A pain in the dole

I know these are trying times for most of us. Some people are saying though that the Irish are now way smarter than the bucktoothed, pig-under-the-arm, banjo twanging brigade that used to populate this island back in the 80’s, and that we can cope and survive with a recession better now, armed as we are armed with fois gras, B&Q decking and fake breasts. Yes, the smarter do have a greater chance of surviving, but just because you own 3 properties in rapidly declining areas, send your kids to an Irish speaking school and a share your living room with a enormous LCD TV doesn’t make you smart. And even if it did, I have none of those things anyway.

My employmortality (you heard it here first kids) has been staring me in the face for the last few months, and is threatening to reach a head. Simply put, a big giant corporation bought out my little homely and cutesy jobbity and has begun swinging the sword. Christmas in a skip is looking more and more likely.

One thing unemployment might do is finally encourage me to write my book..

The only thing is, it’ll go something along the lines of this:

“The lady in FAS wondered why I didn’t have a moustache. I explained I’m not a naturally hairy person and she gave me one of those looks. You know the type of look, the ones that bitches give you. She stamped the card, and looked at me again. She commented that if I wanted to be a real unemployed person I should consider growing one. I said if she wanted to be considered a real woman, she should get rid of hers. I then jokingly asked her to consider me for any jobs in Freddy Mercury tribute acts, pointing to my obvious lack of moustache. She explained to me that he had died of aids. A fight broke out between a father and son in the other Q, so I left.

After FAS, I was so hell-bent on getting a job that I went straight to the pub. This action is the main reason I’ve had to advertise my liver on Buy and Sell.”

Yep, I need to keep this job. I really do.

Creepy Uncle Disgrace

“Still, at least I’m back blogging”

What a phrase. Up there with ‘Look Dad, no hands!!’ , ‘Honey, I’m having a bath, will you pass me the toaster?... ARGGHHH, I meant soa..BUZZZZZZ’ and ‘I think I’ll trim my pubic hair with a hedge strimmer out on the iced over decking in the garden’ as utterances of instant regret.

I’m actually investing a huge portion of my creative abilities into something else currently, so I will not be as prolific as I once was (I famously knocked out 3 posts in one week earlier this year), for the time being anyway.

Maybe we could work out a routine. I could commit myself to 1 post a week, couldn’t I? Maybe.

For the moment, consider me like a pleasant, but undeniably creepy leather chap clad Uncle who drops by once in a while, gives you a shiny ten-pence, pats you on the head and tells you to run along (only so he can chase you and tie you up in the garage).

Def Leppard!!!

The plan was very simple. Take a week off work whilst the going was good, indulge myself in high brow activity and return to the office a hero. Fresher faced, slimmer and despite the medical impossibility, taller. I even went a euro over budget in the shopping on coffee, just to make sure that I got that extra boost every morning. I also ironed my underpants.

It was a simple plan. Wake each morning in the AM. 8.30 would be fine. Shower,and linger, allowing the smooth fragrance of lemon and tea tree oil impregnate my skin. Dress, like a proud sailor, giving significant time to admire in mirror. Emerge from my rooms of impeccable grooming into the soft glow of a yawning morning and head for stage one of Disgraces 'week off work super plan', the Gym. After flexing and galloping for an hour, I would tease the gentlemen of LA Fitness with my remarkable presence and feeling refreshed, marathon ready and as buff as a racehorse, would ditch the the gym bag and head straight into the eye of an intellectual storm. Day one, i thought, Marshes Library. I'd soak up history. Day 2, The Hugh Lane, I would deliberately loiter and allow the art to rape my senses. Day 3, IMMA, here I would sip a coffee and laugh to myself, like a madman, but look like a pretty cool art dude. Day 4, Collins Barracks. Day 5, the Zoo. All of these excursions would be followed by my arrival at a coffee house, with laptop, where I would alternate from writing my book and winking at the lovely ladies. After my coffee and wordsmithery, I would return home to a meal that involved lots of chopping, squeezing and green things. After dinner, I would put on a Tux and hit the bricks. The city would open up to me like an overpaid prostitute and I would simply charm my way through the night, eventually ending up in bed and wondering how I would get home..

It was indeed a simple plan.

So, why oh why, am I waking each day just as Prime Time is starting, eating a deep pan goodfellas, in only my underpants, and cranking up the Xbox...

Still, at least I'm back blogging.

{LEAVE BLANK}

I don’t really like Blogging anymore. In fact, putting words together either in written form, or in verbal, is becoming quite the chore lately. It’s not that I don’t have interesting things to say anymore, it’s just that I really don’t have anyone to say them to. And let’s be honest, the internet makes a pretty shit Girlfriend.

However, I trust you are all well and scurrying about doing those important things you do, and living the shit out of life.

I may be some time.

Winning 'Streak'

I was just in the local Spar having my morning coffee transfusion when a guy in front me decided to buy some Quick picks for tonight’s pretty large Lotto Jackpot. As he got the tickets, he obviously checked them to make sure that the requisite amount of lines, bar-codes etc were all present. They were, from what I could gather. However little Mr. ‘not so Quick’ Pick was not happy. He started pointing to the numbers and telling the shop worker guy that he did not like them. There were far too many similar numbers on it he said. At first I was annoyed with him, but then I realized an opportunity. I’m pretty superstitious about weird things, so I figured if the same happened to me, and I asked them to swap my numbers or something, the original numbers would come up and I’d be forced to kill myself.

It’s a recurring dream of mine. Ever since I began to do the family birthdays as numbers cos my Mother stopped doing it, I’ve been fearful of not doing the Lotto. Anyway, I interjected and offered to buy them from him. He seemed pretty happy with this, but then it began to dawn on him that these numbers have pretty much as much chance of coming up as any do. He was becoming reluctant, and soon the deal was in trouble. I was beginning to panic now, as these numbers became more and more desirable to me. I could picture myself and Derek Mooney, unnecessarily naked, on a tandem, despite the fact that he has nothing to do with the main Lotto, and the fact that I’m not Gay. The ‘not happy with numbers’ bloke was beginning to think, I’m sure he was having similar visions too, of me and Derek laughing as we sped past, sandwiches falling from our basket because we were wastefully rich. The deal was off, but not before a third party joined proceedings.

Enter Mr. ‘Shop Assistant’. As we were negotiating, he had run off another batch of numbers for my friend and was now waving them around in a manner that suggested ‘I don’t understand any of this!! Damn you Ireland’.. Of course, my mind had done a U-Turn now. Derek had fallen from the tandem and disappeared in a puff (I know) of smoke. I was now scrabbling for that sandwich. In the distance, Mr. ‘Those numbers are shit mate’ now held the golden ticket and was entering Derek’s chocolate factory (again, I know) instead of me. My mind was all over the shop (oh, ha ha ha!!). Which ticket will win it. I’ll pick the wrong one. A queue of builders had formed and we needed closure quickly. ‘Actually’ I’ll take both of them he said…

‘Nooooooooooooooooooooooooo’ As Derek Mooney might say

Arrrrgh, Girls!!!!

Margaret Tatcher, Myra Hindley and Cecilia Ahern. All Girls. All evil.

Just when I thought I didn't have a heart anymore, I've had it broken. It was a bit like getting up in the morning, knowing you don't own a car but finding that it had been stolen anyway. Disgrace has been breached. Tell the papers!! I've let mans nemesis, the non-man, penetrate me emotionally. All my tales of bachelor glory. All my tales of hard hearted bravado. All my tales of red hot chili/masculine self love now have been found to be fake.


You see, my mood nosedived over the weekend from 'Jolly Depression' to 'Christmas with Morrissey'. I realised that I had been subconsciously hedging my bets on a particular girl, who like most girls, turned out to be pretty much one step removed from a 'volcanic scorpion'. Not her fault I suppose, that I secretly lodged my heart in her 'no interest' current account, but it hurt nonetheless. It was a bit of a wake-up call, I've been cruising along lately, content that I was doing brilliantly without the need of a woman, when I realised that I was actually as involved with her as I have been with most of my previous girlfriends. And like most of them, she was oblivious. When this bolt hit me, I got scared. I have not been scared for a long time but suddenly every usual post break-up emotion (which I'd thought I'd avoided with some style in last few months), came knocking on my door, all at once. The fear of having to jump on the dating train. The fear of wasting time again with someone who's wrong for you. The fear that her vagina might have teeth. Anyway, I need not have worried about these when it came to this girl, because judging by her spectacular rejection the other night (she back flipped perfectly as she said no), I will not soon be meeting her parents or losing Disgrace Jr to a savage sex part.

It's good to be back.

My Mate Paulaner

That was the weekend.

Paulaner beer is a dangerous mistress. Like the enticing smell of a plotting seductress, this German beer also emits an intoxicating scent. If you were left alone in a room with a pint of it, you would soon start to feel crowded. Drinking it does the same thing. Run a spoon through a freshly poured glass of it and you will encounter a bizarre resistance. Dip and finger in it, and you may never play the piano again. If beer made a sound, Paulaner would be My Bloody Valentine, at their bloodiest. I don’t know what it is, but a number of weeks ago I woke up on the floor of my flat to the sound of the opening credits to the Late Late. I’d been out drinking since 7, the Late Late starts at 9.30, so this was only two and a half hours later. On Friday, I went to Coman’s in Rathgar to look at girls, but after a measly 5 bottles of it, I was tucked up in bed at 10.30, giggling to myself. Some weeks ago, I also went to see Ladytron and drank Paulaner. Allegedly. Not since the days of Furstenburg, when waking up on the Ferry to Holyhead was a regular occurrence, have I been beaten by a beer so badly. Am I alone?

Anyway, this part of the post goes out to my Sister, who thinks I’m drinking too much, and by proxy my Mum, who believes everything she tells her.

Anyway, Saturday was given over to domestic self-abuse and Euro 2008 before I finally emerged to attempt to go and see Jape and Dan Deacon in Vicar St. After a series of heated Lisbon related rows some friends, I was off home, Jape-less. It’s funny, nights out in the last 10 years or so have been largely politics free. Nights out with Fakey back in the early 90’s used to see us at each others throats about the state of the nation, but recently people just didn’t seem bothered. In a way, whether I agree with the outcome of the vote on Thursday or not, it is good to see people talking again. The General Election last year was a damp squib (Squid, Fakey?) and anyway, it clashed with Big Brother so nobody even noticed. But all this talk of spiraling costs, job losses and euro-skepticism has re-ignited normal folks interest, and as I emerged from the pub on Saturday night, with my pride (and chin) bruised, it felt good to back, in an 80’s nostalgia kinda way.

Sunday was father’s day, which involved a roast dinner, some spectacular defeats in swing-ball to both my nephew and my sister (yes a child AND girl) and about 5 kilos of Rhubarb.

Oh, and there was the food poisoning.

And the blocked toilet.

Simon Le Lisbon

Political commentary is not National Disgraces stongpoint. I once famously refered to Bertie Ahern as 'the Fuhrer' and indirectly blamed him for flying a plane into the twin towers. I also proclaimed that a reduction in interest rates would result in anarchy and followed this up with a suggestion that Sinn Fail should probably give up their dream of reclaiming the Isle of Man, and concentrate on more urgent issues such as the abolition of traffic lights.

Because of this, and also due to my pre-occupation with all things 'woe is me', I have steered the good ship Disgrace from the thorny waters of Politics and driven the wheeless ship that I hold captaincy of into less contentious terrain. The Lisburn treaty, which came and passed, pricked the ears of my interest slightly, and I watched with mild amusement as the humans I know debated with themselves about something they didn't understand. As it happens, we said 'eh, like, NO!' to the treaty, which as far as I'm aware would of resulted in the proud nation of Ireland having to 'tighten their belts', if only because by European standards we are 'obese'. There were rumours that a yes vote would result in a shorter head on a pint of Guinness, the re-introduction of the Giant Panda to parts of Monaghan and the status of kite-flying to be changed from 'jolly good fun' to 'punishable by death'.

Libertas, a fun loving gang of coolsters with no link whatsoever to the American Military, were spot on when they said that voting no would result in 'a better deal for Ireland'. In the same way that head-butting your boss would result in a raise.

Because of our No vote, that old Dog 'the Yoo-Kay' (credit fakey) has become a drooling at the mouth, spontaneous-national-orgasm champion of Irelands resistance of the mainland of Europe. They hate everyone you see, and Europe fit the 'everyone' profile very well. The Sun Newspaper, which prints pictures of 'breasts' and contains adverts for services that you would not find in the parish newsletter (unless you're from Ferns) proudly headlined 'Paddy Power!!' today and exclaimed Ireland's slaying of the Euro Dragon. The Observer and Daily Mail of Eire had similar headlines, which backhandedly congratulated us for our resistance, and threw in some pun-tastic racism.

The most worrying thing however is the fact that the Irish Mail on Sunday (I've checked with An Post, they only deliver on weekdays) is giving away a Michael Caine 'erotic' DvD tomorrow. This film, which contains 'cleavage' and 'soft lit, silhouetted scenes of SIMULATED INTERCOURSE' is free for every Irish child and impressionable adult to view, should they choose to buy the paper. Had we of voted Yes, I hae no doubt that we would of been treated to a freebie of 'Battle of Britain' or 'Carry on Oppressing'. At last, and thanks to a film as erotic as the journey from Firhouse to Town, we are finally being treated as an equal of the great United Kingdom..

Anyone for the Commonwealth?

The Metro

I somehow found myself watching TV3’s ‘Miss Universe Ireland’ competition on Sunday night and felt obliged to make some observations. Firstly, the entire experience was to enjoyment, what a ten-car pile-up involving a number of your closest relatives, is to Christmas. The hosts, (Some bloke called Caprice and Alan ‘I do the weather, interviews, cookery segments and other gentlemen’ Hughes) were as mismatched a pair as I could possibly imagine and had all the chemistry of a rapist and his/her victim.

Anyway, speaking of TV3, this morning’s Metro newspaper proclaimed ‘TV’s Sinead in brain scare’. Sinead Desmond is actually one of TV3’s better hosts, and as happens is in a worrying condition in hospital. The headline on the Metro however, as is with their usual brand of sensationalism, didn’t concern me. I figured the story within would be a throwaway piece with nothing to do with her health concerns, brains or even her. Unfortunately it did. That’s where we are at with this condensed breakfast buliten sheet. Their headlines have been known to flirt with the bizarre, and rarely have much of a link to the story. See “Sausages cause cancer” and “Smiling at work can kill you” for further reading. And the real story goes missing underneath it.

Anyway, all of this is just an excuse to publish National Disgraces special guest edition of the Metro.

Broken Ideas (2)

More from the vaults, which probably should of stayed in the vaults...


Sometime 2007 "TV3 Post 'out-takes'

15:00 - You little....Rascal!! - Kids entertainment courtesy of Rascal, a cute half Pigeon, half hoofed-beast who is always getting himself into trouble. Today, he is arrested for his involvement in the Birmingham bombings

21:00 - Wakey Breaky Heart - Billy Ray Cyrus returns to our screens as an innocent man (PROVEN BY THE COURT OF LAW) to host our new Breakfast show. Today Billy travels to Manorhamilton where he meets Linda Martin, a Molly Malone lookalike and a Priest with a terrifying secret

12:00 - Bracken Lane - New soap set in the working class streets of inner city Dublin. In tonight's episode, a gas explosion kills everyone on Bracken Lane.

19:30 - Hammered - The Northern comedy is back. Joxer is suspended from school after spraying the canteen with bullets whilst Alan immediately regrets getting his lips stuck in on a grenade pin. Meanwhile, 'across the road', Eric's day goes from bad to worse when the tank he's driving in is involved in a collision with the Zoo.

22:00 - The Valley - Rural Greenlandian soap. Tonight, Mort treats Sééépunt to fishcakes and Júúli disagrees with someone on the phone. Meanwhile, Hoopéén finds a pencil in his pocket"


Summer 2007

“Sometimes it takes an outsider to make things better. Like Jack Charlton or Hitler.”


April 2007

“Skobies.

Where do you start?

Genocide?”

Sometime 2007

The Funeral

Death sometimes has a habit of sneaking up on you. You hear it all the time.. 'He died suddenly' and 'one minute he was alive, the next he was dead'.

The topic of conversation in McGuire’s Pub was much along the same lines. Over the music, the laughing, and the clash of empty beer glasses, two old men sat remembering an old friend.

'Of course, he loved his Mother' remarked one of them, as he rested his walking stick against the wall.

“She was a fine woman” his friend replied ”Once saw her carry a sick horse on her back, up and down McGonongle’s Hill. It was a Christmas morning I believe”

The other man nodded and remarked that the he 'knew' the horse in question and that it went on to live to be 74 years of age.

“I suppose I'll have to pour my own?” said the other one, winking across the bar. “ Will you take another one in there Jack?”

Jack looked at his watch, it had stopped working in 1968 “ Sure, go on Matty, actually get me two”

Matty returned to the table slowly. Very, very slowly. Jack didn't notice the delay as he had broken into song and was mid verse when Matty had returned with the pints. The table in front of them was now overflowing with empty and half empty glasses. Matty squeezed the five pints in and sat down. The afternoon sun had begun to peep through the blinds, and behind the warm hazy glow of dancing dust, Jack was bellowing out something about rebels and fairies. Matty decided to join in and add his vocals to the song. As the two old men sang two completely different songs the band began to play again. There was whoops and shouts and elbows flying as a full scale hooley developed. Jack finally stopped singing when a fist fight developed close to him and knocked one of his pints over. The brawl had now extended to a whole corner of the pub and tables and stools were being used as bargaining tools.

“If he was alive now he'd put a stop to that” Matty muttered, between verses

“Be the love of god, he'd be over the bar with the shotgun” Jack replied

“Do you remember the that coloured lad that walked in of the street?” Jack enquired

“I do” Matty replied “ Paddy was across the bar quicker than one of Holohan’s foxes”

“Sure, he never once shot that gun in anger. He'd have it for scaring the darkies and the like, but they say he didn't have a bad bone in his body”

A chair flew across Paddy's head, narrowly missing him Soon, the row had died down, with only the hardcore few still slugging it out on the street outside. Matty, with no hint of romance whatsoever, had by now embraced Jack and they were breaking into a chorus of 'Ooh Ahh Paul McGrath', in honour of the time Paddy chased the ex Ireland international towards Higgins with his shotgun. It had become impossible to count the amount of glasses on their table as it had collapsed when one of the drunken brawlers fell on it. He was very apologetic to Matty and Jack, in a sincere and bloodied way, but paid dearly for his concern when the delay to apologise resulted in him being knocked unconscious by Rory Hanlon and his Mother Bridie.

Jack and Bridie courted back before decimalisation and he'd learned first-hand that she was quite the woman. Rory was her 15th and was working on the farm. He'd always look out for Jack, as his mother still had a soft spot for him (just beneath her moustache) and used to drop down a head of cabbage to him every Christmas. Bridie had however hooked up with one of the Walshe brothers (or 2 if local rumours are to be believed) and they'd married when Jack was up in Dublin for the day. Jack never married, and barely even looked at a woman since.

Matty broke his embrace from Jack and sat up. Two minutes later, when he was eventually fully standing up he removed a roll up cigarette from his pocket and went to walk outside. Jack decided to have a short nap whilst his friend was gone and settled down on the bar. It was nearly dark by the time Matty had arrived outside, and the only trace of the earlier row was a burnt out car and members of the emergency response unit. Enda MacGillicuddy came racing up the road on 'Wobbler' (his horse) and nodded to Matty.

“The Under-12's were beaten I see” he shouted as he sped past

Matty nodded back at him.

“But sure they were playing up a pitch with a bad hill on it” Enda added “ in both directions”

Matty shouted back but it was difficult to hear as the sirens from the Garda car chasing the horse were too loud so he went back into the pub. Jack had woken from his sleep by the start of the Karaoke and was sitting beside the bar, tapping his feet.

"How's young Paudi?" Jack asked

“Sure he's grand. After buying one of them apartments up in Dublin” Matty replied

“Still into the young fellas??” …..

unfinished

April 2008

“Imagine being trapped under a bed whilst two trumpets have sex.

The noise..

Christ my head hurts this morning.

Broken Ideas (1)

Ok, I’ve changed the header. Some people (Rosie) didn’t take to the ‘airborne sperm’ so I’ve pulled it down.

Thanks to Westy for the graphic.

I’ve been pretty quiet on the blog of late. It’s a combo of a lot of things I suppose. I’m busy in work for one, although that does not for one second mean that I’m actually beginning to take my job seriously. I also upended a full bottle of Erdinger on my laptop recently, so my home blogging experience has suffered as now my X and C keys don’t work. And I also got a new girlfriend. Well, an X-box 360 actually.

Add to all this that the most interesting thing to happen to me over the last few weeks wasn’t actually interesting, and you can see why the posts have been few and far between.

I’m planning to get myself into all sorts of romantic and dangerous situations this weekend just so I can blog about them on Monday, so watch out.

Anyway, here’s some clips of posts/randomness that I have discarded over the last few months..





Feb 2008 “Does anyone remember the story about the argument between Jesus and God about what colour 'wind' should be? I've heard it many times, but from different people, but the ending always stays the same. The bulk of the tale remains the same too. Jesus, despite not being around at the creation of life, was heavily canvassing his father for a light peach tint. God, as I've been led to believe, slapped Jesus across the face and called him a harlot. As punishment, he removed all trace of colour from the wind and therefore denied humanity a wondrous visual spectacle “





December 2007 “The annual Fake Empire/National Disgrace pre Christmas drink session has historically, proven to be a torrid affair. You, no doubt, will be familiar with the headlines that greeted our 'dead hooker' themed shindig of 2005 and who can forget that fateful night in 1997 when we 'collapsed the middle east peace process'. Last night, the Ant and Dec of the blogospehere took the festivities to the streets and I can gladly say that save for a 'small terrorist incident' the night was a roaring success"



Nov 2007 “Now, money has never been an issue for Disgrace, similarly, neither has space travel. Fawning benefactors, lucrative jock-strap sponsorship deals and 'protection' funding has kept the good ship Disgrace floating with vitalic buoyancy. "Money, is just a printed piece of paper that you give to people who sell goods, in exchange for said goods" Disgrace likes to joke.. But, when the laughter fades, and long after the air kisses , Disgrace has to sit down with his bank manager and do business”




October 2007 “I'd woken up in a sweat before, but nothing like this. It felt like a blanket of heavy damp on my skin. And my skin, it was cold. I couldn't touch it.It was now dark. It was darker than I'd ever seen and it felt like the blackness was crushing down on me. It felt like I was wrapped in ice. All my thoughts were being deconstructed before they had a chance to present themselves. The lack of light was suffocating me and I couldn't even speak. Who would I speak to? I didn't care, I want to scream.

There were noises, but they so far away I wasn't sure they were really there. And they were dull, heavy thumps of sound. I tried to roll over but it felt like there was nothing supporting me. And anyway, I couldn't move. I panicked. I couldn't feel my legs. That’s when I realized I was a fish.”



Late 2007 “So, I have to help Fakey out tonight. Apparently the perfectly good couch he has doesn't provide the optimum comfort/style ratio, so he's off to get a new one. It'll probably be a brush steel affair with a signature Rocco splash of colour and legs moulded to look like Jackson Pollacks cock, but that's Fakey.

It's a bit like the time he was going to cut off his head because he didn't like his new haircut. It'll be cool, I'll throw the couch on my back and mule-like I'll dispatch it wherever her likes. That's the kind of friend Disgrace is”

Where in the world

From Reuters:

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

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

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

Let's hope he turns up. Alive.

The Champions League of Extraordinary Fuckwits

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

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

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

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

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

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

And we had a ball.

Tonight? You're having a laugh

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..