Girly Lilac Converse

Things that I know now that I didn't before the weekend:

Running with a paper bag of provisions from the Deli Boutique in Rathgar during a thunderous downpour, can often result in your selection of breads and fine gourmet foody things ending up in a drain on Garville Avenue.

The bar at the blog awards needed to be staffed by at least another 100 barmen.

Una from Una rocks has the same girly lilac converse as me.

Fakey from Fake Empire really should of won 'best blog post'.

My neighbours are trying to kill me (to follow).

The lotto numbers were 06,08,09,13,22,33.

"You remind me of Ivan Drago from Rocky 4" is not the greatest chat up line in the world.

National Treasure - The book of dickheads

So the Oscars came and went, and amid the genuine success of Glen 'I once spilt a bottle of champagne all over National Disgrace in Whelans' Hansard, I was drawn inevitably to the subject of National Disgrace, the movie. I have sat on the screenplay for a long time, due in part to my lack of furniture, but also to a fetish for feeling paper on my arse. Described by those who read it as equal parts Rain Man, Chariots of Fire and Emanuele 17- The tale of the erotic paraplegic, I have been urged to put my pain to celluloid for so long that I'm thinking it might be time to brush up on my Oscar speech.

The story writes itself. The tale of an early thirties Lothario, in reflective mood as he awakes early one Monday morning, tied up in Caroline Morahans basement. Fearing his days numbered, he seeks redemption through re-imagining his memories. Scene by scene, it's an almost facsimile of the many tales of the man who was once described as the 'Pele of Hockey'. Clint Eastwoond, playing Papa Disgrace and Halle Berry as Mama Disgrace, feature heavily in the formative years, as the young Disgrace is seen warding off GAA recruiters, local paedophiles and pimples. Disgraces two sisters, ably played by the Culkin brothers, make an appearance in the shocking 'beat our little brother with a hoover' scene, an episode which will plague the mature Disgrace for the rest of his life. The man behind the Fake, Mr Fakey McFake's appearance in 1983 as 'the cunt who was playing with my fisher price garage when I came home from school one day' is played by the ever versatile Cate Blanchett, and later, in more recent times, by Prince.

Disgraces teen years, a whirlwind of upheavals, leaving certs and covert masturbation, forms the backbone of the movie, as the audience are given front row seats on the birth of a hero. The puberty period is an abstract scene, courtesy of Michel Gondry and will simply consist of a cat licking a block of cheese for 14 minutes. As I cannot remember most of my 20's, this time is briefly touched upon with tender images of the people who shared this difficult time. I won't name names, due largely to respect but also to an ongoing Gardai investigation but there
was a certain half Spanish lady who was a wonderful influence to Disgrace and a former Pizza Hut employee who I'll never understand.

The main action scenes centre around the period 2001-2007. Choreographed by the guys behind riverdance and Jean Claude Van Damme, the maturing disgrace bounces from emotional car crash to humourous car crash with the swagger of a corpse in a riptide. The most recent Mrs Disgrace, portrayed on screen by a computer generated half mix of Bridget Bardot and Pee Wee Herman, takes over the narration at this stage and waxes lyrical about the person she simply knew as 'a Disgrace'.. At this stage, this confusing, but enthralling mix of musical, comedy and snuff, reaches it's apex. Dressed only in Pajama bottoms, and holding a tennis racquet National Disgrace somehow finds himself in the basement of a Ms Morahan and he suddenly realises he's had enough..

And that's where Woody Allen takes over

Popcorn anyone?

Hughie and Me

I should of known when I saw Twink coming out of Chadwicks with a bag of cement and a pesticide sprayer that it was awards ceremony time. Bumping into Hughie (formerly of Fair City) outside Spar in Rathgar should also of alerted me, although when you consider that he was half dressed and could only say 'Help me... Please', you could forgive me for not spotting the clue there. No, despite all this it was the fact that every celebrity in the world was in Dublin this weekend, for a weekend of awards, that drew my attention. The IFTA's and the Meteors respectively.

Dublin's singing photo-fits, Aslan, sensationally won Best Irish Band at the Meteors and in a modest gesture, sent up a homeless guy they met outside Thomas St Social Welfare office to collect the award. He rattled on for a number of minutes with immense vulgarity, but it was a touching gesture nonetheless. Another of the highlights was the reunion of Boyzone, who were reunited on stage, under the name of Boyzone. A visibly pregnant Stephen Gately bellowed out all their hits, in such an impressive display of campness that was so camp, it would not of been surprising in the least for him to suddenly turn into a huge tent. There was endless other jaw-dropping displays on offer. The Saw Doctors proved why Ireland is at the cutting edge of modern music, with a high brow and literate performance of 'N-17', that was only a fraction better than being repeatedly sexually assaulted by a drunk relative. Security were lax when a group of drugged wasters, calling themselves 'The Coronas' got on stage and slapped away at what were once musical instruments, but had now become 'horrible noise makers'. Truly dreadful stuff.

Of course, as with all awards ceremonies, the real action starts after the show, and Friday was no different.. According to Hughie, when I met him again yesterday outside Spar, 'Just a few bob... for a cup of tea?'.

Saturday night was the IFTA's turn. I'd spent the whole evening looking for Hughie, but somehow ended up in a skip with Kathryn Thomas. She was an able replacement and thus I duly missed Mel Gibson's entertaining speech about nothing whatsoever. Pat Shortt obviously won best actor, but it was his display when accepting the award which I will always remember, particularly as he was taken away by 'mental men' after the ceremony. Again, as with the previous night, the post-awards was where it was it at. According to Hughie again, who I met this morning as I waited for a bus

'Me leg....me bleedin' gimpy leg!'

Valentines Day Massacre

"Oh, think of the money you'll save" said one of the people who do worky stuff in my office after they'd asked me what I was doing for Valentines.. They must of misheard me, because I had said "putting an orange in my mouth and tying myself to a door frame".

For only the second time in 15 years, ND finds himself flying solo on the feast day of love. Now, considering I once left roses down the toilet in a bid to surprise an ex-Mrs Disgrace, I don't think the world of romance is missing out too much. And I don't think I am either

Still, I suppose with the money I save I could buy a rope..

Bear with me

There must be a point in the lives of people who go mad, when they know, that they've just gone mad. The transition I'd say is fairly swift. One minute it's intelligent conversation, and the next, it's shoes in the fridge. I don't buy this gradual lose of senses and sanity lark. If you wake up one day and start telling your dog to 'put some lipstick on', you're mad. You're not going mad. You're not stood at the peak of a slippery slope, considering a life of craziness. You're already gone.

Last night, I lay in my bed (a weird 3/4 size bed, that I jokingly refer to as a tall Childs bed when I have visitors, such as the NTL man) I sat and looked at the ceiling for about 3 hours. As I lay there, a symphony of annoying noises filled the room. Tap tap taps, rattles, smashes and dull thuds, all apparently coming from just above my ceiling, or roof if you will. Now, I'll be first to admit that my flat is unlikely to be getting it's Quality Built Home certificate anytime soon. The fact that when you flick the hall light switch a tap starts running is bad enough, so I've come accustomed to it's quirks. If it's windy, it tends to sway slightly and a slightly aggressive slam of the door can occasionally result in the collapse of the gable wall. All ok with me, and manageable.

Lat night however, it all went a little crazy. The thuds and bumps on the roof intensified until I was pretty sure that whatever was up there was on the verge of coming through the ceiling, and onto my toned, bronzed naked body, as I lay, Godlike in my half adult sized bed. It honestly sounded like someone on the roof.

However, let's go back to the start of this post and particularly the madness bit. At exactly 01.38am I officially went mad. I became convinced that a bear was on my roof. Each noise, was his heavy paw, ripping up roof slates. Each Tap Tap Tap was him tapping his little bears hammer at the beams on the ceiling. Each ROAR!! was his ROAR!! as he made his way across the top of the house to eat me, in my slightly less than average sized bed.. *(although it could of been passing traffic). It was terrifying. For a while. Then, I became quite content. Sure, I still had the image of a blood thirsty bear, leaping at me from the top of my wardrobe, but it didn't matter.

I was now officially crazy, and safe in that knowledge I went straight to sleep, in my little strange sized bed

Blog Awards Update

Thanks to all who nominated me in the Irish Blog awards. I didn't get past the longlist stage for the 'Best Blog' award, but I am on the initial shortlist for Most Humourous Post, for this.. Hope to see most of you at the ceremony, I presume everyone goes in disguise?

I scream, You scream, We all SCREAM for Ice Cream

So, I have just discovered a time machine. In an instant you can go from 1980's Thatcherite Britain, to, well, 1960's Thatcherite Britain. Marvel at how HP brown sauce became the 'CONDIMENT OF THE RECESSION' and the inspired bigoted attitude that saw Margret Thatcher become the 'MOST FEARED MAN IN EUROPE. Thanks to this Time Travelling
extravaganza, you can parade around the set of 'HOWARD'S WAY'. Except it's not Howards Way. And it's not a time machine.

No siree, in fact.. It's Gibraltar

I was last week 'treated' to a sensational visit to the Rock by a good friend of mine who lives a number of miles away, in reality (Malaga). Expecting monkeys riding unicycles and Sean Connery hanging from Nicolas cages testicles, it quickly became apparent that this 'Rock' had all the appeal of a 17 year old piece of Bray souvenir candy. As soon as I stepped over the border (which was literally a huge runway) from the palm treed and cultured La Linea in Spain, I found myself in an episode of Minder.The sunshine and tanned breasts that heaved around the Costa Del Sol was quickly replaced by Fish and Chip toned stomachs and an overhanging grey cloud that faintly whispered 'MINERS STRIKE'. Accents changed from lisping Spanish to the kind of British Dialect that has been missing since 1960's soccer commentaries. Red buses, Red phone boxes and Red necks all jostled along a street that looked like a recently atom bombed Blackburn. The cloud, which lingered above Gibraltar like a visiting Paedophile, seemed only to cover the rock itself and cause unusually inbred shadows of the natives. I was referred to as a Paddy on one of my first visits to a pub, a place that had Formica tables, fruit machines and sloppy sticky bitter in abundance. Yep, there was plenty of 'bitter'.

The first stop on our tour was the elegant 'SHELL GARAGE'. This, as well as offering tasty diesel and petrol, was also the venue for the infamous shooting dead of three IRA members as they jovially enjoyed an ice cream. Perhaps mistaking a CHOC ICE for a loaded bazooka and a Mr Freeze for a 250lb car bomb, the SAS blew the three of them away before any of them could say 'SUPER SPLIT'. The is no plaque to this unarmed dead, but there is a real bargain to be had on Anti-Freeze.

On Winston Churchill avenue, the litter ruled the roost and cross eyed natives sped along in their souped up sports cars, as we made our way to Casemates, the areas main Square. Boasting all the class of a drunk hooker at a funeral, this square was equal parts Lovejoy and equal parts Mountjoy. Filled to the brim with yobos, piss and pre-teens in crotchless outfits, it honestly made Temple Bar look like the hanging gardens of Babylon.

The people I spoke to, were all nice enough. Sure, they all looked like they'd been sired by a horse, and there eyes were unusually close together, but on the whole they were fine. The only thing is, they seemed to be living in this forgotten era. A time when British Colonys actually had a purpose. The area was a strategic port with honest military advantages. Now it's a very hollowed out rock with very little soul, a big fuck off grey cloud and 99 pence Unleaded.

Anyone for an Iceberger?

I'd like to thank...

Despite having the literary grace of an overturned school bus, the humour of a Christmas Day house fire and the intelligence of a lemming, National Disgrace has been longlisted at the Irish Blog Awards. In such lofty categories of Best Blog and Most Humourous Post, ND finds himself up against some seriously good competition. Some of the others can actually spell.

Still, in anticipation of a shock shortlisting, I have had my Tux dry cleaned, de-loused, scraped and restitched. I've had the missing leg restored, removed the blood and sandblasted the crotch area. Then I destroyed it and bought a new one.

I'm already wearing it

Better never than Late Late

Things that annoy National Disgrace, episode 47,000

Whatever the occasion, be it Mother Theresa's funeral or a primetime documentary on Teen suicide, RTE wheel out that ridiculous clip of Boyzone on the late late from 25 years ago. Every time I switch on the TV lately, it's there. Really, are things that bad that we have to keep reminding ourselves of how bad things were, back in the day when things weren't really as bad as they are now? Do I expect coverage of the six nations to be punctuated by clips of Mikey Graham in a leotard (or whatever he was wearing?) with Fiona Looney, popping up and equating their appearance as being the end of moral Ireland and the final sperm that seeded that soon to be born Celtic Tiger.

Maxi must be spinning in her grave

I felt like I'd arrived into a library with a trombone

The Metro
The Herald AM
Gang Rape

What do the three above things have in common?

Well, a lot actually. Firstly, I will point out that they are three things that I rarely, if ever, like to face first thing in the morning. The trouble is, due to my impossible good looks and my daily Luas trips, they're unavoidable. Sometimes, like this morning, you get all three in one. I used to smile politely at the Metro people and shake my head at their kind offer of some free toilet roll, but lately I have been slightly more aggressive in my dismissals. I have started to scoff at them as I passed the outstretched paper holding arms, and begun wildly gesturing that I'd rather french kiss Ian Huntley than read their rags. Anyway, this morning. So, I was striding into Cowper Luas station like a champion Racehorse when I was happened upon by a Metro dispenser lady. I duly demonstrated my disgust at such and offer and flapped my arms about and muttered something about having taste when she demonstrated her new tactic. Like a deranged gazelle, she twisted herself and somehow acrobatically managed to be both sides of me at once. Her paper, was like a laser guided missile of bad journalism and I could sense that I was about to be hit. Her smile, part Lithuanian goddess, part sinister paper Nazi, widened as she homed in on me. I had attempted a dodgy shuffle to avoid but this only succeeded in dislodging one of my earphones. My scoff had turned to horror, as within a nano-second, I could feel the cheap ink on my skin. She had delivered the payload. Like a neglected Donkey, I stumbled along the platform and eventually found a bin. I felt cheapened. Beaten. Hungry. I dumped the paper into it and boarded the Luas.

Of course, it doesn't get any better. The luas is a horrible place to be in the mornings. People coughing and sniffling. Different classes, mixing and rubbing against each other. Women with huge prams mowing down the weak. People, body-surfing to get out. What really gets me is how EVERYONE is reading the Herald AM or the Metro. This morning, my adventures continued when I squeezed onto the last available space on the tram. I was standing on my tip-toes as there was literally not enough room for all my feet to fit on the floor when a guy beside me tipped me on the shoulder. He had had his Herald AM open and was attempting to read whatever shit was in it, when I had invaded his reading space. He asked me to move, in that silent way somebody talks when they have earphones in. So, I ignored him in that silent way that somebody does when they have earphones in. Again, he was getting more aggressive now and he opened the paper out in all it's 'glory' and proceeded make a big fuss about brushing it off me. The thing is, everyone else was doing this.

I felt like I'd arrived into a library with a trombone.

When, all I really wished was that I'd arrived onto a Luas, with a shotgun.

Three Elbows

So, the Luas Displays that normally tell you how much longer you have to stand beside the Peado in the trench coat before you can get on the Tram and sit beside the Skobie with the can of Dutch Gold and Dunnes Jumper, so you can get to the Hospital where you'll have to sit beside the heroin addict who's on fire and has three elbows, before you get seen by a nurse who is half cyborg and get put on a trolley that gets pushed into a storeroom, where you get to shoot the breeze with some skeletons who did the same shit a couple of weeks ago, only now they've gone to a better place, are out of order. I know that cos the display actually says 'DISPLAY OUT OF ORDER'.

Isn't that a bit like a bus driving by with a sign on it saying, 'Broken Down'?

While I'm at it, what about Our Lady's Hospital for Sick Children?.. Well, it's hardly Our Lady's Hospital for WELL Children....

(I may have done that one before, but either way, I expect Tommy Teirnan to be using it as part of his sets from tonight)

ND: Cynical, to a fault.

Me Versus Mr Tayto

As my loyal reader and subscribers of VIP! magazine will know, myself and former 'Ms Disgrace 2002' have recently parted company. As with all break ups, there was tears, more tears, and alarmingly, gunshots. There was also a lot of soul searching to be conducted, as I faced up to the fact that I was now back on the market.

I didn't publicise the fact, esp. after the last time.

'Stampede of beautiful girls', as the Herald called it, or 'Phwooooarr, Blimey - Disgrace is back, Loveiily Jubbbbily' as the Sun so elegantly put it. The Irish Times as always put a more refined spin on it 'Disgrace separation 'unlikely' to raise oil prices'. Anyway, I decided some downtime was good and I went 'underground' for a while.

So, this morning, with fresh briefs on, and smelling like a sock in a prostitutes handbag, I decided to unleash myself at the female world..

Then I read this

And see this...

How the hell can I possibly compete? Do Calvin Klein do a Cheese and Onion scent per chance?

Will it stick?

The last time it snowed with any purpose in this country, the punt was the currency of choice and unemployment was more than just a a great way to have a lie in. Back then, it fell with the force of a priests trousers at an Altar boys sports day and coincidentally or not, covered everything in beautiful white gold. Who can forget school pipes bursting and freezing leaving us to innocent snow related fun. Some people say the last Ice Age was 8000 years ago, I say it was more like 1985.

Today, a few brief flutters of snow fell on Dublin city. Enough to stir the memories and flutter the sentimental hearts of big fat grown up children. I was half thinking of using my impending birthday as an excuse to go to sleep with my head in the oven, but with a combination of it being an electric and a nostalgic overdose, I ripped up the suicide note and started googling 'snowman blueprints'. The conversation in work, which usually has me reaching for the emergency rope, was replaced with jolly retellings of long, cold days of snow fights and frostbite. I recalled with youthful glee how I once emptied a bin of fresh snow on a guy from my road, from the top of my garage, only to let the whole thing drop and leave him with a permanent limp. Back in the 80's, limps were cool. Or the time when I lay in bed and my dad came crashing though the ceiling after he'd been emptying the attic off snow and slipped.

Of course, with the sweet, comes the bitter. It was in 1985, when in an evil act, one of the tough guys from Orwell Park dug up my dead goldfish Rambo (still buried in his Sindy house wardrobe) and threw his helpless corpse at me, in a snowball wrapping. I'm glad I gave him that limp

Then there was glass hidden in snowballs, Tying children to lampposts and leaving them out over night and Watching cars skid to a sickening crash. They were great days.

Today's snow probably won't be there tomorrow. The Celtic Tiger doesn't do winter wonderlands, unless it's got a 20 euro entrance fee and is on in the RDS, but tonight I may go to bed dreaming anyway..

Now what was it that JJ72 said once?

Oh yeah, "we're fucking shit, no I mean it. Terrible'

I recently found myself in the toiletries section of Superquinn, buck naked

Hitting 31, I finally laid to rest any ideas I had to represent my country at underage rugby. I too resigned that physical activity of the most 'intimate' nature would be now restricted to once per calendar month and will now only include other 'humans'. I destroyed my CD collection and adjusted to life in comfortable trousers. My suffering ex former other half, who was some years my junior, jokingly referred to me as 'Gramps' and 'Captain Corpse' as she walloped the fat frogs and Bacardi Breezers into her before heading out to the local discothèque. I now have to suck it up, throw on an omelette and listen to 'Gardening World' on the wireless. I won't lie to you, I've started to allow talcum powder infiltrate all aspects of my life, including masturbation.

Of course, some would say 31 isn't that old. They'll point to examples like Mother Theresa and The Eiffel Tower as examples of age not being a barrier. I'll usually quip back something like 'She's dead and it's a fucking tower' but it doesn't matter. The proof is there for all to see. I'm old

I recently found myself in the toiletries section of Superquinn, buck naked. It wasn't the first time. I've been forgetting stuff quite a bit lately. I forgot that 'Heartbeat' was on TV3 the other night and only yesterday I forgot to stop when my car entered a crowded school yard.

Are their benefits to being old? Well, there aren't I'm afraid. When you lie in bed planning your day and realise that all you've on is a trip down the stairs and a nice cup of golden vegetable, you do begin to yearn for those better days. Oh, I'm 32 this weekend

Mother Theresa, are you there

ND 2007 AND 2008

Soupy Norman Late Late Special

Thanks to Seaders for this, the rather excellent Soupy Norman Late Late show special from Christmas Eve..

Part 1 below on the embeded online telly thing

Parts 2 and 3, here and here

Mistletoe and Whine

Now, I'm pretty sure Pat Ingoldsby is not a WMD waving megalomaniac who requires look-a-likes parading around Dublin just in case an elite division of the US rangers decides to launch a Scud shot at him from Supermacs, but the fact still remains: I saw him at two places at once today. It was early, I was sober and the only Damp Coke I'd taken was from a 500ml contour bottle, so I can only surmise that I had travelled through space and time, again.


A number of years ago, I was sitting on the 49 and passed by a bus stop with a couple of very noticeable people waiting at it. After continuing on this journey, for a number of minutes, I looked out the window again and saw that we were passing by the same spot as I had done moments earlier, with the same people. None of my friends believed me, but then again, they also didn't when I told them that Papa Disgrace directed E.T and that the cameras were in our Barna Shed.


Seeing the two Pats today, and by the way, he wasn't just wandering around, he was sitting down selling his books on Westmoreland Street and on Grafton Street, made me wish I really did have a time machine. If I did, I would use it, not to go back and fix things, but to fly as far away from this year as possible. 2017 looks good from here.


I suppose, so many things have gone wrong for me this year, that I am literally starting the next with a completely blank slate. I have no more girlfriend to lose. No more cats to lose custody of. No more money to piss against an ATM. In fact, what I do have right now, would be well worth losing. A 'murder hotel' chic 1 bed apartment in a house that looks like a before picture from a fire safety ad and a job where I'm literally obliged to leave my brain and personality at the front door and a debt that would have Bono and Geldof marching the streets for. I have Pasta though.

And here I am at Christmas. Tired, emotional and very sick of drink. It's an immovable object, that everyone must face. A time for spending. It's an imaginary hurdle that everyone bookmarks. They get the new sofa in 'for the Christmas'. They give the walls a 'lick of paint'. But it's also a very physical thing. It's there. The world stops spinning for one day, but everyone is preparing their festive bunkers for weeks in advance. And then they bed down, lock the hatch and pull a cracker.


Being on the other side can be pretty cold


Many a loyal reader has journeyed with me through 2007, and I'd like to thank them for being there.


Don't forget to turn off the lights


Disgrace

TV3 Christmas Schedule

TV3 Christmas

In the spectacular surroundings of the future site of the Poolbeg incinerator, TV3 launched their Christmas Schedule last night to much fanfare. Invited guests were dazzled by the charms of Toni, the 72 year old exotic dancer and Matt Cooper's extraordinary juggling.

Christmas Day:

6am - SantaMental - A festive tale with a twist as Santa Claus is accused of mass murder in 1930s Wisconsin. Viewers please note that some Children may find the scenes of ‘Santa in the Electric Chair’ and ‘Santa’s autopsy’ disturbing, particularly as we are showing this at 6am on Christmas morning, just as every child in the country is waking.

9am - Black Mass - Celebrating Christmas from St Ivor’s in Clonmel. Presented by Mary Black.

10am - Johnny Snowman, PI - Special Holiday episode of the award winning Cop show from Liberia. In today’s episode Johnny Snowman decides to celebrate Christmas by switching on a radiator.

11am - Xpose Christmas Special - Another chance to catch TV's sexiest bunch of transvestites as entertainment news and gossip from all around the globe is beamed via your television set, into your living room. We catch up with Brendan Bowyer before AND after his colon operation and we meet the Fair City actor who but behind a series of rape allegations, and a serious drink driving incident, to become on the nations favourite actors.

12pm - British Soap Opera - More drama from the mainland as we catch up with the comings and goings of a typical UK rural village. In today's episode a buck toothed Irish gombeen causes havoc when he releases wild pigs into the local comprehensive

1pm- News from the Back of a Bike - Bibi Baskin presents all today’s
headlines from the back of a bike on the Naas Dual carriageway.


2pm - The Big fucking huge massive Christmas Movie - Prazgo Et Wzicky - Dark and broody tale from Lithuania about the 1917 coal shortage. Andre Kiniswizcech stars as a boy in love with his own brother who must face up to the stark realities of life in the mines, and adulthood, when his brother is killed by a train. (1945 - Black and White )

4pm - Queens Speech - Ant and Dec present the eagerly awaited monarchs Christmas message.

6pm - The Colin Farrell Sex tape - Hi-octane sexual performance from the 'faddeler' and some whore. Sponsored by Woodies DIY

8pm - The explosion of Mary Albert's - Taught and emotional tear jerking heartbreaker starring Victoria Principal as an emotional and tearful broken-hearted woman who has just had her heart broken by an unemotional man. Her only friend, the bottle, comes to the rescue, but in a tear jerking and heartfelt finale, which is full of emotion, she finally meets a man (Hulk Hogan) who she feels can mend her broken heart TVM 1982

10pm - Gary Glitter (Live in Concert) - Rock legend Gary Glitters spectacular performance from London, 1985. Features all the hits. Support from the Welsh Junior boys choir

12pm - Sing me a sad song - Harrowing insight into the Welsh Junior Boys Choir scandal from London in 1985 when they were assaulted by an unnamed Rock Star, after a concert in London

1am - Power Cut

An aging rock star is not just for Christmas

Consider National Disgraces considerable, yet evenly proportioned, weight behind this rather fine campaign to make Tom Waits Christmas Number 1

Anything that keeps Josh Adams 'You punctured my heart' or whatever evil shit is out at the moment, off top spot, is good enough for me.

Kermit does David Byrne

Guys, I had most of my fingers broken by an 'angry' husband recently, so typing is difficult. We'll stick to videos for the next while... here's one of my feel good faves.

The Quiet Man

A few people have remarked that my blog is very quiet of late.

They're right, it fucking is.