Friday, November 30, 2007

How can I try to explain, when I do he turns away again

Friday, November 30, 2007 9
You know what I fucking hate, folks?

If this is your first visit case, then welcome. Sit the fuck down, shut the fuck up and have yourself a Caucasian. And if manual dexterity is your gig then you might want to think about getting one together.

If this is not your first visit then you'll be aware that there is in fact a whole load of shit that I fucking hate. Here's the first three that pop into my head as I write: Rugby, instant coffee (what's the point of you, what's your fucking point?) and the concept of car insurance.

But when it comes to blogging, and blogs and bloggers, there's one thing that really works me up, that bums me right out. It's fucking bloggers who blog about blogging. I generally try to avoid even using the word, preferring 'bleugh' as that sound is closer to the sound of vomit and vomit is what most blogs are. It might be fragrant, it might be fucking hilarious and it might be profound but the personage that will be most interested in the vomit will be the vomiter. Let me step outside the vomit metaphor for just one second and move to shit so that I might quote Archie from Cormier's 'The Chocolate War': 'Everyone likes the smell of their own shit, Carter.'

Back to the vomit. Nobody reads and rereads Stranded on Gaia like I do, nobody but Gimme gets just how fucking funny and insightful I truly am. So while the act of the bleugh is in itself the act of a loser, a bleugher, the idea of blowing chunks about chunk blowing makes me want to blow those chunks most of all.

And so, with my trademark hypocrisy, I give you a bleugh about my bleugh. Or more specifically, about the comments on my bleugh. It's time I cleared up my policy on comments, get going with the trendy unmuddied lake look on what is that I will allow and what it is that I will be wiping from the face of my bleugh like so much spilt man custard. I will be deleting the following:


That's it.

Racism? Bring it on, we'll take you on or ignore you. Personal attacks on me and my family? It's all fucking made up, folks, I'm a black lesbian without a family, so you won't be bothering me. Condescension? I'm a big boy now, folks, I can take it, condescend away. You know what? I won't even be censoring bad spelling and grammar. I'm that fucking broadminded.

Just like it says down the bottom, folks, I am the comment whore and if there's a trick out there I'll be turning it. Gimme does not discriminate.


Wednesday, November 28, 2007

His car is warm and dry

Wednesday, November 28, 2007 16
Birthdays are pretty crappy these days, these years. There'll never be a party like my twenty second, never a present like that little box video game I got when I was 10. Christmas day, New year's eve, St Patrick's Day, all a load of shite. I normally work on March 17th and make the fuckers climb to Banana Republic and sprint to the Sick Bed of Cuchulainn. New Year's peaked in Carlow back in '95, and even then it was a senseless, sickly day. And the consummation of this eight week orgy of lemming like consumption which we are currently credit carding our way through? Just a day, just another fucking day with the tiresome addition of sherry and familial commitments.

But folks there is one day to which I look forward all year long. And in 2007 that day is today. This very afternoon susposably at 2.55 but more likely sometime closer to 3.30, Common Law and I will attend Riker's parent teacher meeting. And maybe this year her teacher will not tell us that we are the parents of a smart, hard-working and well behaved child. Maybe this year there will be no mention of her enthusiasm, her creativity, her kindness. Maybe this year the news will be bad. Yeah, and maybe Bertie ain't a beater.

The trill of anticipation will last all morning and the glow of satisfaction will linger for days. The satisfaction is born of what I will tell myself is a job well done, though deep down I sense that the persistent playschool punch ups of her, shall we say, feistier sister Data, indicate that all this Rikerly good behavior is considerably more about the nature than the nurture. But who fucking cares either way? Not Gimme. Our Gimme will be courting proud and smug for the foreseeable. ..

An afterthought: The odd thing about this year's seven minutes of heaven (the winners only get seven minutes folks, the losers are the ones holding up the show) is that both Common Law and I have yet to meet the teacher. I can't help but wonder if this latest mentor, this senior side swami is, well, hot. Just one more thing to look forward to.

You won't believe what Mr. Stitches saw

Here's some more shit for which I would very much like to blame my father.

Now that I have two bikes and dream wistfully, lustfully, of a third, I am faced with having to get it together on the cycle maintenance front. I have asked Santy for a Big Blue Book on this very subject (thank you cycling section for the helpful recommendations) and hope to be greased up from head to toe with cogs, sprockets and dérailleurs dripping from my every pore by New Year's Day.

This morning, Big Blue bookless, I found myself needing to do a little mechanical warm up, faced as I was with the most basic of bicycle fixing tasks. Hardcore Motherfucker had a puncture and despite the challenge and amusement involved in slaloming down to the school with all the weight of Data and her child seat resting on an airless tube, I decided, well, why the fuck not? I gather that a proper cyclist can fix a flat in under five minutes, the most time consuming part of which is waiting for the glue to dry. Guess how long it took Gimme, folks. Go on, fucking guess.

Precisely. A nice round 90 fucking, fuckingly frustrating minutes. I won't go into the details but suffice it to say that I spent a large chunk of that time repeating the entire process on the self-flagellatory premise that I had fucked it up and failed to seal the hole successfully whereas I had in fact merely fucked up the operation of that highly complex piece of equipment which these jargon obsessed bikies refer to as a 'pump'.

Oh, but I am a dolt. Nothing but a dolt am I. A technical thicko. A mechanically misfitted mong.

And for this I would dearly love to blame my father. Oh yes, I would. Surely if we had spent those divorced parent and child Saturday afternoons in the construction of soapbox racers or home-made shortwave radios as opposed to sulkily watching Grandstand and briefly, grumpily fucking a rugby ball around his back garden then I would now be one of those manly men who can earth a socket, true a washer and, I don't know, build a fucking house.

But I can't do it. This is blame that I just cannot apportion. Because Finbar clearly took one insightful glance at me, saw that I was the gayest heterosexual in the village, the girliest boy in the glen and realised that he would just be wasting both his time and mine, time much better spent watching me watching him watching the golf.

I shall overcome though folks, watch me overcome.

Monday, November 26, 2007

I was spinning round a dead dial

Monday, November 26, 2007 13
I have joy.

England failed to make Euro 2008. This is because they are shit at football and they are shit at football because they have sold out to the big money of Rupert Murdock. Even the Englanders have been forced to admit this. This is a little sad but still I have joy.

Also Roy Keane's bunch of yellow pack footballers got fucked in the ass by a different team of almost equally shitty footballers. This is not sad at all. It's fucking hilarious. Take that you shite spouting opinionated treacherous cunt. Joy it is that I have.

I have rage.

It's somewhat uncool to like Bruce Springsteen, I believe. I don't fucking care. I think he fucking rocks. I came to The Boss late and I've never seen him live. And I want to, to witness first hand his snorting, vein-popped, having a mammoth dump face as he bangs out any number of hits both old and new. He plays Dublin the day before my birthday. And now folks, with just a little research you can find out when that auspicious day is and send me an early birthday present of €600 for my Bianchi.

My rage comes not from the fact that I couldn't be arsed staying up all night in front of Stephen's Green Shopping Centre or whatever it is one has to do to obtain a ticket but from the pricing. The cheapest fucking ticket is €90. Ninety fucking euro. Watch me spell out a number over ten there, such is my rage.

So let me get this straight Brucie baby, Boss man. Poor people aren't allowed at your shows? You grunting cunting ape. Aren't you supposed to be a hero of the common people, you greedy fuck? And maybe yeah, yeah, yeah it's all the promoter, you have no choice, it costs a lot of money to move the ten par cans and twenty gobos they'll be using to light the show around the globe. Bollox. All kinds of bollox. The tickets are expensive because you don't make money from album sales anymore because albums are free now and the bizillions of dollars you already have aren't enough for you, you grabby grasping greedy fuck, you.

Lately there ain't been much work on account of the economy indeed, you prick.

Rage and bitter, nasty joy on offer this morning, folks. Take your fucking pick.

Sunday, November 25, 2007

My two front teef

Sunday, November 25, 2007 10

There are no words. No, there are. The words are: 'I. Want. This. Give. It. To. Me. Now.'

What's that you say? I have two bikes already? What could I possibly need a third one for? Ahahahaha. I don't need a third one folks. I fucking want a third one. I want the Zen-like experience of veering brakeless through the streets of Dublin in the most intimate manner available to us two wheeled freaks. The fixed gear bike, folks, the fixie. The purist pursuit of the cycling pure.

I completely appreciate that the bad boy up there is a custom built stone cold classic and would cost any potential Christmas present buyer up to €3000 to get together for Gimme, so I'm willing to compromise. Here's another one:

That sweet little mover is a mere €600. Cycling Nirvana never came so cheap. And hey, hold up there, folks. Don't be thinking I'm going to be setting up any kind of Paypal donation button over there on the sidebar. What kind of scrounging interweb bum do you take me for?

No, all I want is a volunteer or two to help me mastermind some kind of insurance fraud/scam type situation. I'm going to need a driver, someone to do crowd control and mostly I'm going to need a head honcho, a Takashi Shimura, a leader of both men and chicks. My current concept is pretty fucking sketchy to say the least and what with all the dope and all the being a dope I'm seriously short of a mental mover and motivator who can come up with, and execute a scheme so cunning that it'll fuck anything Henry Gondorff ever conceived right into the ha'penny place.

I'm thinking the plan is going to involve some sort of faked accident whereby Common Law's new car (it's going to be Common Law's car, I'm just the driver) gets either completely fucking totalled or I suppose, if you wanted to get all minimalist about it, cosmetically damaged to the tune of one new Bianchi.

If applying for the role of 'Brains of the Operation' please be sure to include a detailed proposal as to how I'm going to have my new set to spin Italian baby out of the box and on the roads by Christmas.

Yes, folks, you heard right. It looks like we're going to have a car by next weekend. I sigh. Oh, how I fucking sigh.

Friday, November 23, 2007

You better start swimmin' or you'll sink like a stone

Friday, November 23, 2007 13
“By far the most dangerous foe we have to fight is apathy - indifference from whatever cause, not from a lack of knowledge, but from carelessness, from absorption in other pursuits, from a contempt bred of self satisfaction”

Are you having a laugh? 12 fucking votes? This is important shit, folks. Fuck Harney, fuck Pakistan, fuck the anniversary of Radioactive Man. Think of my beard, I howl, won't someone please think of my beard!

Don't make me leave the three year old by herself in the house so that I can go to an internet cafe and move from machine to machine casting my ballot over and over again to make it look as if I have more than 12 readers. You don't want that shit on your head, folks. And if you have already voted, fucking vote again from work. Or if you don't work which is pretty likely seeing as we're talking people who read blogs here, then get the fuck over to your sole real world mate's house and vote from there. Or if you don't have any real world mates then fucking break into the next door neighbour's house while they're in work. Vote or die? Not die, no, but disappoint.

Vote or disappoint, folks.

Thursday, November 22, 2007

Those holy hills, that deep ravine

Thursday, November 22, 2007 7
I need to talk about breasts. It was only a matter of time, I suppose. Rows upon rows of breasts. To be perfectly fucking blunt folks, I could be doing without them. I will have plenty of other shit to be thinking about come seven o'clock tonight. Shit like shouting. Shit like the perfect Zen circle to which my pedal stroke constantly aspires yet never quite achieves. Shit like is the music going to come to a crashing fucking halt now that, faced once more with mp3 player death, I find myself relying on the incredible temperamental technology that is the cd-rw. All this shit of which I have to think.

But I can see nothing but breasts before me. Is this biological? Can I blame the human nature of humanity, the way of the man? Why must it take a conscious effort, a big fuck off conscious effort to wrench my eyes from these over-exposed, under-clad, gently jiggling funbags?

I swear to you folks, I do not, I will not spend the hour gaping open-mouthed at the wide range of size and support on display. I will not. I will face faces to check for effort level. I will studiously examine legs to assess form, I will even look at the men, grunting, sweaty apes that they are. But it will require focus and concentration that could be better applied to other aspects of the training session. And they're always there anyway, in the corner of my eye, these galloping globes of flesh.

So here is my wish, ladies, heads up for my simple request. I understand that the nature of a strong aerodynamic position involves something of a lean over. And I know that we can all get a little toasty, a little on the warm side as we hold our heart rates at 85% for lengthy periods of time. But please, wear a fucking t-shirt with a slightly higher cut. I don't want to oppress you, but I can see the top of your nipples and none of us want that.

So, sports bra. A technical fabric top that has a neckline rather than a nipple line. Is that so much to ask?

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

Momma's gonna make all of your nightmares come true

Wednesday, November 21, 2007 5
The lengths to which Irish mothers will go to express disapproval of their children's misbehavior appears to have peaked out with Jonathan Ryhs Meyer's ma eating a dirt sandwich in reaction to his arrest for being a drunken dickhead.

Beat that, Mickle.

A little chihuahua named Carlos

Some musings on Gimme's beard. Like navel gazing but with my beard instead of my cute little hairy insy.

Muesli doesn't work anymore. Pre-facial hair, my slurpy sloppy ways might have meant the odd dribble of skinny milk flowing gracefully down my chin to be wiped nonchalantly away with the front of my deadbeat dad 2002 Dublin Bus Ten miler T-shirt. Not no more. Even a good scrub merely serves to rub the milk into the generosity of my face fuzz, leading to that crusty carpet effect except with beard instead of carpet and fat free milk instead of adolescent semen. And despite being unable to smell anything due to my man cold, I can clearly phantom whiff the curdling of the milk directly below my nose. This leads to the washing of my face, and what a lengthy, thankless fucking snorefest bearded face washing has proven to be. So either no more muesli (unthinkable if not unwritable) or a further drop in my already limbo dancing standards of personal hygiene. How low can I go? Pretty fucking low, pretty fucking happily.

Perhaps, as everyone from Common Law to random Irish chicks living in Italy maintain, beards are sexy. But I gotta tell you folks, on Gimme the sexy seems to have been superseded by the scary. At work, despite my freelance status, I am happy to do my bit for the company by smiling and occasionally even greeting the punters as I wander about trying to remember what kind of shouting it is I am supposed to be doing next. And whereas before the female fitness freaks would greet these smiles with a look of 'Who is this mysterious, cute, if rather large nosed individual? What twinkly eyes he has! I must follow him and see if he will shout at me too..', now the response elicted is closer to 'Aaaah! Crazy psycho axe murderer smiling at me! Crazy fucking eyes! Crazy fucking beard! Run! Run to the hills!' I think I prefer the intensity of the the latter reaction.

I am not a thoughtful person. I am generally in either a state of convulsive panic or one of mindless drug induced stupor. But sometimes, and with increasing beard induced frequency, I find myself being all reposeful, all contemplative. And then folks, something shocking happens. I finger it. I caress it. I stroke it. I stroke my beardy beard. About the chin area. Like I'm some kind of fucking ponce. Not, you understand, in the homosexual sense, but in the pretentious, faux intellectual sense. A big fucking chin stroking ponce is what this beard has made me. Which is fine.

Everything up to this point is, if not positive, then certainly not disastrous. But the look of sheer disappointment on the face of Gay Country Client that, folks, that is disastrous. Like arrows to the heart were each of these words that GCC spoke: 'Ah, Gimme, you've lost your boyish charm!'

A date with the razor looms.

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

When they leave they're so hard to find

Tuesday, November 20, 2007 13

I had a man cold. In fact, I still have it. At least that's my story. You don't want to hear more whining shit about my fear of happiness, my lack of friends and my being a complete and utter cunt. You really don't.

Oh, and I also have a hurty knee.

Thursday, November 15, 2007

Visions of your chestnut mare shoot through my head and are makin' me see stars

Thursday, November 15, 2007 17
If parenting is a competition, and it is, of course it fucking is, everything is a competition, then I am the champions, folks, I am the fucking champions. No time for losers, not looking at anyone, Common Law, cause I am the champions of the woooorld.

Do we remember when Riker asked Gimme what abortion was? Now that one was a whole lot of fun. This happened in France though and Common Law had successfully extricated herself from that particular holiday, thus avoiding any direct comparisons between our explanainicating styles.

We have a mug in the house, a present from my sister. I has one of those faux fifties illustrations of a smiling housewifey type. It proclaims, in white lettering, on an appropriately menstrual red background: 'I'm Having my Period and can therefore Legally Kill you.' Capitalization as it appears, folks. The mug is up high, it has pencils in it.

Riker, while short (thought the tallest in her class at the moment, no reason for this to be a source of pride for me, but it is), is not fucking blind.

'What's a period, Dad?'

I hear the diving submarine alarm sound. You know the one I mean.

'Um, what's the context?' Can Gimme get away with a discussion of the American word for a full stop?

'I'm having my period and can therefore legally kill you.' He can not.

I mean for fuck's sake. Didn't we get her a book on this or something? Isn't this completely a mother's job? I have half a mind to get Common Law on the blower. 'Yo, teach! ' I'll holler, 'Mentrsuation 101! You're up!'

I don't though. I explain to Riker that God and Jesus and the Virgin Mary have cursed all women as a punishment for their horrible whoreishness, their base animalistic sexual urges. Every month from the moment when she decides that boys are not smelly after all or that they are still smelly but she now likes the smell, she will bleed, bleed from her dirty place and this bleeding will be accompanied by a wrenching of the abdomen that is to be relished as it deserved and may even possibly save her from the fall down, down, down, to the depths of hell where truely she belongs because she is a unrepentant slut.

Ok, not really. I said some other stuff instead, simply, and with a well practised air of matter of factness.

'Oh,' said Riker.

'Hasn't your mother talked to you about this before?'

'Yeah, but you explain things much better.'

Like I say, folks, I am the champions.

And not to rub it in or anything:


Tuesday, November 13, 2007

Mister, won't you help me please?

Tuesday, November 13, 2007 8
I am bored of the near death experience, folks, the joke is getting old. The first couple of times that I saw my life flash before my eyes there was a newness to the experience. It was a load of boring tosh that I won't be troubling you with today, but it had novelty. There was a certain freshness and energy to the delivery that has faded with time, as the worn out, tubby, balding middle-aged stand up gets up on that tiny little excuse for a stage yet again, in an attempt to prise one more laugh, or Christ, even a fucking titter, out of the gruesome shaggy dog story that is my life.

The audience is my conscious mind and it can be forgiven for being a little distracted given that it is also trying to take on board the whole 'car moving at 60km/h cutting violently into my path from my blindside' thing. I am essentially blind in one eye. I got it all going for me in this scenario, folks. And I am going at a fair clip myself as I capitalize on the brief rest and downhill start provided by Charlemont Street Bridge.

It's wet. Rosie's rear end is gone from under me the moment I instinctively slam on the breaks. I slide across the tarmac until I am directly underneath the wheels of the oncoming car. I am not wearing a helmet. I fucking die.

It's wet. But the back tyre holds and all that happens is that my braking distance is doubled. My braking distance is doubled and I am hit from the side at 60km/h. I fly gracefully through the evening, right leg already shattered, before hitting the ground with a throw-up-in-your-mouth crunch. My head slams against the curb. I am still not wearing a helmet. I fucking die.

But it's not wet folks. It's dry. I live.

It rained all day today. And I am bored with the almost fucking dying.

We have a greed with which we have agreed

Let's strike a bargain here, folks: three strikes and you're out.

The three strikes of which I will speak all bring a little flutter of regular joy to my chronically arrhythmic heartbeat.

Strike the first: Television and movie writers in the US. Ha! Ahahahaha! Youse can fuck right off. Haven't you heard? We have reality tv, you fucking dolts! We don't need your witty one-liners and sparkling word play. We have the common man to spout out cliché after cliché after cliché. That's enough for us, can't you see? We have lines like the Tyra spouted 'you are still in the running towards becoming America's next top model.' Beyoncé came up with that all by herself, you know. Common Law maintains that my insistence on referring to Tyra Banks as Beyoncé is horribly racist. I think it's horribly funny. Oh you fucking writers, and you wannabe writers too, I know you're fucking out there, reading Gimme, stealing his ideas for your own writerly plans. You're a pack of pointless pricks and it's about time you learned your place. Your place is a waste of space. So if I were you muppets, I'd up pens and take whatever scraps happen to be leftover after geniuses like Simon Cowell and Gordon Ramsay have done their bit.

Strike the second: Dublin Bus. Everyone's banging on about this one. Bock's banging on about how everyone shouldn't be banging on about it. Here's the deadbeat dad angle, the Gimme take: You go, bus striker dudes! Get those buses off the roads. Because when the end of Gimme comes, I'm pretty sure it's going to be death by bus. There's one particular cunt who drives a 27a who doesn't seem to appreciate that I am not legally obliged to use the glass and heroin addict strewn bike path that runs from Fairview into town. His lack of appreciation leads to him sounding his horn and attempting to run me and my Rosie off the road at least once a week. So let the strike spread I say, let it spread all the way to the 27a. And let that guy be a scab and find himself on the receiving end of a good going over with a pipe wrench. And then let the strike end in case I want to go somewhere without one of my bicycles...

Strike the third and last: This one is my absolute favourite. Oh, this one's a humdinger. The Gee Ay Ay! One more time, folks, let's have ourselves a big ha! Ahahahaha! I have zero fucking understanding of the issues at hand in this dispute (aren't they supposed to be fucking amateurs though? What's to fucking strike about?) nor am I in any particular rush to gain this knowledge. What I do know is that I want this one to run and run. I don't want our tv schedules and sports pages cluttered up with this crap, nor do I want to have look at those garish filthy bog hopping jerseys on every single summer Sunday cycle.

Down with writers, pretentious fucks. Down with buses, murderous bastards. Down with bogball, in all its hideous inbred forms.

And up with strikes. That is all.

It's getting hotter, it's our burning love

When Riker was a toddler I never let her watch Barney. Why? Because Barney is an evil purple parasite produced by a pack of motherfuckers who are too lazy to get it together to get some new songs written. Every single tune is ripped off from some usually shitty traditional ditty. Contrast this with the stone cold children's classic that is Bear in the Big Blue House. Go Bear! That's some quality shit, folks, with lots of original songs including 'C'mon everybody lets clean up the house' and 'Just Listen', a Tutter torch song that addresses homelessness. Now that's fucking children's television.

But back to Barney and its many drawbacks. Barney's voice. Nails on a blackboard ain't nothing to those hyper-modulated, so clearly feigned enthusiasm packed tones. And the fake nasty Billy Barry kids who, the second the cameras stop rolling, are doubtless heading into the toilets to throw up their lunches and get some good old fashioned self harm done. I love you, you love me, I fucking hate myself. And then that 'just the one' line of coke to get them through another soul selling, childhood shilling afternoon shoot.

I'm not a big Barney fan, folks.

But when number two pops out, and parents will recognise this bad boy as a universal truth, standards tend to drop. In that if the television program in question isn't telling Data to kill her parents or all the immigants then I'll probably let her watch it if it's television watching time. Data gets about an hour after playschool before we go to get Riker, and Barney generally forms part of this hour.

I'm sitting here tip tapping away, inhaling a turkey sandwich and I hear the latest song that Barney and his coked up cohorts are fucking in the ass. It's Depeche Mode's 'I just can't get enough'.

Really, folks, I wouldn't lie to you.

This is wrong on so many levels. Ratchet & Clank Future: Tools of Destruction has less levels that this is wrong on. Its wrong, wrong, wrong.

Oh, it's so very, very wrong.

Monday, November 12, 2007

I've moved your mountains and marked your cards

Monday, November 12, 2007 11
My good friend, who for reasons of privacy protection and anonymity, I shall be referring to as 'Gav', and you can shut the fuck up back there, I have plenty of good friends and not all of them live in Spain or on the internet. 'Gav' for instance lives in the greater Dublin area (and I mean greater, folks, he's dead posh) and then there's, well, there's...let's move on.

'Gav' has finally gotten it together and got his lovely wife 'up the Damien'. That's how he phrased it. 'I got my lovely wife up the Damien', he said. It's the language of the miraculous, folks. People who have no fucking idea what he was talking about need to go away and update their knowledge of Irish football and its denizens. But I'm guessing you get the picture. A father he will be. Many congratulations and all that shite. About fucking time.

Come a little closer folks, and watch how I make these happy, joyous tidings all about Gimme and Gimme's rage. On the day I heard this news, I also received a missive from another law smith, another who is paid to prey upon the legal niceties, the nice legalities of our suspect system. Said missive included forms that must be filled out and signed in front of yet another law joker. These signings, these scribblings will finally make me a legal guardian of the children I have been fathering since they emerged howling and hellaing into the world eight and three years ago.

What a load a cock it is that this has to be done. Why was I not a legal guardian from the moment of their birth? Was my contribution so minimal? That's a super rhetorical question. No answers on a postcard thank you. What type of fucked up system is it that has a built in assumption of dad deadbeatedness? And while we're at it, what kind of useless father takes eight years to get it together to establish guardianship? The Irish type, folks, the Gimme kind.

Common Law, I suspect, is delighted to find herself in a position to abscond to South America safe in the knowledge that I will be legally obliged to keep looking after this pair of comedians. Abscond to South America or, you know, die.

Friday, November 9, 2007

On roads that are paved with men that behave like they know where they're going

Friday, November 9, 2007 23
The prosecuton calls its first witness: this guy at the gym.

This guy, this guy just looks dirty. He wears a cotton polo shirt for spin. Which is wrong, wrong, wrong. His hair is lank, greasy and just that little bit too long for his age. I guess he's 40 odd, or perhaps way way younger. It's hard to tell because he has a beard. A nasty thankfully extinct animal on your face kind of beard. It's shapeless, of a nondescript length and badly cared for. It looks remarkably like my own.

'Welcome to the beard club,' he said cheerily to me at 6.45 yesterday morning.

'Tyutrfyg,' I replied what with it being 6.45 and all.

'Grew mine when I was eighteen. I haven't shaved since.'

'Oh Jesus, dude, really? And have you washed since? Or changed that polo shirt? Because all evidence points to the negatory.'

I didn't say that, of course. I said 'Utuhguhl.'

The prosecution calls it's second witness: Riker. Riker gives her testimony on the walk home from school yesterday.

'So, Riker, darling, my first born. How was your day?'


'Anything exciting happen in school?'


'What did you do in yard?'


'Oh for fuck's sake. Are you a fucking teenager already? Engage with your father! Christ.'

I didn't say that. Instead, reachingly, I said: 'So what do you think of my beard?'

There is a Beckettian pause. My Riker is a wonderful, sensitive, thoughtful child. She had no wish to rush in to anything that might hurt my feelings. So she went into it nice and slowly.

'No offence, Dad, but it looks kind of freaky.'

'None taken, Riker. None taken.'

The prosecution rests.

The defense calls Common Law.

'I like it.'

'I don't believe you.'

'I do. I think it's sexy.'

'No you fucking don't. You just want me to go out looking like a plonker.'

Common Law sighs.

But I do believe this, folks. She's always sending me out in dodgy, generally inside out attire, with sleep in my eyes and bogeys hanging from my nose. Why? Because I was totally lying when I said that I look like a car crash victim. In truth I am devastatingly, drop dead gorgeous and Common Law just doesn't want both women and men wandering this planet weeping inside day after day for the rest of their lives as they wail and bemoan the stark reality of my takeness, my being hers. She's generous that way, Common Law. And her generosity is fucking loving the beard.

The defense calls it second and final witness: Hardcore Motherfucker, my recently recovered bicycle.

'Your Honour, there is no way on God's green Gaia that those scumbags would have handed, nay, pushed me back into the arms of my true master had it not been for the beard. Yes, his eyes were crazy. Yes, he was foaming at the mouth. But they still would have punched him in the face and kicked him in the head until he was dead had it not been for this beard, this patchy beard of the unhinged.'

The defense rests.

As usual, folks, I will be letting all you people who I've never met make the big life decisions for me.

Shave or no shave?

Wednesday, November 7, 2007

Cadent tears fret channels in my cheeks

Wednesday, November 7, 2007 12
Risotto, done right, takes quite a bit of time.

Yes! Oh fuck, yes! It's the Gimme cookery hour! You've been waiting for this one for a long long time, right folks? Why the fuck does Gimme waste all his time talking about his insecurities , his bicycles, his chiildren? The fuck is he going to start on the good stuff? Cookery, Gimme, cookery! C'mon dude, you could be the new Jamie Oliver. That fucker's gone all fat and sincere and we need a bitter and slim go-getter to take his place...

Not tonight, folks. This one's about the Bridge Crew. Those ungrateful little bints.

It's been a week of sweets, of cheap candied crap. The twist of fate which has saved my girls from my car crash looks served them well this Hallowe'en. You pull a lot of fucking sweets when you're as beautiful as my girls, as Gimme gene free, as Common Law chromosone heavy. Last year's solution to this sugar snowstorm was my eating all Data's stuff. Took me about four hours one evening. She was two and so didn't fucking notice. Still living in the moment. Not so much this year. Already it's all about the anticipation. She had them all out in line on the kitchen table. I think she may have taken a picture with her Dora camera. Either way, nothing was going missing.

And so, in a desperate bid to get them through it all, I somewhat dropped my food fascism, and allowed each of them one piece of crap after lunch and one after dinner. But I reckon they've been sneaking stuff all afternoon too because it's been five days since either of them have eaten any dinner. Well, it all fucking ran out last night and I decided that tonight, tonight they eat food. They wil eat this dinner that I cook. My labours will be rewarded by the beatific smiles of pure gratitude. 'Oh Daddy, how we love you, you big strong provider you.'

And so to risotto: finely chop the onions, garlic, celery. Finely chopping. Now there's a major pain in the tits. And a pain in my distally weakened fingers and in my burning eyes. And don't you folks be coming at me with your 'use the food processor' shite. That's almost as annoying, with all it's bits of celery sticking to the side and not getting chopped up crap. And it completely lacks authenticity. So I'm not doing it.

And then there's a whole lot of other shit you have to do. You don't want to know. It's fucking boring.

Here's what you need to know. I cooked solidily, constantly doing one fucking thing after the other for a full hour and fifteen minutes. That's a lot of fucking time when you're as old as Gimme. But the result folks, made it all completely worthwhile. This was a risotto among risottos, one of the greatest dinners I have ever created. When you get a risotto right, it rocks, right? Damn right. Rocking risotto is what I raised up.

And despite being starved for the entire evening, despite the creaminess, the barlotti beans, the perfect pancetta, despite all these things, my children, first and second born both, took one look and one fake taste each of this culinary conquest, this food of the gods and refused to eat so much as a spoonful. They ended up with fruit and cheese dippers.

Hear me howl with pain and frustration, folks. Hear me sob with sadness. Fucking dope drought and all its terrible, beautiful consequences.

Tuesday, November 6, 2007

He'll teach you how to pick and choose and how to throw the blade

Tuesday, November 6, 2007 10
I have many addictions:

Exercise, obviously.

Handjobs, naturally. And I mean naturally, folks, I mean handjobs. Not for me the Wicked Wanda 3000 of Captain Smack.

Chocolate. All varieties, but with an over-the-top emphasis on the Snickereses.

Marijuana. Ditto on the all varieties thingy - I know what ditto means now. Emphasis here on whatever I can get my hands on. As a rule,I find the selection to be terribly limited and as soon as the Bridge Crew grow up and get proper highly-paid soul-destroying jobs in marketing, I'm moving to Amsterdam where they have dope menus. Dope menus, Tim Krabbé, and many many miles of bicycle lanes.

Alcohol. Specifically Whistable Organic Ale these days. But I'll also drink that week old cooking wine if that's all that's to be had.

The World Wide Internet. They have it on computers now and there's nothing like it for filling those empty hours that would otherwise be wasted by preparing the evening's class, folding clothes or paying attention to the children.

But folks, the favourite of all my favourites, my Ace Internet Marketing of addiction, my Thomas More of mood enhancement is that sweet bean caffeine. Yes, I fucking know caffeine is not a bean, but please, you got let me have that sweet bean caffeine. It sounds too good for you to shoot it down.

Caffeine. Espresso for preference. Double espresso for double preference. What a fucking all rounder that drug is. Just got up and despise the world and everyone and everything contained therein? Coffee'll sort that out. In minutes you won't just have gotten up. You'll be up. And your hate will be stronger, longer and more focused.

About to teach a spin class but would rather sellotape your bollox to the ceiling than scream 'Circles! Relax the upperbody! Go, go go!' even one more fucking time? Not to worry, enough free filtered Robt Roberts shite will push you through that hump right to the point where the concept of using Sufjan Stevens as effort increasing exercise music seems not only reasonable but downright obligatory. And you'll want to shout at them. They fucking deserve it, the masochistic fools.

And want to have yourself a little relaxerooni, a little down time from the endless Sisyphian circle of children delivery collection feeding delivery collection feeding? A cup of joe, black as a moonless night at midnight is going to give that down time a little upitude. You don't want to be down when you're down, folks. That'd be a downer.

And once you're hooked, once you've got that caffeine monkey on your back, you're going to be in complete control of your bowel movements, you'll be the boss of your bombs, you'll decide when to dump. Because unless you feed Curious Coffee George ain't nothing moving no matter how many pints of Vindaloo and Guinness you've lowered.

And wow! Coffee goes with all the other addictions too! Irish coffee. Hash coffee. Jerk off coffee. Internet coffee. It all works and works beautifully.

There's one more thing. I can measure the progress of my day by the number of espressos I have ingested. With these shifting seasons and changing hours it's nice to know how far I am from my bed, and my precious, precious shut eye. Right now, I'm at eight.

Halfway there...

Saturday, November 3, 2007

It's hard to tell where a man goes wrong, it might be here, it might be there

Saturday, November 3, 2007 11
Question. What great moment in history would you like to have witnessed? Personal or global, sporting or political, it's all up for grabs folks.

I appreciate that every last one of would like to answer with 'Hallowee'en night, 2007, Statoil Petrol Station, Howth Road, Dublin.' And I understand that. I'd like to see it again myself. But we need to put the incident aside and move on, no matter how satisfying repeated reflection on my ride rage may be.

The following clip reminded me of my own choice:

See that guy, that player who leans seductively on the two chicks? And then laughs convincingly, genuinely, with eight seconds to go? That's my father, Finbar.

Not really. But I suspect it was that charmingly sweatered smoothie who inspired Finbar to take up curling for a season a number of years ago. He got swept up in it, I guess. As you do. I have the details of following incident solely from his own somewhat biased description, so for the sake of accuracy, I'll tell it like it is in my head.

Finbar, taking a break from all that seductive leaning on attractive Canadian women which plays such an integral part in the sport, is on sweeping duties. He's the man, the man with the broom. He's sweeping with the enthusiasm and ultra-competitiveness that also has him beating all his children at any available sport for as long as he possibly can. No soft touches from our Finbar, no easing up on his four year old grandchild in a game of snap, and nothing but all out, go team, give it all you got sweeping when he's being the sweeper guy.

And then something goes awry. What it is that causes both feet to suddenly go from under Finbar we shall perhaps never know, though there can be no doubt that insane desperation to win has played a part. His feet fly high, the sweeper man gets air and it is at this point that my father makes his most grevious error: he fails to let go of the broom. So rather that breaking his fall with his newly acquired, top of the range curling glove protected hands, he uses his protection free pretty Irish face.

I saw the pictures folks, and he looked very similar to Kiefer Sutherland in Flatliners after a good seeing to from the little red riding hood kid. But the comedy contained within the photos of his battered face never matched my mental reconstruction of the incident itself. I suspect the reality was even better.

And for you folks? There's no particular reason for your selection to involve the humiliation and facial scarring of a relative, but one or two along those lines would make me feel marginally less bitter and mean.

Thursday, November 1, 2007

Ride of the Scumbag Bogeyman

Thursday, November 1, 2007 18
I'm throwing my leg over Rosie when the Crackberry chirps. Communiqué from Common Law demanding beer. A reasonable request considering that it was her turn this Hallowe'en and she's been the loser Yummy Mummy (and she sure is yummy, folks) standing at the end of the path as her children demand party food payment from complete strangers, while the most strenuous thing I've attempted over the course of the evening is the triangle pose.

That's about to change, folks. That's all about to change.

A glance at the watch shows 9.07. Our local off license inexplicably shuts at 10. No fucking problem. Not on Rosie, not with the wind at my back and a complete disregard for the rules of the road or my own personal safety. I fly through the Lebanon-like night past an army of Garda Siochána on Pearse Street who appear to be doing little to guard the fucking peace. That's where they'll be when I need them, standing on Pearse Street discussing which bonfire to ignore next.

It's a quick, quick 10k and I'm pulling up to the offy at 9.35, plenty of time to spare. Except there fucking isn't because it's fucking closed. Qué? Must be a Hallowe'en thing. Lazy fuckers, any fucking excuse.

So. What to do? On any other night I would have gone 'Fuck it', and gone home to the week old glass of leftover cooking wine and a smoke that did not fear to joke. But a demand is a demand and the garage is just an extra five minute Rosie rampage away. And so I go.

I'm almost there when I realise that I am lucklessly lockless. Rosie resides indoors at work and I can almost bring her in to the local place, but this beer dispensing Statoil is a whole different kettle of fish. The only place where I could reasonably rest Rosie is completely invisible from inside the shop area. Do I risk it? As I pull up I take glance around for suspicious, shady types who might want to make off with my new bike babe.

This quick look tells me that I'm going to have to go home and get a fucking lock if Common Law is to get her well deserved beer boost. There are two scumbag types loitering, littering, being scumbags, with their scumbag haircuts and their scumbag tracksuits. They both have bikes, but that makes fuck all difference really. I could brave it out and actually drag Rosie into the shop. They both have bikes. What to do, what to do? The scumbags are moving slowly out of the forecourt. They both have bikes. I'm just going to have to go home. They both have bikes. One of them, a tall skinny fuck has what looks like a Specialized Hardrock. I look more closely. Gimme and his paranoid delusions. Gimme and his lingering grief.

It's a Specialized Hardrock, alright. It has mountain bike clip-on pedals, but non-knobbly slick tyres. The back tyre is bigger than the front tyre. Folks. Oh folks, it is. It's Hardcore Motherfucker.

I am instantly, bestially aware that consideration means hesitation and that hesitation means, I don't give myself time to think what hesitation means, I just fucking go for it, folks, I let the red mist descend and I fucking go for it.

I open with a cunt. A screaming, snarling, spitting 'YOU FUCKING CUNT. GET OFF MY FUCKING BIKE YOU CUNT, GET OFF MY FUCKING BIKE!' Almost instantly he's off it. 'That's my fucking bike you fucking cunt, you fucking stole my bike' I'm growling now 'from the side of my house you fucking CUNT' This big kid even as he backs away attempts 'It's me mates bike...' 'It's my fucking bike, you little fuck! (cunt is losing its impact I primally feel) Look at the pedals. Look at the tyres. You fucking thief.'

They could have beaten the shit out of me and taken both bikes, folks. It would have cost them little and nobody would have stopped them here and now in our modern Ireland.

But my eyes, folks. My weirdo bikie clothes, sure, my fucked up patchy homeless person beard, yes, but mostly my eyes. My eyes are crazed, maniacal. I have no memory of ever being so enraged, so completely out of control. I keep screaming, unhingedly shrieking for much longer than is necessary. They keep backing away. And then quickly, before these superhuman powers of insanity leave me, I get up on Rosie, pull Hardcore Motherfucker close and we all ride off into the night.

And you better believe that I was back there twenty minutes later to get those beers. I brought a lock.
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