Archive for February, 2009

Friday evening appropriate post #4 (late): Over hang vs. We don’t swim in yout toilet, please don’t pee in our ool.

February 28, 2009

The reason this wasn’t posted yesterday was that I was fuckered. Buggered. With the worst hangover I’ve ever had
It was also the most disproportionate hangover I’ve ever had. Easily distracted barman free-poured me a massive whiskey – distracting himself by chatting inanely over his shoulder to me.

On top of this (and food I should add) was a couple of quiet pints (verging on a ‘few’, but only just). Bed before midnight should have ensured no more than a fuzzy head.
Made it to work with a headache which developed into the inability to keep my eyes open or food down – I imagined any manner of scam to get me out of jail free and go directly to bed.

No amount of this made any difference:

(Thanks to workmates all the same).

I still can’t accept the fact that it was a hangover. I’d told the work buddies I probably wouldn’t make it out to the pool hall – assuming I had some kind of shocking illness, but that I’d rest up a bit and see how I felt.

I ate a bowl of cereal and then slept for half an hour at home. Smoked a cigarette and felt okay. Showered and with some element of disbelief in the fact the weetabix hadn’t gushed back up, left for the pool.

Now here’s what I don’t get. I had five large bottles of beer and at least four spiced rum & cokes. I ate some indeterminable amount of greasy finger food, played some okay pool (even better the more drunk I got) had a good laugh and didn’t get home until half three in the morning.

I wake up at ten this morning. Peachy. No sign of headache, stomach upset or even a dry mouth.



February 26, 2009

It’s not that I don’t ‘get’ soccer.

I like to pretend I don’t. I like to pretend elements of fancy skill and clever tactics are rendered obselete by the bizarreness of 22 uniformed men chasing a white ball around a large field of grass, trying to put it (with their feet alone) into either of two erected rectangles. Not to mention the thousands of grown men screaming, hollering and baying at them (and the other lad with the whistle – especially him) even when those men are specks on a screen.

Actually, I don’t have to pretend shit about it – that’s what it is.
The pleasure, the pain, the heartache and the glory – it’s all grown men playing pretend with emotion they are too afraid to deal with in the real world.

Ah bless, loves the footie, he does. Takes after his Da.

Where I get my kicks is joining in. “Pass it! Cross it! Shoot it! Ahhhh yeh fuckin’ eejit!,” I holler before kick-off, much to the bewildered dismay of the men’s men around me.

In school I used to get the low-down on the sly from a mate and kid the others.

“Ronaldo played a blinder last night, eh lads? See the equaliser? He floored, what? three defenders? and bam, top left corner! What a fucking goal!”

They’d be incredulous. And rightly so.

Nowadays, I’m even smarter. I don’t need to learn any specifics. Generic phrases all the way.

“See the match?” “Don’t know about that formation and picking yer man for the wing? What was he thinking?” “That ref, what? Fuck’s sake.” “Defense wasn’t bad. Not bad at all.” “Shame about the off-side, wasn’t it?” “Game of two halves. Game of two halves.”

Disclaimer: I do enjoy a good game of soccer, or rugby or them other manly manly sports – and everyone to their own and all that. Actually, fuck the disclaimer let the hooligans speak up and defend their passion. “Buhhhh… soccor is the best your gay fuck off”.
Gentlemen. *tips hat*

In Defense of my Sanity

February 25, 2009

A mild argument has begun to bubble and brew slightly regarding my sanity over at Desked, already.

There is a perfectly reasonable explanation for my clean keyboard and tidy desk.

For certain purposes (which I won’t go into here), I find myself by the stationary cupboard at work once a week. As those ‘purposes’ are being fulfilled, I usually browse said cupboard and if there are no new and fangled items, I will usually at least take a couple of packs of screen wipes. I then use these screen wipes on my screen, keyboard and mouse and phone and desk. And face and water bottle and biscuits and colleagues. On anything within arm’s reach, until the ‘wet’ one has run out of moisture.

To further establish my sanity (by bowing under peer pressure), I have stuck a mint to my spacebar.

For those who doubt still, here is the proof:


If this doesn’t prove my sanity I don’t know what well will I never besides the point up in the sky warrung they said over head fed the dead crows ALL THE TIME! No, seriously. I saw it. And all. Yes. It all. Tall. Indeed. Too true for few who blew the stew on YOU! Ha! So there.


The ‘New New’ is Dead

February 24, 2009

NaRocRoc looks at twitter here in the context of that age old argument of the ‘new thing’ killing off that other established thing.

The real question is when will that old obsolete pondering ever keel over and die itself?!

Okay, so nothing lasts forever, and some fads and phenomena burn out quickly or end up wheezing in the realms of cult/fanaticism.

The ideal example is music (or film) and formats.

I still buy these, both used and newly pressed.

When the radio came out first the music industry and purists feared the day of sheet music was numbered.
People still read and write music. (Same for film vs. the stage).

When records became more readily available, the death of radio seemed on the horizon. (Same to television vs. cinema).

When recordable magnetic tape (and later cassettes) came out, illegal taping was going to kill the industry.

Pfft, give me a break.

(And not to mention the horror that was VHS).

You all know the story, there’s no need to go on about it.

Sure, things change for ‘better’ or ‘worse’ – language has changed considerably since Shakespeare (who is still read on paper). The ‘digital age’ has expanded our media for communication, creativity, information and so on and on, and within that sphere ‘homepages’ are now less common than blogs, and networking sites are used more frequently than group e-mails. But…

We still read books and use pencils and paper. We still enjoy a bit of live music (which sometimes includes the sounds of wooden implements or hands pounding on animal skins stretched over hollow wooden bowls!!!) .
And we still use spoken language to communicate.

Where the Magic Happens **UPDATED**

February 23, 2009

Inspired by a recent Manuel twitter image, Red Leeroy started the ball rolling on a nice idea.

Where the Magic Happens


Send in a picture of the desk/machine etc. where you get a full bladder

to: readersdesks [at] gmail [dot] com


Join us over at Desked.

The Sleep Paradox

February 23, 2009

Sunday 10:35 PM
Early bed. A bit tired. Will be fresh for the morning.

Sunday 10:55 PM
Wishing neighbours would all quit banging about and get to bed. Sunday night people!

Sunday 11:15 PM
“Did I nod off for even a second there?” Must have. Feel weird. Toss followed by turn.

Sunday 11:35 PM
Heart palpitations.

Sunday 11:55 PM
So tired. Must sleep. Can’t sleep. So tired. Must sleep. Can’t sleep.

Monday 12:01 AM
Light on. Out of bed. Dressing gown. Cup of chamomile, book, back to bed.

Monday 12:35 AM
Light out. Deep breathing. Nodding off. Semi-dream freaky feeling. Awake. Nodding off. Freaky feeling…

Monday 2-ish AM
Shocker at the end of freaky dream. Nodding off. Semi-dream freaky feeling…

Monday 4-ish AM
Shocker at the end of freaky dream. Nodding off. Freaky feeling…

Monday 5:05 AM
Shocker at the end of freaky dream. Check clock. Two hours of rest left. Hope to fuck to make the most of it.


Monday 6:59 AM
…blessed sleep. Lovely snuggly dream.

Monday 7:02 AM
Alarm clock. SNOOZE. Snooze.

Monday 7:07 AM
Alarm clock. Groan. SNOOZE. Snooze.

Monday 7:12 AM
Alarm clock. SNOOZE. Sleep. Start of another lovely snuggly dream.

Monday 7:17 AM
Alarm clock. Mumbled curses. SNOOZE. Light on. Glass of water. Eye rubbing. Complete and utter longing for what would be four hours of perfect, undisturbed sleep but for the responsibility of work denying such wonderful slumber.

Why do the body and mind refuse sleep when appropriate and fully embrace it when it’s time to get moving?

Proactive Sunday Afternoon #1 Colouring In

February 22, 2009

Hmmm… what to do after spending twenty quid on records I’m not really all that into at the flea market…?


Colouring in of course.


Stranglers’ 96 Tears wasn’t a patch on the original.
Also to be expected, Everything But the Girl’s Downtown Train was a let down.
Oddly enough it’s the two tunes I’ve never been overly fond of that offered very nice extended remixes – Depeche Mode Just Can’t Get Enough (schizomix) and Godley & Creme’s Cry (Extended Version). b-side, Love Bombs is a dubby semi-arse kicker in the style of Carl Craig’s Demented (and similar), but twenty odd years earlier. The Depeche Mode b-side was also a surprisingly pleasant instrumental. Hmmm indeed!

I also splashed out on an ’80’s Electro compilation which promises to be beatbox-tastic. It’s from 1984 and called ElectroShock – Voltage 1. It’s not all boring and conventional with a Side 1 and 2, oh no, it’s Power Pack 1 and Power Pack 2. Wow.

Just now it’s ’80’s Oz rock with, would you believe it, the Young Einstein OST!? Oh dear. What was I thinking?

Amusing soundbites from the movie regarding the Theory of Relativity – relative to altering tempo in country music and the Theory of Roll and Rock.

Finally, it remains to be seen if a second copy of Oh Well 7″ will rival my other one regarding vinyl noise. Maybe someday I’ll get the opportunity to play both together and demonstrate my spin-back beat juggling skillz.
*ringngngng* Mac Attack!

Friday Evening Appropriate Post #3 North Strand Klezmer Band

February 20, 2009

Wahaaa! Fucking weekend at last! And tonight North Strand Klezmer Band play in The Cobblestone. Wahooo!
Here they are fucking shit up in a mighty storm during one of the Dun Laoghaire Festivals of World Culture in BK of all places.


That’ll Put Hairs on Your Chest

February 20, 2009

Okay, I could research this properly, but where’s the fun in that?

Mammies lie. We all know this.
They have a weird sixth sense (it’s called noticing when the children are that little bit too quiet), but they do not have eyes in the backs of their heads.
The Man in the Shop is more likely to give them grief than the children.
Your face will not ‘stay like that’ if the wind changes.
And it will not fall off, no matter how much you touch it.

There’s one lie many of us still believe though.

Crusts are no more nutritious than the rest of the bread.
How can they be? It’s the same dough with the same crap in it. It’s just hardened and browned from being closest to the heat in the baking process.
Maybe there is some chemical reaction which alters the nutritional value, but let’s assume there isn’t without bothering to refer to any learned scholars or qualified scientists or anything like that and proceed.

The only exception is if there are seeds on top, but what kid eats that kind of thing? Yuck!

The fact is, if you eat the crusts, then Mammy doesn’t have to bother with scraping them off into the bin. One less chore.

Now, shut your mouth and eat your crusts.

“But Mum, how can I eat if my mouth is”

Pace Yourself

February 19, 2009

I’m a fairly fast walker. I don’t mind the odd stroll, whether it be a group loafing, an arm-in-arm amble or a solitary saunter, but usually my gait has a definite sense of purpose, solid, quick steps at the end of lengthy strides.
Pedestrian shopping streets – even on a free and easy weekend afternoon, are a nightmare for me. I feel the urge to yell at people who sidle diagonally in front of me, their faces upwards, gawking at some shop sign or irrelevant detail. I often grunt, but better still, I’d love the confidence and arrogance to offer a loud double-clap by the sides of their heads as I approach an attempt to march right through them.
It amazes me in such instances how aware I need to be of every body and their assumed trajectories, while they themselves are oblivious to the presence or intention of any one else on the street.

Walking styles are interesting, and can be very indicative of character and state of mind.

When I was a long-haired mopey teenager I used to bounce and head-bob to such a degree complete strangers would take the piss (“Luckatchyerman!” followed by an exaggerated portrayal and a “Getcherhairkuh!” for good measure).
Over time, I learned to hold my head up and shoulders back, and, of occasion, I still double-check that my walk produces more of a glide than a spring.
Every once in a while I see some young lad bounding up and down like a race-horse, locks swaying in front of a ground searching face. “Ah, bless”, I think to myself.

One interesting ‘method acting’ type example is me making my way home from an establishment one late evening. I had smuggled two almost full, large bottles of beer out of the place – one in each of my inside breast pockets, jacket zipped up.
From my angle, this gave me a larger frame than I was used to, but more importantly, combined with a partly-intoxicated swagger, I had to walk so slow as to sway very gently, ensuring the liquid not spill or froth in my pockets, my pace almost slo-mo.
I felt like a fucking king. More kick ass still, a ‘made’ gangster – particularly as I was strolling so slowly through the inner city. I projected a sense of invincibility. I was fearless and felt as though anyone who might see me would know not to fuck with me… because of my walk alone.