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.
The truth is in the fruit…
What hope have we got when the woman on Moore Street gives out about “NAMA this, bankers that. They’re all as bad as each other”? Then she swears blind the strawberries are Irish. “As Irish as I am”, says she.
Then I get home to find the label within the box says… “dat smaakt naar meer” with an address somewhere in the Netherlands. As Dutch as you like. Translates as “so good you want more”.
True enough, they were nice strawberries all the same. At least someone’s telling the truth.
The sink of truth…
After much sipping of the local nectar in a Krakow beer hall I stumbled elegantly into the gents toilets. For to make use of the facilities, as one does. Twas there I discovered this on the wall…
How considerate. It’s a specially appointed puking sink for all the beer drinkers who’ve taken it a bit too far. Classy eh?
Are you reading Irish Vintners Association?
A brief encounter…
Today I walked past a man. I’ve never met him before nor do I wish to again.
Our eyes caught just for a split second. He didn’t utter a single word nor did I but I knew, I just knew. In that moment I sensed that this man had murdered at least a dozen people. And would do so again without batting an eyelid.
I’ve no evidence to back it up bar the look in those dark eyes. They had an intensity the likes of which I’ve never seen before. If Keyser Söze was real this was the closest I’ve ever come to meeting him.
He reminded me of the Javier Bardem character in No Country For Old Men. Except in Dublin. And with a less dodgy haircut. And a wine coloured Ford Transit van. I suggest if you see him coming towards you that you cross the street at the very least. Because he’s real. Very real.
There’s no punchline. Just a telling of an encounter on a tree-lined, suburban street. And as before, that is all. But hey, let’s be careful out there.
New levels of ridiculousness…
I arrived back from holiday late last night and went straight to hit the hay. This morning I awoke afresh but in need of the old reliables for the tae and the toast. So I ventured to the local Spar for fresh bread and milk.
Usually when I walk into a newsagent the first thing I do is to glance at the newspaper stand to see what’s going on in the world. And as so this morning, a copy of the ever classy publication that is The Sun jumped out at me.
The headline went thus…
What the fuck?
Apparently Jade has spoken to her mother, Jackiey Budden, from beyond the grave to say marrying Jack Tweed “was the biggest mistake of my life”. C’mon, is nothing sacred?
Clearly not. Jackiey (with a y) claims she was able to communicate with her late daughter through TV psychic Jayne Wallace during an emotional two-hour seance, in which Jade “offered advice” about a musical being planned to commemorate her life. Yeah sure. Wonders never cease.
She also urged Jackiey to reveal all in the autobiography she is working on – insisting that she gives a totally honest account. Of course she did. “Within 12 months you will have been invited to go on the Oprah Winfrey show to talk about the musical and the book.”, she was told. Big surprise there.
Has the woman no shame at all? Can’t she leave her daughter to rest in peace instead of hawking her wares like this? The upshot of all this is two children will be plunged into the spotlight even more than they ever need to be. Just leave them be Jackiey (with a y).
As for the Sun. What a shower of bastards. Nothing really is sacred with those fuckers. They constantly amaze me with their scumness. There really are no limits to how far they will go to to scrape the barrel even further.
If you really want to you can read more here.
That is all. I’m back!
