Where in the world

From Reuters:

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

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

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

Let's hope he turns up. Alive.

The Champions League of Extraordinary Fuckwits

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

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

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

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

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

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

And we had a ball.

Tonight? You're having a laugh

Monday Moaning

It’s like nothing else happens. When I go to write a post for this blog on a Monday, my mind keeps telling me to blog about work. It tells me to blog about how much my soul has been destroyed by work. Blog about how much I’d wish they’d change the laws on the killing of workmates. Blog about the 20 minutes on the Luas, contemplating a quick exit at each stop. Blog about how I stood outside the front door this morning and considered breaking my own leg just so I could return home. Blog about the coffee, how it tastes like licking vinegar from an old boot, with the foot of an old postman still in it. Blog about the IT dept blocking this site, and their referral of it as risqué and containing nudity. Blog about office etiquette, and how I have perfected my fake laugh for those moments by the water cooler into a terrifying mix of ‘maniac on the loose’ and ‘Count Von Count’.

Blog about how I have tailored my sporting quotations to a one size fits all conversation killer, ‘Go Sports!’. Blog about how I’ve had to read Heat! Magazine on the toilet just so I can join in on conversations about the earthquake on Hollyoaks or whatever. Blog about the work parties, which vary from ‘as much fun as a family death’ to ‘waking up in a ditch was the highlight of the evening’. Blog about team building, and how you’re forced to play role-play games with people who you know would be only too happy to eat you if your plane crashed in the Andes. Blog about the unhealthy level of snot which has been stuck to the wall of the cubicle in the men’s. Blog about the woman who makes my sandwiches, how she somehow manages to get her elbows involved in the application of coleslaw and her amazing knack of making a sandwich look eaten, before you actually eat it.

Anyway, work rant over.. Tomorrow, chicks.

Staying in on a Saturday night

Had I of arrived home and found by father dressed as my mother, and my mother tied to chair with an orange in her mouth and all of my previous dogs knitted together and draped over a giant talking Celery, I would not of been as disturbed.

Had I awoken one morning and felt the unmistakable firmness of Fakeys buttocks pressed against my face, and the faint hum of Zuccheros 'Senza Una Donna' drifting from the tight confines of his bottom, I would not of been more disturbed.

Had I of switched on the Television, and been greeted with the terrifying trio of Dana, Dickie Rock and Maxi, oozing evil on the Tubriby Tonight show, I would not of been more disturbed... Oh wait, that is exactly what happened.

Staying in is the new suicide.

I'll be your Dog

Despite recently being a friend of all things feline, Disgrace will always have a soft spot for Dogs. From his very first four legged companion (Bran) to his sadly missed, mildly retarded ‘Buddy’, it’s been a love-affair of epic proportions

Pepsi (I) was dark dog. He had worms and went to live on a farm. It was 1981. We had to eat you know.

Pepsi (II), a Jack Russell, as working class as a dog could be, he had a huge hole in his ear from where he was attacked by another dog (or possibly from a rebellious ear piercing) and arrived into the family home on a foggy night in the early 80’s. As with the majority of our dogs, he was in need of rescue. A drifter who’d drifted far enough and wanted to settle down. Pepsi’s tale is a hazy one, as he is not around to tell it, and I was merely a little boy during his heyday. However you can be sure he got into all sorts of japes, but did so with a roguish charm. When we moved house in the glorious summer of 1985, Pepsi, who must of forgot something, travelled back to the old street and was never seen again. I like to think that he’s still out there now, maybe even reading this. But I reckon It’s extraordinarily unlikely. If he was alive, he would be 28 (the same age as Jessica Simpson, the American ..erm, singer?)

Nelson. Arriving in 1989, the same year the wall fell. Nelson was a beast of a being. Part Sheepdog, part Double Decker bus, he was the most unique dog I’d ever encountered. Apart from demonstrating signs of high intelligence (standing up and urinating into the toilet, closing doors behind him – seriously) he also famously recalled a time when a junior Fake Empire had slept over and had hit him with a shoe (it’s the kind of stuff the Fakester does). Nelson, weeks later, returned the favour by head-butting Fakey, and sending him off with a bloody nose and a trip to Vincents. My best friend as a developing teenager, Nelson also liked to wear human clothes from time to time (again, serious) and famously stalked Firhouse on the day of ‘that’ penalty shoot out in Italia 90, dressed in full Irish kit. Alas, it was his good nature and willingness for fun which ultimately led to his starring role in Disgraceablanca coming to an end. The Neighbours (pricks, all of them) had petitioned to have Nelson put down thanks to him attempting to ‘hug’ a toddler on the road, and accidentally knocking him over. The kid was fine. This time, after a hugely emotional goodbye, Nelson REALLY DID go to a farm. Where I believe he was to be very happy.

Nelson was replaced by Buddy. Buddy, was a neglected dog who’d been found in finglas, with his two front legs broken. Fortunately for him, he was found and rushed to dogstipal and quickly operated on. Unfortunately for him, they allowed his front legs to set backwards (again, seriously) and he for ever more would resemble a Queen Ann chair. Anyway, my mother eventually ended up with him through a friend and so begins Buddy's story. You wouldn’t call him ‘ugly’, but he wasn’t going to win the Rose of Tralee anytime soon. Along with his legs (the kids on the road genuinely thought he was called ‘Woody’ cos he had wooden legs), his hair was wirey and way too loose, and pretty much resembled the sort of undergrowth you’d expect to find a corpse in. He also had a ZZ Top style beard.. Buddy's many adventures included ‘falling out a 2nd floor window’ and ‘being dropped into a tin of paint’ but overall, he was a great dog. He had a long, bow legged life and eventually succumbed to cancer at the ripe old age of 17. In not my finest hour, I rather haphazardly dug a grave for him in the back garden, which pretty much resulted in a re-enactment of the closing scene from Carrie, expect it was a tail.

So that was me and dogs. At least until yesterday. I was in my sisters car in Rathgar when a hyperactive and obviously lost dog ran out in front of us. I immediately jumped out, in full hero mode and intended to get said dog, take home, and call DSPCA/owner. It was however, a poorly executed rescue attempt, as I only succeeded in chasing him towards the busy main road. I scoured the streets later looking for him, but no joy. The guilt I feel today is pretty immense.

If anyone saw a big white-ish dog with a blue collar in Rathgar/Rathmines yesterday, let me know.. Unless he was stuck to the wheel of a truck, don’t bother if that’s the case

You lift me up

I meant to post this last week, when I glanced opon the RTE schedule. The national broadcaster has done some curious things in Disgraces lifetime, including a segment on Nationwide about water safety with the backdrop music of 'dead in the water' by David Gray, and also on the same programme, a peice about a group of handicapped motorcycle enthusiasts with the unfortunate music of Bruce Springsteens 'born to RUN'.. There are countless others, which I'm sure you can all think of, but this weeks moment of RTE madness concerned this film.

Last week, a Brazillian Priest, trying to raise funds for a local charity, attempted a lift off on a chair to which was attached a number of hellium baloons. Being an experienced ballonist, he quickly gained height and disapeared over the hills. Never to be seen again. The story was a worldwide news sensation. Messages of good will flooded his parish. Networks across the world launched a 'priest watch'.. To celebrate this, RTE decided to show 'Danny Deckchair', a film about an austrailian man who attaches hellium baloons to his deckchair and sets off through the skies of Austrailia. Soon, just like our floating clergyman, shredded baloons are found. Soon, like our bouyant bible basher, he is declared missing.

Seriously, it would not of surprised me to see RTE screening 'Venables did it!!' (a show about Terry Venables incredible Spanish Liga victory with Barcelona) in the same week as the Jamie Bolger murder.

You know, a friend of mine once asked a New Yorker where the nearest '9-11' was, on a visit to NYC.

She now works for RTE



*she meant '7-11'

My Thursday night

My landlord rang me the other and said she was going to be putting in a washing machine for me. This was good news, because last week I took my washing from the laundry room only to find a bra and 3 ladies socks in it. Naturally, I put the socks back. I was pretty happy with all of this, as I am tiring of fighting off old women in the corridors as we rush to be first to the machine. Now, don’t get me wrong. I love to elbow a frail granny to the floor as much as the next man, but I’m a sucker for those puppy dog eyes, and being the gentleman I can sometimes be, I courteously allow them ahead of me. Usually, this is instantly regretted as I see that she is washing a set of curtains or tablecloths, whilst I’m pretty much down to my last pair of underpants.

Now, with Thursday being the first day of the weekend (and also the last one of the previous) I don’t like my valuable drinking/throwing up time to be wasted. However, when my landlord arrived at my door, stating that they had ‘forgotten’ the washing machine. I was baffled as well as frustrated. How could someone ‘forget’ a washing machine?

When she left, I sat down to eat some crisps. I do that sometimes. When I broke up with an ex (although she wasn’t an ex before I broke up with her) I sat and ate a 12 pack of Meanies in my room and listened to 13 wonderful loves songs from A House, over and over. I’d replaced the words with 12 wonderful packets of Meanies. I was pretty low back then. But anyway, in a wicked twist, as I sat there feeling the dramatic non-presence of a washing machine, a crispy gift from heaven arrived into my lap. The most perfectly formed love heart shaped crisp, literally floated from my bag of tayto like feathers from Cupids bag of tricks. Instantly, I knew it was a sign and I quickly rallied my wingmen for what I described as a night of ‘romantic merriment’.

To cut a long story short, we went to Fallon’s in the Coombe for some bizarre reason. Now, unless you like your ladies with beards and swinging a pickaxe, Fallons (a fine pub), is not love central. So, around midnight and suitably beered, I gave up on the night and the snacky love promise that had filled me with hope and headed for home. Obviously, not being an animal, I stopped by Chicken Hut and ordered a number 7. I was satisfied that despite being cruelly led by fate, I could still nosh down on some fried Chicken badness. Anyway, as I was nibbling on my chicken, I caught a glimpse of someone through a ground floor curtain in one of the apartments on Clabnbrassil st. She was a lady. She also appeared to be dressed in a leather dominatrix outfit. She also caught me looking at her.

I ran home and ate the crisp.

Cookin Hell

In the latest in a series of 'why girls should stay away from Disgrace', our hero describes his latest culinary catastrophe.

It was day three of Disgraces famous Chili. Total ingredient cost, 9 euro. Total toilet roll cost 17 euro. Made on Sunday with an eye on lasting until midweek, this cauldron of spicy mayhem, bubbled away like an evil cesspit of horror. Whole chillis, slit open to release extra flavour, leapt from the pot, screaming for mercy. Paint retreated from the wall in alarming fashion and members of the fire brigade kept an all night vigil outside Disgrace towers. It was the first time Disgrace had heard long grain Rice cry. His 'curry' plate, a legacy from Mama Disgrace, refused to emerge from the press, like a teenage boy dressed like Robin Hood at a Priests frat party. The pot, levitated from the cooker like a scene from 'cooking with Satan'. Disgrace, in a full Space suit, stirred the red-hot incarnation and saw his life flash before his eyes.

It wasn't looking good.

After contemplating putting the pot in the freezer for an hour or two before eating, and visiting the VHI site to sign up for full cover, he eventually settled down in front of his dinner. It was like gawking into the arse of evil. It spat and splattered. Flames, 30 ft high, burst towards the ceiling. Volcano experts started taking photographs and attempted to evacuate Rathgar.

It wasn't looking good.

As always, Disgrace was prepared. Apart from a fridge full of Kittensoft, he had run a bath and filled it with liquid nitrogen. A garden hose, connected to the Artic, lay on standby. Aled Jones, was drafted in to sing the 'Snowman' and the dry ice machine, usually reserved for spectacular sex entrances, was put on full blast. A north facing gable wall was also removed

It still motherfucking wasn't looking good.

However, it takes more than a lethal dose of Chili to keep disgrace down. Remember this is a guy who survived St MacDaras community College AND Dundalk RTC. This was a guy who tripped as a child and fell unconscious into setting cement. This was a guy who has hung out with Fakey since he was 7. However, in hindsight, he should not of ate that full chili.

Which he did.

Which might explain the red sky over Rathmines.

And the government emergency announcement on Radio One proclaiming 'Unearthly Screams heard from Rathgar - Flick to page 6 of the emergency action handbook (Nuclear accident/Godzilla Invasion)

Help me.

If he blogs, he blogs

You know the scene, in Rocky 4, where Rock threatens to save the life of his dearest friend Apollo Creed, by throwing in the towel. He hesitated. In a moment of quiet inner contemplation, his hand gripped tighter on the towel, as Ivan Drago (an old friend of this Blog btw) unceremoniously floored the former Discount Superstore (oh wait, maybe that was Apollo 1?) and delivered the killer line ‘if he dies, he dies’ as he lay on the floor, dying. He died. And is now dead.

On recent visits to both Fake Empire and Onefortheroad, I’ve been greeted with the same sight. Fakey, who might be about to blow the whole Northern peace process but does a mean wine review, and Oftr, who continually offers swiping satire, opinions and says things you wished you’d thought of, are both currently holding up the towel and threatening to throw.

All I’ll say guys, is that had our hero, Rocky, actually thrown in the towel when he had the chance, there is more than a distinct possibility that Apollo Creed would be a cripple now, cursing every day he lives. Sure, he could be satisfied in the profits from the pre-Christmas rush, with sales on Selection boxes and the like, but there wouldn’t of been much of a movie after that. And as I said earlier, he wasn’t actually a discount superstore.

As Disgraces old sparring partner, Ivan Drago would say, “if he blogs, he blogs”

Do it for Apollo guys..

This is a low

I'm back kids. Ask no questions and I'll tell you no lies, but let's just say Manila, Prison and a dead hooker are a bad mix...

Now to business...



RTE's 'How low can you go'. A show which seems to answer it's own question. Now, I'm not at all an RTE basher. I enjoy Oireacthas Report and Leargas as much as the next man. I think its docu, news and comedy output is generally very good. It's choice of imports is on the money too. But what is this? It's a poorly executed travel show with the most offensive presenters since Fred West guested on Miriam Tonight. Three humans, who would have God fearing the imminent arrival of his P45, thrash their way through exotic climes, with interjections of sub-humour and the kind of charm that made the Yorkshire Ripper a worldwide star. They drink. They bare their arses. They talk to the camera with smug self-appreciation. There's the pasty nerdy dude, whose only meaningful contribution seems to be rehashing Christmas Cracker jokes, and the exotic looking athletic chap who is so full of himself that he needed skin grafts just to fit his ego in. There's the 'camper than a ferry load of tents sailing through a sea of potpourri' fellow who seems to revel in his 'mates' screaming heterosexuality with an 'I'll get you in the end' sleazy smirk.

Seriously, it's to travel programing, humour and good old fashioned fun what Telly Bingo is to current affairs.

Anyway, back tomorrow with normal service (talking about myself, my failed relationship, and an unfortunate work do)

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'.