Drop the Debt

Question: What should you not do on a Monday morning (other than arrive into work with a pump-action shotgun)?

Answer: Check your bank balance.

This morning, having somehow convinced myself that I only spent €1.50 over the weekend, and sure that when I checked it, I'd be greeted with a picture of a big fat bag of cash and a recorded message from my bank manager telling me how pretty I looked, I logged on online to Banking 365. You know that sinking feeling you get when you're, oh I don't know, sinking?

And that's just when you see the balance. It seriously all goes Titanic when you realise that all that wine that Fakey made you buy on Saturday still hasn't been debited. And then you notice that 47 direct debits have yet to come out. And the 'notified' interest that you weren't notified about. And the standing order to the African child you sponsor, who is now 32, works in Insurance and actually never existed in the first place.

I seriously wish we all lived in a place where there was no money. The 80's for example.

The Bionic Man

All through his childhood he dreamt of being different. Where most boys his age had posters of Samantha Fox and the Cobh Ramblers 1972 squad, he had ones of Robocop and Johnny 5 from Short Circuit. In the corner of his bedroom, a mechanical arm made from Lego lay unfinished. His dog, 'Cyborg Sylvia' was forced to wear a suit made from tin-foil and bottle tops, and was made bark down a kitchen roll insert for that 'tubular and robotic effect'. The boys on his street eventually stopped calling around. He watched them through twitching curtains. Them, kicking balls to each other. Him, attaching electrodes to his. His Mother, long suffering and married to a stuffy conservative party member, called him 'FPX-115' and used to create dinners with imaginative, technological names. 'Chips' , 'Chicken Bytes' and 'battered car battery and mushy peas'. Kraftwerk's 'Robots', 'Computer Love' and rather inexplicably, Cry Before Dawns 'Witness for the world' were his mobile phones ringtones. His first girlfriend was made of jump-leads and an old computer monitor. He had drawn her face on the screen and would spend hours brushing his lips against her static. Occasionally receiving a slight 'jolt' that would transpond a reaction in what he liked to call his 'hard disk'. He regularly cursed his god-given limb collection and would look enviously at the toaster in his kitchen. On more than one occasion his mother had to intervene when he tried to implant a DVD player into his bottom.

As he hit adulthood, his robotic desires became close to an obsession. He could regularly be found in Maplins, naked and with a guilty look on his face. He sometimes slept in the washing machine because he said the noise of the spin cycle was the most serene piece of music he'd ever heard. His one attempt at a relationship with a real woman made of human ingredients ended tragically when he arrived home one night and plugged her into the mains.

Recently, he had visited Ireland on holiday as he had heard it had the highest numbers of 'Robots' per capita, in the world. Unfortunately he had misheard, and it was actually 'Skobies'. It was during this fruitless trip, that his desire to be Bionic looked like becoming a reality. After being thrown out of Peat's for 'acting suspiciously in the scart lead section, he went to McDonalds. It was here, courtesy of a friendly headbutt, that he encountered Irish hospitality as it's very best. Giddily, he galloped out of McDonalds, being pursued all the while by a chirpy group of sknagers and skobies.

"I will be forced to inform the enforcement droid, ED-209" he pleaded, as they gestured their boots towards his face.

As it happened, it was this outburst that bought him precious time. The skobies, all stood round scratching each others heads and cross checking the lists of useful words their mothers had prepared for them that morning

"Johnny Blue, Geronohrawdat, Batch Loaf, Not Guilty." said one of them "Can't bleedin find tha 'enforcment' word"

Our hero, the bionic chap, had used this time wisely and could be seen, far in the distance making his escape.

Or at least, that's my version of what happened..

Here's the official one

My Back.. Christ, My Back...

Certain things (Lush grey beards, natural Must, 80th Birthdays, and mechanical bladders) announce the arrival of old-age. Another of them is Back Pain.

This morning, at a time I previously did not believe existed (5.07am) I awoke screaming, like a little girl (in a blender). An ariel shot, as I lay on the bed, would of shown a body in twisted agony, and also rather worryingly in the shape of a swastika. Like a human tea-towel being wrung out by some huge pain beast, I was a crumpled mess. I attempted to writhe about and generally wallow in my own suffering but I couldn't. I groaned and cried until I even began annoying myself. By 5.09 I had somehow raised my contorted self and dragged my faulty body out into the sitting room. Bent over, like a creepy and naked hunchback, I caught sight of myself in a mirror. It was an image that would make a priest burn his bible.

The pain was intense, so naturally I began to attempt a number of idiotic and ill-advised things to ease my suffering. I grabbed a mop first, and proceeded to try to use this to straighten myself. I may have caused irreparable spine damage with this method, and I most certainly broke the head off the mop. I proceeded to stretch and bend myself but all I achieved was a series of smaller, slightly less painful aches on other parts of my body. Eventually, I was on all fours, back arched, like a camel, literally howling at the moon (like a Werewolf, or Werecamel if you will) and that's how I stayed. Quite pitiful really. Eventually the pain subsided and I was able to get up, weeping slightly and attempted to go back to bed. It was however, time to get up.

If anyone from work is reading this, I'd stay well away from me today..

Drink: A rant. And some stuff about a Binman

At what stage do you officially become an 'alcoholic'?. I mean, when I was 17 and literally swimming in Dorfmeister each night, I used to laugh at suggestions that I may have a problem. All bets are off, I'd say, when you're 17 you immune from everything. No disease could touch you. No ailment would bring you down. No addiction would cripple you.

The current blame game being played by the good and the concerned has got me thinking. Is alcohol abuse a major issue in modern Ireland. Are we becoming a brash, abrasive and ultimately dangerous race because of booze? And if so, what can we do. We obviously can't stop drinking because that would be like asking a horse to stop being a horse. In a country that has given the colour 'grey' a happy retirement home, is it right to ask the miserable to stop drinking and face up to the fact that you live in a civic mess and deal with it. Is it right to ask the old schoolers who call on rebel songs and beards to remind them of where they are from, to stop tearing into the porter, when all they know revolves around a pint of plain? Should we ask the kids, who have watched in awe as their Fathers came home, smelling of a wonderful evening of Smithwicks and song, laden with pub crisps and mint crisps, not to drink? What would you suggest they do?

And, if we did. Say we alienated the drinkers, like we did the smokers. What if we banned alcohol advertising, hiked up the prices and raise the legal drinking age. Would this work, or would it lead to a lot of kids turning to drugs for cheap thrills. Would it take people from the pubs, and back onto the streets. Would it lead to further alienation of the old rural folk, and lead to more isolation in our outposts. Home drinking, surely would soar, as it has been. But would this lead to more drink driving, as families scatter all over the commuter belt?

But is it the problem anyway? Do you think drink caused the murders of the two Polish men last month? Indirectly, yes. But the guys who did it, where they hammered? Had they just fallen out of a pub and thought about killing two innocent guys, no. They wanted drink though, but only because they had nothing else to do.

You know, alcohol has a responsibility to this country. Our reputation is solely based upon it. It has served a purpose in our development as a nation and should continue to do so. It has given a social forum for a most people, it has encouraged most of our romances and it has created an image abroad that would be financial suicide to change. And that is the real problem.

I didn't know where this post was going, and I kinda hoped it would fit together. I was prompted to write it when the binman bumped into me as I brought down a bag of rubbish last week. Taking it from my hand and hearing the clink of all the bottles, he winked at me as to say 'Looks like you've had a good week!'.. I grimaced back to say 'Week? That was just this mornings helping man, I'm hammered'

And I was.

EDIT, I just saw Twenty's post about same, I reckon we compliment each other here..

I have a problem with a rogue onion

Does anyone know how long before a slice of onion, dropped beihind a cooker, will smell for? It's been two weeks now, and there is a slight mist developing such is the intensity of it's odour. I'm beginning to dream of onions too, and not in a sexy way..

Happy Dunphys Day Everyone

Cheeky chappy cockney geezer Terry Venables got into the Paddies Day spirit by defining Irishness in a surprisingly insightful and gushing lament for the modern day St Patrick himself, Eamon Dunphy. Praising the Dunpster for being a 'convicted drink driver' and 'self-confessed' cocaine user, El Tel metaphorised the entire nation with a remarkable turn of phrase, and uncanny knowledge of all things Irish..

Happy Dunphys Day everyone from all Disgrace Towers (just me)

Lotto Fever.. Not nearly as fatal as the deadly Crimean Congo Haemorrhagic Fever

Amidst the usual, "sure €15,000,000 wouldn't even buy you a house these days" to that most horrifying of remarks, "I'd give half to Charity", Lotto fever arrived into work today like a disorientated, drunk, and naked Scarlett Johannsen and was promptly pounced on by all and sundry. Syndicates, lotto themed memos and weirdly, a sombre discussion on the victims of the 9/11 plane smash, all cropped up in work today as Ireland officially went Lotto Ballistic.

I very roughly calculated how much interest I will earn when I lodge my National Lottery cheque for €15,000,000 in the bank tomorrow. I was delighted to discover that I should be receiving approximately €54,000 per month. And because I don't have a girlfriend, I don't have to share it...

Wonder if I I'll continue to Blog when I win?

Will I fuck.

New Cancer Scandal

Ireland was in the grips of another Cancer scandal, when top of the range Astrologer Fergus Gibson, announced that people born under the sign of cancer can expect to enter a period of "great change and upheaval". In his newspaper column, the playful astrologer went on to say that cancer-ites should "Set aside some time today for daydreaming -- and let their imaginations roam freely". He concluded his chilling prophecy by declaring "You need to sit back and take a little break from the crazy dealings of the day. There's just too much going on for you to make sense of and it could be that your emotional state needs some downtime".

This latest scandal is sure to cause ripples of discord through the Dail today when Fergus Gibson look-a-like Mary Harney (a Pisces, who according to Fergus are prone to 'comfort eating' and 'Pimples') answers questions from the opposition, namely everyone else.

Gibson, speaking from his lair yesterday advised people not to panic as "tomorrow they can expect to come into a great deal of Money, and must resist the urge to spend foolishly". Allegedly, the Taoiseach greeted this news by sporting a giant erection and a grin that could burn down a school. He also winked at Fergus but he had turned away and did not notice.

National Disgrace visited Fergus in a bid to get the background on this latest Cancer Scandal but left immediately after Gibson removed his pants and invited him into his "Sex Parlour of the Future". Shouting after Disgrace, Gibson raised further questions by declaring that "Romance may require you hold your tongue ALL WEEK until the 8th and only then, use great tact when you calmly sit them down in the 'right atmosphere' and explain your feelings with as little fan fare as you can muster".

Fergus Gibson, Mary Harney and the Taoiseach were unavailable for comment last night, presumably in a star-sign fuelled orgy of naked flesh but Michael Sharkey of Sharkeys Denture repairs did comment that 'We're having a great sale at the moment'.

Fire in a 'hole'

The other day I posted a note on the back of the front door in the 'apartment' block I live in. It was a simple note, directed to anyone of the 100's of people that seem to live there. It was a basic request, which if taken on board, could help continue my existence on this planet.

Those of you who regularly poke around here will have often heard me refer to my current digs as being less than palatial. I can be hard on it, and it has a unique charm, but on the whole the place should be torn down. It has been castrated of its once proud Georgian features and on a street of immense character, it stands out like a Paedophile Priest in an under-11 soccer team line-up.

Aesthetics aside, the place is also a death trap. Because of where my flat is, I have little chance of survival in a house fire but just in case, I have my escape route planned out. The Bedroom window is a no-no, as I am four old school stories above the hardest looking concrete yard I have ever seen. Exit through the Kitchen window, presuming I lose enough weight to fit, would result in the loss of several limbs whilst my living room window is essentially bricked up. The only way out is through the corridors and down to the front door. However, somewhat making matters more difficult, somebody in the building thinks it's a great idea to bolt lock the front door every night. This ensures not only will I burn to death in my boxers as I try to break down the door but also that the Fire Brigade will not be able to get in.

So, it was with that in mind that I put the note up asking kindly that the door was not bolt locked. My note was removed and replaced with the one attached...

Any suggestions for a reply?

There are 9 million Skobies in Dublin

My Dad calls them Gurriers. My Sister calls them Knackbags. A friend likes to refer to them as Skobies. I'm sure even the Pope has a name for them. Anyway, whatever you want to call them, Northsiders are pretty dodgy human beings.

Last night I was in the dropzone for a screening of 'In Bruges's (which is an excellent movie by the way). On my way to the cinema, there was the usual compliment of skangers on Henry St, all dancing their little jigs and rattling cups of change in peoples faces. The smell of heroin hung in the air as limped yokels in buttoned up shirts urinated against passing shoppers. Old women, whistled to each other like weird unemployed birds and the soft lilt of 'Johno!! JOHNOO!!!' floated in and out of the early evening sky. I caught snatches of conversation as I briskly passed little groups of them as they sat around warming their hands on a can of Dutch Gold. "Celtic" "Christy Dignams a bleedin' ledge" "D'ya wanta buy a three legged dog?" "I fookin jabbed the screwdriver into both their mutton heads". All manner of topics, nothing off limits.

Anyway, I eventually arrived safely and watched the movie. I had met a mate who decided to cycle to the cinema. I remarked that he was mad to bring his bike over to this side of town, but he just winked in that 'I've got a plan that will end up with a skobie losing his front teeth' way so I left him to it. Sure enough, after we left the cinema, the bike was gone. No surprise as he didn't even lock it (seriously) but this was all part of the plan. The bike itself was a truly remarkable concoction. It was at least 30 years old. It was missing a number of vital components that you would normally expect of a bike. It had no brakes. The saddle looked like it had been knawed at by a tiger. The axel was broken and you had to stand up on one leg, and sit down on the other to ride it. The handlebars were completely separated from the rest of the bike and you had to lean on them in a certain way or they'd come off in your hands. It had one and a half peddles. The bell also didn't work. Yet, it was still stolen.

And it was then, that the evil and cunning of my friends plan was revealed. As we sat back and scoffed and chortled to the image of a hoodied skobatron lying on the M50 with his teeth scattered all over the road and one of his arms where his leg should be and a handlebar up his arse, he simply turned to me and said "one down, 2 or so million to go"...

We're gonna need a lot more bicycles


*You do GET the title, right?

Girly Lilac Converse

Things that I know now that I didn't before the weekend:

Running with a paper bag of provisions from the Deli Boutique in Rathgar during a thunderous downpour, can often result in your selection of breads and fine gourmet foody things ending up in a drain on Garville Avenue.

The bar at the blog awards needed to be staffed by at least another 100 barmen.

Una from Una rocks has the same girly lilac converse as me.

Fakey from Fake Empire really should of won 'best blog post'.

My neighbours are trying to kill me (to follow).

The lotto numbers were 06,08,09,13,22,33.

"You remind me of Ivan Drago from Rocky 4" is not the greatest chat up line in the world.