National Disgrace

TV3 and BBC NI Spring Schedules

2012-01-17T13:48:00.000-08:00

Written down on a pack of Major, and secretly delivered toDisgrace in an infamous Glory-Hole in Supermacs Galway, TV3 have launched theirlatest Spring schedule. I think you’ll agree, emigration has never seemed so desirable.

Also, after receiving a coded message from a raspy voicedUlster-man, we can also reveal the new BBC Northern Ireland listings, underthe threat of death of course.

BBC NI Spring Season Highlights:

The Sex Counties – Aprovince divided by religion, yet unified by its love of all things carnal.Tonight, borders prove no barrier to romance, when a man attaches a telescopicdevice to his wee member and makes relations with a catholic in Dundalk

Border Collie – Crime drama about a dog who patrols theborder crossing in Monaghan. Tonight: Ringo (that’s his name) is run over bytrain

Pipe Up! – Celebrating the best in local pipe bands. Todaywe meet the Falls Road Pipers, who quickly demonstrate that rather than‘blowing pipes’ for musical enjoyment, they prefer to ‘blow up’ pipe bombs, forkilling enjoyment - Featuring ‘Shultz’s Apricot Sonata’ on brass.

Orange Orders – CCTV footage of people ordering orangedrinks from various pubs in the province

NI on film –‘ The Lord, the Lover and the Massive Car Bomb’– Emotional tour-de-force about a want-away lord, who falls in love, buys a carand gets blown up. The twist is that it’s not necessarily in that order!

The Northern Irish News from Northern Ireland on BBCnorthern Ireland (not available in Northern Ireland) – News Flash – Man showsarse on bus in Belfast, sheep gives birth to chicken in Down and multipledecapitations at Windsor Park fail to ruin Milk Cup final

UTV news accidentally broadcast on BBC NI news – A Catholicwins a fun run in Manor-quigley, two tourists are released unharmed from awarehouse in Lugran and Gerry Kelly reveals his darkest secret

Sports results – Fermanagh Cowboys have beaten theCrossmaglen Paedos in a game of Hockey, whilst a group of youths have beatensome old people in a game of violence. Also, Linfield have done stuff too.

Snow Patrols Gary Lightbody talks about... Marxism – Soppysong-smith Gary Lightbody performs acoustic renderings of favourite Marxist mantras.Tonight, ‘The Giants Causeway is ours forever’ and ‘Give a Southy Some Celery’

TV3: Spring has sprung:

Hammered! – Saucy Ulster comedy. Finbar’s decision to rentan inflatable castle from the Orange Order Children’s Party Commission becauseit was cheaper than the other options goes off without a hitch, but when itexplodes, killing all his children, he’s left staring at the saved pennies witha forlorn look on his face. Meanwhile, ‘up the road’. Angus is left in a quandary,sorry, I mean, Angus is left in a QUARRY. His body, that is.

Tullamore Housewives – Inspired by hit US show ‘Real Womenof South California’ TV3 launch their new reality based TV show about the worldof Tullamore Wives (Twilfs) – Tonight, Bernie bakes a cake for the GAAfundraiser, Bridget slips in silage and damages her elbow and Concepta’s sonsurprises everyone by stealing his father’s legally held shotgun and holding upa Centra

Half Past Seven – Entertaining look at a clock at exactlyhalf past seven

Sing like you’re whinging – Talent show where we forgo thetalent and concentrate on the back-stories that make us all cry. Tonight Brianfrom Galway dazzles us with his show of grief for his dead grandmother beforebreaking down during a clay pottery demonstration, and a former Christianbrothers priest arrives on stage to entertainingly confess some heinous crimesbefore breaking down backstage in an emotional display of expert juggling

Peig Sayers on... – The legendary Islander is resurrected(Mark Cagney in charity shop women’s clothing and his wife's make-up) to interview some ofIrelands most important PUBLIC figures about important issues – Tonight Peigtalks to Brian Kennedy about the Buttevant train disaster and probes Enda Kennyabout.. Well, actually, she just probes him.

GEE – TV3 presentsthe Irish version of the (s)hit US show Glee – (might want to delete the ‘s’there before publishing, LOL – Ed) – Head of Irish Special Olympics Mary Davisis the guest star and immediately finds offence in the performance of the ABBAclassic ‘the winner takes it all’ suggesting that everyone should get a prize.Also some shit people sing some shit songs for all the shits out there thatlike shit TV

Mrs Whites Boys – TV3’s thinly veiled ‘homage’ to RTE’s MrsBrowns boys’ gathers apace in the latest episode entitled ‘It’s all White!’-Barry accidentally leaves chewing gum on the toilet seat leading his mother toget stuck during her morning constitutional. Cue hilarity, and a life changing punchline, ‘I’m stuck on the jacks’

Premiere – Proud to announce that TV3 are the firstterrestrial network in the world to show the latest Angela Lansbury movie‘Tears of my daughter’ – Filmed in 1986 but not given a release until 2008,this taught thriller stars Ted Danson as a man who believes his daughter is thereincarnation of his dead wife, even though his wife is not dead, and he has nodaughter. Cue much suspicion from his wife (Angela Lansbury) and his daughter (alsoplayed by Angela Lansbury) and Angela Lansbury who is played by both his wifeand daughter. (1986, Dir. Fred West. Sepia)

Hammered - The NI comedy is back with a bang. Literally, theentire cast is killed by a car-bomb, left in a car, outside the studio. Whichironically had a strictly no car-bomb policy!

Gary Glitter on.. Two little boys – Singing superstar Gary Glittertells us why he loves two little boys, the hit song made famous by Rolf Harris

Occupy Dame Street

2011-11-16T14:00:00.000-08:00

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.

TV3 Autumn Schedule 2011

2011-08-20T08:37:00.000-07:00

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.

Oh, Áras

2011-08-03T12:59:00.000-07:00

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

Status Update

2011-07-14T16:25:00.000-07:00

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)

MAKE YOUR THING GROW BIGGER

2011-07-05T15:09:00.000-07:00

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)

Love and Hake

2011-04-06T04:10:00.000-07:00

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 upthewhest.com!!!

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?

INTERVIEW ABRUPTY ENDED. GUARDS CALLED.

Red Lines (Don't Do It)

2011-04-02T06:45:00.000-07:00

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.

3/10

Budapest

2011-03-09T16:55:00.000-08:00

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.

Heart Shaped Box

2011-02-14T11:51:00.000-08:00

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.

An Irish Christmas Tale

2010-12-21T16:35:00.000-08:00

It was Christmas Eve. A soft light entered the room like a tip-toeing sex beast as a winter symphony of snow, throwing itself against the window, distant sleigh bells and the tortured screams of somebody being bottled, played out. The air was filled with festive scents. Mince Pies fresh from the oven sent their delicious aroma around the house like a fast-spreading gas leak, teasing as they did, every sleeping and twitching nose. It wouldn’t be long until Santa arrived thought nobody in particular as they snuggled even closer to their various warm bedfellows. Mum held Dad. Little Jenny held her teddy. Fr Murphy held Bobby. It was night of magic, a night of love and a stern warning to Bobby not to wear a mini-skirt to mass ever again.

The snow was getting heavier as Christmas Eve gave way to Christmas Day. Children slept with smiles on their faces (except maybe Bobby) as they dreamt, imagining they could hear Rudolph trotting about proudly on the roof. Some probably weren’t dreaming, it could indeed have been Rudolph up there, but most likely it was a someone from the bank coming to repossess the house or at the very least, one of their debt stricken parents looking for a good height from which to hang a noose. It was a time of peace, of hope and a stern warning to little Bobby to go a little easy on the eye make-up at the Parish Fair next time.

But of course, for every happy Christmas and every smiling child there are some unhappy Christmases and not very smiley children doing frowns. For every Mince Pie there’s a ‘Bin Pie’, which is just stuff from a bin like old paper and potato peel and there’s usually no pastry, just like soup, but there’s no soup either. For every Rudolph there’s the family dog crudely made up to look like a reindeer and parading around in a dignity crushing attempt to brighten up your sorry little holiday period. And for every Santa there’s no Santa. Children around the country waking up to nothing. No presents, no food, and in Bobby's case, no underpants.

Don’t forget the true spirit of Christmas. Brought to you by Fianna Fail and the Irish Catholic Church.

Merry Christmas.

Snow Hope

2010-12-01T07:53:00.000-08:00

Did you know that in Russia and China (and probably loads of other sinister places that we sometimes see popping up on the news between interviews with Brian Lenihan and pictures of empty and decaying housing estates) they do this funny thing with the weather whenever there’s a really special event on; they change it.

It’s true. I know it for a fact cause I read somewhere on the web that China regularly fire some sort of chemical into the sky that actually disperses the clouds and allows them to continue violating human rights in public, without risk of getting a bit wet. I’ll bet Guantanamo Bay has the least precipitation of anywhere in the world too. I mean, when you’re being really unsympathetically buggered by a frothy marine from Omaha, getting your hair wet would literally add too much insult to injury. It’s a well known fact, according to some sketchy internet information I found on some message board somewhere that the Russians developed the stuff in order to ensure military parades and the like went off without even a hint of drizzle. And I’m sure Boris Yeltzin's infamous BBQ’s were equally successful in warding off the inclemency’s of the weather too.

So, despite the resounding evidence that our leaders are barely capable of spelling ‘cloud’, I put it to you, yes you there reading this, that we’ve been engaged in a bit of weather manipulation too. I mean it makes perfect sense, in an Irish way. And, although I haven’t yet thought this through, I reckon there’s precedent in our history as well, which I will come back too after I’ve written this next bit. But yeah, think about the last few months. You don’t need me to tell you, but if you’ve just got off the bus from Roscommon, let’s just say that the country went broke, needed to bailout the banks, took a big huge loan from the EU, IMF and some other nice countries and are now tied almost rigidly to a fixed 5 years of fiscal dictatorship, if you catch my ‘drift’. So, the heat in the kitchen is getting really hot, and the entire country are knocking at the window shouting ‘turn it down, it’s roasting’ and stuff and what’s the best way to deal with that? Yes, you’ve guessed it. Some advanced weather modification. Hence, we’ve all been turned from angry clenched-fisted peasants to grinning snow jockeys, flapping about with snowmen whilst the pricks that ruined the country are getting their passports stamped.

Now, I’m pretty sure that some outside help was required here. I doubt Batt O’Keefe is an expert in weather changing, although I have heard that he once conducted a rain dance in Ballincollig that locals say might have worked 'where it not for the nudity and gross acts of animal bothering’, so I’m pretty sure some top cloud making guru was flown in at great expense and told to produce the snowy goods.

Some people will say the usual ‘isn’t it great to have something to cheer us up’ and ‘with all this negativity, maybe this will help us forget our problems’ and in a way, they’d be total fuckwits for doing so. Forgetting about these problems is the worst thing we can do, we need to remember, because if you forget that you’re broke and finished and the contents of your fridge are worth more than your house you could find yourself in some very embarrassing situations. Like at an auction after bidding and winning on a Picasso or at the till in Tesco with a hundred thousand euro worth of groceries.

It’s snow joke people, it’s snow joke.

TV3 Bailout Special

2010-11-22T07:53:00.000-08:00

7 AM - Morning has broken, so is this Country - Mark Cagney greets the nation like only he can (gimp suit) in this special recession edition of the deeply unpopular and offensive breakfast show. Today Chef Neven McGuire cooks a ‘bailout breakfast’ of steamed newspaper and old twigs whilst music is provided by the band from the Titanic.

10 AM - How cheap is your house? - We meet a Dublin family who had it all; A beautiful 6 bed in Gorey which was just 2.5 hours from work, a shop and crèche that was literally only three bus rides away and a mortgage that was four times their monthly wage, and then lost it all when they realized what a pair of fuckwits they were.

11 AM - Varadkar! - Lively magazine show where ‘our’ Leo invites feuding families on the show to sort out their problems, live on air. Today chaos abounds after Leo removes his trousers to prove a point and Joan Burton continually makes fog-horn noises from the crowd.

12 PM - From Boom to Bust - We look at the effect of large explosions on women’s breasts. Sponsored by nobody.

1 PM - Lunchtime - Badly needed lunch for the employees of TV3; all four of them will be back at two after a recession busting 'hang sang and cuppa cha' in the TV3 'canteen' (bus shelter on Ballymount Rd) with loads of really shit news and wrong weather.

2 PM - Merkels about! - Angela Merkel and her candid camera continue to surprise unsuspecting members of the public with the usual hilarious results. In this episode she sneaks up on Taoiseach Brian Cowen as he showers, rather surprisingly likes what she sees and then makes a particularly sordid sex tape.

3 PM - Ant and Dec on... The Irish Debt crisis - Sobering chat from the two Geordies on how Ireland got caught up in a property bubble, what it needs to do to repair the economy and why a good old gunking and a fiddle about in a bucket of worms can help us all forget about our problems.

4 PM - Noonan’s Nuggets - Sinister voiced Michael Noonan reads from his collection of horrific tales, in his horrifically sinister tale telling voice. Tonight he terrifies us with the spookily titled 'Enda’s naked tribal dancing' and 'Brutons quivering buttocks'. Sponsored by Milk.

5 PM - Take Me Out! - Special recession edition of the hit dating show. Tonight a member of the public gets a chance to 'take out' one of 15 of Irelands 'hottest' politicians, with a semi-automatic shotgun and/or hammer.

6 PM - Oh Vincent - Family sitcom starring Vincent Browne - Tonight Vincent brings a girl home to meet his parents but after a lengthy standoff with the Gardai he is forced to release her safely, but he later cooks a lasagna and eats it.

6.30 PM - Hammered! - Special crisis episode of the Northern Comedy: Tonight: Ollies mortgage worries ease slightly after he his killed by loyalists outside the community centre whilst on the ‘other side’ Marty’s choice of Halloween costume (Provo uniform) goes down badly at the Orange Order get together, not least because Halloween was last month, but mostly because they kill him stone dead.

7 PM - Me so Harney - Fly on the wall documentary that follows the Minister for Health Mary Harney as she goes about her daily business. Tonight a revolving door causes a major scare and Mary is pelted with eggs after an oireachtas meeting leaving her bemoaning the lack of bread in the ministerial car for ‘eggy soldiers'

8 PM - Kilmore - He won't cut welfare, but he might slash your face. The thriller that has everyone talking continues as our anti-hero Eamon ‘Kilmore’ continues his murderous rampage across Ireland. Tonight a bingo hall mourns the loss of its caller and last years 'full house' champion after foolishly agreeing to a labour party fundraiser hosted by, you’ve guessed it.

9PM – FILM Anglo-Grinder – Disturbing horror about a group of grotesque pin-striped fat-cats who lure innocent victims into their lairs by offering free money before quickly launching themselves at them and sucking their blood, eating their faces and playing Frisbee with bits of their corpses before disappearing to somewhere where they blend in, in other words, the USA. (2009, Irish Taxpayer)

11 PM - Ghost Estate - Horror starring Thelma Mansfield who attempts to battle demons when her house doesn't simply get re-possessed, it gets possessed!! wooo-oooo.

12 MIDNIGHT – TV3 ORGY – seedy orgy in the usual place guys. Someone make sure the doors are locked to keep Halligan out. (EDIT – make sure you DO NOT somehow accidentally put this in the TV listings guys. ED)

Television and the Worthless Loser

2009-11-15T14:40:00.000-08:00

According to the statistics, there's double the amount of jobless men in Ireland than women. This obviously doesn’t include stay-at-home mothers and high class prostitutes, but still is an interesting marker. What all of this means is that roughly the same amount of penises as breasts spend their day lurking about the house in pitiful states of self-loathing.

As of today, daytime television is 87% geared towards women. This means that the dominant of the jobless species – the man, is subjected to daily reminders of just how worthless his life is. For a woman to be out of work, it’s like a holiday. There’s more TV shows about shoes and curtains than they can ever absorb, and I’m pretty sure they wake every morning with the giddy anticipation that only the early morning repeat of yesterdays ‘Afternoon Show’ can provide. Men meanwhile are best advised not to surface until 6.1 starts. Should they rise earlier they will have to either endure Dr Phil, Jeremy Kyle, multiple ‘How Clean is your house?’ and hours of programming subtly informing them how much of a loser they are. The rest of the listings, especially RTE2, is aimed towards children. Unless you live in Thailand, children are exempt from unemployment. Daytime, they should be in school, or down a mine, but not flicking through the channels.

All of this suggests that TV programming is all over the shop. Their target audience isn’t watching, Most home bound females will already be through their second bottle of Rosé by the time ‘Doctors’ has started it marathon afternoon run and the sort of children that don’t go to school will be up to their little necks in superglue down the park. That leaves men. Well, a casual flick of the remote will reveal nothing in the line of macho TV. No meaningful sport is aired on weekdays, no explosion filled blockbusters come on at breakfast and there’s little in the way of tits before Nationwide.

It’s no wonder that we all go to the Pub at 12.

This is the News

2009-11-08T15:03:00.000-08:00

They say no news is good news, not perhaps if you’re waiting for an urgent liver donation or the details of the whereabouts of a much loved family pet that had a penchant for biting moving tyres, but otherwise that old cliche is particularly true. Good news however is super. Good news is quite simply good news and way better than no news. Bad News though, is mostly flirting with the negative. Except for TV3 news, which is so bad it’s actually good news, bad news is generally just bad news, but bad news is good news occasionally, especially if you’re Sky News.

“Any News?”

“No”

“you’re fired”, says the director to Anne Doyle.

Today I had good news. I was expecting bad news, because in Disgraceland the cup is always half on fire, and was pleasantly surprised by it. I cracked a smile, stuck out my belly and blew a cheeky raspberry at my reflection.

That’s why I’ve gone mad.

The Grimes Twins

2009-10-30T10:19:00.000-07:00

If I was the Grimes Twins Father, I’d have them both shot. I’d send them to a borstal. I’d pay a Limerick man to spring on them with a bicycle chain. I’d have them help me pour concrete for a new 'patio' in the garden and try to convince my wife that she's gone crazy and that we never even had kids when she wonders where they are. I’d spend 10 years studying orbital-mechanics just to be able to build a rocket in which to blast them into space. I’d get them a pet bear for their room and goad him with insulting text messages until he finally goes berserk. I’d have them boiled. I’d encourage them to bathe, face down, with a rucksack of bricks and toasters on their backs. I’d paste their faces onto tins of dog food and gradually train the pet Doberman to think of them as food. I’d invite disgraced priests for sleep-over's.

Think that’s cruel? Just about to dial the Garda confidential hot-line or are you already on Joe Duffy?? Well, before you say anything, have a think. Which is worse – the above litany of poor parenting, or the one which the two boys are already subjected to?

You see, pushing these boys onto X-Factor is a million million times worse that any of my evil suggestions.

Throw an industrial sized pot of hair gel into the air and you’ll hit someone who truly hates them. Their arrogant swagger. Their atrocious singing. The hair. They are a joke, actually, they are two jokes. But it’s not their fault.

When you’re 17, you’re pretty much the biggest dickhead ever to walk the planet. You’re a grade A knob-end, thinking you know everything. You’re brainless, clueless and need constant monitoring in case you do something very foolish. It’s with the grace of god and some good parenting that you emerge the other side a better person. When your life eventually makes sense, at around the 29 mark, you’ll look back at your younger, slimmer self and laugh. The poor Grimey Twins won’t be able to do that, because after the constant abuse they have been receiving on the show and the fact that they’ll always be defined at ‘those vertical haired Irish fucktards who couldn’t hold a note if it had handles’, they’ll have killed themselves.

Their Father, who appears in the news almost as much as they do, should have pulled them off the show ages ago. It’s one thing seeing your sons prancing around the stage singing ‘Oops I did it again’ in cat-suits and it’s another altogether when you stand by and let them take the abuse.

Disgraceful, says Disgrace.

The Brides of Franc

2009-10-28T11:00:00.000-07:00

I don’t know if any of you have ever seen ‘Brides of Franc’ (RTE1 Tuesdays) but if you haven’t you should gouge out your eyes right now to save you from ever watching it. If you have seen it, and haven’t got around to removing your eyeballs just yet, you’re probably standing on the edge of a cliff replaying some final happy memories. A lack of eyes would also help at this juncture, as hurling yourself into the Atlantic at a horrifying speed will probably remind you so much of Franc and his assorted newly weds that it will ruin the sense of relief as you go one on one with the jagged rocks. Yes, ‘Brides of Franc’ is like the worst kind of suicide. One that lasts 30 painful minutes, is followed by Fair City and on again next week.

Franc is a ‘wedding designer’. He’s a camp, puffed up happy sort of chap who creates high profile, fun, couture and exclusive events. He’s internationally known, but so was Harold Shipman and the Challenger Space Shuttle disaster. He will turn your perfectly normal happy day into a seedy orgy of excess and sparkling things. And he’ll do it for less than treble the amount of money you actually have. Franc is sort of like a shirt-lifting Celtic Tiger. Even the name suggests horror. But, for all his flaws, Franc is not the worst thing about this show.

D&G are Dee and Graham. Their friends like to call them ‘Dolce and Gabana’ which Dee seems to wear as a badge of honour and not as a sandwich board of utter contempt and disrespect that their friends obviously meant. She says ‘Bling’ a lot and instructs Franc to make it ‘Razzle dazzle sparkle shiny glittery wow factor glamour’. She’s like a fucking Magpie, except she’s an orange. She’s a terrorist attack. Graham looks like an Aldi Simon Pegg and hasn’t seen his balls since their second date.

The theme is ‘Nightclub’. They’ve picked the venue, the Westin in Dublin. It has wonderful chandeliers apparently so Franc suggests mirrored tables, incredibly with a straight face, so the guests don’t have to bend their necks looking at the ceiling. Venue chosen, Graham then stars in an advert for Louis Copeland but Dee doesn’t think the chosen suit is bling enough. She stalls just short of asking if they have anything in solid gold. It’s heartfelt stuff, for a moment she almost weakens and acts like it’s not just her getting married.

“How’s the crotch G?” asks Louis

“A bit loose, but there's a good reason for that ”

Despite everything, the show actually plays out like a government warning advertisement. It’s a drink driving ad for obscene spending. They should have shown this show on repeat every hour on the hour every day for the last ten years. I swear, if they had, we’d all be doing fine now. We’d all have an economy and places to live. We’d still have our eyes.

It continues. Graham, possibly undergoing a nervous breakdown the day before the wedding, sends Franc out to buy him some shoes, under the flimsy pretence of being ‘busy’ at work.

“Preferably Runners Franc”, he should have said.

Dee is getting her digits hacked at and indulges in some pained cross-class conversation with her naildresser (or whatever they’re called), whilst Grahams friends hide all the cutlery and cordon off the balcony and settle down to some cigars and cards. Franc arrives at the hotel brandishing an ice sculpture with the iconic D&G carved into it. Despite admitting that the room is going to be ‘on fire’ with candles, the idea of something made of ice melting doesn’t seem to have registered with him. Until it melts that is.

Then Francs big surprise, a comedian. Not just any comedian, in fact not even a comedian. He’s wheels out Dave Young, a guy that is to comedy, what a terrifying sexual assault is to your communion day. Another reason to say goodbye to your sight.

And that's it. They get married. D&G become D&G and the economy lies in ruins. And seeing the icy D&G, which Franc probably carved with his money fuelled erection, turn to mush and drip all over the specially laid carpet, is simply a metaphor too far for this blogger.

Holy Mary Mother of Bejaysus

2009-10-26T08:13:00.000-07:00

They say that Sean Connery got the James Bond gig after his performance in Darby O’Gill and the little People. The Bond director Albert Broccoli was apparently so impressed that he was cast immediately. I wonder what it was about his portrayal of ‘Michael McBride’ that swung it in his favour? Maybe it was the accent, which was strangely closer to ‘stately Englishman’ than it was Irish anyway, or was it his stylish and almost 007-like dispatch of Pony Sugrue at the Rathcullen Arms. Either way, James Bond went from strength to strength and the Darby O’Gill series came to halt after the loss of its big star. Connery did briefly reprised the role once again in The Untouchables, where he even managed to whistle Danny Boy like a heartbroken leprechaun.

The legacy of all of this is that it seems that Darby O'Gill serves as a tutorial for all actors to study and perfect their Irish accents. Spaceman Tom Cruise must have got some inspiration from it for his role in ‘Far and Away’ – either that or by studying the mating call of the pigeon. Brad Pitt’s obscene brogue in ‘The Devils Own’ is credited with setting back the peace process by a dozen or so years. Julia Roberts has in the past demonstrated a wide array of accents, it’s just a shame she did them all in Michael Collins’. The list goes on. Kevin Spacey in ‘Ordinary Decent Criminal’, an accent that meandered back and forth from American to Semi-Scottish so much that Shannon Airport demanded a mandatory stop-over. Richard Gere wasn’t so much a man running from the troubles in ‘The Jackal’, as a man with a serious Helium addiction.

All of this got me thinking of an idea. It’s a bit out there though, and sorta radical.

How about hiring Irish actors to play Irish Roles!!

Mega-star Jason Barry, the guy who looked like he was a member of the film crew that forgot to get out of shot in Titanic, has assembled a motley crew of actors for his historical epic, Easter 16. Rather than learn the lessons of the past, Barry has pretty much guaranteed his place in ‘Oirish’ folklore already with his curious casting choices.

Chris O’Donnell, whose own contribution to the rape of the Irish Accent in ‘Circle of Friends’ was too heinous to mention above, has been drafted in to play that well known 1916 hero, ‘Ross’. He’s particularly happy with the scene where he storms the GPO with Monica and bravely fights off Chandler and Phoebe at Stephens Green.

Guy Pearce, the Australian, will play conveniently enough ‘Padraig Pearse’, just with slightly more of a tan, and perhaps with less children in the vicinity.

Another actor who’s passport is also lacking a harp is the one and only Anthony LaPaglia. His half Aussie, half Italian background will be perfect for his portrayal of the infamous free state rebel, ‘Spindler’.

Craig Kelly, an British actor famous for his antics on Coronation Street swaps the cobbles of Corrie for the cobbles of Temple Bar in his casting as 'Captain Hawkins'.

The kid from the abysmal and degrading ‘Millions’ will be ‘Spike’, whilst Oscar bother-er Nicola Charles swaps Ramsey Street for Grafton Street for her role as, well it’s not confirmed, but possibly Dev himself. This is the sort of thing that could break the United Nations people!

Shelly Goldstein is lined up to play ‘Sadie the Shawlie’. Sadie the fucking Shawlie??? What is this, the Disney version of the Rising? Oh look, here comes Captain Fluffy pants and the rest of the black and tans.

‘Rudi’ (a Mayo name I believe) will be played by up and coming British actor Neil Larson and lastly, but not leastly, but definitely thankfully, the much sought after role of 'Private Edwards' is to be ably filled by Trance DJ MARK TABBERNER!!

It's enough to make a Banshee wail!! (played by Denzel Washington)

Oh Mary..

2009-10-22T08:25:00.000-07:00

An extract from the latest Autobiography to be released by an Irish Politician?

Chapter 17, Eating Babies:

Despite being Minister for Health, it was my first time in the Mater Hospital. I’d always meant to drop in, but I just couldn’t find anyone to make me pregnant enough. In fact, I was on my way there last April, when I ordered my driver to stop after seeing an injured Swan struggling on the footpath near Portobello Bridge. I have a thing for Swans you see and I simply couldn't leave him lying there to die. Later, back in my kitchen, my driver also agreed that Swans were indeed great (although I like to think it was my special secret ingredient Pepper Sauce that made the dish!).

Anyway, I eventually accepted an invitation to visit the Mater and arrived there last June. The Mother Superior was lovely, if not quite seasoned enough, and showed me to the room she called ‘the Ward of Angels’. It was a wonderful experience, but a very sad one too. Dozens of glass cases with all sorts of machines attached to them hummed and buzzed in an otherwise serene silence.

‘These are incubators’ she added, almost sadly.

I stepped up to one of them and gazed in. I looked on in silence

‘When will this one be ready?’ I enquired, signaling to my driver to get my special bib…

TV3 - New Season

2009-10-19T17:09:00.000-07:00

Launching their new schedule at the Rape Crisis Centre earlier this week, TV3 announced a host of new, original, and '60% less racist than last year', programmes to keep you shivering through the Autumn months..

Here's a sample day, which will be repeated the following day and for a number of other days after.

Breakfast at Tiffany's – Tiffany is a 18 year old mother of three and has kindly invited us into ‘her’ ‘home’ (it’s owned by the council) for our new morning show. Expect lots of ‘crack’ (smoking and injecting) as Tiffany greets the yawning and waking nation in her own inimitable style. There'll be shouting, spitting, Pajama wearing, and lots of negative talk about people not born in Ireland. Sponsored by Hitler’s, Castlerea.

Brush, Twice Daily - Lively magazine show presented by Brush Sheils. Expect guests, adverts, some more guests, some more adverts, a cookery section, some more adverts, and a totally obscene solo masturbation segment from Brush himself. Part two later.

Xpose! – Halloween Special - Blood sucking vampires, horrific masks and bony skeletons!! A normal episode so? No, not quite, we also have a pumpkin in the background to celebrate Halloween, officially the ‘scariest’ holiday of the year! Boo!!!

‘Horse’ with laughter - Brand new show where we take an ordinary horse from an ordinary west Dublin household and make them into a comedy genius. Tonight; the audience are left cold after an overcooked political routine from a 2 year old Mare falls flat, and also because someone left the door open. Sponsored by Superglue.

Lunchtime News - 2 murders, a tax increase, a look at hospital bed shortages and a bomb in Burma!!

Alan Hughes, GAA superstar – TV3’s shining light continues his insightful series by becoming a GAA player for a week with Ballymun Kickhams. Tonight Alan is beaten quite close to death with hurleys, verbally abused by arriving at the North Dublin junior final in a frock, raises violent eyebrows for offering flowers to a referee after a late tackle and castigated by his own team for constantly trying to score at the ‘wrong end’.. That’s our Alan! Sponsored by Gypsum Concrete.

Hammered! - The comedy that puts the ‘sex’ back into the ‘sex counties’ and that continues to knaw at the sectarian bone, is back. In this episode Liam barely makes it past the prison gates before his limbs are sent into orbit by a well placed car bomb. Meanwhile, ‘across the bridge’, Maggie is left with a moral dilemma when she finds a loyalist in her wedding dress. Will she wed? Or will she bleed to death? In fact, she does both!

TV3 at the races - Even hardworking TV3 people like to bet their earnings on the ‘nags’. Back after the final race.

All I do each night is Pray - Fascinating Documentary featuring Maggie Moore, an 87-year-old woman from Derry who has spent the last 26 years in a sleepless state due to her addiction to Prayers. We interview a priest who says she’s a dead cert for heaven, unless she commits a heinous crime.

Chicken Corrie and Chips - Due to a contract dispute with the mainland we are unable to bring you today's Coronation Street, but we have cleverly side-stepped the issue by creating a mock up episode featuring real live chickens. In this show, Chic-Ken Barlow attacks the hen loft after a heavy rain shower and a few too many bourbons, and there’s blood on the cobbles when a cock fight at the Rovers spills out onto the street. Followed by a classic episode of Chips, if only just to tie the whole title thing up!

Chaos! Disaster!! Annihilation!!! - Ant and Dec present a sobering study on the global climate crisis by inviting several celebrities to take part in simulated ‘worst case’ scenarios. Former English Rugby captain Laurence Dallaglio is tied to a pole one mile out to sea in the Oslo fjord, just outside Oslo, to demonstrate rising sea levels, and Avengers star Honor Blackman is hit full in the face with a comet to demonstrate being hit full in the face by a comet. Please note a special fund has been set up for Laurence's family, a text donation number will appear after the show, which viewers in the ROI (wherever that is) will not be able to SMS.

Down by the ancient fairy tree, she cast a maidens wondrous shadow, whilst the elderly piper and his band challenged the moonlight to a dance, far far away in the coal black sky – Lengthy titled Music Show.

Brush, Twice Daily - Second installment of the day for Brush and the gang. In this episode we’re forced to come live from the Dole Office, as Brush was going to be delayed due to a lengthy queue!

A Film - "This Camel has the hump” – Even the ‘straight to DVD’ gang rejected this, and with reviews like ‘vile’, ‘vacuous and alarming’, ‘almost Nazi’ and ‘The scene where the camel slips in the shower is not only an insult to the Catholic Church, but also our intelligence’ it’s sure to raise an opinion with you. (1986, Spike Roderick)

Play TV – It’s prizes (or even SUR-PRIZES) galore in our late night interactive game show. Simply call the number, punch in your credit card details and you’re done! You’ve just won a nasty surprise when you statement drops through the letterbox next week!!

Nightvision - Exciting look at nighttime. Tonight’s episode - Complete
darkness.

What you don't know WILL kill you!

2009-10-18T14:55:00.001-07:00

After years of weighing up the pros and cons, I’m now in a position to declare: I don’t like being sick.

I guess it started when I emerged from my Mums womb (which is odd seeing as it was a caesarean) with all the athleticism of a wet towel. Yes, you’ve guessed it, I had the terrifying Yellow Jaundice. The writing was literally on the wall, although it did say ‘Maternity Ward’. But it may as well have said ‘See you soon Disgrace, even though this is the Coombe and all of your future illnesses will be dealt with in a proper medical type hospital, but you get the message right?’.

It was a long winded sign, but it was right.

I spent my pre-teens in a blur of revolving doors and ambulances. I had bendy toes that needed unbending and this involved first breaking them, then seeing how it went, and after realising they were probably better toes the way there were, them being broken back to their previous position. I wore glasses for a number of years at the advice of a family friend, who had little in the way of an optometrists qualification, and more in the way of a 'making me look like a cross-eyed nerd' degree. I had countless tonsillitis episodes. I once tripped and fell into wet cement with disastrous results. I caught blood poisoning after an unspeakable act with my first girlfriend under Templeogue Bridge. I’ve been hospitalised three times over complications with ingrown toenails. And then there was my now legendary sort-of heart attack.

The thing is, I breezed through all of these issues with grace, dignity and a carefree attitude that should have seen me pick up the Nobel prize for bravery. Of course, the reason I did so, is because when I had the misfortune to arrive at the above medical emergencies, I didn’t have the internet to self-diagnose myself with. I simply thought, ‘Yes, it’s normal for your toes to look like the Walkinstown Roundabout. There’s no reason to be alarmed at being able to see both your ears at the same time. Blood seeping from my eyeballs, no panic.. must have nicked myself shaving!’

Simple times, and I survived them all.

Nowadays, thanks largely to the internet, things are altogether different.

Throw a simple combination of ‘Sore Throat’ and ‘Slight Limp’ into Google and it automatically redirects you to the Fanagans Funeral Homes website.

I’ve had a cold of sorts for the last few weeks. In the past I’d simply come downstairs to my Mum and sniffle. She’d boil some 7-Up and soon I’d be right as rain and back, face down, in wet cement. Now, the internet is my mother. And it’s a bad parent (even though I still have a mother, and she's a good parent)

I possibly, (according the great search engine), have any of the following – Strep Throat, Leukemia, HIV, Swine Flu, Cancer, Scarlett Fever, Twins, Leprosy, Wood-rot, the Common Cold and/or an allergy to Bamboo.

‘What you don’t know won’t kill you’ is a clichéd expression, but it’s wrong. The stress that Google has caused me lately will most likely bring on one of the above illnesses.

In fact, if you type ‘What you don’t know, won’t kill you’ into a search engine of your choice you’ll be given an answer

“Although it probably will”.

Disgrace, 18 October, 2009. Sick.

Ulster says 'Yippe-Ki-Yay, Motherfucker'

2009-10-12T17:11:00.000-07:00

There was a time when UTV News had all the vital ingredients of a Hollywood Blockbuster. It would burst in half way through something like ‘Die Hard’ with headlines that would make Bruce Willis' antics look like a particularly mundane entry at the Chelsea Flower show.

Semtex festival ends in disaster for hundreds. ‘I saw it coming’ says Republican who planted the explosives’.

Corpse found on the moon believed to have been blown clean off a toilet in Strabane in 1979. ‘That's the last time I order a UVF Vindaloo’ claims relative'.

Even the sports news upped the drama:

20 dead as horse explodes in a crowded bistro. ‘I ordered the lamb’ explained one suddenly armless customer, ‘little did I know it would be a saddle!’.

Half time oranges replaced with grenades angers Linfield players. ‘I’ve been to an Orange lodge’ said one of the team, ‘but I’ve never had one LODGED up my arse’.

And the weather didn’t escape the shocks either,

Umbrellas prove futile as loyalists jump from rain cloud.

From Sub-zero temperatures to Sub-machine guns. Icy weather AND icy killers claims more lives. The Met office says wrap up tomorrow, preferably in something bulletproof”.

The Lotto Results didn’t even escape the troubles;

Tonight's winning numbers. '12 dead, 15 injured, 22 left with minor scars, 30 new additions to the council for the blind, ‘legs’ 11 people kneecapped and finally 1 person hung from the Harland and Wolf crane. That concludes our winning numbers.. Winners are advised to leave the country under cover of darkness or forever pay protection money'.

And then the dead donkey news, supposed to end the news of a light hearted note;

The Man nailed to a makeshift crucifix on the Falls Road was apparently a goalkeeper. According to teammates he was always ‘terrible with crosses’.

“Ha Ha, on that note, it's back to the late movie. More mindless violence and horrific killings. Tomorrow, on UTV live”.

Of course, things changed. The last ten years or so, Ulster news has been dominated with tame stories about economic issues, gay rights and minor maimings.. until tonight…

According to BBC NI Newsline,

“A man who was walking with his family, was attacked by a lively Stag. He was close to death when aid arrived in the form of an Ulster man, famed for cage fighting, who wrestled the animal to submission. The Stag was eventually shot by an ‘expert’ marksman".

They must be hard to come by in the North, expert marksman and cage fighters..

Good to have you back, Ulster!

Now, back to flower arranging with John McClane..

I've AD enough

2009-10-11T16:54:00.000-07:00

When the latest Muller advert breaks into song you might be forgiven for going postal on the nearest large gathering of people. To hear what appears to be a child but could well be an adult who has spent too much time slurping shit yogurt, sing ‘I’ve got my berries’ you’ll have lost all potential remorse and blown your Uncles head clean off with whatever weapon you’ve equipped yourself with. As an Irishman, as I am, to also hear that it comes direct from their farm in ‘Shropshire’ is about as relevant to me personally as a tampon. Or even a Muller tampon, with crunchy bits.

I hate advertising. All of it. It’s rubbish. Fakey might disagree, but his bread and butter is advertising, ‘today's bread today’ and ‘its feet will touch Irish soil first’ and all that, all it does is make my angry that they want my money. And i have no money, largely because of them in the first place.

Thankfully, we Irish haven’t don’t invest as much time into the big sing-song vibe that British Advertisers do. Take the such and such ad where a ‘wacky’ bunch appear in a park and sing Christmas songs to advertise whatever mindless shite it is they are advertising. Every demographic is dragged out, laughing at the hilarity of it all, instead of injecting heroin and selling knock off handbags like most of them do. The Cadbury ad where they imagine an island called ‘Chocolate Island’ with a Caribbean accent that would have Jar Jar binx blushing. The Avonmore ad with some Gaiety wannabe, her glasses on her head like some weird sacrifice to the Celtic Tiger, is as annoying as a milky brick in the face. The Oreo ad where a chilling injection of sexual tension between two 7 years old's encourages ‘dunking’ makes me want to invade Poland. The Meteor ad, which features two bona-fide fuckwits locked into a freezer has me reaching for the padlock. The Stena-line adverts, where they make the child speak like an adult instead of pushing him over the railings like they should, makes me sea-sick. The Guinness ad, ‘Arthur's Day’. Someone should develop a stout called Martha, cause from what I hear, there’s plenty of knobends who’d devour it. ‘To Martha’?? YOU ASSHOLE!

I could go on. And I will..

Coors light. ‘No they’re tears. Maybe he looked at head on you…”. Christ in a blender, this raises my blood pressure. I might just burn down Kielys now. I certainly won’t drink Coors anyway. Spar, Bertie and Louis. About as funny as the receipt you get after handing over the deeds of your house for some nappies in one of their shops. Ikea. ‘Oh my, look at our daughter!! she has turned up at her in a red dress, what a rebel’. Eh, folks? You’re heading for a Madeline McCann of your own if you have the sort of 7 year old that can go out and buy a dress by herself, and arrive independently at her own communion. ‘We have to make some cuts’ from Bulmers. How about starting with the ad?

Go Disgracey Go!

DO'very'LITTLE

2009-10-06T14:27:00.000-07:00

On the right are pictures from the Pixies Gig in the Olympia last Wednesday. Westy and I managed to grab them in the 60 seconds or so that the band actually remained on stage.

A lot has been written about these gigs in the Olympia. Firstly, it was marketed as a rare chance to catch such a legendary act in such an intimate environment. And that it was. It was also quite clear that it was a ‘Dolittle’ album tour, where the band would play all the tracks from that era, and in order. However, nowhere in the press did they mention you would be home in time for Eastenders or be treated to an astonishingly ignorant display from Frank Black.

At nearly €1 euro per minute, we may have been thankful that it ended so soon, but it would have been nice to know beforehand. Perhaps MCD could have told the people that this was a rehearsal tour for the UK/Europe leg, and would be bare bones and lacking in any frills. Perhaps, but then they would not have been able to charge as much. In Glasgow two nights ago, Pixies played 8 extra songs. They also had a state of the art visual display that they ‘forgot’ to bring to Ireland. They also charged a lot, lot less.. (Scotland, €32: Ireland €55).

Now, what they did, they did very well. Technically excellent. And we can forgive Kim Deal for making about as much sense as a chocolate radiator, but what about Mr Black Francis? Obviously taking note of Ronan Keating's mega-hit, he decided he’d say it best, by saying nothing at all. One thing he should probably have said though, was ‘sorry’

Where is my mind??

Where is my refund!

Onions make me cry

2009-10-05T08:08:00.000-07:00

I love surprises. I honestly do, but I pretty much only care for good ones. Such as grabbing an old pair of jeans and finding a crisp 50 in the pocket, or arriving home and finding a ladies volleyball team in the fridge. Bad surprises I can live without. I could happily meander through life without ever being treated to ‘surprise sex’ from a gang of deranged homeless men or being treated to the ‘surprise’ of exiting a taxi though the windscreen. In fact, keep your surprises. For every good one, there’s generally a skip full of bad ones waiting around the corner. I’d gladly trade every ‘surprise, I got you a packet of Rolo in the shops’ and ‘Surprise, you’re fired’ for simply knowing what I’m getting. If I buy toilet roll, I want it to be toilet roll and not, say, Carving Knives.

On three occasions last month, I bought onions from the street traders on Camden Street. Now, when I buy an onion, I want it to be an onion. I don’t want to cut into it and find a big black lump dressed up as an onion. On these three separate visits, I was let down. I also let myself down, because I was victim to the woman’s pushy sales techniques and returned home with peaches or strawberries which I never ate. So, like any good disgruntled customer, I continued to shop at the same stall.

Today, I’m making something that requires an onion so without thinking I was back at the stall like a heavily bruised housewife who wouldn’t listen to advice. I bought the onions, and some bananas that I didn’t want, and headed home.

It will come as no surprise to you that my onions were a bit worse for wear. Of the seven that were in the net, two would barely have scraped by in an ‘are you an onion?’ contest, whilst the other five had serious issues. Some were black, or grey, whilst one disturbingly puffed out a kind of dust when I sliced into it.

I’d promised myself the last time that I’d speak up if it ever happened again and so I did. I grabbed them and returned to the stall.

“Sorry about that Love, here ye go” she said calmly, handing me a fresh net and mentally pushing me away.

Well, you’re not going to need to use much brainpower to figure out what happened next and why tonight’s ‘Onion surprise’ is a bit light on the onion.

That’s ok though, because you’re not invited.

Although, you could surprise me.

Pirates of the Has-Been

2009-09-29T18:07:00.000-07:00

It’s been five months since I cashed in my cards. I turned my back on a huge raise, laughed loudly and ceremoniously burned my slacks. I emerged from Corporate Hell HQ and waved about my imaginary giant cheque like I was a pervert with some imaginary giant cock. The world was my oyster you see, but the next morning, as is with Oysters, I awoke feeling my stomach.

Still, I quickly shook it off. I had a dream you see. A talented writer, or so I’d been told, who’d only recently been commissioned to ghost write a major icons biography, only to lose the gig by submitting a below par and badly spelled 6th chapter. But still, it was a start. I figured it would pan out as follows. Collect dole, hit Bia-Bar, stagger home, find inspiration and end up in some motel throwing money in the air. As the months passed, the dream lingered on. Still have 5 months rent in the bank, no need to panic. Crack open a cold one. Then the 5 months became 4, 4 became 3 and suddenly, today, 3 became 2.

Then it hit me like a Luas. And I was a bus. And the Luas hit the bus. And the bus was me.

It was just a dream. Like the time I went hot air ballooning with David Beckham or was the man in charge with providing soap to Scarlett Johansson in the shower, it wasn’t real. ‘Real’ is shaking a cup at strangers on Camden street or taking it for the cause under a bridge on the grand canal. ‘Real’ is less buying CD’s I could have downloaded for free and more eating yesterdays newspaper from the recycle bin outside Centra. It dawned on me abruptly, like an aprupt evening time dawn. 200 euro a week does not allow one to mix in the iced glass of high society. Signing on for what used to constitute a ‘quiet night out’ does not allow the pocket to relax. Soon, it suggested, I would be getting used to particularly starchy and cardboardy bed linen, or worse, sleeping on my mothers floor.

I then broke my coffee machine by being so out of sorts that I forgot to put water in it. It wheezed and puffed away wondering why it’d been treated to such an act of ignorance and decided to sail off to electric heaven.

Without coffee, my day would drag. That temporary high used to get me through the afternoon show and the comedown would usually require a nap that would bring me past the dangerous hours of five to seven. Then, it was normally a case of putting a crease in the pants and hitting Wexford St. Now, with the cold slap of reality and a defunct coffee maker, I was left alone. Worse still, left alone with my thoughts.

“Even if you get a job, it’ll be a back month, and then some, before you get paid” I whispered to myself

“And that’s unlikely, as there are no jobs” I hummed, irritatingly

“And what’s more, you’re a grade A fuckwit, who has really let himself go. I wouldn’t hire you, and I AM you” my mind went on, rather callously.

I tinkered with the coffee machine. But the fact that several parts of it had by now been made airborne by my impatience, it was always going to be a disaster.

I looked at my calendar, and where once dancing smiley faces occupied the days, a scull and crossbones now lingered.

“That’s it” I thought, showing a remarkable level of mindlessness, despite the lack of coffee

“I’ll become a pirate!”

Seriously though, hand-jobs for a fiver anyone?

My Goodness...

2009-09-24T06:38:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning thinking it just your average Wednesday. Then, after realising it was Thursday, I again comforted myself with the fact that today would just be another day, albeit slightly later in the week than I originally thought.

Then the texts started.

They all seemed to be concerned with an individual called Arthur. Yes, I knew that today was the anniversary of Guinness but it didn't register with me just how enormous this day had become. Practically everyone I know is in the pub as I write this (except Fakey). Those that aren't are happy in the knowledge that they have tickets for one of the many, many gigs around Dublin tonight. Some bands are playing twice, and even three times, in different venues. Just like Phil Collins did back in 84. Whilst sadly there's no Phil tonight, it does has a twisted Live Aid vibe about it.

Sorta like a Live Aid for Alcoholics. Which says it all about this little country I think...

The Disgrace Experiments #1

2009-09-16T17:03:00.000-07:00

Blog through the night

Tonight, I shall provide a minute by minute update of the goings on in Dublin City, when the masses have retired for a bit of the old horizontal. Every Garda Siren, Owl Hoot and defenceless female scream for help will be reported here, as it happens.

It's now 1AM (in the morning) and with the aid of a pot of fresh coffee, with the same consistency as the M50, I have to tools to keep the eyelids raised and bring to you the sordid tales of a nocturnally active city. Yes indeed, I shall remain awake and deliver to you the headlines from an unprinted nighttime paper and tell you what actually happens when you're asleep and sleeping. It's sure going to be exciting. With my envied view of the back of the Harcourt St Garda headquarters I expect to bring you instant news of murderous killings, terrifying illegal robberies and the exact goings on in the mysterious Gardai staff only 'gay rendezvous' room..

My curtains, like your anticipation, are twitching. The night has fallen and I'm ready. I chop up a cup of coffee and chew away.. It's gonna be a long night folks, I suggest you buckle up.

01:17AM : Heading to Bed. Good luck.

Mick Murray

2009-09-09T16:25:00.000-07:00

Stuff I Hate

2009-08-31T15:31:00.000-07:00

Social Networking - People who call photo albums on Facebook and Bebo ‘London Baby!’ or ‘it’s all about me’. Firstly, ‘It’s all about me’ is like the morning worship call of a pervert, and 'London Baby’ could more imaginatively be substituted with ‘A trip to the Capital of England’ or ‘Photos of me and my friends in London’.

Tralee – It’s a bona-fide shithole. Don’t think so? Ask the two can wielding teenage girls that tried to kill the newly crowned Rose of Tralee the other night.

The Rose of Tralee – If only those girls hadn’t got cans, they might have been sober enough to do some damage.

The Red Sauce/Tomato Ketchup debate - It’s a particularly vulgar person that refers to tomato ketchup as ‘red sauce’. It’s a bit like calling Dutch Gold ‘fizzy piss’, technically correct, but lazy. In fact, the only thing more vulgar is consuming either.

Skobie Oul Ones – If I had a penny for every time I’ve heard a deep manly voice ask a shopkeeper for ‘20 blue and a packet of papers’, only look up to realise that it’s a woman, I’d be in the company of a lot of useless currency.

Motorways – I’ve just returned from Achill, in the time it takes to watch about 8 episodes of Coronation Street. Motorways, like exploding airplanes, take the fun out of traveling. Gone is the joy of finding yourself stuck in a bog in a place that even the maps shy away from. Gone is the chance to break down on a boreen, and after trekking to the nearest house, find yourself tied up and repeatedly violated in a farmhouse. Instead, miles and miles of straight road, flanked on either side by bored trees, with little chance of a lively collision with a tractor.

Instant Noodles – If falling down the stairs, or a shotgun blast to the chest had the same preparation time as these so called quick snacks, there’d be a lot less tragic stairs related shootings in this country. If bring to the boil, simmer, allow to cool, and take a leisurely walk before serving equals instant, then I’m a Chinese farmer with relationship issues.

Jenny Huston on 2fm – A glorified Oreo advert. Not one minute goes by without her mentioning how great Oreos are, or her reading out texts that someone supposedly sent in proclaiming their love for these biscuits. Oreos, are possibly the worst thing to come out of America since ‘Little Boy’ and the Black Eyed Peas. Plus, where’s the fun in a biscuit which you can’t run your finger along the middle and end up with a jam topped digit that simply screams decadence. No Mikado's are Oreo indeed.

Fakey and the Art Theft

2009-08-24T16:01:00.000-07:00

He was in one of those moods. He’d begun ordering by the crate, and dismissed anything that didn’t have an alcohol rating of ‘skull and crossbones’. He’s begun picking fights with himself, and losing. Like the May bank holiday, this occasion doesn’t happen every week, so I simply sat back and enjoyed the ride.

I am of course talking about my boyhood chum, husband of my ex’s sister and token asthmatic contemporary, Mr Fakey. We had steaks. While he waxed lyrical about the rump, I devoured it like an escaped orphan. As he measured the amount of blood that seeped from its centre, I was wiping my face and asking for the dessert menu. Between dipping his barometer into the flesh and challenging the waiter to produce the cows birth certificate, I had ordered a second plate of chips. It was that kind of night. The kind of night when going for dinner actually meant eating and not the Rose of Tralee equivalent of interrogating your food. Eventually, happy that all in the world was right he ingested the fare, and declaring it a fine nosebag, proceeded to dive into the wine like a depressed housewife.

It wasn’t long before he had that look. You know the one, his eyes veered like the headlights of a car heading off a cliff edge. He spoke of revolution and violent tangos in a burning Buenos Aires. He had pulled his pockets out and was showing all his white eared elephant trick. It takes a friend to see behind the facade. It takes a long time buddy to read between the lines. And when he started pissing into his wallet, I could safely declare; Fakey is drunk.

We continued on to an unnamed wine bar (unnamed for a very good reason) and I watched as his pupils boarded the waltzer. His frenzied appetite for wine could not be contained, and before long his physical demeanour had taken a more horizontal position. He was talking of starring down government tanks, freeing the imprisoned and why St Patricks Athletic needed a new defender. It was impassioned stuff and I sat agog, almost thinking it was a young Che at the table. Or at least a heavily pregnant Derek Davis.

I knew the night was on fire. I had once seen him like this before, back in 1994 when he took his poetic out on a secret tree house in a forest close to where I lived. I had 999 entered into my phone when he reappeared from the toilet, with a little bit more of the bar’s furniture than he went with.

“Run!!” he shouted, echoing the time we had a free slap up breakfast in some greasy spoon at the back of Clerys. Run I did, and soon, as the cold air hit me like a Limerick Snowman, he unveiled his revolution. It was a theft to rival the Generals assault on Russborough or the Munch incident. Fakey, stood there shaking. In his hands, where I would by now expect to see a kebab, was a freshly pilfered painting from the very bar we had been drinking. His eyes danced like two incestuous cousins and his smile curled around the back of his head like someone who’d simply drank too much and stole something.

Fearful of hard labour by means of association, I separated from this modern day Ronnie Biggs and allowed myself into my flat. I didn’t know what was next, but I was pretty sure that his soap handling skills would be called into action for the first time since the Community Games overnighter in Ferns. I downed my nightcap uneasily, possibly because it was an actual nightcap, but more likely because I knew he’d be for the high jump.

And so it was. Minutes later, as I unnecessarily describe to you that I was naked as a horse and lathering my flesh in the shower, a call arrived into my phone. It was of course Fakey. He’d been ordered to return, like all good criminals, to the scene of the crime and replace the ‘hot’ article. By none other than his wife.

I can only imagine what he felt, as he was essentially beaten by the system, into re-hanging that painting. There would now be no great books or ballads about the day Fakey infiltrated the ‘man’ and ran like a special Olympian with a painting of a dog under his jacket. No, instead there’d be another story about how a drunk guy gets his orders served medium rare by a woman who just didn’t understand why he did it.

But then again, maybe she didn’t fancy seeing her husband being passed around like today's Herald in a crowded prison rec room. Which really sucks, cos I sure did.

ND.

By the way, prize for whoever can guess where this occurred. Look closely, as the painting is quite obvious, as he re-hung it upside down and still remains that way. Clue one, it’s in Fallon and Byrnes.

Oh, and I have a Twitter.. link on right.

At Furst I was afraid..

2009-08-18T17:06:00.000-07:00

You know you’ve about as much chance of selling your property as you do of landing on the moon, when, all of a sudden, this stuff rears it’s evil head again.

Once the only alternative to Harp, and indeed punishment beatings, Irelands favourite import since Oliver Cromwell, Furstenberg, is back like an estranged father. It once gave a tantalising glimpse of the outside world to a country that was busy deciding which cousin it wanted to marry, picking between London or Boston and winning Eurovision. This German beer, that remains strangely unknown is Germany, is responsible for many a lost weekend in my blossoming youth. We all remember the ad, chopped up cut scenes featuring different leather jacket wearing sorts continuing conversations from stranger to stranger. What didn’t make the final cut however is the time Fakey woke up in Bushy park with his trousers on back to front, or the time Disgrace confidently strutted through an occupied hotel room in the Fairways hotel in Dundalk, on his way (via a drainpipe I’ll have you know!) back to the nightclub after being justifiably removed for a sort of sexual act during Pearl Jams ‘Jeremy’. That’s the sort of carry on that this beverage can lead to, and courtesy of Tesco Rathmines, it’s back..

I don’t know an awful lot about this brew, but the fact that it disappeared when people began to have taste and money and suddenly remerges when taste and money have been left raped and bleeding on a laneway off Pearse street is worrying..

I’d better brush up on my climbing skills again. And fakey had better start wearing pants too….

*and yes, they are my underpants in the background, for those that wondered where they’d seen them before..

All Ireland Hurling

2009-08-11T09:19:00.000-07:00

“What’s a traveller?” asked Westy.

“Well, they’re a gypsy people Westy. They live in Caravans, mend those pesky damaged pots that we all get sometimes and engage in a kind of hokey ritual that involves beating the living shit out of each other. Think Riverdance, but with fists”

“Aa, bit like a posh Glaswegian” He replied.

“You’ve been living here for 2 years now and you didn’t know what a Traveller was?” I asked, “You do know what a Culchie is don’t you?”

There was a loud shriek of a bagpipe, before he looked back up at me, his head shaking from side to side like a mournful thistle.

“Right” I said, with my voice, “Time to educate you!”

Living, as I do, at the top of Harcourt Street gives me a distinct advantage in the observations of the Irish human. I merely have to lie on my bed and I can hear the loud drink fuelled symphony that floats in my windows from Copper Face Jacks. I can now call your county colours by sound alone. The Kerry native, for example, generally sings like a lost Moose. I can confidently proclaim Donegal people to be ‘in the house’ anytime I hear that distinct, ‘slow motion’ ambulance siren type sound that they wail through the night. And I can tell the Limerick gang are knocking about by the amount of gunshots. Westy though wouldn’t know a Langer from Ladyboy, so I decided where better to start his naturalisation than good old Harcourt St.

It was 3am, and the place was mental. Westy remarked that he had not seen chaos like this since he accidentally tossed his Caber into the viewing stand at the 1992 Highland Games.

“Do you know what a ladyboy is?” I asked him.

He nodded sadly, like someone who had just remembered a regrettable event.

“Not the sexy ones Westy, I mean the ‘Leinster’ ones!”

I pointed at a pool of vomit. It was of a fine and sturdy consistency, with the unmistakable fizz of Prosecco bubbling from beneath the frothy surface. There were also traces of Cappuccino and cocaine.

“That product Westy, was served up by a ‘D4’ head. Typically a Lenister Rugby fan. Commonly called ‘Ladyboys’ by their detractors. ”

The next pavement exhibit was that of a Culchie. It’s lumpy layabout was arranged a bit like a poster in Supermacs. An astonishing amount of ingredients seemingly matching County colours. Whole back puddings bounced on top.

“A culchie Westy. Somebody from outside of Dublin. Genetically, 99.5% similar to humans. Can be tracked down to their lairs by simply following the scrape marks on the footpath. From their knuckles Westy”

“What’s this one?” Westy enquired, needlessly running his finger through the paving Picasso.

“Ah, that’s a girls projectile, my curious Celtic cousin, can’t you tell?”

There were tiny droplets of tanned sick floating on a thick green fruity smelling liquid. A heavy infiltration of orange colour proves what we fear, that they’ve started tanning their insides too.

I led Westy like an aging belled cow trough the crowds to the next sidewalk stomach sample. This one was mostly made of chips, but was a volatile heap. Minor explosions, probably caused by the chemical additive of Dutch Gold meant distance should be kept. Old betting slips and watches appeared occasionally from beneath the mist

“That, I’m quite sure, is the gastric gathering of a Skobie. Very rare to see this Westy, as they usually scoop it up and have it for dinner.

Westy was absorbing the info nicely, and despite his pre-occupation with slurping his cock-a-leekie soup between lessons, he was a good student.

Our next belly bonanza was the most curious one. Of the selected tarmac tummy towers this one had me scratching my head. It was of typical stock, lumpy in all the right places and a level of vegetation that proved that this person lived well. A staggering amount of what appeared to be palazzo della torre wine made up the rest of this outdoor oesophagus offering, and it was neatly topped by a freshly ironed pair of socks

“Ah, that’ll be Fakeys” I said to Westy.

Cook off

2009-08-06T08:03:00.001-07:00

When I was younger, I’d always insist on a small present anytime I had to visit anywhere remotely uncomfortable, places like the dentist, barbers or even some of my relatives. It was classic stamping your feet behaviour and generally I won out. I once had a lower tooth removed but emerged satisfied from the Dentist with a wind up space shuttle. Haircuts always resulted in dinky cars, and I once got Buck-a-roo for permitting myself to be admitted to hospital with serious blood poisoning. But as the years pass, you begin to realise that you don’t always get what you want. You occasionally have to put in as much as you get and sometimes, you have to cut your losses, pick up your underpants and leave before her husband reaches the landing.

The gang in Thomas Cook are brats of the highest order. Like the Electricians before them, they believe that the recession is OK for other people but not for them. They were handed their pink slips, a more than satisfactory wedge of cash and told to leave. Instead of doing the honourable thing (such as heading for the nearest pub or having their babies), they decided to illegally hole themselves up in the now closed store and most likely rob as much stationary as their non ‘woe is me’ placard hand could carry.

The Gardai quite rightly, and under court orders, moved in to remove them. The protesters however acted like they were auditioning for a Jim Sheridan movie. The Birmingham Six should be looking for royalties. SIPTU then announced that is was “absurd” that staff who were losing their jobs were facing a court. In a Libel avoiding act of animal cruelty, I dressed up my dog as the SIPTU spokesman and conducted an interview with him. I put it to him that the Gardai are not arresting them because they lost their jobs, but because they illegally occupied someone else's property. The SIPTU spokesman, as cute as can be, simply hung his tongue out of the left side of his mouth and wee’d gently into the slacks that I’d ruined trying to get him into. The interview ended, as it does with many trade union officials, with my face being licked and a little rub behind the ear.

You see, I too recently was the proud recipient of redundancy, and yes, whilst I did fill up my man-bag with anything that wasn’t nailed to the floor, I didn’t fluff up my pillows on the managers desk, drink some cocoa and dye my hair for the cameras. I simply took the money, and left with grace (via a quick buttock printing session on the photocopier). That’s life folks.

However, something tells me that this gangs relationship with Thomas Cook isn’t over. I mean, there’s obviously the hundreds of package holidays to the Costa Del Sol that they probably booked before they were removed to look forward to.

Virtual Insanitary

2009-08-03T12:17:00.001-07:00

I remember in school one of the cool guys brought a Tampon into class one day. I looked at my Jam sandwiches (with butter!) and back to the giggling audience that had gathered and felt cheated. Why was this guy getting all the attention? Despite having two sisters, and a mother, I still wasn’t sure exactly what a female was, however I could read by then and had noticed boxes of these peculiar devices lurking about the bathroom on many occasions. Despite not knowing how it worked, why it did what it did and crucially the correct pronunciation, I slid the sandwiches behind me and approached the large gathering.

“Nice Tampoon” I said.

Now, most of my classmates already knew I was a fully paid up member of the idiot society but this merely bolstered my reputation as its shining light. I remember turning to Westy, despite the fact I didn’t meet him for another 22 years and told him to get the car and meet me out front. It was a pretty low moment to be honest.

A few years later and I was still registering Olympic standard boo boos. I was 16 and headed to the Zoo Bar for my first pint. I don’t know what it is but back in the early 90’s, underage patrons everywhere used to wear suits to pubs and clubs in an attempt to look older. Think Mini-pops doing Reservoir Dogs. Unfortunately I hadn’t remembered to remove my communion medal first and for all intensive purposed looked like Angus from AC/DC. Fakey was with me and had been training his mustache since he was seduced by John Aldridge's face fringe back in Euro 88, so he was automatically one step ahead. Anyway, due to my sartorial impressiveness and an unattended side entrance I soon found myself at the bar. I ordered a pint of Guinness in my then curious mixture of falsetto and baritone and promptly handed over the money I had taken from my Mums purse. My image only slightly damaged by the fact that I brought the purse with me. The barman did the first part of the pour and left the pint on the top of the bar. I say ‘first part’ as if I’m an expert in the art of serving Guinness, because I certainly wasn’t back then. I swiftly took the pint, or rather 3/4 pint, and started knocking it back. Just like the faces that all turned to me with quiet pity when I sung of my ignorance with my infamous sanitary faux pas, the barman looked at me and spoke not in words, but simply by shaking his head from side to side

“Are you the guy who said Tampoon in school"?” He asked.

My response (‘I like them like this’) only resulted in me having to drink 3/4 filled pints for the rest of night, which considering I was on my knees behind a skip outside 10 minutes later wasn’t much of an issue.

A while later, but still in my awkward first 30 years, I was stranding in the queue to U2’s Zooropa gig at the RDS and was casually chatting to a guy from Northern Ireland about anything but the troubles. We were having a good old sing song, getting in to the sprit of it. He had put behind the terror of sectarian violence, and me, the memories of my first pint and Tampax. We hit on the song ‘One’. I remember not thinking that this was a song that could unite even the most hardened enemies, years before anyone else.

We sang.

“Is it getting better ...One love ...It's one love ... like you never had love ...”

I took the lead then. Confidently, I sang my comic variation on the words..

“You say love is a tampon, love a press on towel.. you ask me to….”

My war beaten pal interrupted me..

“Erm, I think you mean Tampoon?” He said, in a peaceful, non paramilitary voice, a little like a massive car bomb being diffused.

Redemption.

A Brush with Fate

2009-07-30T09:16:00.001-07:00

I haven’t seen his ears prick up in such a way in a long time. Even his beret had returned, going from being in his hand on the Hapenney bridge to it’s rightful resting place, his head. His grin, whilst not dazzling, or indeed containing many teeth, still lit up the TV screen. There was a spring in his step, despite the fact he was sitting down. And correct me if I’m wrong, but he also seemed to be sporting an engorged organ. But then again, he was on Miriam tonight after all..

I am talking of course about Mr. Brush Sheils.

It’s easy to imagine the scenario. The young and the wealthy are shunning the traditional bread and butter entertainment of Brush and his cohorts for something a little more flashy. You can just picture him, in only his underpants seething through the curtains as they trip past the window snorting cocaine and quaffing back Champers. They all sit down for dinner at a Michelin star whereas he tucks into his underpants for sustenance. They listen to Girls Aloud and Il Divo, whilst Brush's battered old record player crackles out ‘Me and Jimmy Magee’ on repeat. His tears, whilst a welcoming source of fluids, still hurt his face.

But we live in post-boom days now, and when the papers screamed ‘Shit, it’s over’, Brush knew what to do. He slipped the beret back on, picked up his guitar and said goodbye to the wheelie bin he’d be living in.

Saturdays Miriam was like a trip back in time. Literally, as I watched the repeat. Brush was centre of attention of course, and was flanked by an assorted bunch of fellow survivors.

The songs were new, but rung out with a comforting familiarity. We Irish have always dealt with adversity with an auld ditty. Think back to the famine (“Where’s me chips?”) and the rising (“Come out ye Black and Tans and give us a kiss”) and Brush and Co delivered once again.

Joe Duffy was there. So too were some other people. And there were jokes.

“The recession Miriam, it’s affecting everybody…I met a guy the other day who said he joined a bridge club”.

Miriam raises her eyebrows.

“He said he was jumping off next Tuesday!!”

and….

“I met a guy Miriam, you know suffering from the recession. He was biting his nails. so I asked him, are you nervous?”

“No” he said “Lunch”.

I laughed heartily. Brush is back and everything is going to be alright. Got me thinking though, you don’t actually have to be a member of a bridge club to chuck yourself off it.

Westy and the woman

2009-07-22T16:52:00.001-07:00

I’d met her the day I moved in. She slid in from the shadows like a competent roller skating rapist. No noise, just a slight change in temperature heralded her arrival and there she was, as if she’d always been there. It was if I’d zoomed in with a camera. It was almost like the entire room moved towards her.

The first thing I noticed was her hair. She looked a little like a drag queen Aonghus MacAnally. The roots, long confused as to it’s natural colour decided they would try a little of everything. Her eyes looked triple glazed and she seemed to have a little more grass growing out of her than the average human being. The strap had slipped off her shoulder, not in a provocative manner, but in a horror filled act of seduction that warned me if I was not careful, the other one would be next.

Westy was busy stacking all my belongings lovingly against the wall. He seemed startled by her sudden existence and emitted his usual clichéd Scottish “Ach Eye!!”

“Those walls have been freshly painted” she delivered in a coldness that would make a Wibbly Wobbly Wonder shiver. The room turned and she was now on the other side of me inspecting the paintwork. Without words she ordered a humbled Westy to moved the offending boxes a good 2 inches from the wall.

“ I notice you are parked in my space” she continued. Dogs 5 miles away started to bark, “you have five minutes”

I held my hand out, and introduced myself. She didn’t blink. She just sorted of hummed, like a fridge.

Westy emitted a gentle cough, nothing serious, probably just a wee bit of haggis caught in his throat. It was barely a noise. It sounded a bit like a leaf.

“This building” She said, “This building is MOSTLY owner occupied! We expect people to be quiet”. Her eyes gazed towards Westy and he retreated slightly, towards Edinburgh.

“I’m the rep for the management committee” she rasped, “And anyone causing trouble is dealt with severely!”.

Westy nearly spat out his deep fried Mars Bar.

And then she was gone. All she left behind was the feeling that we’d been stripped naked by some silent force and made wear each others clothes. That and an almost visible odour of whiskey.

“A bonny lass that” Westy said “ pure fukin hardcore hefty mingers wehey ya mink get tae china ye stink ae pishh pally ya mad auld cheese baw rocket get it up yee”

“Westy” I said “ How many Irn-Bru have you had?”

Christy does Disgrace

2009-07-17T19:11:00.000-07:00

Bleedin Hell!!! Jayzus, the last time I was near a computer was when I waz carryin’ it out through the window of some posh feckers gaff out in Blackrock!!

Despite the above response to my initial approach, I can proudly announce that today's guest blogger on ND is Mr Christy Dignam, he of the Aslan.

Well ladz!! It’ been a rough day alright. Me and the bowzeys were down the studio dropping some tunes for the new record. Drummer guy joked that we’re the only band with more CRIMINAL records than ACTUAL records.. I didn’t know whether to laugh me bleedin hole off or take another bite of me battered sausie.. I did both to be fooking honest, and now I’ve got a raging bastard of heartburn...

Anyway, we managed one bit of the auld tuneage today.. a sort of a tribute to the late Phil Lynott (I say late, cos we invited the sap to record with us in 1982 and he still hasn’t arrived!!!.. but also cos he’s brown bread).. Called ‘Had my Phil” it was a bit of an experimento song to be honest.. I had to sing in a falsetto voice, you know, like a bird, and bleedin magee, it wasn’t aaasy.. some of the lyrics I wrote were off the jaysus North wall!! here, take a listen;

“Phil, you fill me.. I have a hole in me heart, won't you fill me hole Phil”..

The lyrics are always difficult, what with the words and the letters and stuff but one of the lads who’s been to school helped me.. He joked afterwards that I was a ‘total and utter idiot’. If his parents are readin, I’d try the liffey (wink).

Anyway, the recession is deadly isn’t it? Bargains to be had everywhere. I was taking a slash down the back of the Sallynoggin Inn the other night and a hardly eaten breadroll popped up out of the bin like a bleedin jack in the box!!!.. I mean, it was Cuisine the bollixin France for Jaysus sake!! I milled it down and finished me whizz and headed back under the bridge to the lads. "The Queen of Engalnd” they all called me when I was telling them of the feast, and I’ll be honest, a broken bottle appeared.. scars make the man me aul one used to say after one of her fistfights outside the dole office, and god bless her, the fuckin roll was delish!!

Me and the drummer robbed a dog for the laugh the other night.

What’s the story with the country right now?? I was on my way back from the scratcher the other day when I bumped into Brush Sheils... selling blow jobs for a tenner and an auld jig for an extra fiver.. It was only after I paid him that I realised that people are really desperate for munso at the mo.. But come on government yokes!! Pull the bleedin finger out. My Niece just had a babby, and for fooks sake she can barely afford to feed the thing (although her communion is coming up, so that should bring in a few bob).

Right lads!! been brillo chatting to you all and remember, be safe and be seen (wear a luminous condom!! ha ha)

Respect,

Christy.

Oh, by the way anyone wanna buy a dog?

A Complicated Plate of Potatoes

2009-06-17T16:16:00.000-07:00

“no man in an island.. except maybe for the Isle of Mann”

I think it was Basil Brush who said this, and who am I to argue for I’d wager it’d be as futile as trying to blutack an omelete to the underside of a horse.

You’d better get used to these meandering's folks, as I do not have the luxury of choosing when I post anymore. Like Christ spending 40 days and 40 nights without internet, I am reliant on some distant unsecured network drifting towards my new flat in the breeze, offering with it a moments window in which to share my thoughts.

Tonight's connection comes courtesy of WLAN-AP and unfortunately for the readers finds me in one of those moods that generally result in meaningless posts with ridiculous titles..

Disgrace.

Circle in the sand

2009-06-10T12:56:00.000-07:00

Talk amongst yourselves while I sort out some internet for this new flat of mine...

In the meantime, here’s something interesting I heard recently:

“Humming along to a Belinda Carlisle song is a bit like arriving at a Petrol station and realising that you forgot your car!!”

Wow!!!

TV3 summer schedule

2009-05-26T16:59:00.000-07:00

9AM: Look ‘Hughes’ Talking : Lively chat from the ever flexible Alan Hughes. On this mornings episode, Nobel prize winning politician John Hume storms out after being gunged, and a topical debate on the the dangers of nettles in cruising destinations. Followed by news for the deaf (stereo).

11AM: Brendan O’Carroll on... Wine : The lovable crimin...sorry, Comedian, continues his cultural journey with a guide to the finest wines and vineyards around. Tonight: Brendan gets pissed on a special offer Shiraz and urinates on a Luas.

12PM: Zchewky un Blarti - Ukrainian comedy from Estonia (with Greek subtitles) - A mysterious Welshman arrives in town and unsettles the local Turks with his loud flute playing and disdain for Mexicans (winner of best Maori television series at the Latvian media awards).

1PM: The Afternoon movie: An American Werewolf on the Orient Express (1968). Heart stopping thriller from the producer of ‘Satan visits Fundrerland’ and the Dairy Boards generic cheese advert. A trip on the fabled train turns to horror for a young family of Mormons as one by one they are savaged by a werewolf. Will Jean Claude Van Damme come to their rescue? Unlikely, as he is not in this movie.

5PM: Xp-LOSION: Live coverage of a tragic explosion at TV3 HQ during the recording of Xpose.

5:27PM: Xpose 2: A special episode of the popular entertainment magazine featuring a tribute to the untimely passing of all the previous presenters. Also, why tartan is IN this season.

7PM: Sports!! Sports!! Sports!! : A timely repeat of the Mongolian Trampoline championships of 1977, an event marred by a Llama invasion that sent the shock waves though the world.

8PM: Hammered: The taboo breaking Ulster comedy is back. The McGuiggans celebrate the release from prison of their elderly grandmother with a good old fashioned Ulster Fry (ie they burn a church), Meanwhile ‘over the fence’ the Harpersons are faced with a tough decision when ‘Snappy’, the family terrier, wags his tail during the Sinn Fein Ard Fheis. Warning, contains images of animal cruelty.

9PM: Boomerang Bay: The sex filled Aussie soap is back, and bolder than ever. Tonight, Wanga is horrified to find an orphan in her cornflakes and Greg tells Martha that he loves her, in a series of punches meant to represent sign language.

9.30PM: Cribs, with Brian Cowen!- Leader of the country Brian Cowen gives viewers a glimpse into his private life and explains why he keeps a herd of sheep in his garden.

10PM: Sheep Thrills: - The rape of Dolly - Alarming expose into the recent ‘sheep buggering’ episode that rocked Irish Politics, with an as yet unnamed Taoiseach at the forefront of the allegations. Music by The Script.

10.45PM: - Live Windsurfing ( Not the cool kind ) - All the action from today's goings on in Courtown. Filmed from a distance in the back of a moving car. Sponsored by Chewits

11.45PM: - Mind your own Quizness - The return of the popular Quiz.. Now, with ACTUAL prizes!... Sponsored my Mickey's Hardware - Ballina ' if It's hard and ware, it has to be Mickey's ' Open 3 Days a week.

12.30AM: The Valley - Soap set in rural Greenland. Today, a large snowstorm blows into town. Eué has difficulty shutting a window and a moose is keeping Júúúp awake

1AM: Cagney and Lacy: Disturbing drunken camera phone footage from the TV3 Christmas party where Mark Cagney models lacy underwear for the staff of Copper Face Jacks.

1.30AM: After Dark presents: Nurses in heat (2006). An amateur theatre group form Tallaght hospital present their version of ht hit motion picture ‘Heat’, with Matron (Concepta O’Shaugnessy) in the role of Al Pacino.

4AM: Power Cut - Due to a surprise power cut, programming tonight will end abruptly. See ya in a fortnight, The TV3 'team'.

Things to do in Bristol when you've just murdered

2009-05-22T10:20:00.000-07:00

I took one look at Westy and my mind was already scouting locations of where to bury his body. His wife (Missus Westy) stood over his shoulder. Make that two bodies.

I guess it started when I got that pre-travel fear that most of us get. You know, when you’re packing your socks and a sudden image of a burning plane and a mountain side flashes into your mind. Usually, I’m a good flyer, but for some reason I was apprehensive this time. I even cleaned my apartment and deleted my Internet history as I knew my family would be in rifling through my stuff before the black box was found.

Anyway, back to the murdering bit. So, here I am standing in the brutalist centre of Bristol (sort of like a peak hour Dundalk, but after a large explosion or some sort of catastrophic event) looking up at the B&B that Westy had somehow found lurking about on the Internet. If dereliction was a public holiday, this would be Christmas. The other buildings on this street had long decided to pack their bags and it stood alone. Of course, this was Bristol. And being boarded up or showing signs of police tape on the doors didn’t mean it was closed for business. A sign on the door said ‘for B&B’ (and suspiciously, ‘other services’) ‘call this number’. A number then followed. Call we did and eventually getting through a panting landlord who said in that ‘OO-AR’ accent that he’d be round in a bit. My mind was already wandering to that Marriot we saw on the way into town, and when the landlord stumbled around the corner, it was already unpacking its bags.

Looking somewhere between a Spiders era Bowie and a heroin addicted Joanna Lumley, he wobbled up the street in a pair of hot pants and a fur coat.

“Did we get you out of bed?” Westy ventured

“No, just working around in the Sauna” was the creatures response. (The Village Sauna, as we found out, was just round the corner and proudly had a poster urging people to ‘out’ Homophobes).

We entered the ex-building through a broken fence, and stepping over an old rusty cooker, we were led into the bar. In the darkness, we could see the whites of eyes scurrying into the shadows. Like a great chess player I was two moves ahead, and had already swung a shovel, left the bodies behind and was sitting in the airport bar. But alas, I chickened out of mass murder, paid for my room and resigned myself to a night on the set of Hostel.

It began to amuse me actually, we literally had to climb over a roof to get to the rooms. And even though he said with a mischievous grin that there was ‘no other guests, haven’t been for some time actually’, a barking dog could be heard clearly from one of the other rooms. Still, my room was clean (as in, whoever had last killed there had been meticulous in removing all evidence) and I had planned to be so drunk later as not to notice anyway.

And that was the case. We were in Bristol to see the amazing Twilight Sad, and by god, they saved Westy's life.

That and the fact that murder is bad.

Ryan's Slaughter

2009-05-19T15:24:00.000-07:00

Disgrace, whilst waiting for Fakey in the transsexual section of Soho books Rathmines (don’t know why he insists on meeting there) uncovered this. The full script for Ryan Tubridy's pilot episode of the Late Late Show. Shudder with me folks...

Opening sequence

(Owl replaced by a floating cabbage. On the intro, Tubridy’s face is to be morphed onto recognisable celebrity faces. There he is with Jordan’s breasts. Next he’s on the body of Stephen Hawking. Hilarious montage follows of Boyzone, each members face replaced with the gurning grin of Lord Tubington.)

Studio

(Ryan moonwalks behind a screen in silhouette, as the Camembert Quartet (renamed ‘Four Pricks and a Piano’) break into ‘Rocket Man’. His face appears and revolves at impossible speed. Several viewers have fits. Cue applause, canned)

(The screen lifts and there he is. The man who put the ‘oh sweet Jesus Christ’ back in Montrose, clapping his hands and jigging. The set looks like a prostitute’s blouse.)

Ryan.

“Well ladies and gentlemen, what can I say about standing here? On the shoulders of giants! Like Gaybo!! That’s only his name folks, it's not a lifstyle!! Taps nose and swings finger towards the band. Boom Tish noise. And not forgetting Pat Kenny before me (grabs crotch). Trumpet solo. I intend to bring you not only top quality entertainment, but intelligent debate, pressing issues and topics that some may consider taboo, in the interest of furthering this great nation of ours. And on that note Ladies and Gentlemen, our first guest, Basil Brush!!”

“Basil, are you an arse or a leg man?”

Break.

Topical political issue next with Fintan O’Toole

“Fintan, what measures do you think the government need to put in place to restore consumer confidence, and more so, faith from the public”

“Well, Pat, sorry, Ryan, if this nation stands up for itself and real.”

“Sorry Finners, got to interrupt you because it’s time for ... (Drum Solo), RYAN’S SLAUGHTER!! Are we ready to embarrass a member of the audience with a secret from their past Folks????!!!”

Edit out groans.

Cue Four Pricks, ‘Y.M.C.A’

Ryan enters audience (make sure he doesn’t take this literally – Producer)

“Who are you?”

“Erm, I’m Bernie. My family were killed in a carpet laying accident and I’m here to discuss the problem with Des Kelly’s recent recruitment drive in Mountjoy. You know Ryan, since I’ve lost my family, I have had all my floors removed. I just can’t face them... blubber... tears... wail.”

Tubs, with a smile bigger than O’Connell Street

“Who wants to see this lady take the ‘truth or SCARE’ challenge???”

He pulls her from her Wheelchair.

EMERGENCY BREAK.

Music from Smokie. It would be funny if Ryan closed this sequence with a witty comment??

“Alice, who the FUDGE is Alice” he shouts, to minimal laughter. Cue gurning!! (Does anyone have Miriam’s number? – Producer)

Next Guest, comedy sensation Tommy Tiernan, who’s routine literally consists of him waving his member in front of the Special Olympics team. (Turn down volume of phones in the office please!! And get Ryan to stop touching it!!)

Cue the band!!

And bring back GAY!!!

“But I’m already here” pleads Ryan.

Questions and Chancers

2009-05-13T14:02:00.000-07:00

Following on from the British Expenses row, National Disgrace has uncovered some startling evidence of dubious expense claims amongst our own politicians. Whilst some of the claims may be genuine (Mary Harneys €300 claim for 110 litres of Diet Coke and a horse Troff was up for questioning, but has been dismissed as apparently she has been known to be partial to the boiling a number of hams in the popular soft drink), others such as Brian Lenihans €11.50 claim for ‘a calculator’, have raised alarm bells. It was Lenihans startling admission to Disgrace in a libel avoiding dream last night that ‘He doesn’t know how to operate things with buttons’ which got me suspicious.

Amongst the most astonishing tax claims:

Taoiseach Brian Cowen : €1000 worth of Pajamas (Hanna Montana motif). This has raised eyebrows as it is a well known fact that Mr Cowan sleeps entirely in the nude. The busty brunette also ordered 12 volumes of the Koran, despite some observers note that he has very few Islamic fundamentalist tendencies.

Minister for Defence Wille O’Dea's claims for 'knuckle dusters' and the entire 'box set of Rambo' are not in doubt, but questions marks have popped up over his €13.40 claim for 'luxury scented toilet roll'. Those in the know (ie. the toilet attendants at the Dail and the Limerick gun club) have said that O’Dea (not to be confused with overdose) likes to ‘wipe’ with a live grenade!

John Gormley's (Green Party) expenses raise the astonishment bar even further by putting in receipts for 'two leaking oil tankers' and an ‘instant forest fire kit’. His spokes-goat was unavailable for comment today but Disgrace did receive a knitted note saying that "the Minister rejects claims of irregular claims, and will fist fight Disgrace back to the Internet to prove it!".

Mary Harney, Minister of Health as stated before has an exotic taste for coke boiled ham, but her balancing book it seems is a bit like her weighing scales, under incredible pressure. Amongst the invoices the Minister (often claimed to be the only TD visible from Space) lodged were ‘size ten knickers’, 'Trampoline' and a ‘beard trimmer’. Actually, I’ve just been alerted that the beard trimmer was a genuine purchase.

Despite being hotly tipped to star in the remake of the Munsters, Minister for taking money from people, Brian Lenihan has a very un-Hollywood approach to buying things. Amongst some of his suspicious purchases are ‘Irish Banks’ and a 'Fisher Price Money printing machine'.

Former Taoiseach Bertie Ahern, also lodged his spending with the Exchequer and despite not having any history of irregular financial matters whatsoever, has also been subject to some scrutiny. Mr Ahern, now living in Fagans public house has billed the taxpayer thousands for a ‘goat dressed as a ballet dancer’ and a ‘bucket of rubber gloves’. Some have referred to the reported ‘Goat fiddling’ contests in Fagans of Drumcondra as an ample explanation, others however, have not.

Mary Hanafin, who still to this day refutes the claim to being an ex Christian Brother also clocks up the euros with her monthly expenses. Amongst the ones being questioned from the Minister for mis-education are an ‘underwater school’ and an ‘increase in teacher numbers’.

The list goes on. Dick Roche (‘Panda food’ and ‘the history of the hill of Tara’), Trevor Sargent (‘Prostitutes’) and Sean Haughey (‘Fake mustaches’) all are to be investigated also.

It’s a terrible and sad state of affairs. For the country that brought you the Irish Civil War and Ros Na Run, to be exposed as a corrupt and scandalous society is something that sickens Disgrace to the stomach.

It’s enough to have Dev (12 shillings for 'Internet cafe charges!!') spinning in his grave.

Disgraces Guide to Rathmines - Drink!!

2009-05-11T14:52:00.002-07:00

For a Village full of thirsty students, excommunicated fathers living in bedsits and jobless youths, Rathmines has a surprising lack of Pubs. Because of this, and a sticky keyboard, there will be a lot less exclamation marks in NATIONAL DISGRACES GUIDE TO RATHMINES - PUBS.

The first watering hole (and I mean hole) on ‘the strip’ is the Rathmines Inn. It is highly recommended that you skip this place. The Inn lives off the fact that it has a beer garden where al fresco drinking (next to the bins) can be enjoyed. I once asked for a bottle of Erdinger here and the Barman sneered at me. “We have none of that foreign stuff”. I had a Heineken instead. I have occasionally used it for the ATM near the toilet, and have taken great enjoyment in waving my freshly deposited cash in the barman’s face as I head off to spend it elsewhere

Moving on, it’s a fair trek to the next pub, so you may decide to nip across to the Spar for some street beer. You’ll have ample time to down your tipple before you reach the next hostelry, the rather insensitively named Toast (it used to be a fire station). Toast is the middle ground of Rathmines, not sure whether it’s a restaurant or a bar, so it decides to avoid being either. Its stock has de-valued somewhat in recent times thanks largely to a club night hosted by yours truly and a certain Mr Empire.

Pretty depressing so far and things don’t improve at all when you hit the next boozer. Lingering at the crossroads like a luminous sex-offender, the bright green facade and dirty windows greet you like lump of poo in your lunchbox. Where the Rathmines Inn has Carvery, the Madison has people who have probably ‘Carved up’ their victims. They have a Crimeline night where a free pint is on offer if you appear on the show. Disco lights are often in full swing on Dole day and the foods menu literally consists of ‘knuckle sandwiches’ and ‘Mashed Face’. This is high society folks. On Mother’s Day they advertised a special “three course lunch - 11.50 (includes free admission to Man II Man - Strippers) - This is actually true. Note: They actually search you for weapons on entry, and if you don’t have any, they give you some!!

After you’ve picked up your teeth from the toilet floor it’s time to move on. Try to avoid leaving through the front window as some regulars do and head straight across the street to the old world charms of Slatterys.

Slat’s is a haven from the hustle and bustle of busy downtown Rathmines. The image of a grandmother head butting a barman at the Madison is far away now as you take the first sip of the perfect Slats pint. This is a proper pub, where it’s advisable to leave your airs and graces at the door, although they will most likely be stolen by one of the Madison gang. The barmen and ladies have a weird sixth sense too. With a simple nod and a ‘Can I have a pint of stout please Paul’, you’ll be served up a pint of stout, almost certainly by Paul. It’s that attention to detail that makes a visit to Slats a winner every time. Ok, so there are no mirrors in the gents, but your chances of meeting a girl in here are very slim. And if you do, well they’ll have not seen a mirror for quite a while either. They have a cruel sense of humour in here for sure. Pop your 3 euro into the condom machine and rather than a packet of ‘sheaths’ you’ll get a written note.

“Ha Ha, you’re having a laugh right? Get back out to the bar. Another stout?, Paul”.

Where Kildare has Goffs, and Cork has its CO-OP Marts Rathmines also has its own cattle market. Follow the knuckle marks up the street and before long you’ll be stood in the cavernous halls of Rody Boland’s. It is here a man can meet the bearded woman of his dreams. Intelligent conversation is bottom of the list of priorities in this not so-super pub. Wearing a Munster jersey, or simply wearing the face off a woman who’s style icon seems to have been Giant Haystacks, Rodys ticks all the boxes for the sociable ‘sorta’ human. Warning though, the regular punters are quite touchy about the omission once again on the Michelin Star list as apparently the Goujons are impeccable.

So there we have it. Rathmines. If you want to have an enjoyable drink, hit Slats. If you have a hankering for a terrible and soulless experience with the added body blow of a Carvery lunch, hit the Rathmines Inn. If you want to buy some knock-off Timotei or Rolex watches, over to Madison. And if you want play a game off Russian roulette with your sexuality, hit Rodys and wait for the shock the following morning. Whatever happens, be good folks...

Ps, erm.. I love you.

Disgraces Guide to Rathmines - Food!!

2009-05-04T13:38:00.000-07:00

I was stopped by some English tourists in Rathmines earlier who were looking for some recommendations for somewhere to eat. I asked what they were looking for and they simply said "tasty pucker!! Kebab in me arse geezer!!". So, for them (and pray Christ, they have been recently been mowed down by a lorry) here's a handy tear out and keep guide to Rathmines fooderys.

Food!!

Yes! Rathmines has food. Lots of it. Whether it’s burger's, chips or simply a rush job sliced pan and tayto combo from Dunne's, this village is sure to have restaurant critics literally going weak at the knees! Boasting more big macs than people, and a seductive strip of flashing neon ‘eating signposts’, you’re as likely to fill your belly in the ‘Mines' as you are to have a human head on your shoulders!! Starting at the canal, and happily racking up the calories towards Rathgar, the choice is mesmerizingly mesmerizing. The Spar at the corner of Grove Park sells a mouth watering range of chocolate bars, chicken baguettes, and for the bedsit boggers, peat Briquettes. Tasty!!

Snack Attack!

Moving on, the Porta Via more than makes up for its complete lack of any customers with a complete and utter lack of safety regulations. Here, and only here, can you purchase TWO snack boxes for the picce of one!! It’s a bargain that only a devout vegetarian could resist. Not enough for ya? The Porta Via also has a jukebox, so you can listen to hits such as Paul Hardcastles ‘19’ as the kitchen staff try to fend off the hungry rodents. Hey, we all need to eat, people!!

Assuming your Spar bought Mars bar and PV double snack box treat haven’t extinguished that hungry fire in your belly, you are more than welcome to discover the rest of this quaint Dublin villages culinary catalogue. Jo’Burger, which offers a SIGNIFICANT DISCOUNT if your haircut is cool enough, serves up MONSTER burgers. Don’t worry folks, they don’t use real monster!!

Rathmines is fun, isn’t it?

Euro-Saver

McDonald's subtle position at the entrance to the Swan Centre (a Mega Mall, so called cos it’s supposedly marks the place where Swans were invented. WOW!!) is marked by a cleverly placed homeless guy who has mastered the art of urinating down his trouser leg to such a level that the run off forms a large glistening ‘M’. Get in there and tear through the Euro saver, but throw him a twisty fires on the way out.

You’ve belched, and what do you know? You want more grub!! Head a few doors up to Kafka! This is the place to be seen in this handsome Dublin 6 suburb. It’s one of those sit down food places though, and it’s courtesy use a knife and fork! Battling for business with ‘Kaffers’ is Burdocks, a chip shop that whilst suspiciously closes and re-opens a little too regularly for my liking, is apparently Dublin's Oldest Chipper. That can’t be a bad thing, cos I was recently a customer of Dublin's oldest Prostitute and she was great!! The Haddock is 5.50, and it’s around the same in Burdocks!

Rape!!

Say goodbye to your belt folks, Eddie Rockets is calling and you’d want to be a freak of the highest order not to fall for their charms. Decked out like the illegitimate child of a semi-authentic 50’s USA Diner, it's a semi authentic 50's USA Diner, right down to the burly Polish rapist-a-like who works in the kitchen, you will be munching down their famous fare with a smile so big so could easily fit another serving in. So do it!!

Horse play!!

Bonanza!! Well, you're a lot heavier than you were when you stood at Portobello bridge, but that’s just as well cause there’s a stiff breeze beginning to blow. Better anchor yourself properly and visit RATHMINES ONLY KFC!! for some of their world famous delicacies. Vegetarians will rejoice in this quick food haven, as none of the meat on offer here as ever been near an animal! Look at the picture!! Even horses think it’s safe to stop for a chat outside this place! It’s the perfect venue to chill, linger over a semi warm Pepsi and lovingly pick the vomit off your dates collar. And when you’re finished, there’s a fist fight waiting you for just outside Rodys!!

Violence!!

Rodys? You’ll see... (in the pub section which follows this)

!!!!

Celebrating Misery

2009-04-29T13:17:00.000-07:00

I had just commissioned Westy to do me a new banner.

‘Something with balloons and smiling children' was the brief.

‘So, just like last Friday night?’ was his response, in that hilarious ‘see you on the sex register' sense of humour he has.

See, it had been brought to my attention recently that my blog had become more miserable than ever, and coupled with the fact that the Samaritans had offered to sponsor it, I had decided it was maybe time to cheer it up a little. No more stories about the hole in my roof (which is now officially a grade 3 waterfall), my love life (which has caused such a swelling that I’m unable to wear my watch anymore) or my Job (which is now listed as ‘available), I had now planned to write forevermore with a smile on my face.

Well thanks to the good folk at the Daily Irish Mail I have decided to turn that smile upside down once again. In today's news packed edition which contains a vital piece from “Dr” Michael O’Leary, the guy who flies planes to exactly one time zone from where you actually want to go, where he advises ‘stepsils’ as the cure for swine flu, they champion my blog (in their 'if you only do one thing' section) and inform all and sundry that my “disgraceful” posts and hilarious photos on all aspects of Irish life won’t fail to cheer and that “you can be smug in the knowledge of knowing that there is someone more miserable than you”.

Shops all over the country stock this paper, so pop down, pick one up and you’ll be given an exclusive URL which leads directly to this site. If today is now tomorrow, you could root through your neighbours bins, or check doorways where down and outs may be using it as a blanket..

Careful though, I don’t like being disturbed when I’m asleep.

Why do birds suddenly appear?

2009-04-24T16:21:00.000-07:00

Fakey delivers his recession sermon in some style on this post, and pretty much says all that needs to be said. I actually watched Prime Times expose on devious border running the other night and had similar thoughts. I’m a ‘no comment kinda guy when it comes to politics, but I’m heavy on the opinion when it comes to dickwads; And those that drive to Newry to pack the SUV with nappies and shitty wine are dickwads of the highest order.

“Well factoring in the price of pet-o-ral, and the fact that we literally have to stuff the boot full of shite we don’t need in order to make a decent saving, I don’t see anything wrong with paying our dues to the Queen - And you never know, the 6 for 2 deal I got on Marmite was a real bargain. The kids are dying to get it in to them”

Fakeys points are on the sterling. Our quality of life is now so high, irregardless of whatever financial meltdown that’s going on, that there isn’t a denim jacket or a heat saving mustache in sight. The boat to Holyhead isn’t filled with songs of dancing at the crossroads or games of stolen tongue tennis over a milk churn like it used to be. Yes, the government don't really have money, but most of us thankfully, still do.

So don’t be afraid to spend it. Locally. But maybe not in Spar.

Anyway, this post came to me as I stood in the Q for the dole the other day and felt slightly ramshackle looking compared to the suited and booted types that joined me. It was my first time doing it in many years, but I came prepared. I simply rang two of my other best friends (Oliver and Westy) and asked them what they brought when they signed on the day before.

As Prince once said “you sexy motherfu...”

Oh actually think it was ‘Sign O’ the Times’

Work tomorrow.. Yay Hay!!

2009-03-29T15:07:00.001-07:00

You know it's time to visit irishjobs.ie when..

You tear your apartment apart looking for a shotgun, but find only (suspiciously, considering the last bicycle you cycled had three wheels and a bell that played ‘chopsticks’) a bicycle pump and wonder if it’ll do. You curse your landlord for installing an electrical oven and wonder if baking will do the same job as a gas one. You produce a spool of string and look for a lofty beam, but give up when you realise that you’re actually taller than the flat you live in. You rifle through your medicine cabinet and only finding 4 packs of lemsip ponder if you’ll either arrive at the pearly gates OD’d out of your head, but dead, or simply make yourself immune from colds until 2017. You quickly realise that any attempts to drown in your shower, with its power rating something similar to a gentle licking from a drowsy cat, would only result in a slight dampness. Your investigation of the bedroom floor reveals no train tracks on which to strap yourself to, and even if it did the corrupt planning process in this country surely would not stretch to building a mainline express route through a third floor Rathgar flat. You curse Gillette for putting safety bars across their razors, but are impressed with the fact that those troublesome wrist hairs have now been dispensed with. You’re frustrated that the expensive ‘handpicked by a virgin from space’ Olive Oil has the same fire warning rating as a block of cheese. You give up and give in to the fact that you have work tomorrow.

...Bicycle pump noise...

A moan again, naturally.

2009-03-19T04:02:00.000-07:00

Maybe I’m slightly bitter thanks to my recent break up (18 months ago) or maybe I’m just a normal guy who doesn’t like his early morning bus journey ruined by a pair of nymphomaniacs trying to ingest each other on the seat in front of me. Even above the top volume of my iPod I could hear their slurpy symphony as it played out. I averted my eyes and found some floor to look at but their shadows danced all over it like some sort of seedy puppet show. I closed my eyes but I could soon feel the sickly arrival of escaped saliva on my skin. Each time I opened them to check where we were I’d be greeted once again with their disgusting early morning face wrestle. Tongues dancing around each others faces like out of control garden hoses. I dunno, like Ketchup at the breakfast table, the planned Kilkenny City inner relief road and the child sex trade, it’s just wrong. At 8am on an otherwise silent and slightly depressed bus full of people whose lives had most recently been seen in a rearview mirror the last thing you want to see is someone being happy. That, and Helen Keller at the wheel and/or Godzilla.

Got me thinking though, how did such an ugly bastard get such a hot chick?

Agony Aunt

2009-03-05T13:49:00.000-08:00

My Aunt Eileen (whose generosity clothed the young college going Disgrace back in the 90's) wants me to publish this picture of my mothers leg after her New Years tumble. I guess after 2 years of bringing mine to you, it's refreshing to share the misery of others. The disturbing thing is that I'm actually concerned that falling off unstable armchairs and breaking your legs in multiple places may be hereditary.. To be honest though, I'd take it over both their madness!

Recipie for disaster.. the work party.

2009-02-21T17:19:00.000-08:00

Take one work do, add a pinch of drinking at your desk since 11am, stir it up and sprinkle with some light urinating in the ladies toilets. Allow to simmer and remove from the heat to cool. While it sets, prepare some buttocks on a photocopier. Once ready, pin the resulting pictures to the walls and continue to flirt with every girl in the office at 220 degrees Celsius. When (forcibly) removed from office, continue to drink in the basement toilets and then dust with the powder of a fresh ‘wrapping your entire body in toilet roll’. The next stage requires drinking and shouting on the lawn in front of the office until some scared tourists accidentally cross your path. Remove self from the oven of potential arrest and slide into a pre-heated Luas. Once on Luas, reduce heat and cover, but crack open some bottles of Duvel and act menacingly. Do not allow to boil or get agro with inspector. Remind your Hungarian, Slovakian and Lithuanian employees that they are guests in this country and pouring beer on other passengers is against our culture. Prepare some green beans in butter, on a low heat.

Remove posse from Luas, and walk immediately into a rickshaw. Gently prise open skin on forehead until the blood runs pink. Immediately separate from the sane members of your team and board the wrong bus. Lightly pepper fellow passengers with loud singing and crotch grabbing. Cover and disembark, further from destination than when starting and gently roll a taxi. Arrive shortly afterwards at best friend’s mother’s birthday party with two of your gang still alive and proceed to enter pub like a visiting scud missile. Flirt at medium heat with best friend’s cousin, grab his father in headlock. Once browned, proceed to dance like a priest in an over ambitious altar boys dormitory. Heat plates. Shake, bake, and embarrass your own father into calling you the next day to say how ashamed he is of you. Try not to remember a thing at this stage, as the memory of talking to your best friend’s wife’s parents (and your ex’s) might cause unnecessary burning. Leave pub like Roy Keane in Saipan, and attempt to have sexual relations with the bonnet of the taxi carrying your besties visiting uncle. Flip, and reduce to a low flame, head home. Once home, visit local take-away and order curry chips. Vigorously empty onto the pavement and eat at once. Avoid the gravelly bits to avert immediate dentist visit.

Prepare a salad, and wait for the calls the next morning...

*EDIT: Just heard that I arrived through the door and shouted 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY EVERYBODY'. More to follow probably..

Oh Cupid...

2009-02-14T11:26:00.000-08:00

The Scene was set. The aromatic candles were lit. The Lights were low. On the stereo, “A million love songs” by Take That. Strawberries, soaking in Champagne, winked in the candle-light like little red fruits of love. “Ghost” was in the video player with “Mamma Mia” for afters. A single red rose lay on a fluffed up pillow like a romantic offering from the Gods of love. New lingerie spread out on the bed, ready to be put on and then removed slowly and seductively, and in full view of the neighbours. A warm bath filled with floating petals lay waiting to massage the senses. In the kitchen, Oysters are simmering with passion, ready to be devoured. Matching bathrobes, recently embroidered with cheeky personal messages hung from the door hooks. A bottle of 1999 Amour de Deutz Blanc de Blancs sitting in ice, ready to be poured into fine crystal (or indeed, on the body). A diamond ring hid in the shadows, ready to dazzle and to surprise. Romance filled the air...

A lot of effort for a night in by myself, I think you’ll agree.

Merry Valentines from ND

I live in what you might call a 'kip'

2009-02-03T15:06:00.000-08:00

It's what childhood dreams are made of. Days off school, pipes frozen and old ladies slipping and breaking their hips.

To most people, waking up to a blanket of snow is the stuff of dreams..

Not me.

I really should tell my landlady about the hole in the roof.

Seriously

Hair

2009-01-12T08:55:00.000-08:00

I spent the weekend complaining to anyone who’d listen about my most recent bad haircut. I mean, there’s people dying of hunger and disease across the planet. There’s terror as war rages in Gaza. A ship has sunk in Indonesia killing over 200 people. Families in the West of Ireland are coming to terms with certain unemployment and a bleak future. There’s a famine brewing in Kenya. And I’m worried about a bad haircut!!?

It’s just way too short, and I don’t like the way it spikes up at the back.

Christmas Greetings from TV3

2008-12-24T03:19:00.000-08:00

They were late this year..

“Dear Michael (?), we all know the feeling. You’re tucked up in bed, the soft glow of the landing light (or a visiting rapists torch) drifts into the room like a soft whisper (or silent and poisonous gas). The distant jingle of sleigh-bells (or a lunatic with a bicycle chain) arouse the senses as you start to count the hours until it will be Christmas morning. You’ve never felt so warm (house-fire maybe?) and a smile slowly creeps up on you (like a sleazy uncle on a hot summers day in the 80’s when you got one of those small paddling pools that everyone had). Well, guess what. With Irelands favorite* TV station, TV3, you get not only the best in year round entertainment, but also the best in Christmas television. Starting just before Christmas, and ending sometime after it, TV3’s 2008 festive schedule is packed to the brim with magic, wonder and advertisements. Just look at some of the examples :

An Audience with Alan Hughes - The ever popular ‘front lounge’ weatherman entertains a star studded audience at this specially recorded show. Viewers will hardly notice that the audience shots are from ‘an audience with Lionel Ritchie’, originally aired back in June. – Might want to remove that bit, LOL!!, Ed!

Filthy Carpet Munchers - Fascinating insight into the lives of carpet bugs and lice. Using microscopic microscopes we look at these little...Oh wait, you've stopped paying attention cos you thought this was a sexy lesbian show!!?.. Sponsored by Meanies

Snap! - Brush Sheils hosts this fast paced game show where contestants must battle each other by laying down cards on a table andshouting 'Snap' when two of the same cards appear together. Prizes provided by Graces newsagents, Ballinasloe

The big crazy fucking deadly Christmas movie – The Nutty Professor – Sober tale of a quiet 47 year old Norfolk Professor who is diagnosed with clinical depression based insanity which threatens the stability of his family and job. Starring Terry Nutkins (the Really Really Wild Show)

Live Olympic Games!! - Exclusive coverage of the dog Olympics from Serbia. We’re live from trackside for the ‘Dog on another Dogs back’ 75-metre hurdle and the final of the ‘bark off’. We also have extended coverage of this morning’s ‘Dog and Spoon’ race. Presented in association with Whiskas.

The School around the corner (From Albania) - Children say the funniest things, and this popular show from the former Eastern Bloc country is no exception. Today we meet the students of Zigau girls school who have battled back from the horror and trauma of an attack from a marauding decapitation gang and a serious gas leak that went unnoticed for six years.

Bowling for Coolmine - Behind the scenes documentary, which sees a team of amateur Bowlers from the North Dublin estate cashing in on their close name association to the Michael Moore film

Hammered - The hilarious Ulster comedy continues to win awards and last week was the recipient of the first ‘Pat the Baker’ television hero prize. In this special Christmas episode, Milo is concerned to find his house has been burned to the ground and his car daubed with politically sensitive slogans. Whilst on the ‘other side’ Jamie’s hands are sawn of by the O’Malley twins leaving him doubtful for his wedding later that day.

I think you will agree, that TV3 is simply more than ‘UTV with a different logo’ and this Christmas raises the bar of in festive entertainment.

All the best for the festive season,
The TV3 gang!"

*Survey was conducted in the men’s toilets of Busaras. Question asked “If we threatened to drug you, beat you and send your body in small pieces to each member of your family, would you agree that TV3 is the best TV channel on Irish Television?”. We got 6 yes’s.!

Disgraces Christmas memories..

2008-12-16T03:34:00.000-08:00

I once gave an ex-Girlfriend an Epilator for Christmas. It being top of the range and purposely ‘the most expensive they had’ mattered not as the festive tears began flowing.

I suppose you could blame Fakey. I had called him and his (then) Fiancé, soon to be (now) Wife, who was (then) and (still is) my ex's sister and asked if they thought it was a good idea. They literally cheered me on from the sidelines as I bought the thing.

Not the first Christmas/Relationship that Fakey ruined on me, I'll have you know.

Disgrace's 'Back to mine - Please!' mixtape

2008-12-02T04:33:00.000-08:00

Everyone’s at it, so I thought I’d crash the party with my own..

May I present (for those special moments when you’re parked at the edge of a pier in the driving rain, crying and saying goodbyes in your head or as you’re waiting for your gas oven to get nice and toasty), National Disgraces ‘Back to mine – Please!’ Mix-tape.

“A warning to everyone that blog posts can be the first sign of a friends impending suicide – Essential stuff” The Metro

“From the opening notes of ‘self mutilation with a whisk’ to the closing ballad of ‘hot head - repeated banging of cranium against sharp edge of radiator’ this collection rarely raises its head above the blankets, but it’s all the better for it. A sumptuous collection of misery” Hot-Press

“Put this on, open a bottle of Red, send the kids to bed and find a lofty beam on which to tie your rope – perfect for when you just feel like ‘hanging’.."- The Irish Examiner

“Not since the Mini-Pops post-rehab reunion album has so much soul been poured into a record. You can hear the pain, literally, especially on track 4 ‘sound of chainsaw in cold bathroom echoing throughout house’” Housekeeping Weekly

“It should be Number 1 forever” Morrissey

Do you want a copy?

Kris my Ass

2008-11-28T05:37:00.000-08:00

Why I hate Kris Kindle:

Well, cos I hate everything else.

Also, cos you cannot buy a box of live scorpions for under 10 euro.

Still, I simply cannot wait to get my vibrating man dildo and fake breast apron.

Regards,
Disgrace.

Staying Positive

2008-11-22T11:57:00.000-08:00

7am: Alarm (Groovin' with Mr Bloe - Mr Bloe) goes off. I congratulate myself on my playing of a cruel personal joke. 'Nice try Disgrace, I know you've only been in bed for 5 hours' I say to myself and drift back off to sleep. 9 Minutes later Mr Bloe begins his chirpy morning salute once more. I'm a little angrier, but dedicated to my plan, I smile as I hit the snooze button once more. Not long after Mr Bloe is doing the ring tone equivalent of your mother handclapping a rolling pin at the end of your bed. I'm up

7.05am: The smell of petrol in my sitting room is getting too strong to ignore. I decide that despite there being no logical reason for it, it can only be a good thing - for today, in response to Fakeys comments, is my day of being happy and non-moaney!

7.11am: I have failed. My shower head has snapped off. It's impossible to tell what is water running down my body and what is tears. A temporary clitch.

7.19am: In true McGyver style I have fashioned together a 'shower head with 3 books holding it up' concoction that finally sees me clean, fresh and only slightly smelling of unleaded.

7.45am: I emerge into the waking bustle of Rathgar Road. The shy is grey, and the clouds have gathered like a group of big wet bullies, but I think not negativity. Pressing play on my Pod, Bag Raiders 'shooting stars' fills my eardrums with a delirium that literally has me prodigy dancing to Cowper Luas stop.

8.00am: My arrival at the Luas stop is sprightly and enthusiastic. Next tram 3 minutes. Next stop work. That is if I had actually remembered that I require money to buy a ticket. Disgustingly, I check the machine for forgotten change. My smile, looking more forced now, remains where it is for the minute as I decide to travel gratis.

8.03am: "My name is National Disgrace. *** Rathgar Road. I forgot my wallet, Sir".

8.30am: I realise now why I don't wear my huge jacket that often. You could literally cook a ham in it. I arrive into work like a super-split that had been sitting on a dashboard for an entire journey to Athy. Taking a seat at my desk, I gesture goodwill to all, and press the GO button on my computer. As each mail arrives in, like some sort of invading army of red exclamation marks, 'URGENTS' and 'I have covered in your Boss, the Minister for Communications and the Pope', my resolute smile creaks like an old coffin door. Ah!! Coffee!! SAVED!

8.55am: After replying to all my mails in a caffeine filled buzz, and leaping from my seat to tell the CEO how well he looks (she's a woman), I begin the first of my morning naps. I'm jolted into action by the head of finance standing at my desk. 'I don't know who this 'Coiny' is and asking me 'do I like tits' is not the response I was expecting to my request for your approval of credits. I look at my coffee cup. It smugly smirks back. NO WORRIES!!

11.00am: My boss is delivering an opera of catastrophe to me, but I'm tuned out. Must stay positive I say, as I guide Mario through Mario land on my PC. Deadly, just dodged a poisonous mushroom.

13:00pm: The updates are getting fewer, as are my reasons to live. I begin a countdown to lunch. 3600 seconds. 3599. 3598..... at least it's going down!!

14:35: There's a reason Aldi noodles are 25c a pack.

15:40: A twirl bar, a visit to this brilliant fan made video for Nada Surf and I'm staring into the home straight with the smile of a priest at a recently tear-gassed creche. Already today, I'd delivered a stirring report on customer churn that I like to think had people applauding (on the inside at least). Today's mantra 'Isn't life great' is certainly working. My 'rope' drawer hasn't been opened once, and some of the more timid employees have actually approached my desk. 'Are you alright?' seems to be their query. I laugh contently, albeit solidly, for 20 minutes, and toast my overflowing jug of coffee in their direction . 'Hooray' I scream and I spill the scalding liquid down my arm.. I FEEL NO PAIN (until a minute or so later)

17:30: I'm in the lift. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. It's like a magic mirror. I look like shit, but I feel great. I've stayed positive all day, despite my lunchtime dip. Blame Aldi.

18.15: I arrive home. My ESB bill is standing in the doorway like a hired thug. My curtains are blowing in the breeze. There's soot all over my floor. The smell of petrol would make a car sick. The boiler has exploded. "Ha Ha, take that fakey' I shout, triumphantly.

I put on some A House..

"A smile is a frown, upside down' sings Couse...

Take that Fakey indeed.

Alone it stands.. thank Christ

2008-11-18T14:01:00.000-08:00

I always used to say whenever World Cup fever hit town that I wished England would win it, only so that would shut the Christ up about 1966. Secretly of course, I hoped that some of their players would be killed by accidentally tackling themselves, the pound would crash and that Margaret Tatcher would burst into flames on Prime Ministers Question Time. The same thoughts came knocking today when I prepared myself for Munsters re-match with the All Blacks. Plays, Books, not-so-athletic-anymore ex players, gorging and dining out daily on stories of their victorious past are all vulgar reminders of the provinces unexpected victory over the touring New Zealanders back in the days when the Internet and fois gras didn't exist. Coiny, an ex-workmate and fellow blogger slept in his Munster shirt (and disgustingly wore it into work the next day. And the next) such was his pride. Their arrogance miffed me. And you know that there was no tears shed in Limerick when Ireland failed to beat the Kiwis last Saturday.

Yet, tonight was sporting history. From the Munster Haka, a terrifying war dance that shows that all acts of masculinity need not involve knives, guns and innocent victims, to the arrival of an army helicopter with the match ball, the occasion was truly awesome right up to the final moments. Literally, throwing their bodies on the line after no little skill and one of the great tussles I've ever seen in modern Rugby. Of course, in true Irish tradition, they boasted superiority from a theatre of dreams that is in fact only a half built stadium. And, when they hosted Ireland V Canada last week it played out like it was a neutral venue, the locals even arriving in the red of Munster despite the colour of the opposition. And yes, they all have unusually large foreheads and occasionally scrape their knuckles along the N17, but you can not help but be impressed.

They didn't win, but they nearly did. And lordy mclord o'lord, that's a victory for us all.

I see Fakey says man bags are not gay. You're right Fakester, they're not (I own 5), but they are when you get an erection writing about them.

And finally

Happy Birthday to Mandy, a good friend of mine who also happens to be a colleague. She's had her downs this year, and sadly, slightly less ups, but she still gets to work with me, which let's face it, is like 26 Superbowls. Enjoy your day Mandy, and my present (a Stapler)

Evil Heat

2008-11-14T05:40:00.000-08:00

You may recall me pleading ‘possibly guilty your honor’ to the killing of a funk loving Aussie in my previous post. She had one of those old style Radiators you see. The type of one that literally screams ‘I wouldn’t hit your head here if I were you’. Now, I’m not about to expand on the gory details (we’ll save that for the courts) but let’s just say that she did hit her head off it. Now however, something rather sinister has begun happening at Chateau Disgrace that is simply too uncanny to ignore.

I have a number of radiators in my flat, just your run of the mill ones, unlikely to have ever been involved in homicidal activities like their IFSC cousin. Their brief was a simple one. Heat the place, and do it without fuss. No murdering.

In fact, they never actually worked so I went out and bought a couple of standalone ones and forgot about them. A couple of weeks ago though they began to stir. At 5am one morning, I woke up feeling unusually hot and stuffy. I turned to herself and said ‘Hey, It’s unusually hot and stuffy isn’t it?’ She didn’t reply, maybe because she was asleep, or probably cos she doesn’t exist. Anyway, I got up and immediately noticed that the radiator had come on. This didn’t strike me as too odd, as I knew the Landlord had them set on a timer for the entire building. The next night, they didn’t come on at all from what I can remember, and the following one, they were on as I was getting home late. The pattern continued. They’d come to life at all hours. Humming away and emitting a diabolical and evil heat whenever they felt like it. I queried this with my landlady the other day, asking if she could fix the timer so they’d only come on at appropriate times. She said they were set for 6am to 8am and 6pm to 8pm. ‘Well I’ll be!’ was my response, and when I went on to explain that my ones are coming on randomly and at odd hours she joked that maybe they were ‘haunted radiators’..

Now, and I kid you not, as soon as I hung up on her, the theme to ‘Home and Away’ started playing on the TV.. BUT IT WASN’T PLUGGED IN!! (actually it was, that bit is a lie. The rest however, is chillingly, or maybe not chillingly considering it involves radiators, true).

It’s not going to take a genius to figure what’s going on here.

Do I need a plumber, an electrician or an exorcist?

33 and a turd and/or the whoring twenties

2008-11-10T17:31:00.000-08:00

In my 20's I had no morals, no future, and no standards.

The 'nothing years' I like to call them. Your twenties. The decade passes for most people in a blur of new relationships, passing music fads, and desperate fashion (carpet jackets, black Nike high tops and a yellow floral tight shirt that I thought made me look like Jarvis Cocker, when in fact it made look like a total cock). I worked in a petrol station and used to lie to girls in Whelans that I was in the 'oil industry'. I wrote poetry and posted it to the same girls, after they dumped me. 'You'll be sorry' was sent to a long termer. 'Mind the traffic bitch' to another. I made up for a lack of charisma, style and looks with a quirky odour. I parted my hair in the middle and invented the inverse dance to 'song 2' from blur in Whelans, where I would go mental to the quiet bits and stand perfectly still to the loud ones. I lived in a bedsit in Terenure in which my futon literally floated after a flash flood. I was so rock and roll that I used to complain about the noise from the old woman in the flat above me. I had a slug infestation and once woke up beside a pretty little bank teller to the sight of two of them on her leg 'your tongue feels lovely' she said, needlessly reminding me that she was totally and utterly drunk. I once, perhaps, manslaughtered an Australian girl when I knocked her from her bed trying to turn Jamoruqi off the stereo and she hit her head off a radiator. I deejayed in Doyles to 3 people, all of whom were related to me. They reckon I still owe them a refund.

Then towards the end of this troubled era I grew up. I got a better job. I got a better place. I got a better girlfriend. That's really where all the trouble began.

You see, despite the fact that I was an idiot in my twenties, I had a lot of fun. I had a lot of girls. I took unhealthy risks. I killed a Jamourqui fan.

Now, I'm starring into the abyss that is the age of man. I'm virgin (sic) on 33. I used to say to Fakey (who reaches the age of man this week) when he had one of his 'crises', "get off the cross dude, someone else needs the wood!!" now, rather than being crucified like my hero Jesus I'm being told 'just go off and die in the corner there love'. I thought I'd be a doting father by now, with kids. A money man, with money. A home owner who owned a home. Instead, I'm a fuckwit, who can't get ...... Well, maybe I actually can, it's just that the youthful centre parted gung-ho attitude of my twenties has been replaced by a sensible, nose to spite the face, stubbornness that sees me in on a Halloween night watching Ghost World only cos it has Ghost in the title.*

I have become too critical. This blog is littered with my opinions. It's littered with my mistakes. It's littered with a thinly veiled hated of TV3 that those of you with half a brain would already of guessed means that I watch it religiously. What it has not been littered with is stories of Antipodean murders, wantin public sex acts and regrettable encounters with women with beards. Had I of wrote this blog in my 20's, it would of. It would of spoke of nameless women, all stroking my ego and not being given the respect of me remembering their names.

It would of been filled with college tales so outlandish that even I struggle to believe them (such as when I was removed from Fairways hotel disco in Dundalk, only to gain re-entry by climbing a drainpipe, entering a bedroom and passing a couple as they woke to say 'Oh, this isn't the gents'). More near death experiences, such as when I woke up under Templeouge bridge with my jeans on backwards and contracted serious blood poisoning, but ended up in a 4 year relationship with the girl who lured me there. And the time I actually was covered in milk (only I was sleeping in a some random strangers garden on the Avenue Rd, Dundalk: at 3 in the day). The decade that I fondly look back upon as the 'nothing years' was in fact that.

There was nothing like it.

2008, Disgrace, still so-obviously single.

*Written on Halloween night

Obama in a Hiace

2008-11-05T11:43:00.001-08:00

Theres a sign on the dreary road that leads into Moneygall (anglicised from the Irish for 'the town of the people who would prefer to be dead') that proclaims that the tiny one-family, 300 inhabitants village to be the ancestral home of the new president of the US, Barack Obama. The sign, which boasts a stylish modern font and thanks to lessons learned from the infamous speed limit pole debacle is actually road facing, is sponsored by T&E plumbing.

The Village, whose previous claim to fame was the fact that T&E plumbing chose to locate there, is a curious mix of the bland and the creepy. Wikipedia cleverly dodges the thorny issue of whether or not the locals eat each other and instead concentrates on the fact the Presidents great great great (ok, we get the message, you think he's great) Grandfather was once the local shoemaker. On Six-One tonight a reporter braved the danger of the rumoured MoneyGall sex beast (a four legged creature made entirely out of sex that has been spotted outside the catholic church and behind one of the towns 2 pubs) and visited the local primary school.

Like a DVD extra from 'Children of the Corn', the students sang 'Obaaaaaama, Obaaaaama' in a sinister unison as the reporter interviewed the schoolmaster. He said he envisages a bus load of 'yanks' pounding the pavement in downtown Gall, pointing at T&E plumbings corporate HQ with a mixture of awe and downright fear and taking snaps of the three headed children as they play with their other heads. There's no hotels in MoneyGall of course, but you'd hardly need one when you're trying to get back to the airport as quickly as his humanly possible.

The house in which the shoemaker Obama was born, was leveled sometime ago to make way for a field but plans are already afoot (see what I did?) to erect a new sign, with a picture of Obama on it to indicate the ancestral home. The sponsorship is available for the highest bidder, which may interest Bergins shop who narrowly lost out to T&E plumbing, the plumbers, last time.

Things are looking good for Moneygall, and this guide is intended for interested yanks, to find info on local services and customs. Thanks to the guys on the 'friends of Satan' forum for their in dept knowledge of the area, and once again, to T&E plumbing.

And who knows, as the picture on the right shows, one days Barack Obama could be driving his cavalcade into what was once a sleepy little village, but will surely soon be over-run with Yanks!

And sure if he ever needs his plumbing done...

Things to do in Dublin when it's dead

2008-11-03T16:45:00.000-08:00

Myself and the Fake decided to hit town early yesterday. Since his marriage, his behaviour has been slightly erratic, although the fact that his wife is in the final straight of a PHD might explain some of it. He has been calling me at all hours (6.40am Saturday "Are you awake? Coffee?", 11 am last Sunday "Can I watch CNN in yours?". Anyway, yesterday was no different. Despite a flash drinking session in Slats the night before, I awoke to a 9am call, 10am text, 11 am repeat call, 11.30 text fest and 12pm 'lying in is a sign of depression man!!' voicemail', I finally responded with a groggy and nowhere near finished sleeping response of 'I'm single man, let me be..!'

Anyway, after the usual morning routine of a single man (underpants odour test, self-examination/pleasure, beef and black bean breakfast) I emerged blinking into something I have not seen in many a weekend, the early afternoon. Disturbingly Fakey standing outside my flat, with the look of a man who'd been there for quite a while.

Soon, after a game of dodge the pram on the Luas, we were standing in the green of St Stephen with a 'what now' look on our faces. My eyes wandered to every available woman's arse, his to the window of 'Stock'. I mouthed the word 'pints', whilst he checked the newly weds handbook. He recited rule 2.1: 'drinking during the day whilst your wife was strung out on PHD is forbidden' so we decided to do something else.

Minutes later we were knocking back stout in Grogans.

I don't blame him. It's nigh on impossible to do anything in this City without involving drink. We could go for coffee, but a number of weeks ago I went on a 5 hour coffee session and spent that night chanting and twitching in my bed, so I'm pretty reluctant to binge on it. And anyway, Cafes in Dublin City are like these hipster soup kitchens, full of nausea inducing fuckwits all cramming the pavement in an attempt to be seen. Yes, our kind of place, but difficult to get a seat. Sure we have some Museums and Galleries, but these can all be explored over a weekend if you so wish, and it's not something you're gonna do every week. Your chances of being raped are dramatically increased if you happen to be in a park, so that rules them out. Worse can occur in the Zoo. A lot worse.

The 'craic' excuse has long been redundant. craic, like crack, soon becomes something a lot more hardcore. There are no Big Wheels, no Trevi Fountains, no Eiffel Towers. There is simply nothing to do in Dublin.

And after our last pint in Slats later on that evening, we both agreed that at least it made things simple.

A pain in the dole

2008-10-29T07:05:00.000-07:00

I know these are trying times for most of us. Some people are saying though that the Irish are now way smarter than the bucktoothed, pig-under-the-arm, banjo twanging brigade that used to populate this island back in the 80’s, and that we can cope and survive with a recession better now, armed as we are armed with fois gras, B&Q decking and fake breasts. Yes, the smarter do have a greater chance of surviving, but just because you own 3 properties in rapidly declining areas, send your kids to an Irish speaking school and a share your living room with a enormous LCD TV doesn’t make you smart. And even if it did, I have none of those things anyway.

My employmortality (you heard it here first kids) has been staring me in the face for the last few months, and is threatening to reach a head. Simply put, a big giant corporation bought out my little homely and cutesy jobbity and has begun swinging the sword. Christmas in a skip is looking more and more likely.

One thing unemployment might do is finally encourage me to write my book..

The only thing is, it’ll go something along the lines of this:

“The lady in FAS wondered why I didn’t have a moustache. I explained I’m not a naturally hairy person and she gave me one of those looks. You know the type of look, the ones that bitches give you. She stamped the card, and looked at me again. She commented that if I wanted to be a real unemployed person I should consider growing one. I said if she wanted to be considered a real woman, she should get rid of hers. I then jokingly asked her to consider me for any jobs in Freddy Mercury tribute acts, pointing to my obvious lack of moustache. She explained to me that he had died of aids. A fight broke out between a father and son in the other Q, so I left.

After FAS, I was so hell-bent on getting a job that I went straight to the pub. This action is the main reason I’ve had to advertise my liver on Buy and Sell.”

Yep, I need to keep this job. I really do.

Creepy Uncle Disgrace

2008-10-13T09:03:00.000-07:00

“Still, at least I’m back blogging”

What a phrase. Up there with ‘Look Dad, no hands!!’ , ‘Honey, I’m having a bath, will you pass me the toaster?... ARGGHHH, I meant soa..BUZZZZZZ’ and ‘I think I’ll trim my pubic hair with a hedge strimmer out on the iced over decking in the garden’ as utterances of instant regret.

I’m actually investing a huge portion of my creative abilities into something else currently, so I will not be as prolific as I once was (I famously knocked out 3 posts in one week earlier this year), for the time being anyway.

Maybe we could work out a routine. I could commit myself to 1 post a week, couldn’t I? Maybe.

For the moment, consider me like a pleasant, but undeniably creepy leather chap clad Uncle who drops by once in a while, gives you a shiny ten-pence, pats you on the head and tells you to run along (only so he can chase you and tie you up in the garage).

Def Leppard!!!

2008-09-30T15:11:00.000-07:00

The plan was very simple. Take a week off work whilst the going was good, indulge myself in high brow activity and return to the office a hero. Fresher faced, slimmer and despite the medical impossibility, taller. I even went a euro over budget in the shopping on coffee, just to make sure that I got that extra boost every morning. I also ironed my underpants.

It was a simple plan. Wake each morning in the AM. 8.30 would be fine. Shower,and linger, allowing the smooth fragrance of lemon and tea tree oil impregnate my skin. Dress, like a proud sailor, giving significant time to admire in mirror. Emerge from my rooms of impeccable grooming into the soft glow of a yawning morning and head for stage one of Disgraces 'week off work super plan', the Gym. After flexing and galloping for an hour, I would tease the gentlemen of LA Fitness with my remarkable presence and feeling refreshed, marathon ready and as buff as a racehorse, would ditch the the gym bag and head straight into the eye of an intellectual storm. Day one, i thought, Marshes Library. I'd soak up history. Day 2, The Hugh Lane, I would deliberately loiter and allow the art to rape my senses. Day 3, IMMA, here I would sip a coffee and laugh to myself, like a madman, but look like a pretty cool art dude. Day 4, Collins Barracks. Day 5, the Zoo. All of these excursions would be followed by my arrival at a coffee house, with laptop, where I would alternate from writing my book and winking at the lovely ladies. After my coffee and wordsmithery, I would return home to a meal that involved lots of chopping, squeezing and green things. After dinner, I would put on a Tux and hit the bricks. The city would open up to me like an overpaid prostitute and I would simply charm my way through the night, eventually ending up in bed and wondering how I would get home..

It was indeed a simple plan.

So, why oh why, am I waking each day just as Prime Time is starting, eating a deep pan goodfellas, in only my underpants, and cranking up the Xbox...

Still, at least I'm back blogging.

{LEAVE BLANK}

2008-07-21T05:38:00.000-07:00

I don’t really like Blogging anymore. In fact, putting words together either in written form, or in verbal, is becoming quite the chore lately. It’s not that I don’t have interesting things to say anymore, it’s just that I really don’t have anyone to say them to. And let’s be honest, the internet makes a pretty shit Girlfriend.

However, I trust you are all well and scurrying about doing those important things you do, and living the shit out of life.

I may be some time.

Winning 'Streak'

2008-06-25T06:58:00.000-07:00

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

Arrrrgh, Girls!!!!

2008-06-22T11:29:00.000-07:00

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.

My Mate Paulaner

2008-06-16T04:57:00.000-07:00

That was the weekend.

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.

Simon Le Lisbon

2008-06-14T11:49:00.000-07:00

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?

The Metro

2008-06-11T04:03:00.000-07:00

I somehow found myself watching TV3’s ‘Miss Universe Ireland’ competition on Sunday night and felt obliged to make some observations. Firstly, the entire experience was to enjoyment, what a ten-car pile-up involving a number of your closest relatives, is to Christmas. The hosts, (Some bloke called Caprice and Alan ‘I do the weather, interviews, cookery segments and other gentlemen’ Hughes) were as mismatched a pair as I could possibly imagine and had all the chemistry of a rapist and his/her victim.

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.

Broken Ideas (2)

2008-06-09T06:14:00.000-07:00

More from the vaults, which probably should of stayed in the vaults...

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"

Summer 2007

“Sometimes it takes an outsider to make things better. Like Jack Charlton or Hitler.”

April 2007

“Skobies.

Where do you start?

Genocide?”

Sometime 2007

The Funeral

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??” …..

unfinished

April 2008

“Imagine being trapped under a bed whilst two trumpets have sex.

The noise..

Christ my head hurts this morning.

Broken Ideas (1)

2008-06-05T05:56:00.000-07:00

Ok, I’ve changed the header. Some people (Rosie) didn’t take to the ‘airborne sperm’ so I’ve pulled it down.

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”

Where in the world

2008-05-31T14:02:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-21T05:51:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-19T08:37:00.000-07:00

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.