Better never than Late Late

Things that annoy National Disgrace, episode 47,000

Whatever the occasion, be it Mother Theresa's funeral or a primetime documentary on Teen suicide, RTE wheel out that ridiculous clip of Boyzone on the late late from 25 years ago. Every time I switch on the TV lately, it's there. Really, are things that bad that we have to keep reminding ourselves of how bad things were, back in the day when things weren't really as bad as they are now? Do I expect coverage of the six nations to be punctuated by clips of Mikey Graham in a leotard (or whatever he was wearing?) with Fiona Looney, popping up and equating their appearance as being the end of moral Ireland and the final sperm that seeded that soon to be born Celtic Tiger.

Maxi must be spinning in her grave

I felt like I'd arrived into a library with a trombone

The Metro
The Herald AM
Gang Rape

What do the three above things have in common?

Well, a lot actually. Firstly, I will point out that they are three things that I rarely, if ever, like to face first thing in the morning. The trouble is, due to my impossible good looks and my daily Luas trips, they're unavoidable. Sometimes, like this morning, you get all three in one. I used to smile politely at the Metro people and shake my head at their kind offer of some free toilet roll, but lately I have been slightly more aggressive in my dismissals. I have started to scoff at them as I passed the outstretched paper holding arms, and begun wildly gesturing that I'd rather french kiss Ian Huntley than read their rags. Anyway, this morning. So, I was striding into Cowper Luas station like a champion Racehorse when I was happened upon by a Metro dispenser lady. I duly demonstrated my disgust at such and offer and flapped my arms about and muttered something about having taste when she demonstrated her new tactic. Like a deranged gazelle, she twisted herself and somehow acrobatically managed to be both sides of me at once. Her paper, was like a laser guided missile of bad journalism and I could sense that I was about to be hit. Her smile, part Lithuanian goddess, part sinister paper Nazi, widened as she homed in on me. I had attempted a dodgy shuffle to avoid but this only succeeded in dislodging one of my earphones. My scoff had turned to horror, as within a nano-second, I could feel the cheap ink on my skin. She had delivered the payload. Like a neglected Donkey, I stumbled along the platform and eventually found a bin. I felt cheapened. Beaten. Hungry. I dumped the paper into it and boarded the Luas.

Of course, it doesn't get any better. The luas is a horrible place to be in the mornings. People coughing and sniffling. Different classes, mixing and rubbing against each other. Women with huge prams mowing down the weak. People, body-surfing to get out. What really gets me is how EVERYONE is reading the Herald AM or the Metro. This morning, my adventures continued when I squeezed onto the last available space on the tram. I was standing on my tip-toes as there was literally not enough room for all my feet to fit on the floor when a guy beside me tipped me on the shoulder. He had had his Herald AM open and was attempting to read whatever shit was in it, when I had invaded his reading space. He asked me to move, in that silent way somebody talks when they have earphones in. So, I ignored him in that silent way that somebody does when they have earphones in. Again, he was getting more aggressive now and he opened the paper out in all it's 'glory' and proceeded make a big fuss about brushing it off me. The thing is, everyone else was doing this.

I felt like I'd arrived into a library with a trombone.

When, all I really wished was that I'd arrived onto a Luas, with a shotgun.

Three Elbows

So, the Luas Displays that normally tell you how much longer you have to stand beside the Peado in the trench coat before you can get on the Tram and sit beside the Skobie with the can of Dutch Gold and Dunnes Jumper, so you can get to the Hospital where you'll have to sit beside the heroin addict who's on fire and has three elbows, before you get seen by a nurse who is half cyborg and get put on a trolley that gets pushed into a storeroom, where you get to shoot the breeze with some skeletons who did the same shit a couple of weeks ago, only now they've gone to a better place, are out of order. I know that cos the display actually says 'DISPLAY OUT OF ORDER'.

Isn't that a bit like a bus driving by with a sign on it saying, 'Broken Down'?

While I'm at it, what about Our Lady's Hospital for Sick Children?.. Well, it's hardly Our Lady's Hospital for WELL Children....

(I may have done that one before, but either way, I expect Tommy Teirnan to be using it as part of his sets from tonight)

ND: Cynical, to a fault.

Me Versus Mr Tayto

As my loyal reader and subscribers of VIP! magazine will know, myself and former 'Ms Disgrace 2002' have recently parted company. As with all break ups, there was tears, more tears, and alarmingly, gunshots. There was also a lot of soul searching to be conducted, as I faced up to the fact that I was now back on the market.

I didn't publicise the fact, esp. after the last time.

'Stampede of beautiful girls', as the Herald called it, or 'Phwooooarr, Blimey - Disgrace is back, Loveiily Jubbbbily' as the Sun so elegantly put it. The Irish Times as always put a more refined spin on it 'Disgrace separation 'unlikely' to raise oil prices'. Anyway, I decided some downtime was good and I went 'underground' for a while.

So, this morning, with fresh briefs on, and smelling like a sock in a prostitutes handbag, I decided to unleash myself at the female world..

Then I read this

And see this...

How the hell can I possibly compete? Do Calvin Klein do a Cheese and Onion scent per chance?

Will it stick?

The last time it snowed with any purpose in this country, the punt was the currency of choice and unemployment was more than just a a great way to have a lie in. Back then, it fell with the force of a priests trousers at an Altar boys sports day and coincidentally or not, covered everything in beautiful white gold. Who can forget school pipes bursting and freezing leaving us to innocent snow related fun. Some people say the last Ice Age was 8000 years ago, I say it was more like 1985.

Today, a few brief flutters of snow fell on Dublin city. Enough to stir the memories and flutter the sentimental hearts of big fat grown up children. I was half thinking of using my impending birthday as an excuse to go to sleep with my head in the oven, but with a combination of it being an electric and a nostalgic overdose, I ripped up the suicide note and started googling 'snowman blueprints'. The conversation in work, which usually has me reaching for the emergency rope, was replaced with jolly retellings of long, cold days of snow fights and frostbite. I recalled with youthful glee how I once emptied a bin of fresh snow on a guy from my road, from the top of my garage, only to let the whole thing drop and leave him with a permanent limp. Back in the 80's, limps were cool. Or the time when I lay in bed and my dad came crashing though the ceiling after he'd been emptying the attic off snow and slipped.

Of course, with the sweet, comes the bitter. It was in 1985, when in an evil act, one of the tough guys from Orwell Park dug up my dead goldfish Rambo (still buried in his Sindy house wardrobe) and threw his helpless corpse at me, in a snowball wrapping. I'm glad I gave him that limp

Then there was glass hidden in snowballs, Tying children to lampposts and leaving them out over night and Watching cars skid to a sickening crash. They were great days.

Today's snow probably won't be there tomorrow. The Celtic Tiger doesn't do winter wonderlands, unless it's got a 20 euro entrance fee and is on in the RDS, but tonight I may go to bed dreaming anyway..

Now what was it that JJ72 said once?

Oh yeah, "we're fucking shit, no I mean it. Terrible'

I recently found myself in the toiletries section of Superquinn, buck naked

Hitting 31, I finally laid to rest any ideas I had to represent my country at underage rugby. I too resigned that physical activity of the most 'intimate' nature would be now restricted to once per calendar month and will now only include other 'humans'. I destroyed my CD collection and adjusted to life in comfortable trousers. My suffering ex former other half, who was some years my junior, jokingly referred to me as 'Gramps' and 'Captain Corpse' as she walloped the fat frogs and Bacardi Breezers into her before heading out to the local discothèque. I now have to suck it up, throw on an omelette and listen to 'Gardening World' on the wireless. I won't lie to you, I've started to allow talcum powder infiltrate all aspects of my life, including masturbation.

Of course, some would say 31 isn't that old. They'll point to examples like Mother Theresa and The Eiffel Tower as examples of age not being a barrier. I'll usually quip back something like 'She's dead and it's a fucking tower' but it doesn't matter. The proof is there for all to see. I'm old

I recently found myself in the toiletries section of Superquinn, buck naked. It wasn't the first time. I've been forgetting stuff quite a bit lately. I forgot that 'Heartbeat' was on TV3 the other night and only yesterday I forgot to stop when my car entered a crowded school yard.

Are their benefits to being old? Well, there aren't I'm afraid. When you lie in bed planning your day and realise that all you've on is a trip down the stairs and a nice cup of golden vegetable, you do begin to yearn for those better days. Oh, I'm 32 this weekend

Mother Theresa, are you there

ND 2007 AND 2008

Soupy Norman Late Late Special

Thanks to Seaders for this, the rather excellent Soupy Norman Late Late show special from Christmas Eve..

Part 1 below on the embeded online telly thing

Parts 2 and 3, here and here