TV3 summer schedule

9AM: Look ‘Hughes’ Talking : Lively chat from the ever flexible Alan Hughes. On this mornings episode, Nobel prize winning politician John Hume storms out after being gunged, and a topical debate on the the dangers of nettles in cruising destinations. Followed by news for the deaf (stereo).

11AM: Brendan O’Carroll on... Wine : The lovable crimin...sorry, Comedian, continues his cultural journey with a guide to the finest wines and vineyards around. Tonight: Brendan gets pissed on a special offer Shiraz and urinates on a Luas.


12PM: Zchewky un Blarti - Ukrainian comedy from Estonia (with Greek subtitles) - A mysterious Welshman arrives in town and unsettles the local Turks with his loud flute playing and disdain for Mexicans (winner of best Maori television series at the Latvian media awards).

1PM: The Afternoon movie: An American Werewolf on the Orient Express (1968). Heart stopping thriller from the producer of ‘Satan visits Fundrerland’ and the Dairy Boards generic cheese advert. A trip on the fabled train turns to horror for a young family of Mormons as one by one they are savaged by a werewolf. Will Jean Claude Van Damme come to their rescue? Unlikely, as he is not in this movie.

5PM: Xp-LOSION: Live coverage of a tragic explosion at TV3 HQ during the recording of Xpose.

5:27PM: Xpose 2: A special episode of the popular entertainment magazine featuring a tribute to the untimely passing of all the previous presenters. Also, why tartan is IN this season.

7PM: Sports!! Sports!! Sports!! : A timely repeat of the Mongolian Trampoline championships of 1977, an event marred by a Llama invasion that sent the shock waves though the world.

8PM: Hammered: The taboo breaking Ulster comedy is back. The McGuiggans celebrate the release from prison of their elderly grandmother with a good old fashioned Ulster Fry (ie they burn a church), Meanwhile ‘over the fence’ the Harpersons are faced with a tough decision when ‘Snappy’, the family terrier, wags his tail during the Sinn Fein Ard Fheis. Warning, contains images of animal cruelty.

9PM: Boomerang Bay: The sex filled Aussie soap is back, and bolder than ever. Tonight, Wanga is horrified to find an orphan in her cornflakes and Greg tells Martha that he loves her, in a series of punches meant to represent sign language.

9.30PM: Cribs, with Brian Cowen!- Leader of the country Brian Cowen gives viewers a glimpse into his private life and explains why he keeps a herd of sheep in his garden.

10PM: Sheep Thrills: - The rape of Dolly - Alarming expose into the recent ‘sheep buggering’ episode that rocked Irish Politics, with an as yet unnamed Taoiseach at the forefront of the allegations. Music by The Script.

10.45PM: - Live Windsurfing ( Not the cool kind ) - All the action from today's goings on in Courtown. Filmed from a distance in the back of a moving car. Sponsored by Chewits

11.45PM: - Mind your own Quizness - The return of the popular Quiz.. Now, with ACTUAL prizes!... Sponsored my Mickey's Hardware - Ballina ' if It's hard and ware, it has to be Mickey's ' Open 3 Days a week.

12.30AM: The Valley - Soap set in rural Greenland. Today, a large snowstorm blows into town. Eué has difficulty shutting a window and a moose is keeping Júúúp awake

1AM: Cagney and Lacy: Disturbing drunken camera phone footage from the TV3 Christmas party where Mark Cagney models lacy underwear for the staff of Copper Face Jacks.


1.30AM: After Dark presents: Nurses in heat (2006). An amateur theatre group form Tallaght hospital present their version of ht hit motion picture ‘Heat’, with Matron (Concepta O’Shaugnessy) in the role of Al Pacino.

4AM: Power Cut - Due to a surprise power cut, programming tonight will end abruptly. See ya in a fortnight, The TV3 'team'.

Things to do in Bristol when you've just murdered

I took one look at Westy and my mind was already scouting locations of where to bury his body. His wife (Missus Westy) stood over his shoulder. Make that two bodies.

I guess it started when I got that pre-travel fear that most of us get. You know, when you’re packing your socks and a sudden image of a burning plane and a mountain side flashes into your mind. Usually, I’m a good flyer, but for some reason I was apprehensive this time. I even cleaned my apartment and deleted my Internet history as I knew my family would be in rifling through my stuff before the black box was found.

Anyway, back to the murdering bit. So, here I am standing in the brutalist centre of Bristol (sort of like a peak hour Dundalk, but after a large explosion or some sort of catastrophic event) looking up at the B&B that Westy had somehow found lurking about on the Internet. If dereliction was a public holiday, this would be Christmas. The other buildings on this street had long decided to pack their bags and it stood alone. Of course, this was Bristol. And being boarded up or showing signs of police tape on the doors didn’t mean it was closed for business. A sign on the door said ‘for B&B’ (and suspiciously, ‘other services’) ‘call this number’. A number then followed. Call we did and eventually getting through a panting landlord who said in that ‘OO-AR’ accent that he’d be round in a bit. My mind was already wandering to that Marriot we saw on the way into town, and when the landlord stumbled around the corner, it was already unpacking its bags.

Looking somewhere between a Spiders era Bowie and a heroin addicted Joanna Lumley, he wobbled up the street in a pair of hot pants and a fur coat.

“Did we get you out of bed?” Westy ventured

“No, just working around in the Sauna” was the creatures response. (The Village Sauna, as we found out, was just round the corner and proudly had a poster urging people to ‘out’ Homophobes).

We entered the ex-building through a broken fence, and stepping over an old rusty cooker, we were led into the bar. In the darkness, we could see the whites of eyes scurrying into the shadows. Like a great chess player I was two moves ahead, and had already swung a shovel, left the bodies behind and was sitting in the airport bar. But alas, I chickened out of mass murder, paid for my room and resigned myself to a night on the set of Hostel.

It began to amuse me actually, we literally had to climb over a roof to get to the rooms. And even though he said with a mischievous grin that there was ‘no other guests, haven’t been for some time actually’, a barking dog could be heard clearly from one of the other rooms. Still, my room was clean (as in, whoever had last killed there had been meticulous in removing all evidence) and I had planned to be so drunk later as not to notice anyway.

And that was the case. We were in Bristol to see the amazing Twilight Sad, and by god, they saved Westy's life.

That and the fact that murder is bad.

Ryan's Slaughter

Disgrace, whilst waiting for Fakey in the transsexual section of Soho books Rathmines (don’t know why he insists on meeting there) uncovered this. The full script for Ryan Tubridy's pilot episode of the Late Late Show. Shudder with me folks...

Opening sequence

(Owl replaced by a floating cabbage. On the intro, Tubridy’s face is to be morphed onto recognisable celebrity faces. There he is with Jordan’s breasts. Next he’s on the body of Stephen Hawking. Hilarious montage follows of Boyzone, each members face replaced with the gurning grin of Lord Tubington.)

Studio

(Ryan moonwalks behind a screen in silhouette, as the Camembert Quartet (renamed ‘Four Pricks and a Piano’) break into ‘Rocket Man’. His face appears and revolves at impossible speed. Several viewers have fits. Cue applause, canned)

(The screen lifts and there he is. The man who put the ‘oh sweet Jesus Christ’ back in Montrose, clapping his hands and jigging. The set looks like a prostitute’s blouse.)

Ryan.

“Well ladies and gentlemen, what can I say about standing here? On the shoulders of giants! Like Gaybo!! That’s only his name folks, it's not a lifstyle!! Taps nose and swings finger towards the band. Boom Tish noise. And not forgetting Pat Kenny before me (grabs crotch). Trumpet solo. I intend to bring you not only top quality entertainment, but intelligent debate, pressing issues and topics that some may consider taboo, in the interest of furthering this great nation of ours. And on that note Ladies and Gentlemen, our first guest, Basil Brush!!”

“Basil, are you an arse or a leg man?”

Break.

Topical political issue next with Fintan O’Toole

“Fintan, what measures do you think the government need to put in place to restore consumer confidence, and more so, faith from the public”

“Well, Pat, sorry, Ryan, if this nation stands up for itself and real.”

“Sorry Finners, got to interrupt you because it’s time for ... (Drum Solo), RYAN’S SLAUGHTER!! Are we ready to embarrass a member of the audience with a secret from their past Folks????!!!”

Edit out groans.

Cue Four Pricks, ‘Y.M.C.A’

Ryan enters audience (make sure he doesn’t take this literally – Producer)

“Who are you?”

“Erm, I’m Bernie. My family were killed in a carpet laying accident and I’m here to discuss the problem with Des Kelly’s recent recruitment drive in Mountjoy. You know Ryan, since I’ve lost my family, I have had all my floors removed. I just can’t face them... blubber... tears... wail.”

Tubs, with a smile bigger than O’Connell Street

“Who wants to see this lady take the ‘truth or SCARE’ challenge???”

He pulls her from her Wheelchair.

EMERGENCY BREAK.

Music from Smokie. It would be funny if Ryan closed this sequence with a witty comment??

“Alice, who the FUDGE is Alice” he shouts, to minimal laughter. Cue gurning!! (Does anyone have Miriam’s number? – Producer)

Next Guest, comedy sensation Tommy Tiernan, who’s routine literally consists of him waving his member in front of the Special Olympics team. (Turn down volume of phones in the office please!! And get Ryan to stop touching it!!)

Cue the band!!

And bring back GAY!!!

“But I’m already here” pleads Ryan.

Questions and Chancers

Following on from the British Expenses row, National Disgrace has uncovered some startling evidence of dubious expense claims amongst our own politicians. Whilst some of the claims may be genuine (Mary Harneys €300 claim for 110 litres of Diet Coke and a horse Troff was up for questioning, but has been dismissed as apparently she has been known to be partial to the boiling a number of hams in the popular soft drink), others such as Brian Lenihans €11.50 claim for ‘a calculator’, have raised alarm bells. It was Lenihans startling admission to Disgrace in a libel avoiding dream last night that ‘He doesn’t know how to operate things with buttons’ which got me suspicious.

Amongst the most astonishing tax claims:

Taoiseach Brian Cowen : €1000 worth of Pajamas (Hanna Montana motif). This has raised eyebrows as it is a well known fact that Mr Cowan sleeps entirely in the nude. The busty brunette also ordered 12 volumes of the Koran, despite some observers note that he has very few Islamic fundamentalist tendencies.

Minister for Defence Wille O’Dea's claims for 'knuckle dusters' and the entire 'box set of Rambo' are not in doubt, but questions marks have popped up over his €13.40 claim for 'luxury scented toilet roll'. Those in the know (ie. the toilet attendants at the Dail and the Limerick gun club) have said that O’Dea (not to be confused with overdose) likes to ‘wipe’ with a live grenade!

John Gormley's (Green Party) expenses raise the astonishment bar even further by putting in receipts for 'two leaking oil tankers' and an ‘instant forest fire kit’. His spokes-goat was unavailable for comment today but Disgrace did receive a knitted note saying that "the Minister rejects claims of irregular claims, and will fist fight Disgrace back to the Internet to prove it!".

Mary Harney, Minister of Health as stated before has an exotic taste for coke boiled ham, but her balancing book it seems is a bit like her weighing scales, under incredible pressure. Amongst the invoices the Minister (often claimed to be the only TD visible from Space) lodged were ‘size ten knickers’, 'Trampoline' and a ‘beard trimmer’. Actually, I’ve just been alerted that the beard trimmer was a genuine purchase.

Despite being hotly tipped to star in the remake of the Munsters, Minister for taking money from people, Brian Lenihan has a very un-Hollywood approach to buying things. Amongst some of his suspicious purchases are ‘Irish Banks’ and a 'Fisher Price Money printing machine'.

Former Taoiseach Bertie Ahern, also lodged his spending with the Exchequer and despite not having any history of irregular financial matters whatsoever, has also been subject to some scrutiny. Mr Ahern, now living in Fagans public house has billed the taxpayer thousands for a ‘goat dressed as a ballet dancer’ and a ‘bucket of rubber gloves’. Some have referred to the reported ‘Goat fiddling’ contests in Fagans of Drumcondra as an ample explanation, others however, have not.

Mary Hanafin, who still to this day refutes the claim to being an ex Christian Brother also clocks up the euros with her monthly expenses. Amongst the ones being questioned from the Minister for mis-education are an ‘underwater school’ and an ‘increase in teacher numbers’.

The list goes on. Dick Roche (‘Panda food’ and ‘the history of the hill of Tara’), Trevor Sargent (‘Prostitutes’) and Sean Haughey (‘Fake mustaches’) all are to be investigated also.

It’s a terrible and sad state of affairs. For the country that brought you the Irish Civil War and Ros Na Run, to be exposed as a corrupt and scandalous society is something that sickens Disgrace to the stomach.

It’s enough to have Dev (12 shillings for 'Internet cafe charges!!') spinning in his grave.

Disgraces Guide to Rathmines - Drink!!

For a Village full of thirsty students, excommunicated fathers living in bedsits and jobless youths, Rathmines has a surprising lack of Pubs. Because of this, and a sticky keyboard, there will be a lot less exclamation marks in NATIONAL DISGRACES GUIDE TO RATHMINES - PUBS.

The first watering hole (and I mean hole) on ‘the strip’ is the Rathmines Inn. It is highly recommended that you skip this place. The Inn lives off the fact that it has a beer garden where al fresco drinking (next to the bins) can be enjoyed. I once asked for a bottle of Erdinger here and the Barman sneered at me. “We have none of that foreign stuff”. I had a Heineken instead. I have occasionally used it for the ATM near the toilet, and have taken great enjoyment in waving my freshly deposited cash in the barman’s face as I head off to spend it elsewhere

Moving on, it’s a fair trek to the next pub, so you may decide to nip across to the Spar for some street beer. You’ll have ample time to down your tipple before you reach the next hostelry, the rather insensitively named Toast (it used to be a fire station). Toast is the middle ground of Rathmines, not sure whether it’s a restaurant or a bar, so it decides to avoid being either. Its stock has de-valued somewhat in recent times thanks largely to a club night hosted by yours truly and a certain Mr Empire.

Pretty depressing so far and things don’t improve at all when you hit the next boozer. Lingering at the crossroads like a luminous sex-offender, the bright green facade and dirty windows greet you like lump of poo in your lunchbox. Where the Rathmines Inn has Carvery, the Madison has people who have probably ‘Carved up’ their victims. They have a Crimeline night where a free pint is on offer if you appear on the show. Disco lights are often in full swing on Dole day and the foods menu literally consists of ‘knuckle sandwiches’ and ‘Mashed Face’. This is high society folks. On Mother’s Day they advertised a special “three course lunch - 11.50 (includes free admission to Man II Man - Strippers) - This is actually true. Note: They actually search you for weapons on entry, and if you don’t have any, they give you some!!

After you’ve picked up your teeth from the toilet floor it’s time to move on. Try to avoid leaving through the front window as some regulars do and head straight across the street to the old world charms of Slatterys.

Slat’s is a haven from the hustle and bustle of busy downtown Rathmines. The image of a grandmother head butting a barman at the Madison is far away now as you take the first sip of the perfect Slats pint. This is a proper pub, where it’s advisable to leave your airs and graces at the door, although they will most likely be stolen by one of the Madison gang. The barmen and ladies have a weird sixth sense too. With a simple nod and a ‘Can I have a pint of stout please Paul’, you’ll be served up a pint of stout, almost certainly by Paul. It’s that attention to detail that makes a visit to Slats a winner every time. Ok, so there are no mirrors in the gents, but your chances of meeting a girl in here are very slim. And if you do, well they’ll have not seen a mirror for quite a while either. They have a cruel sense of humour in here for sure. Pop your 3 euro into the condom machine and rather than a packet of ‘sheaths’ you’ll get a written note.

“Ha Ha, you’re having a laugh right? Get back out to the bar. Another stout?, Paul”.

Where Kildare has Goffs, and Cork has its CO-OP Marts Rathmines also has its own cattle market. Follow the knuckle marks up the street and before long you’ll be stood in the cavernous halls of Rody Boland’s. It is here a man can meet the bearded woman of his dreams. Intelligent conversation is bottom of the list of priorities in this not so-super pub. Wearing a Munster jersey, or simply wearing the face off a woman who’s style icon seems to have been Giant Haystacks, Rodys ticks all the boxes for the sociable ‘sorta’ human. Warning though, the regular punters are quite touchy about the omission once again on the Michelin Star list as apparently the Goujons are impeccable.

So there we have it. Rathmines. If you want to have an enjoyable drink, hit Slats. If you have a hankering for a terrible and soulless experience with the added body blow of a Carvery lunch, hit the Rathmines Inn. If you want to buy some knock-off Timotei or Rolex watches, over to Madison. And if you want play a game off Russian roulette with your sexuality, hit Rodys and wait for the shock the following morning. Whatever happens, be good folks...

Ps, erm.. I love you.

Disgraces Guide to Rathmines - Food!!

I was stopped by some English tourists in Rathmines earlier who were looking for some recommendations for somewhere to eat. I asked what they were looking for and they simply said "tasty pucker!! Kebab in me arse geezer!!". So, for them (and pray Christ, they have been recently been mowed down by a lorry) here's a handy tear out and keep guide to Rathmines fooderys.

Food!!

Yes! Rathmines has food. Lots of it. Whether it’s burger's, chips or simply a rush job sliced pan and tayto combo from Dunne's, this village is sure to have restaurant critics literally going weak at the knees! Boasting more big macs than people, and a seductive strip of flashing neon ‘eating signposts’, you’re as likely to fill your belly in the ‘Mines' as you are to have a human head on your shoulders!! Starting at the canal, and happily racking up the calories towards Rathgar, the choice is mesmerizingly mesmerizing. The Spar at the corner of Grove Park sells a mouth watering range of chocolate bars, chicken baguettes, and for the bedsit boggers, peat Briquettes. Tasty!!

Snack Attack!

Moving on, the Porta Via more than makes up for its complete lack of any customers with a complete and utter lack of safety regulations. Here, and only here, can you purchase TWO snack boxes for the picce of one!! It’s a bargain that only a devout vegetarian could resist. Not enough for ya? The Porta Via also has a jukebox, so you can listen to hits such as Paul Hardcastles ‘19’ as the kitchen staff try to fend off the hungry rodents. Hey, we all need to eat, people!!

Assuming your Spar bought Mars bar and PV double snack box treat haven’t extinguished that hungry fire in your belly, you are more than welcome to discover the rest of this quaint Dublin villages culinary catalogue. Jo’Burger, which offers a SIGNIFICANT DISCOUNT if your haircut is cool enough, serves up MONSTER burgers. Don’t worry folks, they don’t use real monster!!

Rathmines is fun, isn’t it?

Euro-Saver

McDonald's subtle position at the entrance to the Swan Centre (a Mega Mall, so called cos it’s supposedly marks the place where Swans were invented. WOW!!) is marked by a cleverly placed homeless guy who has mastered the art of urinating down his trouser leg to such a level that the run off forms a large glistening ‘M’. Get in there and tear through the Euro saver, but throw him a twisty fires on the way out.

You’ve belched, and what do you know? You want more grub!! Head a few doors up to Kafka! This is the place to be seen in this handsome Dublin 6 suburb. It’s one of those sit down food places though, and it’s courtesy use a knife and fork! Battling for business with ‘Kaffers’ is Burdocks, a chip shop that whilst suspiciously closes and re-opens a little too regularly for my liking, is apparently Dublin's Oldest Chipper. That can’t be a bad thing, cos I was recently a customer of Dublin's oldest Prostitute and she was great!! The Haddock is 5.50, and it’s around the same in Burdocks!

Rape!!

Say goodbye to your belt folks, Eddie Rockets is calling and you’d want to be a freak of the highest order not to fall for their charms. Decked out like the illegitimate child of a semi-authentic 50’s USA Diner, it's a semi authentic 50's USA Diner, right down to the burly Polish rapist-a-like who works in the kitchen, you will be munching down their famous fare with a smile so big so could easily fit another serving in. So do it!!

Horse play!!

Bonanza!! Well, you're a lot heavier than you were when you stood at Portobello bridge, but that’s just as well cause there’s a stiff breeze beginning to blow. Better anchor yourself properly and visit RATHMINES ONLY KFC!! for some of their world famous delicacies. Vegetarians will rejoice in this quick food haven, as none of the meat on offer here as ever been near an animal! Look at the picture!! Even horses think it’s safe to stop for a chat outside this place! It’s the perfect venue to chill, linger over a semi warm Pepsi and lovingly pick the vomit off your dates collar. And when you’re finished, there’s a fist fight waiting you for just outside Rodys!!

Violence!!

Rodys? You’ll see... (in the pub section which follows this)

!!!!

Celebrating Misery

I had just commissioned Westy to do me a new banner.

‘Something with balloons and smiling children' was the brief.

‘So, just like last Friday night?’ was his response, in that hilarious ‘see you on the sex register' sense of humour he has.

See, it had been brought to my attention recently that my blog had become more miserable than ever, and coupled with the fact that the Samaritans had offered to sponsor it, I had decided it was maybe time to cheer it up a little. No more stories about the hole in my roof (which is now officially a grade 3 waterfall), my love life (which has caused such a swelling that I’m unable to wear my watch anymore) or my Job (which is now listed as ‘available), I had now planned to write forevermore with a smile on my face.

Well thanks to the good folk at the Daily Irish Mail I have decided to turn that smile upside down once again. In today's news packed edition which contains a vital piece from “Dr” Michael O’Leary, the guy who flies planes to exactly one time zone from where you actually want to go, where he advises ‘stepsils’ as the cure for swine flu, they champion my blog (in their 'if you only do one thing' section) and inform all and sundry that my “disgraceful” posts and hilarious photos on all aspects of Irish life won’t fail to cheer and that “you can be smug in the knowledge of knowing that there is someone more miserable than you”.

Shops all over the country stock this paper, so pop down, pick one up and you’ll be given an exclusive URL which leads directly to this site. If today is now tomorrow, you could root through your neighbours bins, or check doorways where down and outs may be using it as a blanket..

Careful though, I don’t like being disturbed when I’m asleep.

Why do birds suddenly appear?

Fakey delivers his recession sermon in some style on this post, and pretty much says all that needs to be said. I actually watched Prime Times expose on devious border running the other night and had similar thoughts. I’m a ‘no comment kinda guy when it comes to politics, but I’m heavy on the opinion when it comes to dickwads; And those that drive to Newry to pack the SUV with nappies and shitty wine are dickwads of the highest order.

“Well factoring in the price of pet-o-ral, and the fact that we literally have to stuff the boot full of shite we don’t need in order to make a decent saving, I don’t see anything wrong with paying our dues to the Queen - And you never know, the 6 for 2 deal I got on Marmite was a real bargain. The kids are dying to get it in to them”

Fakeys points are on the sterling. Our quality of life is now so high, irregardless of whatever financial meltdown that’s going on, that there isn’t a denim jacket or a heat saving mustache in sight. The boat to Holyhead isn’t filled with songs of dancing at the crossroads or games of stolen tongue tennis over a milk churn like it used to be. Yes, the government don't really have money, but most of us thankfully, still do.

So don’t be afraid to spend it. Locally. But maybe not in Spar.

Anyway, this post came to me as I stood in the Q for the dole the other day and felt slightly ramshackle looking compared to the suited and booted types that joined me. It was my first time doing it in many years, but I came prepared. I simply rang two of my other best friends (Oliver and Westy) and asked them what they brought when they signed on the day before.

As Prince once said “you sexy motherfu...”

Oh actually think it was ‘Sign O’ the Times’

Work tomorrow.. Yay Hay!!

You know it's time to visit irishjobs.ie when..

You tear your apartment apart looking for a shotgun, but find only (suspiciously, considering the last bicycle you cycled had three wheels and a bell that played ‘chopsticks’) a bicycle pump and wonder if it’ll do. You curse your landlord for installing an electrical oven and wonder if baking will do the same job as a gas one. You produce a spool of string and look for a lofty beam, but give up when you realise that you’re actually taller than the flat you live in. You rifle through your medicine cabinet and only finding 4 packs of lemsip ponder if you’ll either arrive at the pearly gates OD’d out of your head, but dead, or simply make yourself immune from colds until 2017. You quickly realise that any attempts to drown in your shower, with its power rating something similar to a gentle licking from a drowsy cat, would only result in a slight dampness. Your investigation of the bedroom floor reveals no train tracks on which to strap yourself to, and even if it did the corrupt planning process in this country surely would not stretch to building a mainline express route through a third floor Rathgar flat. You curse Gillette for putting safety bars across their razors, but are impressed with the fact that those troublesome wrist hairs have now been dispensed with. You’re frustrated that the expensive ‘handpicked by a virgin from space’ Olive Oil has the same fire warning rating as a block of cheese. You give up and give in to the fact that you have work tomorrow.

...Bicycle pump noise...

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.