Where in the world

From Reuters:

"Irish blogging sensation National Disgrace, whose online presence has been wholesomely enjoyed by hoards of lesbians and members of the Clergy for weeks, is still reported as missing today, according to a statement from the snappily titled 'W.I.N.D.Y.' (Where is National Disgrace, Yeah?). W.I.N.D.Y, from their HQ at the Girls Toilets, Santa Maria Secondary School, Rathfarnham have said they are "hopeful" that the blogger of the year (1979) will turn up safe, but added "we don't really care either way". Despite reported sightings in a butchers in Ennis (the information town), where he allegedly bought chops, and coughed slightly, there has been very few leads about his disappearance. Gardai, who have increased the numbers working on the case to 1, have said that between this disappearance and the rumour of a dispute between two neighbours in Hackballscross over the height of a tree, that this summer promises to be 'shite busy' for the force.

Commenting on the fact that Disgraces passport and suitcases (AND his beloved holiday shorts) appear to be missing, plus the fact that flight tickets have been confirmed as recently purchased, and two postcards which arrived at Mama Disgraces recently, alleged to of been from the missing Internet 'whizz kid', Garda Seargent Finbar 'Giraffes Arse' O'Hallorahan said "We are confident that this Disgrace fella is still in the country, probably chained to a radiator in some brothel".

Gardai, and the Double Glaziers association of Ireland hae asked that any information on the whereabouts of ND be forwarded to them immediately on the usual numbers. The missing 'Web Wizard' has een seen some heavyweight celebrities plead for his safe return. Kian from Westlife, taking a break from building a big fuck off house in Sligo, has recorded a track 'Bing a ding ding ding, ding a ding a dong, on my Christ, where's he gone' with all proceeds going to Westlife"

Let's hope he turns up. Alive.

The Champions League of Extraordinary Fuckwits

Honestly, I could not care less about the Champions League final. Firstly, English soccer ball has gotten so boring that I would honestly get more enjoyment from imagining the application of paper-cuts to my penis. And the takeovers and the big budget transfers etc, tonight’s match will be like watching two shopping centre’s battle it out for worldwide domination. Then there’s the Ronaldo factor. He’s an annoyingly hyped up foot-swinger, with a neck you could have skiing lessons on, that is so feted upon in the British press that it’d have Princess Diana revolving in her grave.

However, my main issue with this ‘Theatre of Screams’, is the fans. All week I’ve listened to moronic comments from people who are literally hanging onto the bumper of the bandwagon as it screams past, grabbing everybody in its wake. Colleagues are taking tomorrow off so they can go out, get drunk and celebrate. People are leaving early so they can go home replicate tonight’s match on FIFA 08, and possibly masturbate to replays of Wayne Rooney scoring the winning penalty.

The girls too. Traditionally into field hockey and curtains, have now began to wear soccer jerseys rather than pretty frocks. They’ve replaced posters of The Carter Twins with ones of Ryan Giggs. They’ve even started to go to pubs.

And the ill-informed. Those who’ll be asking what colour Manchester Celtics are wearing tonight, and if a Try is worth the same amount as a Bulls-eye. They’ll be out in the pubs in force, drinking alcohol, from glasses and the like. “Do horses ever play football” they’ll ask. “Where’s Barry McGuigan?”.

And tomorrow. I will have to turn up the gauge on my bullshit spouter tomorrow, when I pretend I saw the game. I’m generally good at this so it shouldn’t be a problem, but in a perfect world I should be able to admit “No, I was actually watching Grand Designs in a high state of nakedness’. Instead I will have to reprise my ‘Go Sports!’ quote and further furnish my house of lies with a little ‘The scoreboard never lies!’ and ‘There was a lot of tactics on that pitch’..

Last Sunday, I took my nephew to see an eircom League of Ireland match. A real football match. We sat in the Sun. We watched an entertaining soccer game. We ate Leo Burdocks at both half time AND full time. We joined in on some of the songs. He got to touch the ball when it came into the stand. He got to see Glen Crowe, who he knows from his FIFA 08 game.

And we had a ball.

Tonight? You're having a laugh

Monday Moaning

It’s like nothing else happens. When I go to write a post for this blog on a Monday, my mind keeps telling me to blog about work. It tells me to blog about how much my soul has been destroyed by work. Blog about how much I’d wish they’d change the laws on the killing of workmates. Blog about the 20 minutes on the Luas, contemplating a quick exit at each stop. Blog about how I stood outside the front door this morning and considered breaking my own leg just so I could return home. Blog about the coffee, how it tastes like licking vinegar from an old boot, with the foot of an old postman still in it. Blog about the IT dept blocking this site, and their referral of it as risqué and containing nudity. Blog about office etiquette, and how I have perfected my fake laugh for those moments by the water cooler into a terrifying mix of ‘maniac on the loose’ and ‘Count Von Count’.

Blog about how I have tailored my sporting quotations to a one size fits all conversation killer, ‘Go Sports!’. Blog about how I’ve had to read Heat! Magazine on the toilet just so I can join in on conversations about the earthquake on Hollyoaks or whatever. Blog about the work parties, which vary from ‘as much fun as a family death’ to ‘waking up in a ditch was the highlight of the evening’. Blog about team building, and how you’re forced to play role-play games with people who you know would be only too happy to eat you if your plane crashed in the Andes. Blog about the unhealthy level of snot which has been stuck to the wall of the cubicle in the men’s. Blog about the woman who makes my sandwiches, how she somehow manages to get her elbows involved in the application of coleslaw and her amazing knack of making a sandwich look eaten, before you actually eat it.

Anyway, work rant over.. Tomorrow, chicks.

Staying in on a Saturday night

Had I of arrived home and found by father dressed as my mother, and my mother tied to chair with an orange in her mouth and all of my previous dogs knitted together and draped over a giant talking Celery, I would not of been as disturbed.

Had I awoken one morning and felt the unmistakable firmness of Fakeys buttocks pressed against my face, and the faint hum of Zuccheros 'Senza Una Donna' drifting from the tight confines of his bottom, I would not of been more disturbed.

Had I of switched on the Television, and been greeted with the terrifying trio of Dana, Dickie Rock and Maxi, oozing evil on the Tubriby Tonight show, I would not of been more disturbed... Oh wait, that is exactly what happened.

Staying in is the new suicide.

I'll be your Dog

Despite recently being a friend of all things feline, Disgrace will always have a soft spot for Dogs. From his very first four legged companion (Bran) to his sadly missed, mildly retarded ‘Buddy’, it’s been a love-affair of epic proportions

Pepsi (I) was dark dog. He had worms and went to live on a farm. It was 1981. We had to eat you know.

Pepsi (II), a Jack Russell, as working class as a dog could be, he had a huge hole in his ear from where he was attacked by another dog (or possibly from a rebellious ear piercing) and arrived into the family home on a foggy night in the early 80’s. As with the majority of our dogs, he was in need of rescue. A drifter who’d drifted far enough and wanted to settle down. Pepsi’s tale is a hazy one, as he is not around to tell it, and I was merely a little boy during his heyday. However you can be sure he got into all sorts of japes, but did so with a roguish charm. When we moved house in the glorious summer of 1985, Pepsi, who must of forgot something, travelled back to the old street and was never seen again. I like to think that he’s still out there now, maybe even reading this. But I reckon It’s extraordinarily unlikely. If he was alive, he would be 28 (the same age as Jessica Simpson, the American ..erm, singer?)

Nelson. Arriving in 1989, the same year the wall fell. Nelson was a beast of a being. Part Sheepdog, part Double Decker bus, he was the most unique dog I’d ever encountered. Apart from demonstrating signs of high intelligence (standing up and urinating into the toilet, closing doors behind him – seriously) he also famously recalled a time when a junior Fake Empire had slept over and had hit him with a shoe (it’s the kind of stuff the Fakester does). Nelson, weeks later, returned the favour by head-butting Fakey, and sending him off with a bloody nose and a trip to Vincents. My best friend as a developing teenager, Nelson also liked to wear human clothes from time to time (again, serious) and famously stalked Firhouse on the day of ‘that’ penalty shoot out in Italia 90, dressed in full Irish kit. Alas, it was his good nature and willingness for fun which ultimately led to his starring role in Disgraceablanca coming to an end. The Neighbours (pricks, all of them) had petitioned to have Nelson put down thanks to him attempting to ‘hug’ a toddler on the road, and accidentally knocking him over. The kid was fine. This time, after a hugely emotional goodbye, Nelson REALLY DID go to a farm. Where I believe he was to be very happy.

Nelson was replaced by Buddy. Buddy, was a neglected dog who’d been found in finglas, with his two front legs broken. Fortunately for him, he was found and rushed to dogstipal and quickly operated on. Unfortunately for him, they allowed his front legs to set backwards (again, seriously) and he for ever more would resemble a Queen Ann chair. Anyway, my mother eventually ended up with him through a friend and so begins Buddy's story. You wouldn’t call him ‘ugly’, but he wasn’t going to win the Rose of Tralee anytime soon. Along with his legs (the kids on the road genuinely thought he was called ‘Woody’ cos he had wooden legs), his hair was wirey and way too loose, and pretty much resembled the sort of undergrowth you’d expect to find a corpse in. He also had a ZZ Top style beard.. Buddy's many adventures included ‘falling out a 2nd floor window’ and ‘being dropped into a tin of paint’ but overall, he was a great dog. He had a long, bow legged life and eventually succumbed to cancer at the ripe old age of 17. In not my finest hour, I rather haphazardly dug a grave for him in the back garden, which pretty much resulted in a re-enactment of the closing scene from Carrie, expect it was a tail.

So that was me and dogs. At least until yesterday. I was in my sisters car in Rathgar when a hyperactive and obviously lost dog ran out in front of us. I immediately jumped out, in full hero mode and intended to get said dog, take home, and call DSPCA/owner. It was however, a poorly executed rescue attempt, as I only succeeded in chasing him towards the busy main road. I scoured the streets later looking for him, but no joy. The guilt I feel today is pretty immense.

If anyone saw a big white-ish dog with a blue collar in Rathgar/Rathmines yesterday, let me know.. Unless he was stuck to the wheel of a truck, don’t bother if that’s the case

You lift me up

I meant to post this last week, when I glanced opon the RTE schedule. The national broadcaster has done some curious things in Disgraces lifetime, including a segment on Nationwide about water safety with the backdrop music of 'dead in the water' by David Gray, and also on the same programme, a peice about a group of handicapped motorcycle enthusiasts with the unfortunate music of Bruce Springsteens 'born to RUN'.. There are countless others, which I'm sure you can all think of, but this weeks moment of RTE madness concerned this film.

Last week, a Brazillian Priest, trying to raise funds for a local charity, attempted a lift off on a chair to which was attached a number of hellium baloons. Being an experienced ballonist, he quickly gained height and disapeared over the hills. Never to be seen again. The story was a worldwide news sensation. Messages of good will flooded his parish. Networks across the world launched a 'priest watch'.. To celebrate this, RTE decided to show 'Danny Deckchair', a film about an austrailian man who attaches hellium baloons to his deckchair and sets off through the skies of Austrailia. Soon, just like our floating clergyman, shredded baloons are found. Soon, like our bouyant bible basher, he is declared missing.

Seriously, it would not of surprised me to see RTE screening 'Venables did it!!' (a show about Terry Venables incredible Spanish Liga victory with Barcelona) in the same week as the Jamie Bolger murder.

You know, a friend of mine once asked a New Yorker where the nearest '9-11' was, on a visit to NYC.

She now works for RTE



*she meant '7-11'

My Thursday night

My landlord rang me the other and said she was going to be putting in a washing machine for me. This was good news, because last week I took my washing from the laundry room only to find a bra and 3 ladies socks in it. Naturally, I put the socks back. I was pretty happy with all of this, as I am tiring of fighting off old women in the corridors as we rush to be first to the machine. Now, don’t get me wrong. I love to elbow a frail granny to the floor as much as the next man, but I’m a sucker for those puppy dog eyes, and being the gentleman I can sometimes be, I courteously allow them ahead of me. Usually, this is instantly regretted as I see that she is washing a set of curtains or tablecloths, whilst I’m pretty much down to my last pair of underpants.

Now, with Thursday being the first day of the weekend (and also the last one of the previous) I don’t like my valuable drinking/throwing up time to be wasted. However, when my landlord arrived at my door, stating that they had ‘forgotten’ the washing machine. I was baffled as well as frustrated. How could someone ‘forget’ a washing machine?

When she left, I sat down to eat some crisps. I do that sometimes. When I broke up with an ex (although she wasn’t an ex before I broke up with her) I sat and ate a 12 pack of Meanies in my room and listened to 13 wonderful loves songs from A House, over and over. I’d replaced the words with 12 wonderful packets of Meanies. I was pretty low back then. But anyway, in a wicked twist, as I sat there feeling the dramatic non-presence of a washing machine, a crispy gift from heaven arrived into my lap. The most perfectly formed love heart shaped crisp, literally floated from my bag of tayto like feathers from Cupids bag of tricks. Instantly, I knew it was a sign and I quickly rallied my wingmen for what I described as a night of ‘romantic merriment’.

To cut a long story short, we went to Fallon’s in the Coombe for some bizarre reason. Now, unless you like your ladies with beards and swinging a pickaxe, Fallons (a fine pub), is not love central. So, around midnight and suitably beered, I gave up on the night and the snacky love promise that had filled me with hope and headed for home. Obviously, not being an animal, I stopped by Chicken Hut and ordered a number 7. I was satisfied that despite being cruelly led by fate, I could still nosh down on some fried Chicken badness. Anyway, as I was nibbling on my chicken, I caught a glimpse of someone through a ground floor curtain in one of the apartments on Clabnbrassil st. She was a lady. She also appeared to be dressed in a leather dominatrix outfit. She also caught me looking at her.

I ran home and ate the crisp.