Kris my Ass

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“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!!!

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}

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'

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!!!!

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

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

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

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)

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)

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

From Reuters:

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

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

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

Let's hope he turns up. Alive.

The Champions League of Extraordinary Fuckwits

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

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

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

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

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

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

And we had a ball.

Tonight? You're having a laugh