woman sitting near Connolly Station, in her pyjamas in the afternoon, with a can of Dutch Gold in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
But what can you do?
Two noble hearts…
My last few posts have been a bit rantish, with a dash of doom n’ gloom thrown in for good measure. So I thought, today I’d better rectify that with a little bit of love.
I was cycling along North Strand Road the other day, near Annesley Bridge, being swept along on a breeze of cheery blossom from Fairview Park. So far, so normal. But then I saw these two trees on the side of the road…
Aren’t they cool? Romantic and mysterious all at once. And particularly in an area of Dublin that could do with some colour. I love the randomness of it all. The fact that somebody went to the bother of thinking, “those two trees there could do with some red velvet hearts tacked up on them”. And sure why not?
So hats off to whoever took their life into their own hands on such an abstract crusade. I salute you.
Q102 you burgled my bank of youth…
Last night, after some post-work pints with the intelligentia, I turned away from the dead loves that were born for me and flagged a taxi on Georges Street. Which, thankfully, these days isn’t too difficult on the monster’s back.
The driver looked like one of the Guildford Four or the Birmingham 6. Not sure which. But anyway, surprise surfuckingprise Q102 was the swinish radio station of choice. Steaming dunghills.
The first song I heard was some woe bejaysus-awful Mike & the Mechanics number. A song of cowards’ brood.
But then they played a song from my youth, my formative days. From when my stumble had the poise and stride of Apollo. It was a song I once thought was against the grain, counter culture almost. Obviously not any more.
And a little piece of me died right there and then in that taxi. Lost the long hours of pleasure. Thanks to Q102.
You flung a ditch on my vision of beauty, love and truth. The laugh from my love you thieved. And I paid €15 for the privelige.
But hey you followed it up with some Laura Izibor.
A world gone mad…
This is a photo I took on the way home from work yesterday of a huge queue at St Stephens Green. Four or five people deep, it extended as far as the eye see could see. So must’ve been a couple of thousand people all told. They all had envelopes or sheets of paper in their hands.
I genuinely thought it was an auditions queue for a Dublin-set Bollywood movie of some sort. Or at the very least another crappy talent show type thing. But no.
Turns out in those envelopes and on those sheets of paper were Curriculum Vitaes.
There were some jobs going in a couple of newsagents so hence the CVs. But a line that long for open interviews? Who would’ve predicted that 6 months ago? Not Brian fucking Cowen that’s for sure.
I spoke to a couple of people who were queueing. “It’s all that’s going nowadays” was the concensus. But still, a queue of applicants that long? Naïve perhaps, but I was genuinely shocked.
How quickly things can change eh?
A shake of the hand then a dig in the face…
There are two people in this world, who should I ever meet them, their hands I would gladly shake… before immediately punching them in the face.
Well there are probably definitely more than just two but I need to focus here on the post in hand.
So who are these 2 people you may well ask. They are the he/she who invented a) Croc shoes and b) Ugg boots. See I’d shake their hands for getting away with making millions for inventing something so fucking unbelievably ugly (in both cases). That’s admirable that is.
Then BANG! I’d punch them in the face for inventing something so fucking unbelievably ugly and inflicting it on a society so stupid to pay good money for these footwear abominations. Particularly fucking Ugg boots. They’re everywhere. They’re fine if you’re Helen Keller. But they look like something a crap animator designed as footwear for a crap cartoon character. Yet they’ve sold millions of the fucking things.
Fucking Ugg Boots
As for Crocs. Well if you work as a lifeguard at a pool or something like that well then Crocs are functional, useful even. Like all over flip-flops, a great addition to the wardrobe of any swimmer or surfer I’m sure. And that’s just fine. For kids even they’re colourful and quirky. Grand. But a grown up wearing them in normal society, say going to Tesco? No. That’s just wrong. Wearing them to work? Wronger still. Wearing them to the pub? You should be hung by the balls. Wearing them with socks? Don’t get me fucking started. I’d say Joseph Fritzl wears Crocs with socks.
Fucking Croc shoes
Shake hands. Then punch. End of.
Blog post of the month anyone?
It’s all me me meme…
Radge, he of the Radgery, has hit me like a miner on Stella Artois. With a meme. It rhymes with theme I’m told.
I blame Andrew really. I feel dirty. Mildly violated. But fuck it, here goes nothin…
Here are the rules:
1) Put the link of the person who tagged you on your blog. Check
2) Write the rules. Check
3) Mention 6 things or habits of no real importance about you. Check
4) Tag 6 persons adding their links directly. I’m with Pryin on this. Not just because I also am not a fan of chain mail type things but mostly because every fucker who I would or could tag has been tagged already.
5) Alert the persons that you tagged them. See above
So on with the meme. A list of no real importance you say? That I can do…
a) I once got the members of Norwegian electronic and chillout music duo Röyksopp to sign a €20 note after a gig in Spirit. I then proceeded to buy a round of sambuca with it for us all. So somewhere out there is a €20 note with those very signatures on it. Check your wallet.
They thought my actions a little odd but they enjoyed the sambuca all the same.
b) I played poker with the devil in the Hell Fire Club once. I went all-in with 2-7 off-suit and won on the last card. He was disgusted. In fact he still hasn’t forgiven me. But hey, that’s poker my friend.
c) I can’t see the point of either cucumber or coleslaw. Particularly cucumber. It’s evil.
d) I once set an electric guitar on fire with lighter fluid. In a shopping trolley. It felt good.
e) I do quite enjoy getting on a bus and when the fare is €1.60, throwing in a bundle of change worth significantly less. The driver never checks. It feels like a victory.
f) I shot a man in Marino, just to watch him die.
So there you have it sportsfans.
Heeeere’s Eoinny…
This image appeared on the front page of the Irish Times website yesterday.
Is there anything Fianna Fáil TDs and MEPs won’t do for a bit of publicity? No is clearly the answer.
Do they ever stop for just a moment and think… “maybe, just maybe this photo opportunity will leave me looking like a twat”? They really don’t seem to.
You’d think they’d be briefed on things like this by their press officer after this…
Good man yourself Willie.
And yet we keep voting them in.
With thanks to the fine Cedar Revolution.
Away away away…
But now I’m back.
Was in Stockholm for a break over Easter. Great stuff altogether. And some delicious, legal, Good Friday pints. So all’s well.
Saw this on the noticeboard of our hotel…
Some opportunistic / desperate lady chancing her arm I wonder?
I reckon she’ll be waiting for a while yet.
Say it ain’t so…
I’ve just had a shave. My first for over a week.
And I’m now worried.
See there are a huge amount of red flecks in the pile. Even more than usual. Almost like they’re multiplying.
Kinda like with the squirrels. Only it ’s the red ones taking over, not the greys.
So is it possible I could be catching ginger?
Thanks but no thanks…
I went to the Porterhouse last night for a pint. Armed with my Grand National loot.
They have been having an Irish beer and whiskey festival there for the past week. So I thought I’d see what’s on offer on the beer front.
All they had left on tap was Galway Hooker, an intriguing name indeed thought I.
“Hmmmmmmm, what is it?”, asked I.
“A pale ale, very light” said the man.
“Hmmmmmmm”, said I.
For I have seen American Pie and didn’t think I could stomach a pale ale. I had a very pleasant Oyster or 5 instead.
The Grand National…
What’s that you can hear? It’s the sound of Mr Paddy Power quaking in his boots for at approximately a quarter to five the world’s most famous steeplechase will be over and I will have relieved him of wads of cash. Wads of cash I tell you.
You see I have previous. In each of the last 4 years I have picked the winner. And last year I also picked the second and third horse and backed them each way.
How come you may ask yourself? Well you see it’s all based on a formula that has been handed down from generation to generation in the NaRocRoc clan. Fool. Proof.
But now that I’ve published about it here I do run the risk of egg on my face. And I don’t like egg but hey it’s worth the risk. So for what it’s worth here are my tips…
MY WILL €10 Win @ 7/1
DARKNESS €5 Win @ 20/1
KILBEGGAN BLADE €5 Win @ 20/1
OFFSHORE ACCOUNT €2.50 Each Way @ 33/1
PREISTS LEAP €2.50 Each Way @ 50/1
MON MOME Each Way €2.50 @ 50/1 100/1
MUSICA BELLA €2.50 Each Way @ 100/1
So seven horses out of forty. 3 to win and 4 each way. €40 in bets. We’ll see what my return is.
So watch this space!
UPDATE: Mon Mome romped home at 100/1. Most fantastic result. I had bet €2.50 each way so I pick up a cool €317.50. Not bad for €40 worth of bets. And better still, no egg on my face. Wahey!
An open door…
There’s something quite subliminal about doors, especially those which we don’t know what lies behind. A certain mystery, a sense of wonder. Not like in the Bosco sense. More in the real life what the fuck is behind that open door and why the fuck is it open sense.
Last night I got home from work just after midnight. I live in an old style, suburban apartment block. And sadly I don’t know any of my neighbours. A few faces to say hello to but no-one’s name. Such is modern living I guess.
At the moment the lift is broken and the lights in the hall are on in the daytime and off at night. A sensor problem I’m told. Anyway the place is quite eery at night.
When I got to my floor last night I noticed the door of the apartment across from mine was open. There were no lights on behind the door. Slightly ajar I suppose but enough to pique my curiousity.
I don’t know who lives in that apartment but I wondered why the fuck is the door open at this time of night? People usually know better and in this day and age you just never know.
I walked to the door, heart beating a little faster, darkness abound, and just listened.
Silence. No sign of anything going on behind the open door.
I thought what to do, what to do? I’d no reason to intrude, no real reason to call the Gardaí.
So I left it, opened my own door and went home. But it didn’t leave me. I lay in bed wondering why that door was open. A gangland killing? A burglary? Was there a Buffalo Bill type behind that door? Would I have to go all Rorschach on it? I choose my friends, I make my enemies, but have no say in who lives across the hall. I couldn’t sleep.
So I got back up out of bed, opened my door and walked out into the hall.
And lo and behold… the door was still open. I walked over and slowly put my hand on the handle.
“Hello….”.
