Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Occupy Dame Street

RTE news tonight carried a piece about the various ‘Occupy’ protests that are currently happening around the globe. They had footage of London, and particularly, New York, yet they didn’t even mention the Cork or Dublin tent-ins. They told of how the authorities in the UK and US have issued eviction notices and moved protestors on. They never even showed a shot of our Dame Street mini-Butlins. This is a damning, yet fair summary of the success of the Occupy Dame Street movement. It has been a tragic failure and total embarrassment.

In my opinion, protest begins at home. You march against things that affect you. You raise an objection to something that impacts your way of life, your continued existence or that of those closest to you. And in this respect, I’m all for protesting. If the Government banned outright ‘instant noodles’ or ‘Tyskie beer’, I’d be pitch-forking my way down Kildare Street first thing tomorrow. But they haven’t. They have however given loads of cash to the banks, and cut a lot of people’s income to fund it. Nasty, in fairness - I’d nearly get out and walk for that, but then again, my income hasn’t actually been cut. It’s the same as it was before all this started.

And you know, the majority of the Occupy Dame St gang haven’t been affected either. Last time I checked the price of tobacco and second hand knitwear hadn’t exactly risen to record levels. Sure, news of massive hand-outs to bankers and huge pensions to those responsible occasionally has me pulling a disapproving face, but that’s only because some of that money is mine. It’s totally selfish. If it was yours alone, I’d urge them to demand more. And take your house too. But that’s me. 

ODS are fighting for an end to ECB control over the country, which is admirable. But like I always say, when I’m on a bus I prefer a trained bus driver to be behind the wheel, no matter how much of a prick he is. It’s simply a case of tough luck. We voted some people in, they weren’t very good, things went shit and they fumbled around. It happens. We then voted someone else in, things stayed shit and they literally keep slipping in it. Tough luck again. It certainly doesn’t help when our happy camper protesters are shitting into buckets and then drunkenly trying to deposit them into drains along Dame Street. They’re literally just adding to it. 

Of course, they real problem with our Hi-De-Hi Central Bank tourists is that they haven’t lost anything in the first place. Most of them (and I have been observing from the window of Sweeney’s pub btw) haven’t lost jobs, got bogged down by insane mortgages or had to sell off the decking in the first place. They are simply professional hippies. They hug trees, read Russian literature and make love to each other dressed as druids in full moonlight, before nipping off to the nearest Centra to stock up on Cider and Guinness. Then they get the last bus home, leaving their tents unoccupied.  Yeah, they return the following morning full of intent and they bang pots, make banners and masturbate into their beards, but we’d all do too that if it was easy.

Like all this ‘he had to go to Australia, sniffle’ rubbish that we hear all the time, when it’s a well known rites of passage for Irish school leavers to head down under anyway. It means nothing. This is why RTE haven’t been bothered to cover them. They’re not real. They don’t live in our world.

If they did they’d put down their yogurt, cut their hair and go looking for a fucking job.

Saturday, August 20, 2011

TV3 Autumn Schedule 2011

From the ‘beating house’ of a former Magdalene Laundry, TV3 announced their new season in great style. With a heavy emphasis on programmes focusing on the recent horrific clerical abuse scandals, a few eyebrows were raised when the ‘Singing Priest’ was chosen to host the launch. These raised eyebrows soon turned to ‘lowered pants’ when Aidan Cooney arrived with the cans. 

The more reflective than usual schedule was littered with moral touch-points. The importance of community, age respect, and responsible young people’s programming, learning through enjoyment and badly reproduced British TV that was badly produced on British TV in the first place. 

Fancy some breakfast? - Lively morning show presented by Sinead Desmond. In episode one, Sinead meets DIY expert and convicted sex offender Brian O'McLoody who claims to be fully reformed and is now a committed ornithologist. To prove this he demonstrates how to create an inexpensive bird house and feeder from random household items. He also shows us how to build a bird house that not only doubles as a sex chamber with bird feeder abilities, but also as sex chamber for birds that can be made from random household items

Kicking the Habit – Documentary about the brutal assault of a Nun in Clonakilty in 1975. 

Why I love... Apples – Weekly series where we ask famous super-cool celebrities to explain what they love about life. Tonight, super-cool celebrity clones Jedward struggle to come to terms with the concept of fruit

Nuns with Willies – Odd couple Willie Nelson and Willie Thorne come together to spend a month living with the divine sisterhood of Mary Angelo in Ballincrosby. As well as learning the skills, and the dedication required to be a ‘woman of god’, they form an unexpected bond and the basis for a new show ‘I love Willies’, one Nuns emotional response to living with the mega-stars

Body of Christ, Christ what a body – Ex Mr Ireland Jake O’Neill presents a frank and sobering tale of clerical abuse in Ireland. Tonight he meets a victim of Paedophile cleric Malachy O’Frockcock and questions the broader role of society in dealing with abuse, and visits an ex-priest turned fashionista who now designs tank tops and shorts for boys, rather than touching them inappropriately

The Weather – Big fucking clouds

Celebrity erection in a Londis - Reality show featuring some of Ireland’s most iconic celebrities all battling for the honour of sporting the largest erection in a convenience store. Tonight, Amanda Brunker’s gender is questioned after winning by a good 3 inches.

Hammered! -The Six-County laugh-a-thon is back. In today’s slab of grimly funny northern life, peace breaks out. Full time bigot Alistair hugs a catholic in a bakery, whilst ‘’over the wall’, Brendan whistles a traditionally ‘orange’ tune at a bus stop, and gets off with a jovial light beating

Film – Dangerous Relations – Angela Lansbury stars in this VHS conversion about a woman who realises her husband isn’t who he appears to be (she check’s his passport) and so she cuts up all of his ties, leaving him tieless at the national tie convention of America. She also has a wheelchair bound daughter who has a speech impediment.

Late Night TV – a transvestite, who only pops on women’s clothing after midnight, explains why he/she is a late night TV – Sponsored by Flahavans.  Porridge, for transvestites.

Twink and you’ll miss it – High octane footage of Adele King (Twink) going by the camera really really fast. In this episode she speeds along on a pair of a roller-skates down Thomas Street

Fr. Brian Darcy’s ‘late night spook-a-thon’ - Tonight: the classic Romanian horror ‘Haunted Ghost,’ in glorious colour (1946 B&W). In a different take on the traditional poltergeist film, a ghost is terrorised by a ghost. The twist, well we might as well tell you as none of you will be watching - He’s haunted by the ghost of a ghost, but not just any ghost, but the ghost of a ghost who was once haunted by his OWN ghost. Christopher Nolan eat your heart out! Complicated, image heavy but ultimately shit. Followed by the draw for the Rehab lottery

Saint Christopher – Timely memoriam for the visionary director Christopher Nolan, who somehow found himself reading the TV3 listings and ate his own heart out, as suggested. Contributions from Christopher Nolan himself, which nicely adds a complicated twist to the whole thing

Maxi Priest – RTE Broadcasting legend ‘Maxi’ trains to become a priest in this show so she does.

Wednesday, August 3, 2011

Oh, Áras

Who is Batman’s favourite singer? Why it’s Dana Dana Dana Dana of course. 

Why is she in the news Disgrace?

Well, Dana, the bright-eyed, cute as a button songstress who once won the hearts of all of Europe, is thinking of running for the Áras. Despite having a voice that would melt something really difficult to melt, like concrete, and a gentle, motherly demeanour, Dana also has some hardened moral views on literally, all kinds of everything. She is a rural conservative. She is a died-in-the womb, sorry, wool, Right-winger. Amongst her Righty agenda is her passionate anti-abortion stance, a vocal denouncement of divorce, condemnation of the evils of contraception and many, many appearances on the All-Ireland talent show.

I liked the All-Ireland talent show. That Daithi fella is a ride... but anyway, what’s her agenda?

Her campaign will rightly be based on her strong moral views, but she will also point to her inspiring promotion of culture too. She once launched a pro-life art competition, in which every entry probably had paintings of babies in a bin with a floating, mournful ‘Why?’ above them, and as a judge on the All-Ireland talent show she introduced the nation that a host of marching bands and non-threatening musical acts. According to this site ‘she is a devout Catholic who has used her great talents as a musician to praise the Lord and teach the faith’. She would probably not refer to Daithi as a ride though, more likely say that he’d make a great priest.

Will she be our new toothless, ceremonial-only, overlord?

Well, unlike possibly more famous right-wingers, she actually did conquer Europe once. Her song, ‘All Kinds of everything’ ('Alles Und Noch Viel Mehr' in German) was a worldwide sensation, and her place is history was confirmed. Also, in 2007 she grabbed 15% of the vote, so rule nothing out. David Norris' ill-fated campaign and subsequent withdrawal means we now face a centre-right president at best, or an extremist one at worst. It’s enough to make Daithi O-Se weep into his hake

How do I feel about it?

I tell you now, if she wins, I will smear myself in strawberry conserve (to symbolise the blood of the unborn), tie myself to the O’Connell monument (to symbolise the tight restraints of freedom) and sail naked on a raft down the Liffey to take my chances elsewhere (to symbolise sailing naked down the Liffey)

I like Jam, so wholesome and traditional.

Unfortunately, so do an awful lot of people in this country

Thursday, July 14, 2011

Status Update

There are loads of reasons why I’ve just taken the calmly considered and maturely debated total drunken snap decision to delete my Facebook account. We all know that the vast majority of people who lurk around its seedy, holiday photo filled pages are nothing more than attention whores, sweaty keyboard perverts and/or GAA recruiters with little to do other than one handedly type their way to filthy gratification. The others are merely the trapped. The ones who need its sweet yet sour nectar to conduct reality on any sort of realistic reality based real scale.

I was, until now, trapped in Facebook. And like all of you, I sometimes dreamt of a world where it didn’t exist. Like Ganymede, one of the moons of Jupiter, which almost certainly doesn’t have social networking of any kind.

“So, why not just rid yourself of this weighty conundrum Disgrace”, nobody screams.

Well, hold on. I've had my finger hovering over ‘Delete ‘Facebook’ more times than an Archbishop has ‘Clear Browsing History’. I’ve narkily removed friends, regretted my drunken comments about Pandas and occasionally gone through party snaps of people that wouldn’t stop to check for a pulse if they’d found me in their garden with a pair of binoculars and an asphyxiation device. But I backed off. I hesitated. For some reason, I couldn’t function without my deeply soulless, unfulfilling and sometimes soul battering morning logins. If I didn’t know what the guy with the goatee who I used to work with but had totally forgotten about until we became online ‘friends’ had found that morning in the toilet, I’d be totally useless for the day.

“What did he find?” I’d have troubled myself with, without even knowing that he’d found anything because I wasn’t even on Facebook at all.

A couple of weeks ago I was chatting with one of very best real life friends and I remarked that I was friends with his real life ex, on Facebook. He wasn’t a member, never has been and he told me without embarrassment, that he never would be. We rambled a bit, and he sent me pictures of himself in his underwear etc when he mentioned that he thought she was seeing someone else. He wasn’t sure, and he was probably hoping she wasn’t. But I was sure. And she was. It was all over Facebook. I didn’t tell him, because (A) it would hurt him, and (B) it would probably introduce him to the tragic world of social networking, which in its most useful form is a snooping and stalking tool that quickly turns into an online paranoia machine. He didn’t need to be on it, and was lucky not to be. I deleted her as a friend and didn’t say a word. However, seeing as he reads this, I’m sure he’s now face down in his Weetabix, mumbling something about oblivion.

It’s nothing new.

In the past I’ve removed non-satisfying friends, lingering exes and so-so’s that I’ve worked with but it was always a near fruitless task. I once deleted a girl I worked with who’s only reason for existing seemed to be to pose in a doorway with her latest dress on, in one of her many hilariously titled ‘IT’S ALL ABOUT ME’ photo albums, only to find a friend request from her in my inbox an hour later.  I even stopped posting status updates and would just sporadically pop up a few ‘check-ins’, if only to prove I was still alive and then only if I happened to be near something hilarious and unexpected - Like ‘The Well Woman Clinic’ or, ‘A Job’. This, yet again, made me as fulfilled as a chronic porn addict whose Mickey had just fallen off in the shower. So, I did it.

I ‘deactivated’ my social network Facebook account thingy.

Of course, I’d love to say ‘I deleted it’ permanently or that  I ’Forever removed’ my account, but I did not. I can’t. Nobody can. Facebook says sorry to see you go, and then asks some nonchalant questions as to why you’re leaving, like some sort of subservient hand-beaten wife who’s just relieved you didn’t take the house with you, and it lets you drift off, half knowing you’ll be back anyway. If you ever login again, Facebook will suddenly start making parping noises and drop balloons whilst welcoming you back in a pathetic, almost embarrassing, attempt at repatriation.

‘We’ve been counting down the days until you came back!!!’ It’ll whimper, as it steals your vitals and sells them to Google.

If you don’t attempt to login again it’ll mail you and put on the puppy dog eyes. It’ll say ‘Weeee wissss wuuuu!!! Booooooo’ and/or create a vast terrorist background based on your identity and pass it on to the CIA. It’s that serious folks.

I’m a day into my latest attempt at ridding myself of the worst social scourge since the plague and already I’m seeing the benefits. I rang someone today. By telephone. We talked about stuff and I found out what they did yesterday. I would of course have known what they were doing yesterday quite easily if I still had Facebook, but when someone sexually abuses a dog and writes a bagpipe sonata about it, I prefer to hear about it, first hand.. And as I hung up on Westy, I thanked him for telling me.

Farewell Facebook (until Saturday, probably)

Tuesday, July 5, 2011


Friends, I have discover the scret to everlasting rigidness. With a combination of herbs and a wink from Derk Davis, the international sailing superstar, we have offered to you the wholesome result that combines big happy with emotional revolution. Make your lady lover go 'pop' with our full regime. We give tablet to you, for oral consumptioning, and you go 'woop'. Sending money is easily easy. Euros in envelope can evade strict protocol buy being gently scented with elephant mucks. After 3 months to an 12 yearage, we will dispatch your prize to your very own home, where you live with your penis.

Irish friends, of the emerald, do not wait. You have a chance to become a giant on the street and even pants will not help retain your honour. Draw a pictue of the result, as a tour bus crashes due to your maculine virility. You now have power, and we have money.

Captains, muscular hairdressers and ex cricket umpires have all said 'yes' to our questions, so why don't you do the same positive answering outburst too?

We have the passion and history of giving to the males a future of outward glory. This is your dance too.

Please do not tell the ploice, as they are jealous.

Wang O'Gettigan
C/O Muppy Sam Derivitives

(Disgrace, tired of spam and perhaps ready to return)

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

Love and Hake

Daithi O’Se is allegedly Ireland's most eligible bachelor. He ‘presents’ RTE’s afternoon lifestyle tour-de-force ‘Four Live’ with an intense mixture of off-the cuff-banter, wildly ill informed comments and strange gurgling animal noises. He has hosted the Rose of Tralee, is an outspoken judge on the All Ireland Talent Show, and regularly globe-trotts for TG4. He was also the face of Bord Bia's healthy eating fish promotion, where he famously uttered the line 'Hake, so simple, even I can cook it', which apparently had Hakes everywhere going weak at their fishy knees. With such a reputation, National Disgrace couldn't wait to meet the man and ask him a few questions.

Typical Breakfast?

Jaysus, breakfast?? I’ve barely time to shove old Daithi junior into the old Y-fronts before I’m out on the field. When you’re face down in your lucky charms or your FLAHAVANS I tell ya, I'm usually up to the elbows in cow shit getting the auld bainne ready. Then I suppose, seeing as I’m always up for a laugh, it’s back to the house for a hooley!!

If you could be anywhere right now, where would it be?

Ridin’ Clare Byrne bareback around Montrose wearing nothing but one of those county headband things you see at the all-Ireland.

I'm sorry?

Ah, a family show eh? Begog! OK so, sucking diesel at the Ballinasloe turf cutting championships with a mighty big mug of stout in my lamha! Yum Yum Yum.. love the auld black stuff... Rhianna would be my favourite.

What is your comfort food?

I horse down the old Bacon and Cabbage when I’m feeling a bit low. Raw like.

What website do you look at most?

Are you trying to get me into trouble (laughs uncontrollably and nervously deletes the browsing history on his laptop). Aman’t I always surfing the RTE website and!!! 

How often do you exercise?

I go for a bit of a gallop every morning, just around the field.. 

What do you watch on TV?

You remember ‘Hands’ on Telefis Eireann? Be the Hokey, I’m glued to the TV when it comes on.. I have a pair of hands meself, as Claire Byrne knows, so I have a bit of an auld affinity with it.. I also like that Television X channel.. all the young ones wearing next to nothing and turning the air blue.. be Janey, I lock the sitting room door for that to be sure.. Yeeee Haaaw!

What Irish person do you most admire?

Bibi Baskin and then I suppose me auld chara Dustin. I tell ya, I’d rather have that Turkey running the Dail than the clowns in charge now. What? ha ha ha ha ha ha ... There’s a very good reason we don’t eat clowns on Christmas Day you know. Can you imagine? Bernie, this dinner tastes a bit ‘funny’... ha ha.. you can have that one... UP THE WHEST!!

What Irish person do you least admire?

Larry Murphy, the convicted Rapist.. not his biggest fan to be honest. I tell ya, he wouldn’t lasht a shecond down the Whest.. And Bono.. or Oh-No as I like to call him... Terrible bore. He should stick to the tunes and drop all that save the blind trees stuff.

How punctual are you?

I’m always where I need to be, when I need to be!! You could set your clock by me in fact, shure amant I here now and all!

What word or phrase do you overuse?

Get up the yard/Lovely Hurling/You’re a fine looking horse.

What is your favourite shop?

McGettigans general stores in Abbeymara. If it’s a plaster for an auld cut or just a loaf of bread for the sambos, good old Ying Wang will have it. A real old traditional Irish shop and shadly, one of the lasht around... Ying Wang if you’re listening, ‘half a pound of Kerrymaid!’ YE MAD THING!

What was the last text you sent?

‘Giddy Up’ to Claire Byrne.

What radio station do you listen to?

Radio Na Gaeltachta.. And Spin when I’m up with the BIG SCHMOKE and fancy a bit of an auld shuffle.

Are you good with credit cards?

I’m BRUTAL TO BE HONEST. Went wild at Christmas on the EBAY and the old AMAZON and bought all sorts of yokes for the kids and the like.. Give me a mattress and a wad of manky auld punts any day!!

What was your best holiday?

Trabolgan, hands down, 1973.. I made shite out of the pitch and putt course though, golfing with a hurley isn’t as easy as it looks!

How long does it take you to get ready

I’m always ready.. As my old pal Fr Seery used to say, ‘always wear your Wellies to bed Daithi, I like you in them’. Great advice and now I hop up every morning ready to take on the world, rain shleet or snow.

What is your biggest regret?

Not kissing Brenda Shaughnessy at the school dishco back in 1986.. I believe she got hit by a car a few weeks later on the Manorberry road, just outside Athy. A Datsun Cherry it was too.

What can you not live without?

My heart and lungs and brain. I could probably do without the auld legs and arms, but I’d be fairly down about it to be honest, and not just literally!! 

When did you last use public transport?

I hitched a ride on Skuller Delaneys horse and cart last Wednesday on me way to mass.

What do you worry about?

Blight, a return to the old days of British rule, the collapse of the dome in Tralee and resulting untimely death of all the Roses, and of course the auld electric bills.. It’s fierce dear and all that.. I remember when it cosht nothin, back before electricity!

Who did you last vote for?

Mary Byrne on the X-Factor. Horsh of a woman.. but be jaysus the tits on her!!

What would you do if you won the Lotto?

I’d go down the road to O’Mearas and buy a round for the locals and then I’d build a giant statue of my Mickey on the M6 outside Galway.

What time do you go to bed at?

About 3am, and then afterwards, I’ll go home!! Go on ye chancer eh!! Fancy a bit yourself do ye? 


Saturday, April 2, 2011

Red Lines (Don't Do It)

A trip on the Luas Red Line - Cert 18 - 41 minutes - Horror/Scat

There is a shocking scene in 'National Disgraces guide to the Red Line Luas' (essentially a summary of his many journeys on said public transport system since his extradition to Suburbia 6 months ago, written as a pretend movie review) where two ‘ladies’ of the skobie persuasion take the romantic lead, in a warts and all (literally) display of human debasement, for all fellow passengers to see. It was a lunch moving scene, where our two ‘heroins’ tongue wrestle each other, becoming one, and in turn cause every other passenger to question their own existences. This vomit riser sums up the Red Line Luas; Disgusting, and not at all sexy.

But it’s not like you’ve been lulled into a false sense of security though. The opening credits are barely over when the journey delivers its first sick twist. With obvious reference to George A Romero, passengers are seen as a blur trying to negotiate a minefield of the Undead and risking life, limb and handbag as they attempt to get off the ‘Square’ Luas platform to the relative safety of the tram itself. Romero’s Zombies have been given a modern makeover here, decked in leisure clothing and carrying strange urine coloured liquids in what were once Coca Cola Bottles, the Luas ‘Undead’ move quicker and can actually eject something resembling language. It’s terrifying, and you can sense the fear of each passenger as they pray the automatic doors nearest to them doesn’t open before it takes off. And so the scene has been set. If you thought this was going to be a pleasant travelogue, you’re wrong. Every time the tram speeds up, you share the relief of the passengers. But with sickening regularity, it begins to dawn on them that rather than getting away from danger as fast as they can, they’re actually hurtling towards it. Stop after stop, Skobie after skobie. Even the pre-recorded voice informing us of the next destination has an unnerving quiver in her voice. At one stage she says "Next stop", screams quite piercingly, goes a bit silent, and finishes with a whispering, paranoid "Fatima.." and all that can be heard when the tram makes its arrival at Four Courts is the sound of someone running away very, very fast.

It’s not a subtle journey, or an enjoyable one. But there are moments of comic relief. A group of girls arrive on at Kylemore, and in whatever confusion their life has brought (house being raided perhaps) they actually came out in their pyjamas. This raises a smile on the passengers faces, albeit only temporarily, as our ‘sleeping beauties’ are clearly not to be messed with. The dialogue shifts, like the scenery, to something more grey and industrial. There’s not so much poetry of the words as a total absence of any warmth. A full scale to and fro about thrush and the vital differences between STD and STI’s are ping-ponged around the carriages at astonishing volume. Some people are banging at the windows, trying franticly to get the attention of drivers, others bless themselves beneath showers of tears. The tram passes a church, which somehow even manages to look away sadly, in that way that a large church does

It’s only in the final quarter that they turn the horror up to 11. The arrival at ‘James Hospital’ signals the beginning of the trips frightening final stages. Like in many chilling classics, when day becomes night and good gives way to evil, the last stop before we enter the North Side is teased at us agonisingly. A last shot at freedom, those brave enough to take leave now, know that they’ll be spared ‘the crossing of the Liffey’ but in reality they’re only swapping one kind of horror for another. The evil ensemble is replenished here, for the journeys last acts, and the really big scares are introduced. Semi-bandaged, still connected to drips and some even in theatre gowns, one imagines the hospital of the damned has opened its doors and a mass evacuation has occurred. Clever sound effects add to the claustrophobic drama. Groans float above your head, sorrowful and heavy. What sounds like a chainsaw turns out to be two eyeless Skangers engaged in a noisy altercation. It’s a masterstroke of tension as the tram fills up. Once you see the water of the river pass underneath all hell breaks loose. I won’t spoil the ending, but what happens at the ‘Four Courts’ is so shocking that this writer was left thinking about ending it all with a fistful of popcorn. And the infamous lesbian scene. Much will be written of it. Was it a step too far to see two deathly thin women, each sporting a variety of lesions and bruises (as if to say beauty is more than skin deep) embrace so passionately? As their saliva stuck to their battered skin, forming little glistening pools on their faces, do we see ourselves in the reflection?

I certainly didn’t, as I was too busy vomiting.


Wednesday, March 9, 2011


I’ve been on a soul searching mission to Budapest for the last 10 days so I thought I’d least pop up a post for practically the entire planet not to read. I’ve come for a number of reasons, not least for a holiday, but mostly just to hang out with myself, something I haven’t done in a while. I mean I like myself and all, but I took some convincing that I was the right person to go away with. In the end I settled the debate with a good old fashioned game of rock paper scissors, which considering I was competing with myself proved one thing at least – that I needed a good holiday.

I’ve been here before, twice, and I’ve yet to get a handle on the place. It’s obviously a beautiful city with all the requisite requirements; amazing architecture, stunning women and cheap beer, but I still find it the most alien of places I’ve ever been (and remember, I used to go to college in Dundalk). Simple acts like ordering food, buying metro tickets, and explaining to the police why your pants just happened to fall down outside the local school aren’t easy when you’re a simple Irish folky with barely enough English let alone Hungarian to get by. But that was my mission. Avoid anywhere that had stag parties. Avoid anywhere that advertised a ‘tourist menu.’ Avoid schools within a mile radius of a police station.  Instead I ate in working men’s cafeterias. I drank in only bars that had a dog at the bar. A school is a school though.

Sure I went to the Citadel and walked around the Castle District, and I paraded my milky skin to all and sundry at many of the outdoor baths, but it was snowing, so I may have gotten away unnoticed.  I tried conversations with the locals, some went well, and others didn’t (long story). I went to local markets and bought pink meaty stuff that could literally have been anything and cooked it in my apartment. I ate giant sausages with suspicious origins. I sat in small cafes and read books and watched people do their stuff. And again, it all felt good. I also did something I wanted to do for a long time, I wrote a particular short story, and then I mailed a friend of mine (coincidentally, a Hungarian) who used to produce a soap opera here and suggested we get together and do something with it. It’s about this guy who goes to Budapest see, and hangs around outside schools and the like.

People go away all the time. Some go with friends, family and loved ones. Some go on business, but some spend their time in an airport hotel, with only a stamp on their passport and an in-flight magazine as a memory. And then some go to exorcise ghosts, some go to get away from it all and some because it’s something to do. I guess I did all of the above, and I guess I’ll do it again. Cos when you’re haunted by something, there’s generally always a ghost to get rid of.

And sometimes getting away from it all makes you realise that.

I’m home on Friday though, which means curry night and the Late Late.

Monday, February 14, 2011

Heart Shaped Box

It's Valentines Day. I'm eating Ambrosia Creamed Rice and watching Nationwide. I had an operation on my arse last September that shows no sign of healing. I'm living in my sisters boxroom and my 10 year old nephew occasionally whispers 'loser' to me through the crack in the door. That'll do for now.