Wednesday, June 25, 2008
I was just in the local Spar having my morning coffee transfusion when a guy in front me decided to buy some Quick picks for tonight’s pretty large Lotto Jackpot. As he got the tickets, he obviously checked them to make sure that the requisite amount of lines, bar-codes etc were all present. They were, from what I could gather. However little Mr. ‘not so Quick’ Pick was not happy. He started pointing to the numbers and telling the shop worker guy that he did not like them. There were far too many similar numbers on it he said. At first I was annoyed with him, but then I realized an opportunity. I’m pretty superstitious about weird things, so I figured if the same happened to me, and I asked them to swap my numbers or something, the original numbers would come up and I’d be forced to kill myself.
It’s a recurring dream of mine. Ever since I began to do the family birthdays as numbers cos my Mother stopped doing it, I’ve been fearful of not doing the Lotto. Anyway, I interjected and offered to buy them from him. He seemed pretty happy with this, but then it began to dawn on him that these numbers have pretty much as much chance of coming up as any do. He was becoming reluctant, and soon the deal was in trouble. I was beginning to panic now, as these numbers became more and more desirable to me. I could picture myself and Derek Mooney, unnecessarily naked, on a tandem, despite the fact that he has nothing to do with the main Lotto, and the fact that I’m not Gay. The ‘not happy with numbers’ bloke was beginning to think, I’m sure he was having similar visions too, of me and Derek laughing as we sped past, sandwiches falling from our basket because we were wastefully rich. The deal was off, but not before a third party joined proceedings.
Enter Mr. ‘Shop Assistant’. As we were negotiating, he had run off another batch of numbers for my friend and was now waving them around in a manner that suggested ‘I don’t understand any of this!! Damn you Ireland’.. Of course, my mind had done a U-Turn now. Derek had fallen from the tandem and disappeared in a puff (I know) of smoke. I was now scrabbling for that sandwich. In the distance, Mr. ‘Those numbers are shit mate’ now held the golden ticket and was entering Derek’s chocolate factory (again, I know) instead of me. My mind was all over the shop (oh, ha ha ha!!). Which ticket will win it. I’ll pick the wrong one. A queue of builders had formed and we needed closure quickly. ‘Actually’ I’ll take both of them he said…
‘Nooooooooooooooooooooooooo’ As Derek Mooney might say
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Margaret Tatcher, Myra Hindley and Cecilia Ahern. All Girls. All evil.
Just when I thought I didn't have a heart anymore, I've had it broken. It was a bit like getting up in the morning, knowing you don't own a car but finding that it had been stolen anyway. Disgrace has been breached. Tell the papers!! I've let mans nemesis, the non-man, penetrate me emotionally. All my tales of bachelor glory. All my tales of hard hearted bravado. All my tales of red hot chili/masculine self love now have been found to be fake.
You see, my mood nosedived over the weekend from 'Jolly Depression' to 'Christmas with Morrissey'. I realised that I had been subconsciously hedging my bets on a particular girl, who like most girls, turned out to be pretty much one step removed from a 'volcanic scorpion'. Not her fault I suppose, that I secretly lodged my heart in her 'no interest' current account, but it hurt nonetheless. It was a bit of a wake-up call, I've been cruising along lately, content that I was doing brilliantly without the need of a woman, when I realised that I was actually as involved with her as I have been with most of my previous girlfriends. And like most of them, she was oblivious. When this bolt hit me, I got scared. I have not been scared for a long time but suddenly every usual post break-up emotion (which I'd thought I'd avoided with some style in last few months), came knocking on my door, all at once. The fear of having to jump on the dating train. The fear of wasting time again with someone who's wrong for you. The fear that her vagina might have teeth. Anyway, I need not have worried about these when it came to this girl, because judging by her spectacular rejection the other night (she back flipped perfectly as she said no), I will not soon be meeting her parents or losing Disgrace Jr to a savage sex part.
It's good to be back.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Paulaner beer is a dangerous mistress. Like the enticing smell of a plotting seductress, this German beer also emits an intoxicating scent. If you were left alone in a room with a pint of it, you would soon start to feel crowded. Drinking it does the same thing. Run a spoon through a freshly poured glass of it and you will encounter a bizarre resistance. Dip and finger in it, and you may never play the piano again. If beer made a sound, Paulaner would be My Bloody Valentine, at their bloodiest. I don’t know what it is, but a number of weeks ago I woke up on the floor of my flat to the sound of the opening credits to the Late Late. I’d been out drinking since 7, the Late Late starts at 9.30, so this was only two and a half hours later. On Friday, I went to Coman’s in Rathgar to look at girls, but after a measly 5 bottles of it, I was tucked up in bed at 10.30, giggling to myself. Some weeks ago, I also went to see Ladytron and drank Paulaner. Allegedly. Not since the days of Furstenburg, when waking up on the Ferry to Holyhead was a regular occurrence, have I been beaten by a beer so badly. Am I alone?
Anyway, this part of the post goes out to my Sister, who thinks I’m drinking too much, and by proxy my Mum, who believes everything she tells her.
Anyway, Saturday was given over to domestic self-abuse and Euro 2008 before I finally emerged to attempt to go and see Jape and Dan Deacon in Vicar St. After a series of heated Lisbon related rows some friends, I was off home, Jape-less. It’s funny, nights out in the last 10 years or so have been largely politics free. Nights out with Fakey back in the early 90’s used to see us at each others throats about the state of the nation, but recently people just didn’t seem bothered. In a way, whether I agree with the outcome of the vote on Thursday or not, it is good to see people talking again. The General Election last year was a damp squib (Squid, Fakey?) and anyway, it clashed with Big Brother so nobody even noticed. But all this talk of spiraling costs, job losses and euro-skepticism has re-ignited normal folks interest, and as I emerged from the pub on Saturday night, with my pride (and chin) bruised, it felt good to back, in an 80’s nostalgia kinda way.
Sunday was father’s day, which involved a roast dinner, some spectacular defeats in swing-ball to both my nephew and my sister (yes a child AND girl) and about 5 kilos of Rhubarb.
Oh, and there was the food poisoning.
And the blocked toilet.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Political commentary is not National Disgraces stongpoint. I once famously refered to Bertie Ahern as 'the Fuhrer' and indirectly blamed him for flying a plane into the twin towers. I also proclaimed that a reduction in interest rates would result in anarchy and followed this up with a suggestion that Sinn Fail should probably give up their dream of reclaiming the Isle of Man, and concentrate on more urgent issues such as the abolition of traffic lights.
Because of this, and also due to my pre-occupation with all things 'woe is me', I have steered the good ship Disgrace from the thorny waters of Politics and driven the wheeless ship that I hold captaincy of into less contentious terrain. The Lisburn treaty, which came and passed, pricked the ears of my interest slightly, and I watched with mild amusement as the humans I know debated with themselves about something they didn't understand. As it happens, we said 'eh, like, NO!' to the treaty, which as far as I'm aware would of resulted in the proud nation of Ireland having to 'tighten their belts', if only because by European standards we are 'obese'. There were rumours that a yes vote would result in a shorter head on a pint of Guinness, the re-introduction of the Giant Panda to parts of Monaghan and the status of kite-flying to be changed from 'jolly good fun' to 'punishable by death'.
Libertas, a fun loving gang of coolsters with no link whatsoever to the American Military, were spot on when they said that voting no would result in 'a better deal for Ireland'. In the same way that head-butting your boss would result in a raise.
Because of our No vote, that old Dog 'the Yoo-Kay' (credit fakey) has become a drooling at the mouth, spontaneous-national-orgasm champion of Irelands resistance of the mainland of Europe. They hate everyone you see, and Europe fit the 'everyone' profile very well. The Sun Newspaper, which prints pictures of 'breasts' and contains adverts for services that you would not find in the parish newsletter (unless you're from Ferns) proudly headlined 'Paddy Power!!' today and exclaimed Ireland's slaying of the Euro Dragon. The Observer and Daily Mail of Eire had similar headlines, which backhandedly congratulated us for our resistance, and threw in some pun-tastic racism.
The most worrying thing however is the fact that the Irish Mail on Sunday (I've checked with An Post, they only deliver on weekdays) is giving away a Michael Caine 'erotic' DvD tomorrow. This film, which contains 'cleavage' and 'soft lit, silhouetted scenes of SIMULATED INTERCOURSE' is free for every Irish child and impressionable adult to view, should they choose to buy the paper. Had we of voted Yes, I hae no doubt that we would of been treated to a freebie of 'Battle of Britain' or 'Carry on Oppressing'. At last, and thanks to a film as erotic as the journey from Firhouse to Town, we are finally being treated as an equal of the great United Kingdom..
Anyone for the Commonwealth?
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Anyway, speaking of TV3, this morning’s Metro newspaper proclaimed ‘TV’s Sinead in brain scare’. Sinead Desmond is actually one of TV3’s better hosts, and as happens is in a worrying condition in hospital. The headline on the Metro however, as is with their usual brand of sensationalism, didn’t concern me. I figured the story within would be a throwaway piece with nothing to do with her health concerns, brains or even her. Unfortunately it did. That’s where we are at with this condensed breakfast buliten sheet. Their headlines have been known to flirt with the bizarre, and rarely have much of a link to the story. See “Sausages cause cancer” and “Smiling at work can kill you” for further reading. And the real story goes missing underneath it.
Anyway, all of this is just an excuse to publish National Disgraces special guest edition of the Metro.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Sometime 2007 "TV3 Post 'out-takes'
15:00 - You little....Rascal!! - Kids entertainment courtesy of Rascal, a cute half Pigeon, half hoofed-beast who is always getting himself into trouble. Today, he is arrested for his involvement in the Birmingham bombings
21:00 - Wakey Breaky Heart - Billy Ray Cyrus returns to our screens as an innocent man (PROVEN BY THE COURT OF LAW) to host our new Breakfast show. Today Billy travels to Manorhamilton where he meets Linda Martin, a Molly Malone lookalike and a Priest with a terrifying secret
12:00 - Bracken Lane - New soap set in the working class streets of inner city Dublin. In tonight's episode, a gas explosion kills everyone on Bracken Lane.
19:30 - Hammered - The Northern comedy is back. Joxer is suspended from school after spraying the canteen with bullets whilst Alan immediately regrets getting his lips stuck in on a grenade pin. Meanwhile, 'across the road', Eric's day goes from bad to worse when the tank he's driving in is involved in a collision with the Zoo.
22:00 - The Valley - Rural Greenlandian soap. Tonight, Mort treats Sééépunt to fishcakes and Júúli disagrees with someone on the phone. Meanwhile, Hoopéén finds a pencil in his pocket"
“Sometimes it takes an outsider to make things better. Like Jack Charlton or Hitler.”
Where do you start?
Death sometimes has a habit of sneaking up on you. You hear it all the time.. 'He died suddenly' and 'one minute he was alive, the next he was dead'.
The topic of conversation in McGuire’s Pub was much along the same lines. Over the music, the laughing, and the clash of empty beer glasses, two old men sat remembering an old friend.
'Of course, he loved his Mother' remarked one of them, as he rested his walking stick against the wall.
“She was a fine woman” his friend replied ”Once saw her carry a sick horse on her back, up and down McGonongle’s Hill. It was a Christmas morning I believe”
The other man nodded and remarked that the he 'knew' the horse in question and that it went on to live to be 74 years of age.
“I suppose I'll have to pour my own?” said the other one, winking across the bar. “ Will you take another one in there Jack?”
Jack looked at his watch, it had stopped working in 1968 “ Sure, go on Matty, actually get me two”
Matty returned to the table slowly. Very, very slowly. Jack didn't notice the delay as he had broken into song and was mid verse when Matty had returned with the pints. The table in front of them was now overflowing with empty and half empty glasses. Matty squeezed the five pints in and sat down. The afternoon sun had begun to peep through the blinds, and behind the warm hazy glow of dancing dust, Jack was bellowing out something about rebels and fairies. Matty decided to join in and add his vocals to the song. As the two old men sang two completely different songs the band began to play again. There was whoops and shouts and elbows flying as a full scale hooley developed. Jack finally stopped singing when a fist fight developed close to him and knocked one of his pints over. The brawl had now extended to a whole corner of the pub and tables and stools were being used as bargaining tools.
“If he was alive now he'd put a stop to that” Matty muttered, between verses
“Be the love of god, he'd be over the bar with the shotgun” Jack replied
“Do you remember the that coloured lad that walked in of the street?” Jack enquired
“I do” Matty replied “ Paddy was across the bar quicker than one of Holohan’s foxes”
“Sure, he never once shot that gun in anger. He'd have it for scaring the darkies and the like, but they say he didn't have a bad bone in his body”
A chair flew across Paddy's head, narrowly missing him Soon, the row had died down, with only the hardcore few still slugging it out on the street outside. Matty, with no hint of romance whatsoever, had by now embraced Jack and they were breaking into a chorus of 'Ooh Ahh Paul McGrath', in honour of the time Paddy chased the ex Ireland international towards Higgins with his shotgun. It had become impossible to count the amount of glasses on their table as it had collapsed when one of the drunken brawlers fell on it. He was very apologetic to Matty and Jack, in a sincere and bloodied way, but paid dearly for his concern when the delay to apologise resulted in him being knocked unconscious by Rory Hanlon and his Mother Bridie.
Jack and Bridie courted back before decimalisation and he'd learned first-hand that she was quite the woman. Rory was her 15th and was working on the farm. He'd always look out for Jack, as his mother still had a soft spot for him (just beneath her moustache) and used to drop down a head of cabbage to him every Christmas. Bridie had however hooked up with one of the Walshe brothers (or 2 if local rumours are to be believed) and they'd married when Jack was up in Dublin for the day. Jack never married, and barely even looked at a woman since.
Matty broke his embrace from Jack and sat up. Two minutes later, when he was eventually fully standing up he removed a roll up cigarette from his pocket and went to walk outside. Jack decided to have a short nap whilst his friend was gone and settled down on the bar. It was nearly dark by the time Matty had arrived outside, and the only trace of the earlier row was a burnt out car and members of the emergency response unit. Enda MacGillicuddy came racing up the road on 'Wobbler' (his horse) and nodded to Matty.
“The Under-12's were beaten I see” he shouted as he sped past
Matty nodded back at him.
“But sure they were playing up a pitch with a bad hill on it” Enda added “ in both directions”
Matty shouted back but it was difficult to hear as the sirens from the Garda car chasing the horse were too loud so he went back into the pub. Jack had woken from his sleep by the start of the Karaoke and was sitting beside the bar, tapping his feet.
"How's young Paudi?" Jack asked
“Sure he's grand. After buying one of them apartments up in Dublin” Matty replied
“Still into the young fellas??” …..
“Imagine being trapped under a bed whilst two trumpets have sex.
Christ my head hurts this morning.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Thanks to Westy for the graphic.
I’ve been pretty quiet on the blog of late. It’s a combo of a lot of things I suppose. I’m busy in work for one, although that does not for one second mean that I’m actually beginning to take my job seriously. I also upended a full bottle of Erdinger on my laptop recently, so my home blogging experience has suffered as now my X and C keys don’t work. And I also got a new girlfriend. Well, an X-box 360 actually.
Add to all this that the most interesting thing to happen to me over the last few weeks wasn’t actually interesting, and you can see why the posts have been few and far between.
I’m planning to get myself into all sorts of romantic and dangerous situations this weekend just so I can blog about them on Monday, so watch out.
Anyway, here’s some clips of posts/randomness that I have discarded over the last few months..
Feb 2008 “Does anyone remember the story about the argument between Jesus and God about what colour 'wind' should be? I've heard it many times, but from different people, but the ending always stays the same. The bulk of the tale remains the same too. Jesus, despite not being around at the creation of life, was heavily canvassing his father for a light peach tint. God, as I've been led to believe, slapped Jesus across the face and called him a harlot. As punishment, he removed all trace of colour from the wind and therefore denied humanity a wondrous visual spectacle “
December 2007 “The annual Fake Empire/National Disgrace pre Christmas drink session has historically, proven to be a torrid affair. You, no doubt, will be familiar with the headlines that greeted our 'dead hooker' themed shindig of 2005 and who can forget that fateful night in 1997 when we 'collapsed the middle east peace process'. Last night, the Ant and Dec of the blogospehere took the festivities to the streets and I can gladly say that save for a 'small terrorist incident' the night was a roaring success"
Nov 2007 “Now, money has never been an issue for Disgrace, similarly, neither has space travel. Fawning benefactors, lucrative jock-strap sponsorship deals and 'protection' funding has kept the good ship Disgrace floating with vitalic buoyancy. "Money, is just a printed piece of paper that you give to people who sell goods, in exchange for said goods" Disgrace likes to joke.. But, when the laughter fades, and long after the air kisses , Disgrace has to sit down with his bank manager and do business”
October 2007 “I'd woken up in a sweat before, but nothing like this. It felt like a blanket of heavy damp on my skin. And my skin, it was cold. I couldn't touch it.It was now dark. It was darker than I'd ever seen and it felt like the blackness was crushing down on me. It felt like I was wrapped in ice. All my thoughts were being deconstructed before they had a chance to present themselves. The lack of light was suffocating me and I couldn't even speak. Who would I speak to? I didn't care, I want to scream.
There were noises, but they so far away I wasn't sure they were really there. And they were dull, heavy thumps of sound. I tried to roll over but it felt like there was nothing supporting me. And anyway, I couldn't move. I panicked. I couldn't feel my legs. That’s when I realized I was a fish.”
Late 2007 “So, I have to help Fakey out tonight. Apparently the perfectly good couch he has doesn't provide the optimum comfort/style ratio, so he's off to get a new one. It'll probably be a brush steel affair with a signature Rocco splash of colour and legs moulded to look like Jackson Pollacks cock, but that's Fakey.
It's a bit like the time he was going to cut off his head because he didn't like his new haircut. It'll be cool, I'll throw the couch on my back and mule-like I'll dispatch it wherever her likes. That's the kind of friend Disgrace is”