Cookin Hell

In the latest in a series of 'why girls should stay away from Disgrace', our hero describes his latest culinary catastrophe.

It was day three of Disgraces famous Chili. Total ingredient cost, 9 euro. Total toilet roll cost 17 euro. Made on Sunday with an eye on lasting until midweek, this cauldron of spicy mayhem, bubbled away like an evil cesspit of horror. Whole chillis, slit open to release extra flavour, leapt from the pot, screaming for mercy. Paint retreated from the wall in alarming fashion and members of the fire brigade kept an all night vigil outside Disgrace towers. It was the first time Disgrace had heard long grain Rice cry. His 'curry' plate, a legacy from Mama Disgrace, refused to emerge from the press, like a teenage boy dressed like Robin Hood at a Priests frat party. The pot, levitated from the cooker like a scene from 'cooking with Satan'. Disgrace, in a full Space suit, stirred the red-hot incarnation and saw his life flash before his eyes.

It wasn't looking good.

After contemplating putting the pot in the freezer for an hour or two before eating, and visiting the VHI site to sign up for full cover, he eventually settled down in front of his dinner. It was like gawking into the arse of evil. It spat and splattered. Flames, 30 ft high, burst towards the ceiling. Volcano experts started taking photographs and attempted to evacuate Rathgar.

It wasn't looking good.

As always, Disgrace was prepared. Apart from a fridge full of Kittensoft, he had run a bath and filled it with liquid nitrogen. A garden hose, connected to the Artic, lay on standby. Aled Jones, was drafted in to sing the 'Snowman' and the dry ice machine, usually reserved for spectacular sex entrances, was put on full blast. A north facing gable wall was also removed

It still motherfucking wasn't looking good.

However, it takes more than a lethal dose of Chili to keep disgrace down. Remember this is a guy who survived St MacDaras community College AND Dundalk RTC. This was a guy who tripped as a child and fell unconscious into setting cement. This was a guy who has hung out with Fakey since he was 7. However, in hindsight, he should not of ate that full chili.

Which he did.

Which might explain the red sky over Rathmines.

And the government emergency announcement on Radio One proclaiming 'Unearthly Screams heard from Rathgar - Flick to page 6 of the emergency action handbook (Nuclear accident/Godzilla Invasion)

Help me.

If he blogs, he blogs

You know the scene, in Rocky 4, where Rock threatens to save the life of his dearest friend Apollo Creed, by throwing in the towel. He hesitated. In a moment of quiet inner contemplation, his hand gripped tighter on the towel, as Ivan Drago (an old friend of this Blog btw) unceremoniously floored the former Discount Superstore (oh wait, maybe that was Apollo 1?) and delivered the killer line ‘if he dies, he dies’ as he lay on the floor, dying. He died. And is now dead.

On recent visits to both Fake Empire and Onefortheroad, I’ve been greeted with the same sight. Fakey, who might be about to blow the whole Northern peace process but does a mean wine review, and Oftr, who continually offers swiping satire, opinions and says things you wished you’d thought of, are both currently holding up the towel and threatening to throw.

All I’ll say guys, is that had our hero, Rocky, actually thrown in the towel when he had the chance, there is more than a distinct possibility that Apollo Creed would be a cripple now, cursing every day he lives. Sure, he could be satisfied in the profits from the pre-Christmas rush, with sales on Selection boxes and the like, but there wouldn’t of been much of a movie after that. And as I said earlier, he wasn’t actually a discount superstore.

As Disgraces old sparring partner, Ivan Drago would say, “if he blogs, he blogs”

Do it for Apollo guys..

This is a low

I'm back kids. Ask no questions and I'll tell you no lies, but let's just say Manila, Prison and a dead hooker are a bad mix...

Now to business...



RTE's 'How low can you go'. A show which seems to answer it's own question. Now, I'm not at all an RTE basher. I enjoy Oireacthas Report and Leargas as much as the next man. I think its docu, news and comedy output is generally very good. It's choice of imports is on the money too. But what is this? It's a poorly executed travel show with the most offensive presenters since Fred West guested on Miriam Tonight. Three humans, who would have God fearing the imminent arrival of his P45, thrash their way through exotic climes, with interjections of sub-humour and the kind of charm that made the Yorkshire Ripper a worldwide star. They drink. They bare their arses. They talk to the camera with smug self-appreciation. There's the pasty nerdy dude, whose only meaningful contribution seems to be rehashing Christmas Cracker jokes, and the exotic looking athletic chap who is so full of himself that he needed skin grafts just to fit his ego in. There's the 'camper than a ferry load of tents sailing through a sea of potpourri' fellow who seems to revel in his 'mates' screaming heterosexuality with an 'I'll get you in the end' sleazy smirk.

Seriously, it's to travel programing, humour and good old fashioned fun what Telly Bingo is to current affairs.

Anyway, back tomorrow with normal service (talking about myself, my failed relationship, and an unfortunate work do)

The third wheel keeps on turning...

As loyal readers will know, Disgrace was recently relieved of his 'relationship' duties (ok, 6 months ago) and has been taking baby steps back into the world of 'stop leaving the towel on the bathroom floor', 'tend to my ego, NOW!' and playing second best to shoes. Having been single only once for a brief 5 month period since 1993, a well needed rest was, well, well needed. So, in this period I have been literally just hanging out. I've been reading. I've been sleeping. I've been boozing, but I'm not quite at the Copper Face Jacks stage. Yes, I've been offered dates. I've let some very lovely ladies slip through my fingers but I've been content. It's a satisfying feeling to be happy, and flying solo.

During the course of all this 'self love' (yes, self love) I've been invited to be Captain Gooseberry on a number of occasions. I have reveled in the role of 'dumped tall guy' and enjoyed it. It all went off without a hitch. Until now.

Lately, as third wheel, I have found the other two wheels begin to come off. My honeymoon period as novelty single guy has come to an end. I'm now becoming an embarrassing loveless lump of drunken typical single sleaze bag. I've arrived at my coupled friends dinners with kebabs in my hair. I have crashed DVD nights-in with the Bavaria special from Deveneys.

Only last week, I accompanied my besty and his missus to a private couples party. Seeking acceptance, I staggered unannounced through the doorway with the curios offering of a bottle of old Guinness. I proceeded to sit in the corner like a malfunctioning washing machine. Occasionally making noises that briefly drew the sort of attention that a Karaoke Fred West would at a Church fundraiser. To be fair, the host couple took my bubbling offensiveness with grace. They tended to me like I was a special child.

After mumbling in a language not heard since the Exorcist, and encouraging much watch checking, I unleashed the full powers of my destructive singleness. Yes, I broke stuff.

This in an official apology to Steve, and in particular to his wonderful 'beer glass'.

To see it shattered, and lying on the floor reminded me a little of me.

Ok girls, come and get it...

They shoot horses don't they?

If so, can members of the firing line please assemble at Aintree and 'pop a cap' in the trio of a walking sausage meat that failed to deliver to me a bounty in yesterdays not so Grand National.

Bear with me here, I'm just entering some text in order to make the picture on the right fit correctly. Did you know that I was once had a Pizza delivered with exactly one slice missing? And that the first pizza I ever had was in 1994?

Grand, fits now.

Kinda.