How do you move in a world of fog that's always changing things?

Riker got her hair cut in preparation for he return to school next Monday. At least I'm hoping it's Monday, I haven't actually checked. Perhaps I should do that.

But even if she's going back to school three days late, she'll be doing to it with a spanking new bob. Yes, a bob. It's after putting years on her. She looks about twelve, the poor girl.

And Data, Data came into the bedroom this morning and talked in sentences of many participles about the past present and future location of her plastic Dora figurine. She ran through a gamut of emotions. Rage, expectation, irritation and joy were all covered. And stunningly, every single word was comprehensible.

They grow up so fast.

But I still had to get up and sort out breakfast. And neither of them went off to well paid jobs thereby enabling me to relax and enjoy my dotage.

Not fucking fast enough, then.

Life and soul

Often I have nothing to say.

No, this isn't one of those 'I have nothing to say and every single one of you unfortunate fuckers who come across this steaming turd are going to have to listen to the banalities of my day, such as what I ate and what the fucking weather is like' entries.

Gimme don't play that shit. No, siree.

What Gimme does play is 'Oh Jesus, again? What the fuck is the matter with me?' entries. Which are much more fucking exciting in a a happy slapping clip, train crash kind of way. So shut the fuck up, stop skipping every second word and pay close attention. Folks, I'll be taking your brain to another dimension. Choo choo.

You jerk open the sticky door and step over the threshold to an evening of larks and japes, fun and games. No kids now, a little break from both Pride and Joy. Work not till twelve, still can't be drinking too much, but who fucking cares? Drink isn't the problem, right? It is not.

Wait, whaddya mean? There's a problem?
No. no. No problem. On we go...

Two hours later:
Oh, there's a fucking problem, alright..
Yes. Yes, there is.

When's the last time you spoke? Words. I mean, apart from 'nice one' after somebody doesn't quite fuck up. Circa the ten minute mark? Where's fucking Gimme a Minute now? Off checking his stats somewhere I reckon. His ten pageloads a day aren't looking so great now.

No, Jesus, no! Don't do it. Leave the fucking Blackberry in the fucking courier bag. You can check for comments later. Oh Christ, the courier bag. The fuck did you have to bring the courier bag for?

It's your go, you muppet. Stand up. Focus. Focus on not looking like a dick. Yeah, the blue ball. Got it? Don't get your thumb stuck again. That did not look good. Ok, just try and relax. Don't try to do that spin thing. It's not a fucking tennis ball.
Move towards the lane. No falling over. I know fucking Gary fell over and it was funny and cute and he wasn't a bit embarrassed but he's fucking eighteen and you're old, old, old so don't be thinking that's going to be working out.

Ease the ball up there. Be Jesus. Nobody fucks with the Jesus. Core on. All that crap. Roll, baby.

Right. Not so good. You have to turn around now, walk back. You have to do it.

Jesus, are those sweat patches? The fuck is that about? It's not fucking hot. This is not exercise. Sweat patches under the arms of that stupid fucking t-shirt you just had to wear. Glue your fucking arms to your side., there. That'll make it better. And how cool is bowling without moving your arms gonna look?

You're the fucking man, you are.

Hey, how's that talking to people working out for you? Not too good, huh? Just keep grinning inanely then, see where that gets you.

Nowhere, is it? Another silent lift into town, was it? Book on the bus home, huh? Good thing you brought the bag, with the book, with the Blackberry.

Not to worry. The Bridge Crew love you. Common Law will put up with you. That's enough, right?

Course it is, course it is.

I'm the only one who gets a tan

Ow. My. Fucking. Legs.

Due to someone going on holiday or some such bollox I had loads of work shit moved around on me yesterday which resulted in a big ass increase in my normal levels of exercise. My normal ass levels are pretty big already so more ass means today I have a sore ass. And sore quads, sore hamstrings, sore calves, sore fucking tippy toes, the whole fucking deal.

But this is a good thing. The pain is sweet. Because as I believe I may have mentioned, I'm slowly turning back into a fat cunt. I use to be a really fat cunt. Then for quite a while I was a fairly normal sized non muscley running cunt. Then I was a big ripped He Man kind of cunt. Most recently I was a The Machinist cunt. At that point I was going at the bike, weights or yoga for up to five hours a day which didn't leave a whole lot of time for eating. The drastic weight reduction just kind of happened. Despite my being quite a fan of this stage, it didn't seem all that popular with anyone else. Fucking feeders. And now?

The problem with being a superfit motherfucker is that for ages and ages I can get away with a whole load of shit, such as the inhaling of multiple daily Snickereses, the quaffing of many, many ales and the regular guzzling of entire Marks and Spencers Shortcrust Cherry Pie (cue getting gently orally pleasured voice: 'this is not just a cherry pie, this is a cherry pie while somebody goes down on you while your eating it cherry pie').

And then I take a couple of holidays, I drop a couple of classes but I keep inhaling the Snickereses, quaffing the ale and eating out the cherry pies and BAM! Tummy's back to where it was when I was a no good layabout actor getting all my exercise from the Friday night sprint to the offy.

So it's all going to change. I'm going to smarten up and fly right. Six no sat fat meals a day. Plenty of well thought out, short and intense training sessions. Out with the two beer minimum evenings. In with protein shakes and the six million glasses of water.

I intend utilizing that classic technique of picturing my desired body shape as I train:




There has to be a happy medium, right?

Until it goes cleeck

Tonight I roll.

Why do I roll? It's a work outing. I suspect that work will be outed as a load of shit.

But why do I roll instead of sitting in a pub and drinking myself into a series of embarrassing revelations? I roll because the manager of my work place is an alcoholic. The new Deputy Manager, in what I suspect will be a vain attempt to prevent Manager from getting hideously drunk and molesting all the ladies who work for the company, has organised a trip that does not involve alcohol.

Nice try Deputy, but I suspect that despite the fiendish cunningness of this plan, Manager will probably find some other way to get sloshed. You may not have heard of it, 'cause it is kind of new, but they now have this thing called a hip flask. Manager, I suspect, will be kitted out with a wide range of these new-fangled devices.

For my part, I'm going to do what I always do when there's bowling involved. I will not be myself, rather I will be variously, throughout the evening, Jesus, Walter, Donnie and The Dude.

I will roll like Jesus, rage like Walter, interject like Donnie and smoke like The Dude. Mostly though, I hope to roll like Jesus.

Welcome to ze Hotel California...

Deathrace 2007

That was fucking surreal. I drove. For like, an hour and a half. On roads. With cars and everything. I was completely lying about the cyclist. I didn't even nearly hit anything. I did an almost hill start with some tire squealing like I was in a cop movie which I think may be a better way to do hill starts as it's more dramatic and does basically work. And I do like a bit of drama.

It felt like an out of body experience. My brain was working hard to suppress the actuality of the situation. Five minutes in and I'm pissing down the coast road at like, almost 70km/h. I once hit 45 on a downhill on Hardcore Motherfucker but generally my cruising pace is around 25. Fucking 70. It didn't feel real. If I had allowed myself to think about it, I'm quite sure I would have taken my hands from the wheel and had myself a little screaming, screeching, life scratching episode. Luckily one of my house specials is denial. I don't even have to think about thinking 'I'm not going to think about this', I just think the thought automatically, without thinking.

Michael, my instructor, is a bit of a pill. By the end of the lesson I had moved past the desperate need to flick his ear every time he said 'you get me?' This was an important development as Michael ends every instruction, observation and pleasantry with the words 'you get me?' and with driving you need your hands for other stuff. 'You get me?' I do get you , Michael, I get you by the scruff of the neck and I scream 'stop saying you get me, stop it, stop it now.' Ooh, I get him.

What I don't get is the whole simultaneous coordination of four limbs. Fucking hell, like. I'm required to do subtle shit in different directions with both feet while steering this massive hunk of metal with one hand and doing something meaningless with the other.

Because manual gears, they're fucking meaningless, aren't they? Folks, we have the fucking technology: it's called an automatic. Let's fucking use it. It's as if a after centuries of just dragging shit around, some Kubrickian monkey invents the fucking wheel and more than fifty percent of the population choose to just keep dragging shit around.

'Don't you think all this shit dragging is a trifle unnecessary now that we have this wheel gizmo?' grunts caveman Gimme.
'You fucking Neanderthal, you don't understand shit dragging. This is cooler, dude. Only women use the wheel, you fucking pussy!' replies caveman Toolio. Just plucking a name out of nowhere, there.

It'll come, the changing gear while doing other shit, I know, but it shouldn't fucking have to.

I only have one other minor problem, I think, one minor obstacle to overcome. It's the fact that I'm driving a car. Have you noticed that they're wider than bicycles? Considerably wider. Yeah, yeah, yeah you say. Of course they are. But how much wider? There's my fucking problem. I have no idea where the left hand side of the car is. I'm not too conversant with the position of the right hand side either. On a bike, it's where your hands are. Pretty straightforward, that. Not so much with the automobile. I really have no idea. And the fact that my left eye doesn't work is not helping with this.

I tried to explain this concern to Michael by saying something like 'I don't know where the left side of the car is'. I didn't really want to let him in on the whole partial blindness thing, worried that it might unnerve him slightly, and the man didn't need any more unnerving. He looked at me like I was some kind of crazy person. You'd think after twelve years he'd be used to stupid fucking questions and statements, but this one seemed to flummox him a tad.

'It's just over there, you get me? On your left, you get me? Can't you see it?'

'Um, no. I'm blind in one eye dude, and my good eye is watching the approaching red light and my brain is desperately attempting to coordinate the take the foot off everything shift to second shit foot back on the cunting clutch first you spa brake brake brake gently stop ten yards from lights try to approach white line jump off the clutch cut out restart fucking biting point I'll bite you in a minute, motherfucker oh christ I want my bike, my mommy and to go home now, so no to answer your question I cannot fucking see the fucking left hand side of the car.'

Naturally, I didn't say that. I just chuckled. I did a lot of fucking chuckling yesterday. That's my top tip for your first driving lesson, folks. When you feel like hurling chunks, chucking up, chucking it in, that's the time to chuckle.

You get me?

Conor Goodman and Anthea McTeirnan, j'accuse

This morning on the front cover of The Irish Times' entertainment supplement 'The Ticket' (which tends to lie atop our kitchen table for about three days while I slowly look to see what albums I should be stealing, what plays I should be ignoring and what movies I really want to see but never will) I was greeted with the headline 'Who the f**! is Richard Hawley?' (sic)

Folks, I am aware that I'm not the most restrained when in comes to colloquialism and the bitter word but seriously what the fuck is this about? There is absolutely no fucking reason for it whatsoever. Is his new album called 'Fuck you, motherfucker!'? It is not. Is there any connection between this stupid headline and the unoffensive if slight article contained within? There is fucking not. Is there, in fact, any justification whatsoever for the use of this half-arsed attempt at expletitivism? No, there fucking isn't.

I don't mind explaining why there are asterisks in words to Riker. 'Because it's a bad word.' But when she inevitably asks 'But why are they using a bad word?' what am I supposed to say. 'Because the place is run by morons', my answer to so many of her questions (why have they closed one of the lifts in the Stephen's Green shopping centre?, why do you work on a Sunday?, and 'why do I have to go to school?') just doesn't seem to satisfy her...

And while I don't mean to be horribly scathing to those who don't know who the fuck Mr Hawley is, anybody who is aware of good music being produced in the UK will have been aware of his last two albums which were both quite spiffing. In fact, Richard Hawley is basically last years news.

So essentially, fuck off and get it together The Irish Times. Don't try and be naughty just for the sake of it, you pack of witless, idiotic children.


Oh, and I hit a cyclist. It wouldn't have happened if it wasn't for my Ticket fueled rage. She's going to be fine. Or so the ambulance crew said.

You'll find work and I'll get promoted

Ok, folks, it's been a long time coming, but it's here now. Time to start clearing the roads. Tomorrow from 2pm to 4pm, somewhere in the Greater Dublin area, Gimme will have his first driving lesson.

And Gimme has rage.

Rage, a severe visual disability and a genetic disorder which makes him twitchy and clumsy.

But mostly rage, folks. So get out of the fucking way right now.

You have been warned.

You have really nice hair Jesus, what shampoo do you use?

There was some funny shit over at Fatmammycat’s yesterday when some anonymous God botherer (what is it with Jesus jumpers and being anonymous? Praise the Lord! Anonymously! Testify! Without mentioning your name or website!) got all upset over Twenty calling him a dick or something. (I’d fucking take it as a badge of honour myself). The Lord licker then proceeded to go off on one about how it is ‘cool’ not to believe in god and how everyone who thinks Christians, (like Muslims, Hindus and yes folks fucking Buddhists) are full of shit is some kind of band wagon jumping dickwad who is going to burn in hell as they get the pitchfork up the ass treatment for all eternity. Something like that. Read it yourselves, it’s funny.

Thing is, he’s absolutely fucking right. I know this because of the signs.

Sign the first: Some crazy Asian chick handed me a flyer all about Jesus. Of which more later...

Sign the second: I passed by this Jesuit retreat centre on the bus today. I pass by it most days at the moment, but I actually noticed it today. I did a retreat there myself when I was a teenager (it was compulsory) and at about three o'clock in the morning this terrible cunt of a priest who also happened to train the senior cup rugby team responded to my assertion that the fact that the rugger buggers had their own school uniform was elitist with the question 'What's wrong with elitism?' My jaw dropped. I was unable to respond with anything but a scream of 'Ask Hitler, motherfucker!' Two days later.

Sign the third: Um, no. That was it. Just the two.

These signs lead me to believe that really the cool thing to do would be to become a crazy and crazed (why not) right wing Christian type. Sound like a plan? There's too much Sikh lovin', non-suv drivin', autistic asylum seeker ass-kissin', tree huggin' hippie shit going on around here. As I'll be driving soon, it seems a logical step. And I so, so, so want to be cool.

Re the pamphlet. Jesus The Saviour. From the Revival Movement Association. Whose website is temporarily closed. I think they're reviving it.

There are a couple of problems with this pamphlet and as I now see myself as some kind of fucking writer I think my first act as a Christian cunt will be to sort these out for them.

'For whom was that side pierced with the spear? For whom did that precious blood flow so freely?'

Now hold on a cotton pickin' moment there, psychos. When they pierced his side they got water, you dicks. Fucking read the Bible people. We drink his blood, like vampires. Get it right. Sheesh.

Furthermore, anyone may be saved cause Christ still lives.

Well, now that's just not true is it? 'Cause he died, right? For our sins, right? So if even if he resurrected (which I now truly believe, praise Allah) he went up to heaven so he's not technically alive is he? Anymore than the other people in heaven like Aids spreader Mother Teresa or all those Inquisition guys? And my Grandmother.

He lives to be the one Mediator between God and man, the unwearied Intercessor, the kind Shepherd, the elder Brother, the prevailing Advocate, the never-failing Priest and Friend of all who come to God by Him.


Firstly, what's the story with all the capitalization? I can sort that out for you guys, no problem. Secondly, here's some people you might not want to be bigging up: Priests (just not so popular these days), advocates (Dudes! That means lawyers! Everybody fucking hates lawyers!), and elder brothers (I'm an elder brother. I threw a dart in my sister's head and broke her arm. Separate incidents. And I didn't mean to break her arm, but I did mean to trip her up and cause her to fall for my amusement. And I don't believe that I am all that atypical. Elder brothers are cunts). So icks nay on the priests, lawyers and elder brothers bay!

For whom is Jesus sitting at God's right hand?

See? I told you he, He, I mean He, was dead. And you make it sound like such a fucking chore. Isn't it nice sitting at God's right hand? Or doesn't he shower regularly? Or does he only shower his left side to piss off the A-rabs?

I'll stop there, revival peeps. You get the fucking picture. Whatever I can do. But get your skates on cause my Buddhist thing only lasted about six weeks, and this is all much more fucked up and confusing...

Will I ever see thee wed?

Roisin Ingle fucks me off.

Am I allowed to say this? Will this jeopardise my long range plans to win Best Blog in a Supporting Bra? Should I generally avoid taking the piss out of so called journalists?

What's interesting to me about Roisin Ingle is that if somebody starts ranting on about Mary Harney and what a horrible evil fascist cunt she is then it is perfectly acceptable if not positively de riguer to refer to her horrible obesity and the upsettingly gargantuan size of her fucking head. If you're over at Twenty's you can even be expected to go on about the size of her private parts. But Ingle, for some reason, seems immune to this. At least in my head. Why is this? 'Aw, she's only a lifestyle columnist.' The fuck is that anyway? Why is it necessary? And why must it continue to take up space in my increasingly shitty daily newspaper?

Here's an example of the kind of cock they makes me want to go on and on about Roisin's weight problems until you folks think that I'm into fat chicks and that I am in truth besotted with her:

'There is officially no longer any point in being snooty about the International Rose of Tralee festival.'

Really? You fucking think so? Of course there fucking is. In fact snooty isn't going to do it really now, is it? Can I be over the top in my criticism? Can I be vitriolic? Can I, in fact, have a shit fit?

This is a fucking beauty contest. On prime time. On our primary national television station. What fucking year is this? Have we no fucking shame? A long line of women who, with no little assistance from the RTE make up department and despite varying shades of hair colour and facial structure, contrive to look almost completely identical. I can't help but suspect that the secret to victory in the International Rose of Tralee festival is to stand out from the crowd. Be yourself. Don't be such a fucking Boba Fett.

So, my top five tips for winning the International Rose of Tralee festival:

1) Stop fucking smiling. Seriously. It'll hurt less. And if it's giving you real trouble then just picture someone running over your puppy/mother/eyeliner pencil.

2) Dress down. Think jeans and a t-shirt, knacker pidgies or a gimp suit.

3) Answer all Ray D'Arcy questions with questions of your own. Suggestions: 'Are you fucking serious?', 'When precisely did your career take this downward turn? It was when Socky arrived, wasn't it?' or 'Is there any way that you could shut the fuck up now?'

4) Punch Ray D'Arcy. Or knee him playfully in the groin.

5) Be Roisin Ingle. The fat, useless cow.

Enjoy the final, all.

Data by Riker

You don't need photos of my younger daughter. This is her.

See that cheekiness? That 'I'm going to do whatever I want to do and you're not doing anything about it and I will ignore any logical arguments against my steadfast if unreasonable demands and if you attempt to use your superior strength to stop me from doing something disgusting, destructive or downright dangerous then I will scream and scream and scream and then slowly downgrade to weeping and if I feel like it and regardless of any distractions you may provide I may even move to a long term keening noise which I can promise right now to maintain for up to two hours without respite. And if I do decide to cut this long term routine a little short it will only be in exchange for some other choice concession, I'm thinking a Cheese Dipper or perhaps some quality time with Jack Jack. So, you've got to ask yourself one question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya punk?'

Yup. That's pretty much our Data.

Although she does have a nose.

My hands hurt the most but there's a whole fuckload of competition

'Once again, I'm back in the place to be,
The G, the I, the two Ms, the E'

I, too, am unlikely to get a Grammy, Ice.

But back I am. However, today's cycle from Gorey has left me with trench foot, trench leg, trench arm and most upsettingly of all, trench dick. It started fucking pissing down about half an hour into the journey and didn't let up until I reached the front door of the homestead three hours and ten minutes later. That is too fucking long to spend completely fucking soaked through. The uber gay knee length plastic shoe protectors (which perfectly matched the uberer gay tights I had also adorned for the weather) ceased to function after about forty five minutes of downpour and from there on in it was a if each foot was submerged in a basin full of water making a grand total of one over-weight fat boy bike, one fat ass not so fucking Machinist now you beer swilling cheese munching minimal exercising for seven days fat fuck (did I mention I got fat?) and two basins full of water that I had haul up and down the rolling hills of south east Leinster.

There were about two of those transcendental moments I get with high intensity and/or durationally lengthy exercise where the euphoric endorphins numb the pain and allow me to perform somewhat outside of the normal limitations of my mind and body. In case this is unclear, two of these moments is a pretty fucking small return on 90kms in the fucking comically torrential Irish summer rain. I feel like I bought a magnet. (I have, on two separate occasions, purchased small brown magnets for oddly inflated prices. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, I'm coming around to your house with a big fucking hammer. Except I'm not, because you're a small but super scary scumbag whose address I don't know as our brief St Stephen's Green power meeting never got to the business card exchange point. One can spend a surprisingly long time attempting to burn a magnet before one accepts that it is, in fact, a fucking magnet.) But, allow to stop being my usual negative Nellie self and share the high point of the trip with you good folks.

I made a tailback.

Hee hee. Yes, I did. I was fucking kicking myself that I didn't have a radio so I could listen to Nicola Golfballmouth from AA Roadwatch declare 'And on the N11 between some fucking dump and some other fucking dump some cunt on an obese push bike is taking up just about all of the one available lane. Probably he could get himself a little closer to the ditch and allow you respectable car drivers to edge past him, but we at AA Roadwatch suspect he's fucked if he's going to do anything of the sort singing, as he is, at the top of his fucking lungs, the Crystal Method remix of the Knight Rider theme. Nicola Mouthballgolf, AA fucking Roadwatch.'

The section of road lasted a mere 3k or approximately seven and a half minutes at super cycling fatso Gimme pace but I bet it was three kilometres of sheer fucking hell for that SUV driver who spent the whole time trying to nudge across the continuous white line into the path of the oncoming traffic rather than spend an additional second behind some fucker who was propelling himself along under his own power. I slowed down a little towards the end, just for them.

No, it did not make up for the trench dick.

But nonetheless, sing it with me, folks. Duh, dunanananana, duh dunanananana, duh dunananana, DUH DUHNANA DU DUHNANA!!

They think my days have a price

Fuck, but that was tough. I had to earn my six day holiday in a caravan in Gorey with a six hour working day. Six fucking hours! Christ.

What? Shut the fuck up, that's the equivalent of a fourteen hour day for me. I'm fucking sensitive, right? I'm the princess and the fucking pea. I have blue blood coursing through my veins. To be completely honest, I shouldn't be working at all. I'm too good for that shit. And you folks know it too.

So, if all the people that I know who have too much money, and you know who you are, friends, relatives (distant and not so distant) casual acquaintances all, if every fucking one of you could just see your way to sending between 10 and 15 grand my way (and you know you can spare it, don't you fucking give me that shit) then I'll, what will I do? I'll spend it on all the crap that on which I'm currently spending the minuscule amount of money that this superficially useful and positive but ultimately futile and phony job is garnering me. Crap like food, children's school books, beer, luas fares, bus fares, bicycle bottle cages (a fucking tenner each, the fuck?), inner tubes, replacement hard drives and beer.

There's a least ten of you that I know of, and I bet my readership contains at least five more, because everybody has too much fucking money really, and loads of everybody has 10 grand too much, thus taking me to fifteen contributions averaging €12,500 each leaving me with a total of, what am I, a fucking maths guy, enough for a year or two.

At which point I plan to have gotten a large percentage of some Nigerian money that needs to be transfered using my bank account meaning that I wouldn't be bothering you again at that time.

My email is on the sidebar if you don't actually know who I am. If you think you know but you're not sure, then you're probably right. Just hand me the cash the next time you see me. 'Cause you don't me working, do you? I'm only going to keep complaining about it...

Ok? Ok so.

I can break my own smile thanks very much, Jack

I fucking hate this. It's 10 pm (that's my bedtime folks, I need a good solid ten hours to maintain anything even nearly resembling sanity) and having been working on one fucking thing or another since seven, I'm still an 8k cycle from chicken noodle soup and bed. Motherfucker.

It's all down to the cunting laptop which we still don't have back. I try not to do any kind of real work in the course of a normal day, but over the last three months since I made a career progression (ha!) I have gradually, painstakingly and to be frank, accidentally done quite a bit and just about all of that quite a bit was stored, where? You know fucking where. And over the past three days I've had to do all of that again. Three minutes a couple of days a week for three months compressed into three days. I repeat, motherfucker.

So I'm wasting my time bitching about not having time to waste telling all about the tunes that are doing it for me right now. Which was my plan.

Thing is, I'll often listen to one album or even just a couple of tracks all day long. I like to get intimate with my music, I like to know what makes it tick what made it tock in the songwriter's head. I like to know the words. I like to caress it gently and fuck it hard. I like to go down on it and explore its special place.

But there'll be no musical porn tonight folks, I gotta get on that bike and get me some of that sleep.

In case you're fucking interested, outside of work, here's all that I listened to, all that I aurally sexed up today:

'A Martyr for my love for you' - The White Stripes
'Blind Willie McTell' - Bob Dylan
'Jah jah no dead' = Sinead O'Connor
'Fluorescent Adolescent' -Artic Monkeys

I should probably listen to more Justin or something, maybe then I wouldn't be such a miserable bastard.

I been good while I been waiting, maybe guilty of hesitating...

Did I mention we're off on another holiday? And one with minimal Hans Brinker involvement. Minimal in that him and my ma be driving Common Law and the Bridge Crew down to Gorey while I manfully, idiotically cycle the 89.6km.

He's always doing kind, thoughtful and generous shit like that. He's a good guy really.

Ha! No, he fucking isn't! Have you read 'The Hundred Years Poo'? Off you fucking go and read it then. He's a arse sticked crazy motherfucker who has nothing better to be doing.

I am perfectly aware of how self absorbed and basically nasty these statements make me appear. Damn fucking straight, folks. I have the self knowledge. I know the score. I am me, I am a bit of a cunt. There's no need for you to point it out with pithy little dry remarks left in my comments.

Oooh, that's been coming a long time. I feel a whole lot better now that it's out. The load is lightened. Just a fucking little. Bitch.

Hmm. That was a bitch too far, I think. Ah, well.

So, yeah. Gorey. In a preeetty small caravan. For seven days. With Screamy and Sulky. And me screaming and sulking. And the Common Law too. Oooh baby. Let's fucking hope it doesn't rain. Or we could be looking at The Shining, but without all the space to be running away. Gorey could be gory indeed.

Let's back up a second here. You get that I'm Wendy, right? And Riker's Danny? Common Law can be the black guy who saves the day. Shit, he dies horribly, doesn't he? Fuck it, the point is it's Data, Data is going to be the wacko wielding the metaphorical axe, or the not so metaphorical one if she can lay her hands on one.

To be absolutely unambiguous, this is not a 'I'm going to murder my family if it rains, and I told all of you folks and you thought it was vaguely amusing in a fucked up kind of way but you didn't take me seriously and you didn't do anything to stop me so it's not Gimme's fault it's yours, your fault i tell you and you've got to live with that for the rest of your life' post. It's Data, folks, Data is the potential psychopath in our midst.

Just so that's clear.

I need this routine back and I need it fucking now

This is out of the most recent Adbusters. Gimme like Wellington Grey.

I didn't even have to use my A.K.

Hip hop is no more. I'm not referring to the musical genre here, although that may well be the case (the fuck would I know, I'm fucking old, as I believe we have established) but to Riker's summer camp. It was one week in duration, it ran from 11 to 4 each day and it cost about as much as ninety tabs of Paxil. I don't know what Paxil is but I suspect it's the kind of reference that you folks will be right with.
A fucking lot, if your Google doesn't work or you're just a lazy motherfucker.

But she enjoyed it. So I guess it was worth one fifth of a Cannondale or, if you like, 236.84 Snickerses.

But Jesus Lord help us, the girl can't dance. No, this is unfair. What kind of father would say something like that about his own daughter? What a fucking prick. She can't though. No, no. no. Of course she can dance. Of course she can. She's got the moves, she has the attitude and Jebus knows she has the enthusiasm but every single thing she does with her little eight and a half year old body is exactly one beat behind everyone else. And this doesn't bother her in the slightest. And why should it? God, I love her. Both of them. Sigh.

So the pressure was off today. No clients. This would normally have me walking around in a subdued state of panic stressing as to where the next Witch magazine was going to come from but having taken in cheques for a total of twenty sessions over the past two days I completely failed to give a fuck about this. Just the two classes, the morning one busy, the evening packed to the rafters. I gave good class. I got to go to and from work on the bike this evening, without rain, which was akin to the parting of the Red Sea in its miraculousness. Data went on the bold step just the once, although it was a double hitter as she refused to apologise to her sister for kicking her. Repeatedly. Otherwise she was in impress strangers angelic mode. The maipulative monster. I made sloppy joes for dinner and although my interweb addiction is keeping me from them at present I left for work content in the knowledge that all three girls were going to happily stuff themselves. I starved the Bridge Crew all afternooon just to make sure.

I'm trying to say something here. It's..well, it's...I mean to say..

Oh for fuck's sake. I had a good day, alright?

Let us never speak of it again.

Stop bombarding me about the bombardment

For about ten days every two months I wander this earth feeling angry and invaded. Similar to a period except with a slightly different time frame and the replacement of 'invaded' with 'breathtaking irrationality'.

This is not an hormonal thing thing, though. This is a subscriptional thing.

I'm some super duper left wing guy, you see. If I could be arsed, and you will be unsurprised to learn that I cannot be, I would definitely spend a whole lot more time protesting and shit. Reclaiming the streets, Geeing the 8, being a Muslim. Shit like that.

One way of contributing to this politically rebellious streak within myself without actually having to move my sweet tushy from the couch is to be an 'Adbusters' subscription holder. In fact, I didn't even have to get that together myself as it was a Christmas present from V. If his plan was to get to read them all after me in a bowling ball gift kind of way, he must be pretty fucking disappointed as I have failed to pass on the last three issues. I keep forgetting, and now I'm going to have to give him the lot to take to Spain. The fucker.

I was on Adbusters. I will not be drawn into the Spain thing. Not yet, anyway.

It's a fine publication. Interestingly designed, sincere in its goals and regularly thought provoking. Although everything is thought provoking. Heat is fucking thought provoking. It provokes thoughts such as, 'Oh Jesus Christ, why are peoples' lives so empty that they feel compelled to read about the empty lives of other people who are slightly better know?' and 'Oooh, Brad's mum told Jen that he still loves her!' and 'I need a fucking drink.'

Thing with Adbusters is that it makes me realize that we are constantly bombarded by evil, crass and demeaning advertisements that compel us to consume at all costs, much to the detriment of poorer nations, the planet in general and indeed our own physical and mental well being. Damn straight. But like an old fashioned Sunday mass attendee it's only while I'm slowly browsing my way through the magazine that actually notice this or indeed really care. The vast majority of the time I don't even see the commercials such is there ubiquity and whaddya know? I want my toys! I want my comfortably temperatured rooms! I don't give a fuck about my mental health!

Just give me my Snickers, my Creative and my Heat magazine and shut the fuck up about the ads. Christ.

Death, addiction and Snickers

Laptop death has brought me to a unwanted realisation. And yes, laptop is dead. She's going to be reincarnated and all, in the same shell, (what a fucking pain in the scrots for the laptop, I bet she was hoping to come back as a mac or a hp or even some cheap piece of shit that at least had a widescreen but no, it'll be the same old flat chested, big arsed body for her) but without any of her old memories.

I still can't think about this for more than seven seconds at a time without getting upset. So, I'm not.

And even the reincarnation won't be happening for another few days.

Here's the realisation. No internet makes me grumpy. Fine, grumpier. And angry. Ok, angrier. And depressed. Yes, yes, yes, more depressed, we fucking get it.

As I walked into my sister's gaff this morning on the way to work, soaked to the fucking skin (I haven't cycled to work all week because of Riker's hip hop camp (with the hippity hoppity). Today on my first commute back, it fucking lashes. You're telling me the weather's not personal, it's happening to everybody? Fuck off. Is your arse wet? Are your shoes filled with water? Then shut the fuck up.) I felt a palpable sense of relief, an unburdening, a big fuck off pheee-eewww. And that feeling came as I pushed the power button on her sparkly, wide screen fully functioning machine.

This is not right. I've got enough addictions going on. I had been trying very hard to keep the number down to something nice and round, just like my bleughroll, and just like my bleughroll, twenty had been working very nicely for me. And now I have to throw one off the slow moving train that is Gimme's life, and get a fully fledged and perfectly realised internet monkey on my back. I've been in denial up until now so I have perhaps failed to give this compulsion the attention and indeed the time that it requires. Gotta get the house in order.

But what addiction can I afford to jettison? I think it's going to have to be the Snickers bars. Or the exercise. Or the self-pity.

Ha! Just kidding. I'll go with the Snickers.

Hibhib, near Baquba

While I have yet to work out the details, there remains little doubt in my mind that an advertising campaign could sell an awful lot of cars if it were to fully embrace the idea of automotive transport as tool of mass murder. Not in a shitty 'our car is so tough it won't blow up' kind of way (nice try at fucking up my post Volkswagen, but Gimme will not be bowed) but in a death and flying body parts kind of way...

You think not?

Well, consider me this, you doubting thomi, dubious dickwads and disbelieving Daves. Firstly, I've got my benetton shock value thingy to get me going, but I'm unlikely to be banned cause, you know, how many relatives of car bomb victims are there in the western world? If you don't count US soldiers, say? Not too fucking many. Certainly compared to the amount of people who think new born babies covered in their ma's inside slime is kinda icky, the number has to be pretty teeny.

Sure, Sky/Fox and the red tops might have themselves a little frenzy but those cunts won't push for a ban because they're run by men and like every other man that sees my exploding vehicle, disembodied hand, shard of glass pierced eyeball car ad, they'll fucking love it. Oh, yes they will.

Because stuff blowing up fucking rocks. If I see something blowing up, I want to buy it and blow it up myself. And if it's a car I want to drive it around first. Or, until I have my first lesson, have someone else drive me around in it. And then blow it up.

Obviously my campaign will not be actively encouraging suicide bombing, as such. Ok, yeah, it will. But who can easily afford to buy and then blow up a stylish automobile on even a semi-regular basis? Only the very rich, right? And they're the very rich so they can do pretty much as they please.

And those who can just about afford it? It's more car sales, isn't it? Yes, I am a fucking genius.

Now, I appreciate that some of you folks may be harbouring little uddy buddy niggling doubts in relation to the whole violence, senseless carnage, loss of life aspect of this campaign. Harbour no longer! Gore is in folks. And I'm not talking about that well meaning hypocrite who should give that presidency thing just one more try. I'm talking disemboweling, dismembering and general physical disenfranchisement. From torture porn to Al Jazeera, from Barney to the streets of Baghdad, bloody mayhem is it and we gotta get aboard the explosive death express before it's too late and it all becomes about peace and love again.

Carpae caedes, marketing cunts.

When the Forecourts of Perception are cleansed everyone will appear as they truly are: fucking stupid.

Petrol stations should be banned from selling alcohol, the head of a Garda watchdog said yesterday.

“I don’t think garages should be allowed to sell alcohol, merely on the perception grounds.

“You are permitting people who are attached to garages where cars go for petrol to sell drink to the people who are driving those cars. I think the perception of that must raise queries in any ordinary person’s mind,” he said.

I have no fucking idea where to start on this one. Perception grounds? That's the bit beside the forecourt, is it? And who are these people who are attached to garages? How are they getting home at night? Do they take the garage with them? What if it's a twenty four hour garage? Is there nothing we won't force our new working in petrol station immigant friends to do?

And 'I think the perception of that must raise queries in any ordinary person's mind.'
Am I an ordinary person? Because the queries in my mind are a)The fuck does that even mean? b)Can I buy a fucking sentence? and c)Could you possibly just fuck off?

People drive to off licences too, you stupid, stupid, busybodying, fuck all else to be doing cunt. Christ.

You want to do something about excessive/underage/driving drinking? Put checkpoints outside suburban pubs on a Friday and Saturday night. Ban all drink related advertising. (Including those ones warning against drinking too much. They make me want to get fucking sloshed.) Legalise the smokey jokey.

Woo hoo! It's another one of Gimme's ill thought-out, naive and unworkable solutions to the country's problems. Keep setting them up, Gordon Holmes of the GSCB, and I'll keep knocking them down.

Fiber optic cables can't carry stench

I have few friends. Sometimes I wonder why this is.

Ha! No, I fucking don't.

Last night I had the opportunity to attend a surprise birthday party that was being thrown for an old friend who I really like and respect. He's a fucking genius, this guy. The only person to have won the Trinity classics medal twice (this means something, right? I'm going to go with this meaning something) and the author of some of the funniest shit to ever spew from my mouth during my board treading days.
'I should never have fucked the dwarf'. How's that for an opening line? Fucking killer is what it is. Everything he ever wrote is funnier than anything that cunt Friel shat out. How I fucking hate Brian Friel. How suited I was to his many horrible plays. My hate makes me drift.

Back on track. This guy, he's a great guy. And I like him. And I didn't go to his wedding three or four years ago as I was holding some minor grudge against him for some completely trivial reason and since then I have kept our contact to a minimum because, because, I don't know why. Because I find him to be a reminder of my idiocy, I think.

Which is a stupid fucking way to live my life as I spend so much time doing so many idiotic things in front of so many people.

Also I didn't go because I didn't want to be out late and then get up at 6am with Data.

Also because there were going to be a bizillion people there with whom I have a similar 'I used to be an actor and now I'm a fucking what? Am I kidding you? What about all the drugs and booze and general debauchery?' relationship. I mostly don't care what they're doing with their lives and I find relaying any information about myself to be a real chore as I'm pretty sure they don't care what I'm doing with mine. And why the fuck would they?

Also because the birthday boy was going to be forty. Fucking forty. I very distinctly remember my father being forty, and I don't remember much about my father. So forty is really fucking old. If I'm even some kind of a peer to a forty year old person I certainly don't want to be reminded of it by going to their birthday party. Fuck, no.

Also I had taught a class and hadn't showered.

Hey! There it is! That's the one! That's why I have few friends! I fucking smell.
Phew. Glad that's cleared up. I should go have a shower.

But, but..

Could I be arsed?