So as to prevent an onslaught of birthday cards, Disgrace isn't going to divulge the date of his birth, but let's just say it was a 'couple' of Popes ago. Additionally, a lot of you may think of the big 'D' as being an androgynous and sexless being. I can at last reveal that ND is most definitely butch and despite being a technological manifestation, 'boots up' like the best of them. So, like all at Château D'isgrace, we like to look our best. In order to do this, we have to try and look younger. We balm. We scrub. We spin. We splash. We nibble. We barricade ourselves against the onslaught of age.
We're talking full on restoration here.
All this containment is fine and dandy as long as it works, but it means nothing if you can't back it up. This I'm afraid mean involves ACTING young also. I have clean, relaxed skin. You would swear you caught a glimpse of yourself in my cheeks if I allowed you get that close, and my hair, bouncy and full, is as vitalic as that of a thoroughbred stallion. I dress to impress too. Disgrace looks stunning in (or indeed out) of a crisp pair of booted denims with a sloganed Tee stretched across his rippling chest. Put simply, ND blazes a trail.
There is a but.
Dubliner Magazine talks of the fading glory of being a lad. It warns you to drop the charade. Bloat it out. Forget about Nivea and get stuck into Calpon. Ditch the limited edition lilac cons and slip in some Marks and Spencer's loafers. Marry the first, least ugly girl you can find. Stay in on weeknights. Forget about bands with 'the' in the title.
Essentially Dubliner, and it's not the first time they've advised this, are suggesting you'd be better off completely dead.
ND has a friend. A real, blood filled, human pal. We'll call him 'Marvin'. Marvin is 31. He lives in Rathmines. He's looked better, but he's looked worse too. He's had more hair, but then again, he's had less too. He may have a bit of a spread, but he can be comforted that his belly is filled with 'fancy stuff'. He literally drowns his face in Anti-aging uber replenishing super duper revitalising wrinkle annihilating fuck juice wonder cream every morning and goes about his business. His jeans are genuine Diesel (not like the Dublin City Centre con job) and his hair has been twisted and manipulated more times than the voting public of Ireland. He looks the shit. He looks pretty damn good. He looks 27.
All good?
Except he acts 31. He gets tired in the evening. He drinks wine whilst cooking dinner. He wakes up at night screaming 'SERVICE LEVEL REPORTS'. His nights out have become 'afternoon tea'. He gets all 'gooey' inside when he sees babies. "Whelan's?? Where's that???" he asks. His iPod is never full. But at least he has one. Sometimes he wraps himself up in the past and uses that as his excuse.
And this is where he's got it all wrong.
Marvin needs to either act his age (and burn the threads), or act his shoesize.
Oh btw, Marvin is actually..... me
All this containment is fine and dandy as long as it works, but it means nothing if you can't back it up. This I'm afraid mean involves ACTING young also. I have clean, relaxed skin. You would swear you caught a glimpse of yourself in my cheeks if I allowed you get that close, and my hair, bouncy and full, is as vitalic as that of a thoroughbred stallion. I dress to impress too. Disgrace looks stunning in (or indeed out) of a crisp pair of booted denims with a sloganed Tee stretched across his rippling chest. Put simply, ND blazes a trail.
There is a but.
Dubliner Magazine talks of the fading glory of being a lad. It warns you to drop the charade. Bloat it out. Forget about Nivea and get stuck into Calpon. Ditch the limited edition lilac cons and slip in some Marks and Spencer's loafers. Marry the first, least ugly girl you can find. Stay in on weeknights. Forget about bands with 'the' in the title.
Essentially Dubliner, and it's not the first time they've advised this, are suggesting you'd be better off completely dead.
ND has a friend. A real, blood filled, human pal. We'll call him 'Marvin'. Marvin is 31. He lives in Rathmines. He's looked better, but he's looked worse too. He's had more hair, but then again, he's had less too. He may have a bit of a spread, but he can be comforted that his belly is filled with 'fancy stuff'. He literally drowns his face in Anti-aging uber replenishing super duper revitalising wrinkle annihilating fuck juice wonder cream every morning and goes about his business. His jeans are genuine Diesel (not like the Dublin City Centre con job) and his hair has been twisted and manipulated more times than the voting public of Ireland. He looks the shit. He looks pretty damn good. He looks 27.
All good?
Except he acts 31. He gets tired in the evening. He drinks wine whilst cooking dinner. He wakes up at night screaming 'SERVICE LEVEL REPORTS'. His nights out have become 'afternoon tea'. He gets all 'gooey' inside when he sees babies. "Whelan's?? Where's that???" he asks. His iPod is never full. But at least he has one. Sometimes he wraps himself up in the past and uses that as his excuse.
And this is where he's got it all wrong.
Marvin needs to either act his age (and burn the threads), or act his shoesize.
Oh btw, Marvin is actually..... me
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