Wine is nice

Disgrace kept himself in last night. It was a wise choice as Charity Your a Star was on. He drank some wine. He wrote a review of it. Here's it is

Budavar Pinot Grigio

The bottle, a clear glazed specimen with gummed parchment proudly singing of it's wares, was topped off by a curved and subtly sculpted 'wine hat'. The moment of release encouraged a sharp intake as it's applely mist devoured the senses. It would be wise to stand back, touch somebody you love very intimately and allow the narrow necked receptacle to release the olfactory sensation into the soft light of an evening, only now made memorable.

Two shimmering vessels of crystal should be left pondering and salivating at the prospect of this heavenly juice being lashed into their quivering lips. In the vicinity, a punnet of full and fresh plums, glazed only barely noticeably, by the thinnest of sweet layers of sugar cane. The choice of music, often overlooked when tasting the vine, should not be made hastily. Aggressive guitar music and heavy tribal beats are best avoided. Artists such as 'Sergio John Mulcahy Hernandez and the Holy Lemons', 'Orchestra of sudden death' and 'Hooka Jumpy Willowy Bip' provide the grace required for this dance with nirvana. Their low-lying drum shuffles dance merrily with drive-by pan pipes, and the vocals, sent from heaven, via some ethnic refugee camp, would make you drop your car keys with amazement. So, with Sergio's 'A woman in the fridge' playing on the 45, and your plums freshly sugared, you are now almost ready to savour the intercourse with your wine.

Pouring should be deliberate. The Vino, should be coaxed gently, but firmly. Remember, you are the boss. The first splash may alarm you. Like a crashed rainbow, the colours are still adjusting to their new settings. But boy do they adjust. Soon, a generous serving should be waiting for you.

And then it touches your lips

I would imagine sharing a lingering tongue filled snog with a certain Ms Marylyn Monroe, whilst riding down route 66, with GOD in the drivers seat might come close, but nothing else would. To say that my taste buds exploded and blew my head clean from my shoulders, would only just be a slight exaggeration. I will tell you, my life changed when I first tasted this wine. Colours, I never knew existed, suddenly came to life and whispered to me in hushed, bright tones. I began to speak fluent Spanish all of a sudden and I loved it.

With the earthiness of the lawn of a heavily manicured princesses garden, this vino gently ebbs and flows in your mouth, essentially teasing your taste buds. It's full bodyness, then unleashes itself in the most provocative manner and literally takes your mouth on a tour of the worlds native dances, stopping twice at flamingo. With a subtle hint of chillies, this 'great white' packs a delicate punch but does not bruise. The afterMATH is nothing short of completely sensational. A real Hollywood ending emerges once you have swallowed. It is likely you will fall in love with the first person you see at this stage, so tell your granddad to wait outside.

Overall? The nicest wine I have ever tasted. Olympic quality.

Seriously? Only 3.50 in Aldi, does the trick, get's you nicely toasted

Star Wars 7 - Chocolate Polo

Last Saturday night, in the midst of the Joe O'Reilly murder circus (note to children: this is not the type of circus you can visit, with clowns and Algerians), Disgrace and Co. retired to a good friends for pornography and biscuits. The conversation ebbed and flowed like the frothy tide on Curacloe beach, when one of our party suggested we play 'charades'. After some innocent fun, and minimal personal injury, our game of charades turned to a nasty game of 'shouting at each other'. The Sunday papers had appeared you see.

It was that kind of night.

They were those kind of charades.

The biccies were Chocolate Polos.

The papers, as they have been for the past 2 months, were wall to wall Joe O'Reilly. The verdict had been made during RTE's Big Big Family movie, but before Trump Card. These Papers (dead trees basically), were now free to spread their spurious muck all over the mind-farm of Ireland. However they didn't, at least the high end broadsheets that I read didn't. I can't speak for the ones with the Dixon's ads and the soccer transfer speculations in them, but I'm sure they were reserved too. This did not stop Disgrace and Co. riding a merry-go-round of hi-energy opinions for the next hour. Voices were raised. Fists waved menacingly. Girls cried. Glasses too, raised. The Polos, eaten.

'This was a trial by Media' shouted Disgrace, not fully convinced
'Arrghhhh spurgggle fluuurp' responded the nameless adversary

And so it went on. Somehow, as the dark of night sank deep into the bottom of the glass, an agreement was made, when the last Polo left town.

'A trial IN the Media'. We agreed. Smiled. Posed for some photos. Played some monopoly

But, it's since then that Disgrace has watch the media of this country reveal itself. There was some 'Hang the Bastard' sub headlines. He was called a 'Crazed Killer' by others (Note, he is a killer, no argument). But yesterdays 'Oirish' Sun was made for the most interesting read. They claimed that Joe was 'obsessed' with evil dark lord, Darth Vadar (of Star Wars, the movie series). It was claimed by the 'award' 'winning' 'Irish' 'Sun' that he had a room devoted to his sinister fascination. He used to sneak up and people and recite chilling quotations from this diabolical fictional comic book character. This was the kind of Journalism that resulted in Disgrace having his unnamed friend in a headlock on Saturday night.

Still, I'm pretty sure Joe O'Reilly would be very easy to beat at Charades

Eircom League 'Weakly'

I once snuck into Dalymount park by climbing through some blackberry bushes, leaping over someone's back wall and then spending 2 hours perched on one foot (with barbed wire ripping at my trousers), in an attempt to catch a glimpse at Andy Townsend's debut for Ireland Vs France. I could just about make out the top of one of the goals, but by and large, I could not see anything. It was also lashing rain.

Last night I watched eircom league weekly on TV3 and the memories of that horrible night came flooding back. Now, I commend them for broadcasting it in the first place, and the studio discussion is leaps and bounds above the same for international games. But the coverage? Oh fuck. We saw some 'action' from Longford, that looked like it was filmed on a camera phone from the back of a moving bike,
whilst I could of sworn the highlights from Waterford were filmed from a security camera. Obviously TV3 undercut RTE to get the gig, but by compromising the quality, it is ultimately the league that suffers. Most peoples opinion of the LOI is based on what they see on TV, so it would really help if the back of someone's head wasn't in the way or it wasn't filmed from a tree

It's a real pity as the quality of the game is vastly better than it has been for a long time. Teams like Drogheda and St Pats are not just professional in name, but also in nature. Now if only TV3 was the same

Oh, and did you know they've got the rights to Irelands Rugby World Cup games?

Kings of Convenience

I had a brief encounter recently. I was at an awards ceremony being lavished with silverware when an English gentleman insisted on taking me up on something he'd overheard me say. I won't bore you with the details, but it involved ASDA's impending takeover of a very prominent family supermarket chain. It was hard to take offence to his argument, business being business, buyouts and takeovers happen every day. And I nodded politely as he went on. This guy knew his retail. Anyway, I eventually did take offence when he called Ireland a nation of convenience stores. Apparently, we're the world number 1 for Spars, Centras and Londis's. They're literally queuing up to open new ones, all over Ireland.

Now, I offered an articulate and deft reason for this. We've become a bunch of cunts.

Today, I hear that the famous Henry Grattan pub on Baggot street is to become a Londis. This is double whammy. Another unneeded shop and the another unneeded loss of a small bit of our heritage. One of the great treats I get from going abroad is the total lack of stores like these. I love the way I have to go, say in Paris, to one store for a newspaper and another for a bottle of Water. Or in Budapest, an apple in small grocer number one and a Kuntz bar from stall number two. Now, an historic city centre pub is to be stripped of all it's character and painted bright green and filled with over-priced, ready made meals.

Now, there is a tenuous link to old Ireland in the emergence of these retail culture rapists. It was not unknown in Ireland 100 years ago for you to get drunk, send your post, buy half a pig and pick up some Persil in the same spot. Cute. But the level that Londis has encroached onto the main streets isn't cute, It's just nasty.

You know, this was gonna be another attack on modern Ireland. "If the cultured folks of Berlin and Madrid can do without Spars, then why do we need them" I would of said. But you know, that's not what this was about.

It's just sad

EVERY SOUPY NORMAN EPISODE SO FAR

Aside from the fact that Kerry Katona was kidnapped today, I've had very little to laugh about. The rain continues, occasionally punctuated by some showers and scattered almighty downpours. It hasn't gone unnoticed at Disgrace Manor that it has rained EVERY SINGLE day since you bastards voted Bertie back in.

Anyhow, as a treat for my loyal reader, I have decided to post EVERY SOUPY NORMAN EPISODE SO FAR, below, in a post called 'EVERY SOUPY NORMAN EPISODE SO FAR'.

According to RTE, Soupy Norman is "A new Cork based drama inspired by The Playboy of the Western World and Winning Streak contestants"



Episode One: Soupy Norman saves the day

Episode Two: Watchout Soupy is about

Episode Three: Soupy to the rescue

Episode Four: Dr. Soupy's Prognosis

Episode Five: Soupy wins a car

Episode Six: Return of Soupy

Episode Seven: Soupy Returns

Episode Eight: Who was Soupy Norman - Coming Soon

Lansdowne Road Demolition - A Romantic Fools Account

Disgrace was only 10 years old when he first set foot there. In a decade dominated by the Eurovision and cheap Dunnes jumpers, it was a mega structure from another planet. As Papa Disgrace lifted me over the stiles and offered a wink and a pound note to the attendant, I was bug eyed with excitement. Whilst grown men were crawling the streets outside looking for a few hours work, I sat in the luxury of the West Stand, with a very uneconomic hotdog in my hands, simply marvelling at the super arena that contained me. We cheered and laughed (especially when Neville Southall snapped his leg in half in the 12th minute), as Ireland took on the might of Wales in what was then a keenly anticipated 'friendly'. The stadium then was only half full, partially due to most of the men in this country being in America or down at the dole office, so the screams of Mr Southall were beautifully audible. The game ended, and I was treated to all manner of delicacies on the way home. Whilst whole families rummaged through skips and chased stray dogs, I was gorging myself on chips and chocolate. This was my first trip to the grand old dame of Ballsbridge (no, not the 86 year old prostitutes from the Dart station), Lansdowne road.

Over the many years that followed I returned constantly. I witnessed many more leg breaks, but none as exciting as Neville's. I witnessed U2 in Popmart there. The final rugby match. Other stuff too. Always rounded off with chips and chocolate, and as time passed, Caspian food. I never tired of it's beauty. Sure, as I matured, it did too. It began to creak, and certainly got a bit rough around the edges but I still got a thrill from entering through the one of the narrow entrances. But enough about the prostitute.

So, here we are. Modern Ireland. The below pictures show the demise of this great place. Even close scrutiny of the photos will reveal no barber cutted corner boys in guineys suit trousers. No men waiting at the bus-stop with a single suitcase and a one way ticket. No hungry children roaming the streets with nets to catch dogs in. When Jack Charlton emerged from under the west stand that day, he brought with him a new sense of hope. And the country changed forever

For me though, every time I hear someone snap a pencil, I think of it. When I hear some pervert creep up behind me and crack a twig as I wash naked in the forest, I stop and remember.

Neville Southall. Father of the Celtic Tiger

Recognition

Thanks to the Irish Blog Awards for acknowledging Disgraces contributions to Irish society of late. Referring to our penchant for funny vids and scathing social commentary, the blurb stopped short of commending us for our overtly xenophobic stance, our poor grammar and the use of imported slavery to update the site..But we appreciate the nod anyway!

I'm ironing my stolen black tie suit as we speak

ND

Soupy Norman 'Margarita'

Full episode

A House, 'The Strong and the Silent'

Not much today, as I've got to go to Fakeys funeral. But here's a video I thought I'd never see, from the best Irish band ever, A House

'Hung' Dail

How lazy is Bertie Ahern? I mean, actually asking his dissenters to stop bothering him and 'commit suicide'.

At least Saddam Hussein had the grace to go out and do something about his.

Complaints to the usual address

Jockeys are weird

Does anyone know why Jockeys are so small?

Disgrace has broached the subject many times but has yet to find anyone willing to entertain him. The Internet however, doesn't answer back and ND can cast wild and insulting remarks as long as the wires that keep the whole thing together can carry them. Usually, when I assemble my various theories on the stature of these dedicated sportspeople, the air is littered with replies containing '..not since Nazi Germany', 'That's just racist' and 'Disgraceful'. The Big D always stands by his outlandish declarations. And if he thinks that some weird, growth stunting, negative Angel-Dust type drug is being ploughed into children's dinners across the midlands, he will stand by it.

Then again, it really helps to have a picture like this to back him up.

Turkish Delight

So Fakey thinks this is the greatest music video ever made?

He's obviously never seen this

Ireland - Second Richest Country in the EU

Aren't we a great bunch? What, with our lovely big roads and lovely big apartments, and our lovely big SSIA's and our lovely big SUV's. And our overdrafts, 100% mortgages, consolidation loans, long commutes, 3rd world transport systems and dire health services?? What about our lack of tangible built heritage? Or our shocking lack of class and education??. Are we REALLY great with all that money we have??

According to a report I saw in the Metro (I wouldn't insult my arse - and if it's good enough for 97% of Luas travellers then it's nowhere near good enough for me) we're now the SECOND RICHEST COUNTRY in the EU. This is the latest in a long list of pointless reports to boost our egos. Obviously, these are Government published attempts to stem any ill feelings we might have towards the fact we live in a shit hole. THE SECOND RICHEST COUNTRY in the EU and the fact it was clapped across the headlines just show how obsessed we are with money. How we've essentially abandoned any thoughts of culture and pride and have invited in the wrecking ball.

Recently enough, when challenged on public amenities, the dark overlord talked, along with the usual "aren't we a great little this and a great fucking that", of 'ambitious' plans for the redevelopment of Rathmines Pool. He gushed when he explained that the whole footprint of this once prominent local amenity would be developed to provide much needed resources for the Rathmines posse. He positively beamed when he told us that as well as 100+ apartments, the public access pool would be replaced by a state of the art, membership only leisure centre. As he didn't say 'A Public Space, for double the price'. Involved in this exciting and much needed development is the demolition of two elegant early Georgian mansions. They'll be swept away for a Spar.

Here, I've a list for you:

BIGGEST FUCKER ON THE PLANET LIVES IN IRELAND - (I'll give you a clue, it's Bertie Ahern)

Soupy Norman and John O'Donoghue

Got this clip today of Soupy Norman. It looks like a TV3 production such is the bad level of quality but you get the gist. It was far from the funniest segment on this episode, but what you gonna do, sue me?

While I'm at it, this from Naked Camera is a guilty pleasure of mine. I think PJ Gallaher is a bit of genius, and the last 40 seconds of this clip proves it.

Other funnies:

Dylan Moran, from Monster, Monster and Black Books

Classic Dave Allen

Apres Match rugby spoof

David O'Doherty

And the 'Clown' Comhairle..

When we were Young

So as to prevent an onslaught of birthday cards, Disgrace isn't going to divulge the date of his birth, but let's just say it was a 'couple' of Popes ago. Additionally, a lot of you may think of the big 'D' as being an androgynous and sexless being. I can at last reveal that ND is most definitely butch and despite being a technological manifestation, 'boots up' like the best of them. So, like all at Château D'isgrace, we like to look our best. In order to do this, we have to try and look younger. We balm. We scrub. We spin. We splash. We nibble. We barricade ourselves against the onslaught of age.

We're talking full on restoration here.

All this containment is fine and dandy as long as it works, but it means nothing if you can't back it up. This I'm afraid mean involves ACTING young also. I have clean, relaxed skin. You would swear you caught a glimpse of yourself in my cheeks if I allowed you get that close, and my hair, bouncy and full, is as vitalic as that of a thoroughbred stallion. I dress to impress too. Disgrace looks stunning in (or indeed out) of a crisp pair of booted denims with a sloganed Tee stretched across his rippling chest. Put simply, ND blazes a trail.

There is a but.

Dubliner Magazine talks of the fading glory of being a lad. It warns you to drop the charade. Bloat it out. Forget about Nivea and get stuck into Calpon. Ditch the limited edition lilac cons and slip in some Marks and Spencer's loafers. Marry the first, least ugly girl you can find. Stay in on weeknights. Forget about bands with 'the' in the title.

Essentially Dubliner, and it's not the first time they've advised this, are suggesting you'd be better off completely dead.

ND has a friend. A real, blood filled, human pal. We'll call him 'Marvin'. Marvin is 31. He lives in Rathmines. He's looked better, but he's looked worse too. He's had more hair, but then again, he's had less too. He may have a bit of a spread, but he can be comforted that his belly is filled with 'fancy stuff'. He literally drowns his face in Anti-aging uber replenishing super duper revitalising wrinkle annihilating fuck juice wonder cream every morning and goes about his business. His jeans are genuine Diesel (not like the Dublin City Centre con job) and his hair has been twisted and manipulated more times than the voting public of Ireland. He looks the shit. He looks pretty damn good. He looks 27.

All good?

Except he acts 31. He gets tired in the evening. He drinks wine whilst cooking dinner. He wakes up at night screaming 'SERVICE LEVEL REPORTS'. His nights out have become 'afternoon tea'. He gets all 'gooey' inside when he sees babies. "Whelan's?? Where's that???" he asks. His iPod is never full. But at least he has one. Sometimes he wraps himself up in the past and uses that as his excuse.

And this is where he's got it all wrong.

Marvin needs to either act his age (and burn the threads), or act his shoesize.

Oh btw, Marvin is actually..... me

Killer (well, burglar) on the loose

The bring back McDowell campaign gathers momentum

The Zimmers - Old is the new Young

Old people. Like Volcanoes of unplanned odours. Making Music

The Revolution will not be Televised

Those charmers at onefortheroad have come around to my way of thinking and kindly doffed thier caps in my direction too..

It's nice to feel less alone sometimes..

Britain's got Problems

A couple of posts back, I laid into TV3 for showing a Variety show called 'Britain's got talent'. I didn't go into it then, but my reasons were many. One of them was because I honestly believe TV3 to be the media wing of the Devil. Another, and the main reason in my eyes, was the fact that this show, a celebration of British talent, was being broadcast on a Irish television station. Now, some of you will point out that TV3 get nothing from the government and they can show what they like, and isn't Mark Cagney a great inspiration to us all etc etc.. But I take massive offence to this. RTE are losing valuable advertising revenue to these losers and because of this, home grown programming is suffering on the national carrier. TV3's 'local' output stretches to a breakfast show hosted by a bunch of gormless dickheads that looks like it's broadcast from Dundrum Mental Hospital, an 'entertainment' magazine that would turn your stomach and a News show that is so cheap and tacky you can pick it up in Hector Greys for €2.

And then there was Keith Duffy's box.

Here's the thing though.

I watched Britain's got talent.

One of the most disturbing things about this (other than the parade of bed-sit murderers that appeared on it) was the fact the 'the Irish' could vote. Why on Gods earth would anyone in this country want to vote in this? Where was the benefit for us? Oh, yeah.. 10c from every call went towards the Royal Variety Fund. Bless

The other disturbing thing about this horrible experience was the performers. They ranged from a singing Bookie to a toothless 6 years old, and a couple of idiotic barmen to a guy piggybacking his brothers death.

So, a weird looking guy won after tugging at 'the nations' heartstrings by singing Nessum Dorma. People cried and wailed. Now, If Ian Huntley sang this to me while he pinned both my cats to the wall, I'd probably cry too. It's that kind of song. But the Brits didn't care. It captured the mood of a country still trying to get over "7/7". Anyway, he won out by beating a bunch of losers that were so offensive my TV kept switching itself off. There was a guy who used every opportunity a mike was waved in front of his face to tell 'us' that his Brother was dead and he was left to care for his two children (These children were paraded about regularly too). He would then break into 'tears in heaven'..

Give. me. a. break.

One of the other acts was a 6 years old girl who should be at home playing with her Sindy doll or whatever but instead was attempted to sing like an adult. The 20 hours a day practice really showed and she's a credit to her parents. There were other acts too. All of them uniformly shit and the sort off people you would leave your kids with, if you despised your kids and wanted to see the back of them that is.

And, let us not forget that the show was presented by Ant and Dec.

Come back Keith Duffy, all is forgiven.

Board Rage

Board rage at full swing over at Boards.ie

It seems that Disgrace dropped his good buddy Fake Empire right into a seething pit of angry, up-for-it, county coloured GAA boyos and left him to it. 115 posts later, and Fake is still smartly dressed, still fighting his corner and still providing a very entertaining discussion too...

Highlights from Day 2 includes one user saying to Fake "sigh.. just because you have an enormous head does not necessarily mean you have an enormous brain..."

Fakey meanwhile has been dropping the one-liners like they're molten lava

"One last thing before I open a bottle of 97 Malbec... "
"I'll try... but my enormous brain is a weapon even I can't control sometimes!"
"I'm a fan of Rugby. I can watch soccer. But fencing is really my thing"

Take the points Fake, and the goals will come