The third wheel keeps on turning...

As loyal readers will know, Disgrace was recently relieved of his 'relationship' duties (ok, 6 months ago) and has been taking baby steps back into the world of 'stop leaving the towel on the bathroom floor', 'tend to my ego, NOW!' and playing second best to shoes. Having been single only once for a brief 5 month period since 1993, a well needed rest was, well, well needed. So, in this period I have been literally just hanging out. I've been reading. I've been sleeping. I've been boozing, but I'm not quite at the Copper Face Jacks stage. Yes, I've been offered dates. I've let some very lovely ladies slip through my fingers but I've been content. It's a satisfying feeling to be happy, and flying solo.

During the course of all this 'self love' (yes, self love) I've been invited to be Captain Gooseberry on a number of occasions. I have reveled in the role of 'dumped tall guy' and enjoyed it. It all went off without a hitch. Until now.

Lately, as third wheel, I have found the other two wheels begin to come off. My honeymoon period as novelty single guy has come to an end. I'm now becoming an embarrassing loveless lump of drunken typical single sleaze bag. I've arrived at my coupled friends dinners with kebabs in my hair. I have crashed DVD nights-in with the Bavaria special from Deveneys.

Only last week, I accompanied my besty and his missus to a private couples party. Seeking acceptance, I staggered unannounced through the doorway with the curios offering of a bottle of old Guinness. I proceeded to sit in the corner like a malfunctioning washing machine. Occasionally making noises that briefly drew the sort of attention that a Karaoke Fred West would at a Church fundraiser. To be fair, the host couple took my bubbling offensiveness with grace. They tended to me like I was a special child.

After mumbling in a language not heard since the Exorcist, and encouraging much watch checking, I unleashed the full powers of my destructive singleness. Yes, I broke stuff.

This in an official apology to Steve, and in particular to his wonderful 'beer glass'.

To see it shattered, and lying on the floor reminded me a little of me.

Ok girls, come and get it...

They shoot horses don't they?

If so, can members of the firing line please assemble at Aintree and 'pop a cap' in the trio of a walking sausage meat that failed to deliver to me a bounty in yesterdays not so Grand National.

Bear with me here, I'm just entering some text in order to make the picture on the right fit correctly. Did you know that I was once had a Pizza delivered with exactly one slice missing? And that the first pizza I ever had was in 1994?

Grand, fits now.

Kinda.

Drop the Debt

Question: What should you not do on a Monday morning (other than arrive into work with a pump-action shotgun)?

Answer: Check your bank balance.

This morning, having somehow convinced myself that I only spent €1.50 over the weekend, and sure that when I checked it, I'd be greeted with a picture of a big fat bag of cash and a recorded message from my bank manager telling me how pretty I looked, I logged on online to Banking 365. You know that sinking feeling you get when you're, oh I don't know, sinking?

And that's just when you see the balance. It seriously all goes Titanic when you realise that all that wine that Fakey made you buy on Saturday still hasn't been debited. And then you notice that 47 direct debits have yet to come out. And the 'notified' interest that you weren't notified about. And the standing order to the African child you sponsor, who is now 32, works in Insurance and actually never existed in the first place.

I seriously wish we all lived in a place where there was no money. The 80's for example.

The Bionic Man

All through his childhood he dreamt of being different. Where most boys his age had posters of Samantha Fox and the Cobh Ramblers 1972 squad, he had ones of Robocop and Johnny 5 from Short Circuit. In the corner of his bedroom, a mechanical arm made from Lego lay unfinished. His dog, 'Cyborg Sylvia' was forced to wear a suit made from tin-foil and bottle tops, and was made bark down a kitchen roll insert for that 'tubular and robotic effect'. The boys on his street eventually stopped calling around. He watched them through twitching curtains. Them, kicking balls to each other. Him, attaching electrodes to his. His Mother, long suffering and married to a stuffy conservative party member, called him 'FPX-115' and used to create dinners with imaginative, technological names. 'Chips' , 'Chicken Bytes' and 'battered car battery and mushy peas'. Kraftwerk's 'Robots', 'Computer Love' and rather inexplicably, Cry Before Dawns 'Witness for the world' were his mobile phones ringtones. His first girlfriend was made of jump-leads and an old computer monitor. He had drawn her face on the screen and would spend hours brushing his lips against her static. Occasionally receiving a slight 'jolt' that would transpond a reaction in what he liked to call his 'hard disk'. He regularly cursed his god-given limb collection and would look enviously at the toaster in his kitchen. On more than one occasion his mother had to intervene when he tried to implant a DVD player into his bottom.

As he hit adulthood, his robotic desires became close to an obsession. He could regularly be found in Maplins, naked and with a guilty look on his face. He sometimes slept in the washing machine because he said the noise of the spin cycle was the most serene piece of music he'd ever heard. His one attempt at a relationship with a real woman made of human ingredients ended tragically when he arrived home one night and plugged her into the mains.

Recently, he had visited Ireland on holiday as he had heard it had the highest numbers of 'Robots' per capita, in the world. Unfortunately he had misheard, and it was actually 'Skobies'. It was during this fruitless trip, that his desire to be Bionic looked like becoming a reality. After being thrown out of Peat's for 'acting suspiciously in the scart lead section, he went to McDonalds. It was here, courtesy of a friendly headbutt, that he encountered Irish hospitality as it's very best. Giddily, he galloped out of McDonalds, being pursued all the while by a chirpy group of sknagers and skobies.

"I will be forced to inform the enforcement droid, ED-209" he pleaded, as they gestured their boots towards his face.

As it happened, it was this outburst that bought him precious time. The skobies, all stood round scratching each others heads and cross checking the lists of useful words their mothers had prepared for them that morning

"Johnny Blue, Geronohrawdat, Batch Loaf, Not Guilty." said one of them "Can't bleedin find tha 'enforcment' word"

Our hero, the bionic chap, had used this time wisely and could be seen, far in the distance making his escape.

Or at least, that's my version of what happened..

Here's the official one

My Back.. Christ, My Back...

Certain things (Lush grey beards, natural Must, 80th Birthdays, and mechanical bladders) announce the arrival of old-age. Another of them is Back Pain.

This morning, at a time I previously did not believe existed (5.07am) I awoke screaming, like a little girl (in a blender). An ariel shot, as I lay on the bed, would of shown a body in twisted agony, and also rather worryingly in the shape of a swastika. Like a human tea-towel being wrung out by some huge pain beast, I was a crumpled mess. I attempted to writhe about and generally wallow in my own suffering but I couldn't. I groaned and cried until I even began annoying myself. By 5.09 I had somehow raised my contorted self and dragged my faulty body out into the sitting room. Bent over, like a creepy and naked hunchback, I caught sight of myself in a mirror. It was an image that would make a priest burn his bible.

The pain was intense, so naturally I began to attempt a number of idiotic and ill-advised things to ease my suffering. I grabbed a mop first, and proceeded to try to use this to straighten myself. I may have caused irreparable spine damage with this method, and I most certainly broke the head off the mop. I proceeded to stretch and bend myself but all I achieved was a series of smaller, slightly less painful aches on other parts of my body. Eventually, I was on all fours, back arched, like a camel, literally howling at the moon (like a Werewolf, or Werecamel if you will) and that's how I stayed. Quite pitiful really. Eventually the pain subsided and I was able to get up, weeping slightly and attempted to go back to bed. It was however, time to get up.

If anyone from work is reading this, I'd stay well away from me today..

Drink: A rant. And some stuff about a Binman

At what stage do you officially become an 'alcoholic'?. I mean, when I was 17 and literally swimming in Dorfmeister each night, I used to laugh at suggestions that I may have a problem. All bets are off, I'd say, when you're 17 you immune from everything. No disease could touch you. No ailment would bring you down. No addiction would cripple you.

The current blame game being played by the good and the concerned has got me thinking. Is alcohol abuse a major issue in modern Ireland. Are we becoming a brash, abrasive and ultimately dangerous race because of booze? And if so, what can we do. We obviously can't stop drinking because that would be like asking a horse to stop being a horse. In a country that has given the colour 'grey' a happy retirement home, is it right to ask the miserable to stop drinking and face up to the fact that you live in a civic mess and deal with it. Is it right to ask the old schoolers who call on rebel songs and beards to remind them of where they are from, to stop tearing into the porter, when all they know revolves around a pint of plain? Should we ask the kids, who have watched in awe as their Fathers came home, smelling of a wonderful evening of Smithwicks and song, laden with pub crisps and mint crisps, not to drink? What would you suggest they do?

And, if we did. Say we alienated the drinkers, like we did the smokers. What if we banned alcohol advertising, hiked up the prices and raise the legal drinking age. Would this work, or would it lead to a lot of kids turning to drugs for cheap thrills. Would it take people from the pubs, and back onto the streets. Would it lead to further alienation of the old rural folk, and lead to more isolation in our outposts. Home drinking, surely would soar, as it has been. But would this lead to more drink driving, as families scatter all over the commuter belt?

But is it the problem anyway? Do you think drink caused the murders of the two Polish men last month? Indirectly, yes. But the guys who did it, where they hammered? Had they just fallen out of a pub and thought about killing two innocent guys, no. They wanted drink though, but only because they had nothing else to do.

You know, alcohol has a responsibility to this country. Our reputation is solely based upon it. It has served a purpose in our development as a nation and should continue to do so. It has given a social forum for a most people, it has encouraged most of our romances and it has created an image abroad that would be financial suicide to change. And that is the real problem.

I didn't know where this post was going, and I kinda hoped it would fit together. I was prompted to write it when the binman bumped into me as I brought down a bag of rubbish last week. Taking it from my hand and hearing the clink of all the bottles, he winked at me as to say 'Looks like you've had a good week!'.. I grimaced back to say 'Week? That was just this mornings helping man, I'm hammered'

And I was.

EDIT, I just saw Twenty's post about same, I reckon we compliment each other here..

I have a problem with a rogue onion

Does anyone know how long before a slice of onion, dropped beihind a cooker, will smell for? It's been two weeks now, and there is a slight mist developing such is the intensity of it's odour. I'm beginning to dream of onions too, and not in a sexy way..

Happy Dunphys Day Everyone

Cheeky chappy cockney geezer Terry Venables got into the Paddies Day spirit by defining Irishness in a surprisingly insightful and gushing lament for the modern day St Patrick himself, Eamon Dunphy. Praising the Dunpster for being a 'convicted drink driver' and 'self-confessed' cocaine user, El Tel metaphorised the entire nation with a remarkable turn of phrase, and uncanny knowledge of all things Irish..

Happy Dunphys Day everyone from all Disgrace Towers (just me)

Lotto Fever.. Not nearly as fatal as the deadly Crimean Congo Haemorrhagic Fever

Amidst the usual, "sure €15,000,000 wouldn't even buy you a house these days" to that most horrifying of remarks, "I'd give half to Charity", Lotto fever arrived into work today like a disorientated, drunk, and naked Scarlett Johannsen and was promptly pounced on by all and sundry. Syndicates, lotto themed memos and weirdly, a sombre discussion on the victims of the 9/11 plane smash, all cropped up in work today as Ireland officially went Lotto Ballistic.

I very roughly calculated how much interest I will earn when I lodge my National Lottery cheque for €15,000,000 in the bank tomorrow. I was delighted to discover that I should be receiving approximately €54,000 per month. And because I don't have a girlfriend, I don't have to share it...

Wonder if I I'll continue to Blog when I win?

Will I fuck.

New Cancer Scandal

Ireland was in the grips of another Cancer scandal, when top of the range Astrologer Fergus Gibson, announced that people born under the sign of cancer can expect to enter a period of "great change and upheaval". In his newspaper column, the playful astrologer went on to say that cancer-ites should "Set aside some time today for daydreaming -- and let their imaginations roam freely". He concluded his chilling prophecy by declaring "You need to sit back and take a little break from the crazy dealings of the day. There's just too much going on for you to make sense of and it could be that your emotional state needs some downtime".

This latest scandal is sure to cause ripples of discord through the Dail today when Fergus Gibson look-a-like Mary Harney (a Pisces, who according to Fergus are prone to 'comfort eating' and 'Pimples') answers questions from the opposition, namely everyone else.

Gibson, speaking from his lair yesterday advised people not to panic as "tomorrow they can expect to come into a great deal of Money, and must resist the urge to spend foolishly". Allegedly, the Taoiseach greeted this news by sporting a giant erection and a grin that could burn down a school. He also winked at Fergus but he had turned away and did not notice.

National Disgrace visited Fergus in a bid to get the background on this latest Cancer Scandal but left immediately after Gibson removed his pants and invited him into his "Sex Parlour of the Future". Shouting after Disgrace, Gibson raised further questions by declaring that "Romance may require you hold your tongue ALL WEEK until the 8th and only then, use great tact when you calmly sit them down in the 'right atmosphere' and explain your feelings with as little fan fare as you can muster".

Fergus Gibson, Mary Harney and the Taoiseach were unavailable for comment last night, presumably in a star-sign fuelled orgy of naked flesh but Michael Sharkey of Sharkeys Denture repairs did comment that 'We're having a great sale at the moment'.

Fire in a 'hole'

The other day I posted a note on the back of the front door in the 'apartment' block I live in. It was a simple note, directed to anyone of the 100's of people that seem to live there. It was a basic request, which if taken on board, could help continue my existence on this planet.

Those of you who regularly poke around here will have often heard me refer to my current digs as being less than palatial. I can be hard on it, and it has a unique charm, but on the whole the place should be torn down. It has been castrated of its once proud Georgian features and on a street of immense character, it stands out like a Paedophile Priest in an under-11 soccer team line-up.

Aesthetics aside, the place is also a death trap. Because of where my flat is, I have little chance of survival in a house fire but just in case, I have my escape route planned out. The Bedroom window is a no-no, as I am four old school stories above the hardest looking concrete yard I have ever seen. Exit through the Kitchen window, presuming I lose enough weight to fit, would result in the loss of several limbs whilst my living room window is essentially bricked up. The only way out is through the corridors and down to the front door. However, somewhat making matters more difficult, somebody in the building thinks it's a great idea to bolt lock the front door every night. This ensures not only will I burn to death in my boxers as I try to break down the door but also that the Fire Brigade will not be able to get in.

So, it was with that in mind that I put the note up asking kindly that the door was not bolt locked. My note was removed and replaced with the one attached...

Any suggestions for a reply?

There are 9 million Skobies in Dublin

My Dad calls them Gurriers. My Sister calls them Knackbags. A friend likes to refer to them as Skobies. I'm sure even the Pope has a name for them. Anyway, whatever you want to call them, Northsiders are pretty dodgy human beings.

Last night I was in the dropzone for a screening of 'In Bruges's (which is an excellent movie by the way). On my way to the cinema, there was the usual compliment of skangers on Henry St, all dancing their little jigs and rattling cups of change in peoples faces. The smell of heroin hung in the air as limped yokels in buttoned up shirts urinated against passing shoppers. Old women, whistled to each other like weird unemployed birds and the soft lilt of 'Johno!! JOHNOO!!!' floated in and out of the early evening sky. I caught snatches of conversation as I briskly passed little groups of them as they sat around warming their hands on a can of Dutch Gold. "Celtic" "Christy Dignams a bleedin' ledge" "D'ya wanta buy a three legged dog?" "I fookin jabbed the screwdriver into both their mutton heads". All manner of topics, nothing off limits.

Anyway, I eventually arrived safely and watched the movie. I had met a mate who decided to cycle to the cinema. I remarked that he was mad to bring his bike over to this side of town, but he just winked in that 'I've got a plan that will end up with a skobie losing his front teeth' way so I left him to it. Sure enough, after we left the cinema, the bike was gone. No surprise as he didn't even lock it (seriously) but this was all part of the plan. The bike itself was a truly remarkable concoction. It was at least 30 years old. It was missing a number of vital components that you would normally expect of a bike. It had no brakes. The saddle looked like it had been knawed at by a tiger. The axel was broken and you had to stand up on one leg, and sit down on the other to ride it. The handlebars were completely separated from the rest of the bike and you had to lean on them in a certain way or they'd come off in your hands. It had one and a half peddles. The bell also didn't work. Yet, it was still stolen.

And it was then, that the evil and cunning of my friends plan was revealed. As we sat back and scoffed and chortled to the image of a hoodied skobatron lying on the M50 with his teeth scattered all over the road and one of his arms where his leg should be and a handlebar up his arse, he simply turned to me and said "one down, 2 or so million to go"...

We're gonna need a lot more bicycles


*You do GET the title, right?

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