Saturday, September 29, 2007

I make love to the darkness and laugh at man's sins

Saturday, September 29, 2007 8
Rosie is leaning against the coffee table looking all unused and miserable. I'm watching and itching. Watching courier races on youtube, itching to be out there in traffic or a on climb, hurting, flying.

I want to skitch. Ever play Skitchin'? Haven't fucking lived till you've played Skitchin', folks. Fuck Halo III, like. Dust off your Mega Drives and get the fuck onto E-Bay to secure your copy. You'll have to be quick though. About two bizillion people read Gimme and every one of those fuckers will do exactly what I tell them.

So, in this video game, one controls a vaguely punky looking blob of pixels that hangs onto the back of cars while riding a skateboard. It's a simple concept and one clearly ripe for revisiting, with just one or two tweaks required. Such as the inclusion of graphics as opposed to odd looking boxes of colour that suggest rather than go as far as resembling cars and scenery. And the substitution of bikes for skateboards.

But I feel that even an instant reality shift which left me sitting here with a brand new PS3 and an updated Skitchin' would not be enough for me just now.

It's Saturday evening, folks and I'm the only grown up in the house. That carbon containing cutie winks her reflectors coquettishly at me from her coffee table lean (Common Law's not happy about this Rosie resting place. Not happy at all), aware, it seems to me, that only a cigarette could make her seem more seductive, more inviting, more ridable. I believe she wants me to take her dancing to Howth Summit so that she can find her limits and gaze on the city lights from afar.

And then a descent and a flirtation with foolish, deadly speeds. This is what she wants from me.

I cannot resist. The Bridge Crew will be fine, right? I mean, it's not like we're in Portugal.

Oh and when you have a chance, Toolio, I'm going to need my Sega back.

Thursday, September 27, 2007

Ní fhuaireas féin aon suan ná séan, ó chuaigh i gcéin mo ghile mear

Thursday, September 27, 2007 35
I have such horrible issues with my Irishness. It's not like I want to be a dirty Brit, or a loud obnoxious American or even a boring, boring Canadian. I just fucking hate Irish people and Irish stuff. That's all.

My wrath has one specific target this morning but let me give you good folks a quick list of the kind of shit I'm talking about.

Irish music. And not just the diddley iddley crap that makes me want insert a bodhrán in places that a bodhrán was not meant to be inserted. Fucking U2. The Corrs, obviously. And the cunting Frames. God, how I hate The Frames.

Irish sport. The GAA and their evils are deserving of a full entry but let's just have a quick peek at hurling. Forgive the lack of in-depth sporting analysis but that's one shit, unwatchable game. I try to give it a chance at least once a year around about finals time to see if like olives, Bob Dylan and The X-Factor I will have grown up and discovered its true perfection. But let me tell you folks, it's a barbaric snore fest and if I live to be the grand old age of 65 I bet I never fucking get it.

Irish people. We're ugly, for a start. The big fucking Irish heads on us. Bleh. We're loud. Not as loud as Americans but pretty fucking loud all the same. And we're greedy and nasty and stupid and vain. Ok? Ok.

But here's the real target. Jesus, even thinking about it makes my blood fucking boil. The time cast away, the potential neglected, the big horrible fucking waste of it all.


Need I say more? You're all with me on this, right? There's no way anybody's going to turn around and try to defend this complete fucking joke is there?

I have a client who informed me that Irish is her first language. She said this with the same smile that I use when I'm trying to explain to somebody that I don't hate that I spend a lot of time with my children. The smile said 'You're an ignorant fucker for assuming that Irish wouldn't be my first language but like I say, I kind of like you so we can move on from this, you filthy non-Irish speaking prick.'

I have no idea if the client in question has strong feelings on the teaching of Irish in primary schools, (I suspect she does. I have yet to meet a Gaeilgeoir who doesn't have an opinion on just about everything) but let's be clear on this, Gimme has strong feelings on it. Oh yes he does.

Shit that's wrong with the compulsory teaching of Irish in primary schools:

Nobody speaks it. Or least nobody who can't speak English too. So it has no real functionality.

Plenty of kids in our primary school system can barely speak English as it is. And I'm not just talking about our immigant friends. Let's start with a language that people might use after they hit eighteen, shall we?

It's a crappy, low vocabulary, ugly sounding excuse for a tongue. There are plenty of languages that sound exactly like Gimme throwing up after a gin and tonic binge but few have the temerity to be vomited so irregularly by such a tiny handful of obstinate fuckers.

And here's my centerpiece, folks. The real cause of my bitterness and rage. I didn't start learning Irish until I was ten and never really caught up. So I barely scraped my D in the lower level in the leaving. (Takes political influence to fail pass Irish). Although that probably had more to do with me being a lazy fucked up asshole as a seventeen year old. Plus ca fucking change, folks. But either way, I can't speak it, and I can barely read it. And so, I can't do Riker's homework with her. And this fucking kills me. This eats me up inside. There is nothing I hate saying to Riker more than (in a homework context at least. If the question is 'where is my Bratz magazine?' the following utterance gives me great satisfaction)'I don't know'. Maybe it doesn't make her think any less of me, and Buddha knows she's well aware of my fallibility by now, but knowing stuff is my thing with her. If I don't know I'll either make something up or find out quick sharpish.

But when confronted with a gaggle of meaningless consonants on the page of her Irish textbook I am Mr Fucking Stumped. Mr Fucking Stumped and his wife Nowhere To Turn.

But Gimme, I hear you inbred muckers whine, it's not our fault you got dragged from school to school as a child! It's not our fault you're an idle good for nothing! It's our native tongue! It sets us apart! It gives us a way to take the piss out of English speaking foreigners!

Not with any fluency or imagination it doesn't. Because there are barely any fucking words in it, completely lacking as it is in any richness or variety. The only new words are fucking English ones with stupid Irish spellings. Tacsaí? Teilifíseán? Tarantula? To pick a couple of 't' words out of the fucker ether. Really, folks, is this the best you can do?

Hear me now. You lost the war in the fucking hedge school days. The filthy Brits set out to kill the language, and nuachtflash dickwadinní, they fucking succeeded. All the TnaG and Irish language signposting in the world isn't going to revive the festering maggot infested corpse that you're currently attempting to CPR back to life. No wonder you have a bitter taste in your mouth.

Irish died. That's the way it is. Time to move on. In fucking English.

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

Squirrel has elevated hemotacrit level

Wednesday, September 26, 2007 8
Entires to the unofficial bike naming compettion have closed, folks, and the results are in.

In third place, for it's punch and Wikipedia randomness, comes Ellie's 'Killer Banshee'.

In the silver medal spot, for it's understanding of the pure masochism of my life in general, is Medbh's 'Bring the Pain'.

And the surprise holder of Le Maillot Jaune as we enter Paris is the German girlfriend's 'Rosie'. Simplicity does it for me, I guess. Simplicity and an accidental Tom Waits connection.

Also an honourable mention to V's inspired if impractical 'Mega Pussy Bin Laden Whiplash'.

Pictures to follow. After I pimp her out a little...

Her Hitler hairdo is making me feel ill

I never win shit. Never ever ever. Until last night, when in my absence I became the proud owner of dinner in the Tea Rooms and a night's stay in the Clarence Hotel, courtesy of a raffle ticket for which I have yet to pay.

Although I couldn't be arsed quantifying the exact cash value of my prize, I'm certain that it would turn out to exactly that of my kidnapped Hardcore Motherfucker. To the fucking cent.

In similar news, I learned this morning that my writing had been described as cringeworthy. I shed a little tear, continued my mindless blog browsing and within minutes discovered a very different, surreal and I'm almost sure, flattering opinion. It involved berries. I brushed my tear away.

Folks, I give you:

Remember it in your mind, folks, in your mind.

Monday, September 24, 2007

And they all jump when they hear the siren, but Romeo just laughs

Monday, September 24, 2007 17
I want to smoke I want to smoke I want to smoke. Smoking’s cool, smoking's sophisticated, smoking fucking rocks. I want to smoke I want to smoke. I WANT TO SMOKE. And I fucking never use caps.

Let’s be clear. I‘m not talking about the good stuff here. The dope, the hash, the sweet Mary Jane. No, I am not. Didn’t see that motherfucker hooring round the corner, did you folks?

I'm talking about cigarettes. Yes, I am. Those little tubes of delight, to quote the brilliantly tobaccoed Dennis Potter. I want the low birth weight, boys. Ladies, bring me emphysema. I need the blackened lung. Darken my alveoli, Dunhill Lights, and sure you may as well pimp my arteries while you're down there.

I gave up seven years ago after reading Allen Carr's eminently sensible 'The Easyway to Stop Smoking'. And it was easy. Piece of piss. Once I discovered I could substitute the nicotine drenched tobacco for the quite possibly more toxic and cancerous nicotine free herbal version in the creation of my smokey jokey cones, it really was like falling off a log. I opened my mind to the brainwashing and I bought it all. Hook, line and motherfucking sinker. And the benefits were legion. I didn't stink. As much. I could waste time in new and exciting ways. I could catch my breath, I became a successful amateur runner and ultimately discovered a new career path. I saved, and am still saving a fuckload of money. Of course none of these benefits came anywhere near the ultimate prize of the ex-smoker. Or this ex-smoker at least. The Smug, folks. Oh, how I loved The Smug. How the Smug loved me.

But a slow dawning, akin to my new found appreciation of feminism (which I'm fairly certain is based on the feminist community not being made up solely of the fat and hairy as I had always assumed, but including within it's number some seriously hottie tottie), is appearing on the horizon.

I'm going to have me a little bleugh look at some of Mr Carr's more salient points. The ones that set me on my road to freedom from that evil weed, that sweet succulence.

a) Non-smokers never feel the need to have a cigarette.

That's because they don't know what they're missing, the ignorant losers.

b) Smokers have to work hard to get addicted.

Everything that brings joy, pleasure and a sense of satisfaction is hard work. It's the way of the fucking world.

c) Smokers claim that smoking makes them relaxed and energized at the same time. This is a ridiculous claim.

Bollox. How about yoga? How about hash coffee? How about a fucking speedball?

d) If you are a smoker you constantly have an itch that you need to scratch. When you stop smoking the itch goes away.

I fucking like scratching. Scratching is fun. It's satisfying. There's nothing like a good scratch.

e) (and I'm drifting away from Allen Carr here into more clichéd territory) Smoking makes you feel like shit.

I feel like shit anyway but my shit feelingness lacks the focus of the faint buzzing nausea combined with sore throat and lungs. And I can always use focus.

f) Smoking kills you.

The obvious response to this belongs to Bill Hicks (see? smokers are cool. Even if it was only Bill Hicks and Dennis Potter who smoked that would completely settle that argument) Non-smokers die every day. So how about:

g) Smoking kills you more quickly.

I'm not really seeing the drawback. I have developed my own concept of the afterlife which none of the rest of you folks are going to get to because you don't believe in it, not that you've had the chance but who's fault is that? Mine, admittedly. But my afterlife? Let's just say it puts the 72 suicide bomber loving virgins in the ha'penny place. So while I'm in no particular rush, dropping a couple of years isn't going to bug me too much.

h) Smoking makes you smell.

Only non-smokers know this. As I have both implied and directly stated, non-smokers are losers and therefore do not count. And anyway, this knowledge makes them feel both fragrant and smug. So everyone wins.

i) Smoking makes you poor.

Jesus. I got all the way to 'i', huh? But I and I ain't got no answer to this one, rastaman. Because seven euro? Seven fucking euro? Fifty fucking euro a week? You have got to be fucking kidding me. How can anybody afford to smoke? Especially poor people, how the fuck can they afford it? 'Cause they're fucking rich is why. All the poor people are richer than me now, the fuckers.

So, here's another fault to which I can admit and therefore somehow justify in my head: I am mean. Mean, mean, mean. So I fear that makes point 'i' the clincher.

No smoking for me.

Tits. It's yet another fucking pleasure sacrificed to the nightmare of my personality.

Black and cold like a piece of lead

I knew I should have kept Hardcore Motherfucker beside me in the bed. Snuggled up, spooned against her sweet soft much sat upon saddle, my arms wrapped about her lovehandlebars and her non-carbon forks, I should have lovingly caressed those constantly snapping gear cables as we drifted away together to dreams of mountain stage victories, of unanswerable road rage retorts.

But no.

And now she's gone. Gone to some cunt who, unable to figure out why her Shimano pedals are so small has probably dumped her somewhere in Coolock by now, to be slowly stripped, beaten and abused like the star of a two wheeled torture porn flick.

It didn't take me long to move on, physically at least. Necessity dictated that I went straight out this morning and spent money that we can ill afford on a younger, sexier, lighter and quicker companion. No Cannondale, granted, but still, a quick ass racer which should be taking at least five minutes off my world record 26'42 home to work commute.

But I don't love this carbon forked temptress. No, folks, I do not. Perhaps in time, like the participants of an arranged marriage, there will grow between us a certain accommodation, perhaps even a level of affection, but for the moment all I feel when I look at this poor substitute, this costly replacement, is bitterness and disdain. Breathtakingly expensive bitterness, dear disdain.

I need to call her something, I suppose. There is clearly no way to even come close to the cool sophistication of a name like Hardcore Motherfucker, but have at you, folks, give it your best shot.

Thursday, September 20, 2007

What time do you call this?

Thursday, September 20, 2007 14
Most mornings I wake at about six, get up and pee because I’m old and then go back to bed and doze my way through to seven. And then it’s up and atom, Fallout Boy.

The morning routine takes an hour and a half. And runs thusly: Wake increasingly determinedly sleeping Bridge Crew. Empty dishwasher, make sandwiches, feed Bridge Crew, dress Data, ensure teeth are cleaned and faces are washed. Prepare and eat porridge, drink protein shake. Ingest caffeine, eject solid waste, shower, dress, go.

An hour and a half. I move slowly prior to the caffeine ingestion. Occasionally I can’t be arsed getting up until 7.30 and it all gets done in an hour. But whenever this happens I feel rushed, stressed and fucked over by life. So I do my best to get up at seven.

This morning I opened my eyes and the clock said eight fucking twenty three. 8.23. In the a fucking m. Not good, not good at all.

Those were some bedraggled, harried and full mouthed children that I shoved into school and playschool. Shoved into school and playschool five minutes early I might add.

Perhaps we'll do this everyday. An extra hours sleep? I can get behind that.

The only drawback was that I looked like yesterday’s deadbeat dad times a million and smelled like a corpse. And not a fresh corpse.

But a small price, I think.

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

It was the 3rd of September

Wednesday, September 19, 2007 15
Sometimes I surprise even myself with my shocking shoddiness, my silently screaming shabbiness.

Or which more presently.

Every time I turn on the tv now, I see bad or at least dodgy fathers. Common Law made me watch 'Prosperity' and much as it eats me up inside to admit that one of my almost peers might be good at anything at all, I have to admit that I was somewhat impressed with Mark O'Halloran's creation on seeing this, the third of four episodes on Radio Telefis Eireann two nights ago. You can watch all four here.

It was bleak and uncompromising with occasional patches of pure boredom tempered by the justification of this being an accurate reflection of the monotony of the life in question. Unfortunately, there was also a truck load of acting going on, for which there is zero fucking excuse in this day and age. Fucking actors, always fucking shit up.

Christ, that was like a review or something. Beware the cunt with the lethal combination of opinions on popular culture and a fucking keyboard. Unclean, unclean!
Here's the thing: I watched tv, there was a deadbeat dad on.

And last night, as I staggered in the door from an 80k day, to relieve my mother-in-common law (hereafter Mickle) from her babysitting duties (Common Law was out boozing again) there was yet another deadbeat dad program on.

Note: Mickle and I don't speak that much. Long story. (Actually short fucking story, but it's one that you good folks will probably never get, at least not until Mickle gets her own blog and is able to respond with her side). But each time we meet, the greenhouse gases of time have put a little warmth into the atmosphere of our relationship and the ice melts just a smidge.

And last night the climate was positively temperate. Mickle launched into an explanation of the documentary about a troubled family that was airing on Channel 4.

Her tone was almost that of the taxi drivers who used to ferry me to RTE in the mornings and ask their inevitable question:

'Have you ever thought of going into fillums?'

'What?', I would gaspingly reply. 'Fillums? Like, motion pictures? No, that has never, ever occurred to me. I've been playing every available stage homosexual and clinging on for dear life to a deckchair on the Titanic of Irish soaps for five years now because I didn't realise that all I have to do is make the fucking decision to 'go into fillums'! What a stupid cunt, huh? Don't bother bringing me to Montrose. On to Ardmore, my good man! Doesn't matter what they're shooting, I'll just tell them I'm an actor and they'll snap me right up, won't they? You stupid, stupid fuck.'

But in this case (and this may be mere paranoia, I freely admit that nothing and nobody fires up my paranoia like Mickle) her tone seemed to suggest 'Have you ever thought of having Common Law done away with somehow and becoming an alcoholic and maybe giving Riker a smack round the head and having social services come and take the kids away and having them put into care and having a camera observe this entire process and then having said camera go back to them ten years later and see how it all turns out? Did you ever think of doing that, Gimme? Did you?'

Yes, I read all of that from her tone. My powers of reading stuff into stuff are strong. So, I did some hardcore interest feigning, perhaps even giving the impression that I intended watching the rest of the program, (How I have grown! God be with the days when I greeted everything she said with the grunt of a teenage baboon!) and then switched over to the Liverpool game as soon as she went out the door. Jammy fucking scouse pricks.

I'm swooping in on my unsuspecting point here, folks.

Yesterday, due in part to a last minute decision made by Data (mental note: don't allow the two and twenty three twenty fourths year old child make the fucking decisions) whereby we went with buggy not bike for the Riker pick up, (Buggy = stroller, Americans. You have no fucking excuse for that name. I have never, ever strolled with a buggy. I'm either staggering in a no-sleep-zombie-like daze or I'm fucking pissing it down the road, potentially late for some irritating occasion such as, yes, a Riker pick up) I ended up arriving at the school sweaty, frazzled and attired thusly: Old, old Asics, holes in the big toe (both sides, though. A pleasing symmetry), faded, grubby Adidas tracksuit bottoms with seriously ripped cuffs on both legs (from the bike, but again with the symmetry) through which my pink ankle socks peep, a shiny Italian replica top from Euro 2004 with a massive ink stain on the sleeve and in deference to the sudden plummet in temperature, a much too small United Nations t-shirt. My hair retains the properties of an abandoned topiary project. I am, as ever, unshaven. And there may be a little tomato soup about the corners of my mouth. I look, in truth, like an amalgamation of Georgie from Prosperity and Tom Cox from the sensitively titled 'You're Not Breaking Up My Family'.

I look like a deadbeat dad.

So as soon as Riker emerges from school I drag them both to the handily local off license and buy six cans of the cheapest beer that they sell.

It's not like I have a choice...

Monday, September 17, 2007

Finally, someone let me out of my cage

Monday, September 17, 2007 13
Common Law: What are you doing? Can I have my laptop back now?

Gimme: Which of those questions would you like me to answer first?

Common Law: Whichever gets me my laptop quickest.

Gimme: No, and researching iguanas.

Common Law: Give me my laptop. (pause) Researching what? Did you say iguanas?


Common Law: I absolutely know that I am going to be very sorry that I asked this question, but why are you researching iguanas?

Gimme: I want a pet.

Common Law: We’re not allowed pets. Read the lease. And give me my laptop.

Gimme: We’re not allowed cats and dogs type pets. I’m sure we’re allowed iguanas.

Common Law: I think you’ll find that it doesn’t specify what type of pet we’re not allowed have. Just no pets.

Gimme: So you’re saying we can’t even have a fucking goldfish?

Common Law: What I’m saying is give me my laptop.

Gimme: I want an iguana.

Common Law: (sighs)

Gimme: Hey, did you know that a healthy iguana will grow to be 5-6 feet in length?

Common Law: No, I did not know that.

Gimme: But most of them fucking die from improper care. Lack of sunlight, poor diet, shit like that…

Common Law: Really?

Gimme: Yes.

Common Law: Gimme?

Gimme: Yes? Right, I know, I’ll just be a minute…

Common Law: You can’t have an iguana so there isn't much point in you spending any more time researching them.

Gimme: Right. OK. (pause) Fair enough.

Common Law: So?

Gimme: Yes, ok. Here you go. (Passes laptop)

Common Law: Thank you.

(long pause)

Gimme: How about a Dwarf Winter White Russian Hamster?

Common Law: Please stop.

Gimme: Sorry.

Saturday, September 15, 2007


Saturday, September 15, 2007 10
This Dublin day feels odd.

It's fucking glorious for a start. The weather is perfection, blue skies, crisp air, a temperature ideal for just about anything you care to think of, from fishing to fucking, from football to facebooking. And it seemed to promise as much from the moment the day dawned.

A light breeze caresses my face as the newly melodic strains of violin practise drift to my ears from next door.

But folks, there is a terrible ominousness on the wind too. The air is somehow heavy. The perfection of the day is too, too weighty. There is no reason to believe that the capital of our Emerald Isle, our Eire, should come under nuclear attack from either terrorist or drunken shrub. But I'm mildly sorry to report folks, that this is exactly what is going to happen.

The bomb is going to drop and all the kids in the playground, all the teenagers flirting by the bus stop, all the bad yummy mummies sitting having coffee outside 'Les Amis', as the fathers struggle to get some relationship in with those same swinging playground sweetie pies, well, they're all about to be frozen in time T-2 style and then burnt screamingly though rapidly to a fucking crisp.

You wouldn't have thought it, would you? Right here in Baile Átha Cliath. Nuclear fucking wasteland.

But hey, that's what they get.

That's what we get.

Friday, September 14, 2007

Buy it, use it, break it, fix it

Friday, September 14, 2007 10

I'm climbing the stairs to my ill-deserved but desperately required rest. My life is fully represented by what I carry with me. Balanced precariously and illogically between my two hands (these hands, these hands are ruining my life...) are a large bowl of muesli with skimmed milk, (I am a healthy eater but a pig), half a bagel generously smeared with Nutella (I am mostly a pig) and a glass of white wine bought to use to make risotto and other white wine requiring dishes but now employed as a nightcap of sorts (I will drink fucking anything that has alcohol in it when I need a drink and I need a fucking drink).

In one of the pockets of my sexy silk pajama bottoms is my Blackberry (yes, yes I take my Blackberry to bed, who knew? I have fucking Blackbery issues. But I have to turn it off before Common Law comes up as it makes the radio alarm clock crackle and beep and this upsets Common Law greatly) In the other, equally sexy pocket is my Creative mp3 player (I cannot sleep without somebody, preferably Nigel Planer, gently whispering Terry Pratchett novels into one of my ears. Issues folks, more fucking fucked up issues).

And here's what happens. As I ascend, and I'm barely two stairs in when this begins, the weight of the Blackberry in one pocket and the Creative in the other starts to slowly drag my only item of lower body adornment down past my ample hairy arse.

My hands (oh these hands) are full, of course. Perhaps in a more reasoned mood I would consider placing my wine, muesli and Nutella bagel on a step and making some wardrobe adjustments before continuing my journey. However, I don't have many moods that could be described as reasoned, and this evening's delicate mental imbalance certainly does not fit the bill.

And so the race is on, folks. Not the egg and spoon race but the wine, muesli, Nutella bagel race. Can I reach the top of the stairs before the complete downfall of nightwear and dignity? Will sticking out my already protruded posterior be of any use? Will the technology in my pockets give me a fucking break?

That's a 'no' folks. That's a big fat fucking 'no'.

I pitch forward towards the last step, ankles tangled up in silk, foodstuffs and wine swilling as they lighten some of their load with the ejection of precious grains and grape juice. I manage to get the bagel to safety with relative ease but then having adjusted my clothing, find myself stepping deftly onto the Nutella as I attempt to make it out of the stairwell and onto the landing. I hop the Nutella around the upstairs of the house for a little while, keening quietly to myself as I babble the blame at the Blackberry, at the Creative. If I hadn't had the hardware in my pockets, I weepingly and reasonably conclude, none of this would have happen.

As my bitter sobs subside my mind goes back to the temporary, but deeply inconvenient, unavailability of Gmail that afternoon. Normally, access to my email is something I can comfortably live without, but for various work related reasons it was proving essential on this occasion. Of fucking course.

Technology is like a mysterious stranger who takes you out to dinner, dazzles you with her brilliance and charm, flirts expertly and seductively with you, all the while batting her unnaturally long eyelashes in a ball-achingly enticing fashion. And at the end of this magical evening, as you lean slowly in for a goodnight peck at the door of her apartment, she slaps you across the face and asks 'Who the fuck do you think you are, you presumptuous little prick?'

And then she pulls your trousers down and goes inside.

Wednesday, September 12, 2007

How dare you feel sorry for yourself, you sexist bitch?

Wednesday, September 12, 2007 15
Around the time of laptop death, I found myself flitting from computer to notebook, desktop to laptop (no macs though, what kind of pretentious cunt do you take me for?) like some kind of pixel prostitute, some silicon valley streetwalker. I was nice to people who I normally wouldn't piss on if they were doing a Thich Quang Duc (fucking monks rule. Not the child molesting ones, the kung fu ones, those auto da fé badboys) right beside me.

Allow me to branch off into a brief discussion of the expression 'I wouldn't piss on them if they were on fire'.

I wouldn't fucking piss on anyone who was on fire. If I would prefer that they didn't suffer an agonizing and protracted death, they, in this particular scenario being the select few, then I will reach for a fire extinguisher or a bucket or water. At the very least I will instruct them to roll around on the ground, flopping their arms like in the movies. 'Like in the movies!' I will shout, helpfully.

If I am happy for them to burn to death in front of me, (hi there, the non-select many) then I will take no action, or if I have some kind of liquid fuel handy then I shall splash this liberally upon them, always keeping myself at a safe distance from the inferno.

In neither case will I urinate upon the flaming personage, reluctant as I am to put my cock in a position where it might get burned or even singed.

So I won't be using the aforementioned expression anymore as it makes no sense.


Around the time of laptop death, I wrote a post about the inconvenience caused by this passing with the seemingly innocuous title 'I'm in my fucking sister's. Enough with the stupid questions', At the time it never occured to me that this harmless post nomenclature coupled with Google and the miracle of Statcounter would lead me to the inarguable conclusion that all Muslims want to have sex with their sisters.

Did you see that one coming, folks? I'm all about the twists and turns here.

Because a good number (almost all) of my visitors come from a Google search involving the words 'sister' and 'fucking'. Sometimes the order of these two words is reversed in the search box leading me to briefly entertain the idea that I should read this in a 'Fucking sisters! Always bugging you politely when you inexplicably steal their keys! Always there for you!' kind of way. But only briefly.

To be honest, I think this may be about people wanting to have sex with their sisters. No, really, I do.

And here's the thing: almost 50% of these wannabe sister fucking visitors come from predominantly Muslim countries. And the other 50%, pretty much all from the land of the free, (O beautiful four spacious skies, they have three extra skies in the states, it's that fucking good) well, they're all probably Muslims too.

Because surely, if one of our towel-headed friends wants to fuck his sister then they all do. Right? Right, folks.

And if one father fucks around, abandons his kids and leaves the raising of the children entirely in the hands of the mother and whosoever she can load them off unto while she goes and earns enough money to support them then all of us fathers are going to do that aren't we?

Fucking Muslim sister fuckers.

Tuesday, September 11, 2007

Draggin' me back with my head in a sack

Tuesday, September 11, 2007 16
I wish I didn't feel the need to begin everything I write with a last minute replacement warm up comedian type line. You know the schtick:

How about that 9/11, folks? It's getting to be like Christmas. Every year the commemorations are earlier, huh? Soon we'll start singing carols on 9/11, and watching 'Falling Man' documentaries at Christmas!

(silence, Gimme coughs)

Anyway, 9/11. Why do we call it that even?


Shouldn't it be 11/9?

(weak guffaws)

Because obviously if we're going to separate numbers in this manner there should be some kind of intrinsic logic applied.

(puzzled silence)

Stay with me, folks...

(coughs from audience)

You should either work form the shortest in duration to the longest, as in day, month, year or I guess, if you really felt the need to fuck with it, the other way around as in year, month, day...

(muttering about unnecessary obscenity, shifting in seats)

So really the whole 9/11 thing makes no sense at all...

(low-level booing)

Audience member:
Get off the stage!

Folks, folks! Okay, right, well how about that Osama and his sexy beard, huh? The C.I.A. are baffled! Fucking hell, peeps...

(loud boos)

Sorry, sorry. But let's cut this figurehead some slack! It's not like he's Britney, right?

(some chuckling)

Can't the guy have a little image reimagining, a little rug rethink without Heat breaking down his door and pointing out his V.P.L. and pit stains?

(scattered laughter)

You know, MJ Gohel of the world famous Asia pacific foundatiom says bin Laden looks 'vain and ridiculous'. Jeez, MJ, you wanna ease back a little on this terroristic mastermind? Even if you are in a cave somewhere planning the downfall of the West you still want to look well, right? And grey in the straggly beard can age you horribly!

(less laughter, more scattered)

Let's give the guy some space folks and focus on the message, folks. Convert to Islam or die!

(silence, tumbleweed)

Convert to Islam or die!

(mutterings, not so scattered boos)

Convert or die!

(cat calls, shouts of abuse)

M.C.: (enters stage right)
And thank you very much Gimme A. Minute!

(sotto voce, manhandling Gimme towards stage left)

Get off the fucking stage, Minute. You had your fucking chance and you fucked it up.

Gimme:(hysterically but passionately)
Fucking convert or die motherfuckers! I know where you heathen cunts live! I've got the bomb belt! Time to die, I tell you!

(exiting left, whispering theatrically)
Time to fucking die.

Monday, September 10, 2007

No need for the question mark, Eamonn

Monday, September 10, 2007 5
All of the answers to life's central questions are contained within 'The Faber Book of Soccer' as edited by Ian Hamilton.

I am sitting, attired in my kingly splendour (ripped Simpsons boxers around my ankles, my Ballycotton 10 race t-shirt from 2003 covering my manly torso) atop my porcelain throne having me a little think.

As I do.

As I do, I find my thoughts drifting to this thinkunculation: I should get another career switch together! It's been, what, four years since my last one? Three, anyway. Definitely time to shake things up a little, get back on that bottom rung, attain me yet another entry level salary. Cause, sure what would we be doing with money, huh?

Like so many of many generation, I watched my buddies die face down in the mud in Nam. Hang on, no, that wasn't me. Ahem. Like so many of my generation I spent my early childhood wandering the British Isles waiting for my parents to fucking get it together and break up. That's the one. Like, how many affairs do you have to have, Finbar? Less of the uncertainty, the procrastination. Make a fucking decision, dude. Dump us, and be done with it. Sheesh.

For this reason, (I assume, the fuck am I, a fucking psychiatrist?) I find it difficult to do just the one thing for any length of time without getting extremely restless and bored. And let me cut you folks off, with your 'everybody else feels like this too, we're just too mature to let this affect how we build and maintain our enviably successful lives'. I know, folks, I know. I have the self-knowledge, remember? And I really do enjoy letting this self knowledge justify my every foible and glaring personality defect.

Following this blaming my parents for everything interlude let me take you right back to my motion motivated career move. What next for Gimme?, I ask myself as I shift my genetically ginormous (thanks again, Finbar) ass a little. Where to now? It has to be part-time, of course, because of the Bridge Crew and Common Law's insistence on following a comparatively normal career path. Flexibility is also something of a must. Hmm. The bike courier fantasy is probably not going to pan out..

I glance to my right for inspiration. And there it is, surrounded by a certain unaccountable glow. The green covered, Pele and Gazza adorned 'Faber Book of Soccer' (edited by Ian Hamilton). I reach down and pick it up. I can do nothing else. It calls me as a bell to morning prayers, as a Snickers to a chocolate binge.

I open the book at random. The first word my eye rests upon is 'Weetabix'. The second 'taster'. I speak to the book. 'Dude. This is not a real job. Everybody knows what Weetabix taste like. I'm going to try again, so don't fuck with me, because toilet paper isn't cheap and you belong to V anyway.'

I close the book. Again, I open the book at random. The first word my eye rests upon is 'play'. The second is 'write'. Admittedly, not 'wright'. But close a fucking nuff, right? Write? Wright.

As so the pattern of no security and lofty ambition combined with extreme laze must continue. 'The Faber Book of Soccer' (edited by Ian Hamilton) says so.

Note: 'The Faber Book of Soccer' (edited by Ian Hamilton) also contains extracts from both Eamonn Dunphy's classic 'Only a Game? The Diary of a Professional Footballer' and Martin Amis' 'London Fields', making it not only an invaluable asset in execution of crucial life decisions but also a quality sporting read.

Friday, September 7, 2007

Hartford, Hereford, and Hampshire

Friday, September 7, 2007 10
First it steals my best mate.

Then it produces people who come over here, are lovely and all, but are also hairy and force me to work late on a Friday night, part of which work is pinching their hairy and not ungreasy skin. I know that sounds horribly racist and I have no idea if it's the case for all Spanish people as this client is the first Spanish person with whose skin I have been so intimate (never so much as kissed a Spanish girl. The fuck is with that?) but he has greasy, hairy, greasy skin and it's really hard to grip.

Then it invents quesadillas paella and I try to make them one for lunch on a relaxing only day off Saturday and I fuck it up and get really stressed. On a Saturday.

Fucking Spain, fucking with me.

Thursday, September 6, 2007

I will follow your casket in the pale afternoon

Thursday, September 6, 2007 17
Regurgitated bile, anyone? No, that is not a fucking ATM machine. You could take bile directly from the stomach cavity in the course of a surgical procedure or stabbing, thus making it not regurgitated bile but just plain old run of the mill surgical or stabby bile.

So the empty vessel which shall now overflow with my precious biliousness is?

Ladies and Gentlemen, for one bleugh only...iiiit's fucking car insurance!

What. The. Fuck.

What the fuck is car insurance about? In real terms? How can it possibly be compulsory? Why can't I just roll the dice and take my chances? Or roll the fucking car if I want. It's my car. Why should I be legally obliged to gamble on my having an accident? Maybe I don't want to have a fucking accident. Maybe I'm not into gambling. The holy fuck is it about? What a dreadful, dreadful load of cock.

I think I know what you're going to say. It's to protect other people. Or something. I don't know what you're going to say. And whatever you say you're wrong. Because what the fuck is it for? Apart from making wealthy cunts wealthy for no reason? It's some kind of mass deception and all you driver fuckers are buying into it. Fucking cars lowering your IQ. Fucking cars. But fucking insurance too. Let's not get sidetracked.

Let's just break this motherfucker down, shall we?

Real World: I pay for my insurance. I crash. I crash because I'm driving down the road and a sexy Cannondale catches my eye. I rear end some old lady. The damage is minimal. I'm liable. I pay for the damage so that I don't lose my no claims bonus.

Lovely No Insurance World: I don't pay for my insurance. I crash again. Again it's Cannondale related. I rear end another, richer old lady. Damage minimal. I pay for the damage.

What do you fucking know. In Lovely No Insurance World I'm up twelve hundred fucking euro. And that, folks, is the kind of money that buys a Cannondale.

Give me my Cannondale, insurance cunts.

Wednesday, September 5, 2007

And the playground got heavy

Wednesday, September 5, 2007 10
Right. Books obtained and covered?

Check. And by check I mean, thank you Common Law. Gimme not good with scissors.

Copies the same?

Check. Again, Common Law.

So third class, huh. Got the recorder?

Kill me now. Or at the very least, perforate my eardrums now. But yes, check.

Good. Boob job?

I'm sorry?

Mammary makeover? Tit tug? Bap beef up? Did you get them done?

I'm a bloke, dude.

The fuck are you looking after children for then?

Because, fuck off Neanderthal, that's why. This is not the issue at hand. I am a man, of sorts and would therefore look a little odd with breasts be they enlarged, reduced or just right...

That's a fair point. But have you considered Botox?

I have not.

Christ Gimme, you can't be appearing at the gates of the school on the first day without even the slightest hint of having had some work done. You might as well say you only went to Gorey and France on your holidays, you fucking loser.


Oh, for fuck's sake.

Jesus. Ok. Well, how about...You see, I've been getting a lot of mails on this and I'm thinking they can only be sending them to me because they know something, and you could always be a bit bigger right? I take it that penis enlargement counts as 'having work done'?

I assume you'll still be wearing those snug fitting Penney's jeans on the drop offs and collections?

You assume correctly.

Then yes, yes it does. And you might want to work on an exotic holiday story too. Marrakesh minimum. For the sake of the children, Gimme.

Nothing worth the wear of winning

So, friends, huh? Friends. Best friends, really. Or best friend, even more accurately. Best friend.

Got a best friend, mister? Hey lady, got a best bud?

Sure you do. Even it's just a dog (and I know for about a bizillion of you this is as good as you're ever going to do, what with you being insufferable cunts and all) you've still got a best friend.

Not me. Mine died horribly in a Aston Villa slash pornography accident. And I mean slash in the Irish colloquial sense, people. That's it, off you go Americans, go do your research. By the time you're 'done' all the cool people will have had a slash and come back.

So, I lied just then. Scott Carson, Martin Laursen, and Zat Knight did not travel from Birmingham to V's house. Scott and Martin did not hold V down as Zat urinated all over V's generous pornography collection, thus causing V to drop dead from what was ostensibly a caridac arrest but was, in more human terms, a broken heart. This did not happen.

V is not dead.

But he has just left for Spain. For a year. A whole fucking year. The fucker.

I sad.

In the fifteen years that I've known V, (fifteen fucking years, Jesus god but I am old) I will never have not seen him for this amount of time. It's going to be a fucking nightmare. Who's going to not listen to me when I talk shit? Who's house am I going to drop in to on my way home from work? Who's going to mind the children once in a blue fucking moon? Who's going to make family gatherings, parties and generally being in public bearable?

Now I'm fucking crying. What a pussy. Glad I didn't do this last night. That would have been just a little too gay, even for me, the gayest heterosexual on the block.

This best friend stuff, I don't think about it normally. It doesn't come up. I just do it. I spend so much of my time angry or stressed or worried or just uncomfortable that one of the most relief filled points in a week is the sinking of my arse into V's couch, the getting of one together, the picking up of the controller and the inconsequential spouting of bullshit as he gently whips my ass at Pro Evoluton Soccer 6. Here is a guy who knows me, who knows I am a dick, and who doesn't fucking care.

There's not a lot of this about.

I'm going to miss it. I going to miss him. The prick.

Sunday, September 2, 2007

My radio handle's 'Train'

Sunday, September 2, 2007 15
Fucking Iraqis are great at shit, huh? Three and a half years. Took us eight hundred and thirty eight to get the Brits out.

Just thought it was time I embraced my Irishness.

Yeah, I know that there's still five and a half thousand of our eastern friends in Basra but they're at the airport and that sends a certain signal doesn't it? The signal being: 'Fucking see you, guys! We're out of here! Have a nice time George! Oh and the families of all you dead American soldiers! And all you maimed American soldiers! And all you wives and girlfriends of maimed American soldiers! Enjoy! Sucks to be you! Don't mind kissing, Yanks, but I fucking hate that!'

Now, if we can just get the two thousand Brits up North to start slowly edging their way in the direction of the Giants Causeway (see review) we'll be sorted.

Saturday, September 1, 2007

I will be my own woman, Luke of Winchester

Saturday, September 1, 2007 11
Hands up who can read.

Aren't we all the lucky motherfuckers? Being able to read Heat and clever adverts for cars and our childrens boring, boring homework.

The fuck would we be doing without it?

Plenty. Let me tell you about the upsides, folks.

I think we're all aware at this point that I don't have nearly enough time to do all the things that I want to do in this world. Most of these higher goals, these grand designs, involve sitting around doing nothing. And there's little doubt that complete functional illiteracy would free up a whole load of my time for this kind of doing fuck all project. Playstation playing and television trawling could become my new reading and writing crap on bleughs. Whittling could be my new job. There's still a market for whittlers, right? I whittle a mean fucking stick, folks. I can go from porn dick sized branch to itty bitty toothpick in under six hours. This must surely bring the illiterate Gimme both riches and fame.

And let's face it, when was the last time reading actually made me happy? I may snarfle, I may even occasionally chortle but as rule the shit I read depresses me. Twenty finishes his first draft? Very exciting, yes. But any feelings of positive anticipation are surely eaten up and spat unceremoniously to the faded rug by the potential for absolute shittiness the transfer of disciplines provides. Have you read this one? Just like that creep can roll, that cunt can write. Fucker. So. In this case reading equals either disappointment or bitterness. Take your pick peeps.

What else do I read?

I read the paper. And what does today's quality rag have for me? Ross O'Fucking Carrol Kelly. Jesus Christ, but that was old after about six weeks. Way to buy a deceased nag and a cat o nine tails, Irish Times. Keep fucking flogging, you never know, right?

There's also the news. The news ain't good, folks. But then it never is.

Other stuff I read? C.S Lewis to Riker at the moment. The stuffed up mysogynistic Christian crazy. (Lewis not Riker).

Adbusters? We've done that. We know that don't make me happy.

The side of the Bran Flakes box? Lies, lies and more lies about my guideline daily amounts. It's not what you want to know about as you start another day of inevitable beer blasting and saturated fat feasting.

Arts council commission application form? More fucking making me insecure, uneasy and fucking terrified shit.

The last thing I read that filled me feelings of positivity and hope for the future of this Gaia on which we graze was John Christopher's 'The Prince in Waiting Trilogy'. And I think I was about twelve.

Folks! The fuck is that? It's a, is it? It fucking is. It's a point. And the point is this. Ignorance is bliss, literacy makes me unhappy and as it appears that no matter have much dope I smoke I am still unable to forget what these squiggly symbols mean, I'm going to have to go away now and gouge my eyes out with a fork.
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