A moan again, naturally.

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

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

Agony Aunt

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

Recipie for disaster.. the work party.

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

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

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

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

Oh Cupid...

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

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

Merry Valentines from ND

I live in what you might call a 'kip'

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

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

Not me.

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

Seriously

Hair

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

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

Christmas Greetings from TV3

They were late this year..

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Disgraces Christmas memories..

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It should be Number 1 forever” Morrissey

Do you want a copy?

Kris my Ass

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.