When one spends all one's time getting one's knickers ina twist about refuse collection and the insane randomness of Irish language spellings, one forgets just what a fucked up, sickening emotion genuine rage really is. Sick is what I feel mostly, sick and powerless and like going out and extracting sticky, sickly, crunching retribution from the next little scumbag in a tracksuit who has the misfortune to cross my path . And here's some equal opportunity brutality for you: my inner Judge Dredd, my exterior Laurence Powell, would both be perfectly happy if said scumbag happened to be a girl.

Common Law was walking up Capel Street last night with two friends when they were attacked by a gang of teenagers, nearly all female. She was thrown against a car, punched in the face, kicked, beaten. Not for money, no. For footage. The whole thing was being videoed on a phone.

She's not badly hurt. But she has a black eye and looks damaged, like she's been beaten up. And naturally she's very shaken.

Tell you what, I'm going to save the in-depth analysis of the fuckedupness of our society, the rambling discourse on how exactly this affects me and my feelings, the purple prose on my lost liberalness and my new MIchael McDowell fanclub membership and just let this motherfucker sit there, like the nauseating ball of fury in my stomach.