Wednesday, December 9, 2009

Even my trousers give me pain

Wednesday, December 9, 2009 4
How much fun was that? I had to go out and pick up a child halfway through so if there was a part where Lenihan slipped in a bit about how he wasn’t going to be a tremendous poor people raping cunt I may well have missed it. What’s that? There was no such announcement? Oh well. Fun none the less. I was honoured to star in a Twentweet, along with Darragh, no, not that Darragh, though this Darragh seems to share that Darragh’s nauseating attitude of ‘Wow, isn’t everything just peachy’. Hey, guess what? Apparently Fás are fab, and we should focus on all the cool shit they do, like training inbred bozos how to tie their shoelaces, and not the stunning inefficiencies and outright theft performed by their executives. (And to drop my dripping irony for a mo, let it be said that training is not the fucking answer. We're all trained to fuck. There are no jobs, not even shoelace tying jobs). And hey again, just in case you think Gimme is being a leetle harsh on Darragh II, check the fuck out of this sentence: "negativity seeds negativity and it's negativity that has this country where it is today. Not bad government decisions." Oh for the love of good fuck.

Personally, I’m super positive about this budget. For months we have we sat duck-taped to our chairs, as our great leaders pranced around to Steelers Wheel, occasionally bending down to whisper into our temporary ears of all the nasty things that were going to happen come December. And as the sun goes down on the dreaded day, I find myself and mine not all that bloodied and still in possession of almost all of our aural appendages. Why? Because, despite what feels like an endless struggle against debt and Common Law’s ridiculous 79c app habit (appit?), we really aren’t that poor. And nor, come to that, is any fucker with a permanent public sector job, despite being the alleged loser in this most Saint Bridget of budgets. Sure, he might be negative equitied right up the ass, but she still has a house and he can still put food on the table. Maybe it's a struggle, but it's a struggle for everyone. And what we got today is a shitty fucking Thacherite cop out involving the further exploitation of the genuinely impoverished, a complete abandonment of any vague thoughts of job creation, and a scrapage scheme that benefits, you guessed it, those with enough cash floating around to buy an oh ten car.

Young people on Job seekers "benefit" get the shit cut out of their money because up until now they were just sitting on their arses playing XBox. Why didn't 22 year olds do that during the boom? Because there were fucking jobs. People want to work. These welfare cunts, these Limerickers, these Darndalese, will always exist. You cannot legislate for lazy cunts. But making it impossible for the youth of today to make ends meet while looking for a job that doesn't exist isn't going to make the jobs appear, it's going to make the young uns leave the country. And rightly so. Shit, if it wasn't for the children, I'd be in Penticton right fucking now, ranting about the poor pouring of the Guinness and the lack of quality snow And I have a fucking job.

Time for a conclusion? Coming right up.

I'm slightly relieved, more than a little disgusted, and really fucking scared. This is no eighties, no thirties, but thanks to today's comedic anti-climax, it soon fucking will be. Turns out I wasn't all that super positive after all.

Sorry, Darragh II.

Monday, December 7, 2009

If I should stay I would only be in your way

Monday, December 7, 2009 18
Anonymous said... U miserable fuck I hope u die in your sleep!
Oh yes, she or he did. And having finally received what I hope we can all agree is essentially a death threat, albeit a very kind and generous one, I believe the time has come for me to either give up this bleughing malarkey before my ultra-secret black Brit carpet-muncher identity is revealed, exposing me to all manner of increasingly cunning assassination attempts, or to dump the nippers and spend the resultant expenditure reduction on a round-the-clock, steely-eyed yet palsied-paunched protector named Philip. And having given up the Go Me! game so many times before, it would be a little humiliating to once more throw in this threadbare towel only to pick up it up again in a week or two when I find myself with nothing better to do. So Bridge Crew jettisoning it shall be. Anyone want two ageing, and only slightly soiled girl children? Sure you do, they're dead cute, if less so with every day that passes.

But guess, folks, guess who the fuck wants me so peacefully dead? What post might have garnered such a mortal menace? One of my ad hominem attacks on poor old Darragh Doyle? An unreasonable rant re golf? Or who would have fucking thunk it, a well reasoned argument against the continued pumping of time and cash into a dead language? Yup, had to be. Rule of threes, innit? And because this gal or guy loves the Gaeilge so much, he or she has fucked off to Australia, presumably to troll from a distance while spreading the good tidings that the Irish language is alive and well and what's this, living in fucking Melbourne. Home soon though, home soon to kill me in my sleep.

'Bring it on,' says Philip.

Sunday, December 6, 2009

I remember way back then when everything was true

Sunday, December 6, 2009 11
As thoughts here in Gaialand drift slowly about the arena of possibly sometime in the distant future maybe considering the vague concept of attaching ourselves onto the very lowest rung of the property ladder, I am reminded of a childhood moment.

My hyper-Catholic, Inigo Montoya of guilt grandmother stands holding a letter in the front room of her family home, with tears streaming silently down her face. The letter, it is explained to me, contains the information that she and her husband now own their house. As a child I am confused by this, on a number of levels. Haven't they always owned the house? And if they haven't and now they do then why is Mammy Zealot sad? The concepts of mortgages and joyful tears are thus explained to the girlish Gimme and all is well with the world. But now, now I'm not so sure.

Within a year my grandfather's right temple mole was revealed to be something more than a beauty spot, so they hacked off the side of his face and turned this greatest of men into a slurring embarrassment to my selfish, now teenage self, and all to no avail. Dead, he was, and soon. Mammy Zealot followed within the year, having nothing left for which to live. And now I wonder, what was the point? What was the point of those years of struggle to raise six children and two grandchildren, to scrimp and save to pay for the monstrous mortgage and the monthly mountain of church bound cash, if at the close of days Jolly Jumping Jesus did not see fit to give them even a couple of years to enjoy all these achievements, all this freedom? I now heartily suspect that what I witnessed on that sunny winter afternoon were not after all, tears of joy, but a prescient weeping of why the fuck did we bother?

Monday, November 30, 2009

I heard there was a secret chord

Monday, November 30, 2009 24
I walk down by the side of the church, shivering in my new denim jacket. My granny wouldn't have let me wear it but she was still in the kitchen when I said goodbye and went out, closing the big, heavy door as quietly as I could. I really, really wanted to wear my new denim jacket because I think it looks really good. I brushed my teeth too, which I don't always do, and splashed some of my uncle's man perfume on my neck, like I see him do. He calls it aftershave but he doesn't really shave yet so I call it man perfume and he hates that and gives me a dead arm when I do. It's still really dark.

We always go this way to church anyway, even when we're just going to normal mass, my Granddad and my granny and me and my sister. Not my uncle, he always goes to a different mass. I think maybe he doesn't go to mass, but he always knows who said it because my granny always asks him and he always knows. I think he doesn't really go because once I asked him what the sermon was about and he just mumbled something and my granny said I hope you were listening and he said of course he was listening and they argued a bit and later he gave me a dead arm.

Today I'm going in the side door so even if I lived in Rathmines and I normally came in the front way I'd have to go down the side way. Because I'm serving. It's really, really cold, but I know that it'll be warmer in the vestry because it's always warmer in the vestry and Father Kavanagh will be there today. I take off my glasses before I go in. I'll have to put them on before the mass because I can't really see very well and once I tried to do the mass without them and I knocked over the water and wine thingy by accident and Father Tonge was doing the mass and he called me a clumsy cunt quietly so now I have to wear them in case and anyway Judge Durkin and Mrs Durkin are always at the half seven and if they see me without my glasses they'll tell my granny and she'll be annoyed and not talk to me and maybe even hit me with the spoon because I'm always losing my glasses. But I take them off before I go in anyway. My glasses make me look stupid, because they're all brown and yellow and big. I tried to make them look better by painting them with a gold marker that my Granddad has but my granny made me scrape it off and now they look even more stupid because there's little bits of gold still left.

Father Kavanagh is already there when I get in, even though I'm really early. The door's open but I knock anyway because you always have to knock. Father Kavanagh shouts come in. He looks like he's waiting but he doesn't look very glad to see me. I say good morning, Father, but he just grunts. He's still wearing his normal clothes, he even doesn't have a collar on, just a nice white shirt and black trousers and I think that maybe he's wearing man perfume too, but I'm not sure, maybe it's the incense or just him. He smells good. He's very tall and not fat and he makes me feel like I need to pee, but not exactly like I need to pee.

Mick comes in. He looks like he's just been crying. He always looks like he's been crying, with his leaky face. That's what I call him in my head. Leaky Face. But not in real life. In real life I just call him Mick, but I don't talk to him very much. He doesn't talk very much. Father Kavanagh looks glad to see him though. Father Kavanagh always looks glad to see Mick and he never looks glad to see me. It's still only five to seven, I can see the time on the clock on the wall, but Father Kavanagh tells me to go down and open the big front doors. I say it's only five to seven Father and he says don't argue with me and while you're there put out the leaflets and fill up the holy water, there, there's the bottle and be sure and knock now before you come back in here. I say yes Father.

I walk out onto the altar and genuflect in the middle of the altar before I walk down the big centre aisle. I always do this job, while Mick helps Father Kavanagh get dressed. I love being in the church when it's empty, it's so huge and peaceful and quiet, but really I'd like it more if I was the one helping Father Kavanagh get dressed. I asked Mick to swop one time and he said yes but Father Kavanagh decides and he always picks Mick. I go slowly, carrying the water, because it's a big bottle and it's heavy and I don't want to drop it and I'm carrying the leaflets too and I put the water down and do the leaflets first, put them in the four holder thingies and then I get the water and genuflect again. I like genuflecting. Then I go out and open the big doors and put water in the bowl thingies even though they don't really need any water so I just put in a bit, but really carefully because I can't really see without my glasses and the bottle is really heavy. And then I walk back up the centre aisle and I genuflect again before I go up on the altar and then I go to the vestry door and knock and I hear Father Kavanagh say wait so I wait. I wait for a while and I don't know whether I should knock again, I don't know what time it is because there's no clock but I see an old lady coming in, that old lady who's always at the half seven and always wears black so I knock again and I hear Father Kavanagh say I said wait, louder, so I wait.

And then Father Kavanagh says come in now. And Father Kavanagh and Mick are putting on Father Kavanagh's vestments and Father Kavanagh looks brilliant, tall and strong and smiling. Mick doesn't have his cassock on yet, so I go and take off my denim jacket and put my cassock on and look for my glasses. I can't find them. They're not in my denim jacket. I'm going to be in so much trouble. Mick looks like he's been crying again. He is crying a little bit really. I don't why, he hasn't lost his glasses. Stupid Leaky Face.

Sunday, November 29, 2009

I tremble with the nervous thought

Sunday, November 29, 2009 13
Scroll. Click. Vote again. Scroll. Click. Vote again. That's me. That's me and Darragh Doyle, That's me, Darragh Doyle and his army of illiterate minions. All day, every day. My weight is down, lower even than when I won that race, because I don't have time for eating, just clicking, scrolling, voting again. There's more of them, you see, so very many more. X-factor watchers. Late Late Show live bloggers. Happy-clappy, isn't life just great fucking zombies. Lurching, clicking, scrolling, voting. You can't kill them by crushing the skull because they're already brain undead, every last neuron melted by reality television and blissful ignorance.

I thought it was all over on Friday, I thought I could let it go. Mired they were in a single digit with four worthies, or at least less shitties, ahead of them. So I risked an evening out. But late last night I checked again, and there they were, way out in front, leading the charge with their idiotic, lowest common denominator banality. So I skipped work today, let the children starve in their own filth, and clicked and clicked again. And I cannot make a dent.

I've given up on the languishing Twenty, whose fan base appear much too concerned with fringe issues like the rape of our children and witty word play, and am focusing my voting on the second place minority reporting of Maman Poulet. I'm not a regular reader, being more of a majority man, but I am aware that the woman can construct a sentence and has more in her mind than the fucking Breffmeister, whatever the cunt that is.

I am a small and bitter man, yes. But I'd rather be small. I'd rather be bitter. I'd rather be angry and sad and nasty and yes, depressed, I'd rather be all these things than an 'I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here' watching moron. And rejoicing in its futility, I will make my meaningless stand.

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Come gather round children, it's high time ye learns

Wednesday, November 25, 2009 7
Someone quipped chucklefully on the Major (vote Twenty, twenty times) site yesterday that the teachers had stopped picketing three hours before everyone else. Well, let it be known that life imitates quip. Imitates the fuck out if it. And then takes it to a higher imitation plane.

I spun past the Bridge Crew's Catholic Madras at 9.15 yesterday expecting to get the free tingle that a wave of support to any kind of strikers never fails to provide. I'm not sure from where this tingle comes. I have no strong feelings on the various issues at stake, having aggressively adopted the "head in the sand, Common Law's got a steady gig, I'm alright Jacqueline" attitude right from the start of this delightful downturn. But I like strikes. I think they're cool. I dig the placards, the camaraderie, the fight against The Man, even when logic suggests that it's merely one The Man fighting against another.

And so it was with grave disappointment that I found the school gates chained yet unmanned or womanned, with nary a banner nor brazier in sight. A bit off, I thought, but perhaps they're having a quick pre-strike meeting, throwing together a few Jesus and Irish language tinged protest songs at the last minute. But when I returned at 12.30 there was still no sign nor signs. Those lazy, lazy fuckers.

Parent teacher meeting tomorrow and I hereby vow to spend our allotted thirty seconds discussing not the always perfect Riker, but my tragic lack of trade union tingle.

Monday, November 23, 2009

But I never got to Kiev

Monday, November 23, 2009 13
All the injustice. All the man-made misery. The Man made misery. Fat cat bankers, property wankers. So much to inspire my ire and yet nothing in my admittedly sozzled short-term memory has aroused in me such revulsion, such rage, such bitterness as the following two sentences:

'Jedward: they inspire some with revulsion, shame and hate on the one hand but I think it’s fair to say that the majority in Ireland admire and love them. I’m in this later camp and am very sad that they’re gone.'

Yes, yes, we all know that Gimme is the most boring of grammar Nazis, the most pedantic of syntax stormtroopers. You know this, I know this. And thus with this knowing, I want to wrench these forty-one words from their weeping. hysterical parents, as they crouch as a family, self-shitting on an overcrowded cattle train. I wish to wrench so that I might gas. Gas the fuck out of them, until with much eyeball gouging by filthy, ragged fingernails, with hearty heart-stopping howls, they die a slow, agonising, richly deserved death, These words, these words come from a post entitled 'The genius of Jedward'. The. Genius. Of. Jedward.

Dude, if a dude you are, and not some demon sent to fill my life with meaningless meaning, know that they do not inspire with revulsion, shame and hate. They inspire these emotions in the righteous, the brain-celled, the true. They inspire with banality, with a lack of even the most basic vocal or kinetic talent, with a summation of all that is wrong with our popular culture.

And know that you cannot have just one hand. Or perhaps you can, but you should then hack it off with a mouth-grasped rusty axe, before hurling your neck upon said axe so that this class of language sin may be committed no longer, no, not even with one of those Christopher Nolan head stick thingamajigs.

And know that it is not "fair to say that". It is, in fact, idiotic to say that. Not merely because were the sentiment itself to be true it would indicate that Ireland as a nation is truly beyond redemption, but also because you don't want to say "the majority in Ireland'" you want to say "the majority of people in Ireland". Or "the majority of Irish people". Or "fluffy pink newborn Koala bears". I pray to the God in whom I do not trust that you do not want to say something so offensive to eye and ear. And speaking of the go-to-guy with the beard,

Know that good fucking Jesus on a hideously ugly, offensively slow Yike, it's fucking latter. Latter. LATTER. Can you hear me Berlin? IT'S FUCKING LATTER!

Before I began, I mused that this measured monologue might make me feel better.


Thursday, November 12, 2009

The sun is the same, in a relative way, but you're older

Thursday, November 12, 2009 20
There is a temporal disturbance in the corner of my kitchen. In the little alcove above the dysfunctional dishwasher sits Microwave II. Microwave I, fatally wounded by my nine minute reheating of a plate of pasta for nine minutes, died one sad day six months later with a weak flash. I was not all that unhappy about this. Its digital clock had always been fast, inching ahead of real time by about 10 seconds a day. I got used to performing the necessary mental arithmetic and when I forgot, or the arithmetic was too hard, I was ahead of schedule. early. And I like to be early. But every six weeks or so, Common Law would correct it and I would become horribly confused. And late. And I don't like to be late. So I made Microwave I break. Enter Microwave II, a microwave too. And guess what? Microwave II has started running fast.

It's more subtle this time. 5 seconds a week? Something like that. But it's definitely happening. Coincidence? I think not. I believe in this digital age with all its wondrous rectangles, and digital clocks don't run fast. I am left with only one sketchable conclusion: temporal anomaly.

I'm going to remove Microwave II and climb in there, into the vortex. It shouldn't be more than a couple of months before I'm far enough ahead. The loss of income and necessity of hiring of a staff to both tend to me and do all the shit I do for the children, will be more than made up for when I call out the winning lotto numbers to Common Law.

I'm going to do some yoga now. It's a pretty small alcove.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Oh, come take my hand

Tuesday, November 10, 2009 16
This is, without doubt, the most lucid of dreams. Here I crouch typing, having done with many of the morning's banalities, folded, shopped, tidied and all with an almost unbelievable whiff of reality. Sure, a sky bluer than I've seen it for many a day and the vaguely off-putting beauty of everyone that I have encountered since half-past ten point to the illusionary nature of what appears before me, but in almost every other aspect the day seems just like any other. And yet it cannot be. Momentarily I will awake, drenched in pre-performance sweat, nauseated by the instant revelation that was has gone before is naught but the workings of my sleeping, shiny happy people addled brain.

Two years and five attempts later, my having passed my driving test can only be a dream.

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Clouds that pierce the illusion that tomorrow would be as yesterday

Wednesday, October 21, 2009 9
Common Law has just walked out the door, using that hoary old "work" excuse, leaving me with Data, Riker and two of Riker's friends. How the good fuck did this come about? It's a Girl Guide, having a car, being a good neighbour thing and may well become a regular event. Four children and me at the dinner table. The noise, oh mother of fuck, the noise. One of them, known to regular readers as Olivia who says "crap" all the time, is perhaps the loudest person ever in the history of the world. Every word is a shout, whenever it is not a shriek. There is no statement, question or imperative that is unworthy of a hollered "Oh my God!" preface. And the other three, newly grown up Data in particular, feel the need to compete enthusiastically yet unsuccessfully, with this tornado of tone. Two more hours before I can drop them off and go to work. They finish and drift to another room, Olivia's dinner untouched as she is "allergic to potatoes", as well as, one assumes, chicken, spinach, cannellini beans and cherry tomatoes. I crank up the Rodriguez as I clear the table, but to no avail. Every exclamation drills through my frontal lobe, the usual comfort of hot water plate rinsing easing my tension not a jot. Worst of all though is the realisation that this is just the beginning, cut to one, two, three, four five years from now, and there's two sets of friends and they're louder and brasher and even more in my fucking face.

I believe I may have some kind of nervous condition. Most likely a touch of the vapours.

Monday, October 19, 2009

Such a cost

Monday, October 19, 2009 6
I had my heart broken when I was a child, multiple times, in quick succession. So I thought, fuck this, and decided not to do that any more. I cry when I'm bad, I cry out of anger, I cry at weddings. People don't make me cry any more. I just turn that shit off.

So it's hard to know how adults deal with these dealings. Lost love. Love lost. It's hard to know what they need from me at these times. These loved ones, these cherished ones. Because all I ever have to offer is rage. Data falls over on the way home. I feel rage. I snuggle her and try to make her laugh but all that I feel is rage. Rage at myself because I wasn't close enough to make the catch. Rage at the ground for daring to strike my daughter. Rage, most of all, at my endless impotency in the face of this world. But I know what Data needs. She needs the stuff that I'm giving, the hugging, the hilarity. I don't know what grown-ups need.

Perhaps, like me, they just need Snickereses.

Sunday, October 18, 2009

I never thought that I would find myself in bed amongst the stones

Sunday, October 18, 2009 11
I've had a little work done. Kept the hair though.

Thursday, October 15, 2009

Day is done, gone the sun

Thursday, October 15, 2009 16
Riker has started Girl Guides. I'm not sure how I feel about this. Except that I do. I feel uneasy. Very, very uneasy. She got her Guide book yesterday and contained within is just a little bit too much of that God shit of which I am so not a fan. I fear that what with this and all the compulsory gobbledegook that they're feeding her in school we may soon have a full fledged Christian on our hands. I wrote n/a under "religion" in the form we had to fill out but I bet that won't stop them.

"Tie the knot, Riker, but tie it with Jesus' love."

"Help the old lady cross the street, but don't worry if you fuck it up and she gets pulverised by an oncoming truck as she will be with the angels all the sooner."

"Light the camp fire, Riker, and let it burn the heresy in your soul. And then let it burn all the heretics, starting with your father."

But enough about Riker. Let's talk about me.When I lived in Britland as a child there were no normal Scout troops in my area. and so I was enlisted in the Boys Brigade. Essentially Hitler Youth for the Orange Order. I have no memory of attending meetings but I do retain a strong mental image of the uniform, sash and all. There I stand in the mirror, fat, bespectacled and ready to slay the filthy Micks. Given my outrageous Irish accent and clearly shouldered burden of Catholic guilt one has to wonder why I was even permitted to enter the Parish Hall. And when one wonders, one must inevitably come to the conclusion that they saw fit to use me as the supreme leader of a fifth column, sent back to Ireland as a sleeper agent, to be awakened by a haunting melody in the fashion of the Final Five so that I might bomb the fuck out of Dublin's city centre before going down in a hail of FCA bullets. It's coming folks. And soon. The only question remaining is what tune will set me off?

I'm guessing something from the new Chris de Burgh album, but I'm open to suggestions.

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

Words don't come easily

Wednesday, October 14, 2009 16
I both like and respect my next door neighbours. I do. Krauts to the left of me, woman and children to the right. I especially respect, and indeed like the woman to the right, who, in the face of disproportionately intense, albeit accidental hostility on my part has returned this hostility in a much more measured, though still pretty fucking hostile, fashion. I have taken down the offending, offensive posts and I look forward to us continuing our mutual pretending this all never happened and just getting on with it relationship. Maybe we could progress from an aggressive backwards nod to our erstwhile amiable hello, though? For the kids? No pressure, like. I am without doubt more sinning that sinned against.

Wow. I was just going to bang out another snarky segment about the other next door neighbours, specifically their trumpet playing of Christmas songs at 10pm on an early October evening son and all that came out instead. Oh well. This way I finally get to use a Gately sung lyric as a title.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Outside a glittering building of glittering glass and burning light

Tuesday, October 13, 2009 10

In the window of the local pharmacy.

Where to start? With the saddle? Well okay then. Sexy, huh? And a mere €25 in the tiny bike shop in Duras. It was the last one though, so your hastily formed plans of a flight to Bordeaux and a three hour cycle to that shuddering memory-filled castle town are all for naught.

And now. Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot.

Let us glide gracefully by the sickening deconstruction of the word "vanity" and concentrate on the sentiment. Isn't vanity a bad thing? Aren't vain people cunts? You can rhetoric the fuck out of those questions, folks, because it is and they are. I speak with knowledge. Narcissus ain't got shit on me. If I didn't have so much other dreary dross to do, I would happily spend my days gazing at my stunning visage as self-snapped on my phone, over and over again. And I am bad, I am a cunt, the mitigating circumstances of my intense beauty notwithstanding.

"Organic". Really? You fuckers are trying to make us believe that the colouring of ones skin to a fluorescent shade of Ulster says no is a natural act, perfectly in tune with the concept of Gaia? If it's organic, sure we can spray it in our eyes! My eyes have always lacked a decent tan, try as I might to stare down the sun.

"Make up by Smashbox." Apparently this is a well known brand of cosmetics. Well, fine. But it sounds to me very much like the makeover master intends to lay hands upon a hefty sledgehammer, dab it lightly with foundation and then repeatedly slam said hammer into the lucky débutante's face. Sure, you're choking on cheekbone fragments and the blood is making it difficult to see, but your nose is a lot smaller and golly but that's the perfect shade for your skin tone.

"False Eyelashes From €15". The "from" is somewhat suspicious, is it not? Are we talking €15 per eye? Per lash? Just how big are these glued on spiders anyway? Were I to be feeling creative might I have them applied to somewhere apart from my eyes? I'm thinking nostrils. There's a beauty trend to be started there, folks. If teenage girls can be convinced of the desirability of a skeletal frame and Uggs, then a bushy nasal hair trend must surely be imminent.

And so to the teeth. What would an eighteen year old have had to be doing with his or her life to be in need of laser whitening? Eschewing brushing? Avoiding all sources of calcium? Chewing baccy? The endless cud churning of gum just wasn't hitting the spot any more? I have no idea what this procedure involves, but I'm confidently guessing that it's intrusive, ineffective and ultimately bad for teeth. I will hear no scientific facts on this point.

In conclusion. What are we? Who has this kind of money to fuck away on such filth? How is this acceptable? By shelling out on all these servitudinal services for one's daughter one is effectively saying "My darling, your skin is the wrong colour, your plain face needs pimping, your lashes are like nasal hairs and Jesus Christ, but the state of your fucking teeth. You ugly, ugly loser bitch." We're all saying it, to all those young women. And by not putting a brick through that window I'm saying it too. You ugly, ugly loser bitches.

Monday, October 12, 2009

We carved our intials deep in the bark

Monday, October 12, 2009 9
My anger subsides as I start on my third bowl of something. Bowl One: Carbonara. Builders breakfast pasta. Made with slimy ricotta instead of parmesan. It's a recession, doncha know. Bowl Two: pea soup. We need to defrost the freezer and I have a penchant for the purchase of frozen peas. Buckets of the bastards to get through. Again with the ricotta substituting. Bowl Three: muesli. No ricotta. And finally the rage subsides.

It's the hunger. Hunger makes me crazy. Two commutes today for a yoga and a cover spin. 60k fixed, very little food. I'm passing through the Oktoberfest at the IFSC, as I have done for the last three days. Cunts, I think. Horrible, horrible cunts. Most of them are invisible, hidden beneath the bouncered, bouncing tent. There is a band. It plays 'Living next door to Alice'. The crowd shrieks the unofficial refrain: "Alice! Alice! Who the fuck is Alice?" Cunts. Cunts, cunts, cunts. I hate them. I hate them because they're at a beer festival, because they're drunk and unconcerned about tomorrow and three more spin, because they have more money, more time, more energy than I. But mostly I hate them because they're having a good time. The cunts. Would it be so much effort for the rest of the world to at least pretend to be having as miserable a life as I? Is that so much to ask? I pound the final 5k, each pedal stroke a kick to the temple of every happy person on the planet.

I eat. I retract. I repent. Food has dissipated my rage. But the eating, the eating has been hard. It's about a week now since I became aware of this bitter metallic taste in my mouth. Every time I ingest, it's like I'm licking a rusty saw. I think I'm going to have to stop eating. And then you're all fucked.

Sunday, October 11, 2009

We used to talk about boys with missing spines

Sunday, October 11, 2009 12
I can handle it. Except I can't. Handling's not my thing. I can ride pretty hard, fetchingly fast, for reasonable amount of time. I can certainly go faster than you. Provided I don't have to turn. I know. It's fucking tragic, right? I make myself out to be this big cycling guy, but I lack the only attribute outside of balance that is necessary to ride a bike, viz, the ability to steer. Steering, handling, not my things.

I'm getting better though. I finally counter steer. Like a patient elder step-brother quietly pointing out the booger hanging from his reluctant charge's nose, Mr M took me aside and gave me the low down. Counter steering. But of course. Pretty fucking obvious to anyone with even the most basic grasp of gyroscoposity. But not to the Gimme. I am, as I may have mentioned before, a physical, a physics dolt. My hate hate relationship with the world around me extends not just to the constant dropping, bumping into and breaking of stuff, but also to my inability to negotiate even the widest of bends at anything above a crawl. I have to get back to running. Straight lines. Self-inflicted anguish. Beating a tiny section of the word into momentary submission. No skill, no flair, just the monotonous grind. Monotonous grinding. Grinding monotony. These are the talents in which I am well versed.

Thursday, October 8, 2009

So much younger than today

Thursday, October 8, 2009 22
I need your help.

I don't say that often, master as I am of my own universe, a veritable Superman, in truth, capable of any task, no matter how Herculean. Aside from those annoying little ones like getting up in the morning, not screaming in frustration about a bizillion times a day and you know, being alive. But I'm sorted for everything else.

My eye was caught by this article which talks about bloggers getting free shit for good reviews. I should do that, I thought. So while I wait for Messrs Mars, Bianchi and Grasshopper to realise the massive purchasing power of my fourteen person readership I thought I could get in some practise by giving a glowing review to something shit. Or shittish. Or fucking wonderful, I don't care. It's not like I want to work hard at this. So some suggestions? A poem, an album, a very short book. A fillum, even. I'll find it myself. You won't have to send it to me. You don't even have to pay me or give me other random free stuff. Though I'm much more likely to pick your idea if you do.

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

A time to refrain from embracing

Wednesday, October 7, 2009 8
First full-fingered glove day. Stupid fucking seasons. Why can't they be more consistent? Why all the thoughtless twists of temperature, daily light allowance, mood? Why can't I live in San Andreas with Carl and his homies? Or at a fucking pole of one kind or another? Not a fucking pole, but a pole far from Poland, a top or bottom of the world ma pole. Here in Eire, or get fucked so you don't have to think about getting raped land, I am fed up with the seasonality of seasons. Suddenly my 10k commute now involves suiting up in full chilliness body armour. Cycle shorts, long johns, arse ripped out jeans, snuggly socks, bike shoes, over shoes, base layer, jacket. In addition to the usual helmet, shades and ever tattier backpack.

I bitch, but really I like. Any cunt can wear shorts and a t-shirt. Any prick can ride in a temperate September. The extra five minutes I now spend at the opening and closing of each two wheeled trip speaks of my genuine dedication to this cycling fetish. And I look better, skinnier in this get up. I had me a super sexy shadow this morning as I powered up Castle Ave. Svelte, he was, and thus was I. You may say that this was due more to the lowness of the sun in the sky, but then I may, nay, will say "Fuck you, science boy. Autumn makes me thinner. and just to prove it, I'm going to have a Snickers."

Stuff that up your nature hole, seasons.

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

Russian roulette is not the same without a gun

Tuesday, October 6, 2009 12
While, for my previous previous post, I was researching how many words are normally in an average novel so that I could work out how many years it would take me, at the established rate of one word a minute, to write such an average novel, if I never ate, shat or slept, while I did all that, I saw this, and thought of me:

"I am currently writing a Sci Fi book as there is very little good books in this section in the market place, I have various contact in the film industry that want to show my script to producers however i believe it would be better published as a book in the first instance. (one its a film i can sell books sure but believe its better for people to say, 'hey that was justlike the book', or 'it was not like the book at all')" If this book is inteneded to end up as a film how many words would i needs in my script (currently have 32,500)"

I'm going to send that guy Data's birthday cash and he can write my novel for me. Who needs literacy or a working knowledge of the current health of the science fiction genre? Not Dave, not with that sparkling wit, and no, not Gimme neither.

Monday, October 5, 2009

Baby's sleeping while its mother sighs

Monday, October 5, 2009 8
It's the fucking 'F' places effing with me again. There's Fairview, we all know about Fairview and it's big fat fucking hard on for my Death. There's France, which has fucked over holiday after holiday. When I was fourteen, I got in a dinner table fist-fight with this kid from La Croix Blanche. Arnaud. Little fucker. I get in a lot of fights in France. It's the French in me. But now, now there's Dundrum. Didn't see that coming, huh? That's because you didn't know that Dundrum begins with "F". No, it does.

I gently clear my throat.

Basically, Data got cash for a Hello Kitty Build-a-Bear off of Janice and Finbar. Dundrum is the only place in Dublin where one might construct and expensively purchase such an ursuline ass. So to Dundrum I drove Common Law and the Bridge Crew. And went to work. And missed all the drama. You'll have to quiz Common Law on the details. But this much I have garnered: some people still have way too much money and are still too way big on the bastardosity. Seriously, when's the fucking uprising? What will it take? When one Western country goes, do we all go? America looks close. It's due a nice civil war, big place like that. Whatever. This can't go on. We musn't go down without a fight. Look. Look what we're letting them do to us.

Hello Kitty Build-a Bear emerged snow white. It's been two days. Already looking a little grubby. It's going the way of my soul.

Sunday, October 4, 2009

Belinda lived in a little white house, with a little black kitten and a little gray mouse

Sunday, October 4, 2009 15
Inspiration is odd.

Jesus, this is why I never write. The above sentence had about five incarnations. I started off with something like:

"It's odd the things that inspire you."

Well, it's not about "you" is it? It's about me. It's always about me.

"It's odd the things that inspire me."

Ugh. Fucking car crash of a sentence. "It's"? Really? Fucking ugh.

"That which inspires me is odd."

Still has a "me". And a hideously pretentious opening.

"I am inspired by the odd".

Getting there stylistically, but a total corruption of any meaning that might have originally been intended. I am, in fact, inspired by the crashingly banal.

"Inspiration is odd".

Well, halefuckingjeula, you got it down to three words. This hackneyed, overly addressed, shitty little aphorism, is, if nothing else, short. And it only took you three minutes. Word a minute. For that.

And this is why I never write.

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

God is a concept by which we measure our exposure to contagious disease

Wednesday, September 2, 2009 11
So you know the way I can't give out about the batcrap voodoo shit that goes on in our local neighbourhood primary school? Sure, how can I complain when it was my choice to send them there and not to the nearest non-denominational circus tent seven kilometres away? This is how I can. Just like this:

We got a note home yesterday briefly welcoming the children back, repeating the words 'home' and 'school' three times within the same sentence before eventually getting around to addressing the central topic of how all our offspring are going to die, and horribly. Swine Flu, capital letters, innit? We got served the by now standard syntaxless soup of HSE guidelines (use and bin a tissue for every exhalation, regularly dunk your extremities in sulphuric acid or Campari, your choice), which was quickly followed by the Principal Nuala's primary solution to a global pandemic:

"Let us all offer a collective prayer to God to watch over us all and keep us safe and well."

Let us fucking not, Nuala. Because that's not going to help is it? What with God being a big fucking lie, who, due to that whole not existing thing, is incapable of singling out one Dublin primary school for preferential no diseasey treatment. If the front line response to killer plagues continues to be an Our fucking Father, we might as well just mass produce a new strain of Rat Flu and inject it into our kids as they brush their teeth in the morning. A better plan, at least for the Gimme household, would be to break the whole Santa/Tooth Fairy truth to Data, deal with the tears and then have an excellent comparison with which to demonstrate Jesus' lack of giving a fuck way one way or another and how it might be better to rely on sound scientific theory when dealing with life's endless dangers and stresses. All for the best.

P fucking S Nuala, if it's a collective prayer, then the sentence doesn't need the 'all'. You illiterate cavecunt.

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

You can tell your Maw I moved to Arkansas

Tuesday, September 1, 2009 10
Data is retrieving a plate from the cupboard for her lunch, which is being made by, well who'd have fucking thunk it, me.

Data: Oh, you found this plate.

Gimme: Um, I didn't realise it was lost. But yes.

Data: I love you. I mean, I love this plate.

Gimme: I'm glad. But you love me too, right?

Data: Yes. I love you second.

Gimme: Pardon?

Data: I love Mommy first, that's why I love you second.

Gimme: Oh. Okay.

It's not like I didn't know it already, but couldn't she have sugar-coated it a smidge? Fuck it, at least I came in ahead of her Grandma.

Sunday, August 30, 2009

Arshavin to score first, Arsenal to win

Sunday, August 30, 2009 9
64 minutes. Glassy-eyed and limp he stares at the screen. Watching their last chance slip and slide and dive. She gazes at the half drunk pint of blackcurrant and then at the floor. He leans down, thinking to kiss her. She looks at her watch through her thick cracked glasses, unaware of his movement and the consequences, wishing merely for the game to end. He stops halfway down and remains in this position as his eyes lift again to the screen. 65 minutes. Their last €200 ticking away. He straightens, stroking his stubbled chin with a slow, deliberate hand, hoping to rub the pockmarked skin away. To remove the face, start again. Still time, though, maybe. Maybe still time.

He has heard that gamblers do not want to win, that their joy and satisfaction comes from losing. The sick feeling in his stomach belies this apparent truth. He spots a blue shirt making a break above, surging forward, dancing through the defence. His heart surges, dances. The shot is pulled wide. Everything sags again. He does not want to lose.

"Is it over?"

"Fifteen minutes, about."

She stifles her sigh, takes a sip. He wants to sit but fears that she will then see the sweat on his brow, feel his trembling and thus know all. He remains standing. The time ebbs away. The sickness in his stomach dissipates, replaced by a full body numbness, a blank disbelief. It had felt fated. He was fearless on entering the pub, firm in his believe. No long shot this. All but certain. And when the ball crashed past the outstretched arm, from, as he laughed to himself, a long shot, there was no relief, just an unnecessary reinforcement of his faith. The first part of the wager fulfilled, he had ordered her a second blackcurrant and an extravagant packet of crisps. It all was meant to be.

89 minutes. No time now, no time for two. One no use. Has to be two. Suddenly the ball is in the net. Hope. Only takes a second to score. Two goals in extra time. Happens. And then the flag goes up. Off field incident and now no more, no more time.

"Alright, so."

"It's finished?"


She drains her drink. He has a final fiver and change in his back pocket. He takes her for chips.

Friday, August 28, 2009

The shackles of language and measurable time

Friday, August 28, 2009 8
Are we feeling a theme? Perhaps when they go back to school I will finally chill the fuck and accept this too rapid burgeoning of body and brain and bits that my babies are bringing to the party. But I fucking doubt it.

There is a poster beside me on the table. It says 'Pop Star!' in the top right hand corner as that is the name of the magazine from which this centrefold has been drawn. At the bottom, in a bubbly rainbow font, is the word 'Robert'. Taking up the rest of the space is an image of a shirtless Rob Pattison. Not Patterson, I have been reliably informed. My daughter, who, on her secret blog, conspires to misspell all manner of simple words that are miraculously letter perfect in her homework, confidently corrected me on this point. On the reverse is a picture of a fully clothed Harry Potter. Did I mention that Rob is shirtless? And that Riker has already decided which side is going up on her wall? Why? Why would my little ten year old nipper want to look at the nipples of this postmadonna ponce? Rhetorical question, folks. I don't want to know.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

We must have really paid the cost

Thursday, August 27, 2009 9
The internet's pretty shit, isn't it? What's it good for, really? You could do without it, right? Pay your bills in the bank with the putrid public. Read newspapers. Watch tv. Communicate with people on an old phone with a cord. A cord and a good stiff rotary dialler like I have on my iPhone. (Why doesn't the iPhone come with a cord? What am I supposed to twist my finger around as I become hideously stressed by even the most simple and brief of human contacts?) What I'm saying is that we could all get along fine without the wuh wuh wuh. We did it before and we can do it again. Which is good, because I'm initiating a shut down. Yeah, I know. No downloading your Darragh Doyle. No stealing all the free shit. But that's the way it is. I'm giving you plenty of notice. Ample time to fruitlessly fight your corner. A week? Maybe two. Fuck it, maybe even six months. Either way, when it all stops working and no one can fix it, you'll know that that was me, typing Google into Google.

I have my reasons.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Like a child you whisper softly to me

Tuesday, August 25, 2009 13
How often do you clear your throat? Stop. Set a stopwatch for, I don't know, two minutes. Count the times. Once? Twice? Many times? Or not at fucking all?

Hans Brinker is a throat clearer, though Hans does not continually clear his throat. He works in bouts. Every ninety seconds or so over the space of about an hour is a popular ratio. But then he'll go maybe two or three hours without a peep. And then he's off again. Reading. Watching telly. Huckch. Pause. Huckch. Pause, pause. Huckch, huckch. It's a beautiful thing. But this is not about Hans. This about this guy.

This guy, he spins. Early forties, at a guess. Good shape, good looking. Probably spends a little too much time on the soon to be illegal sun beds. (Take fucking that, Holy Communion budgets). To all intents and purposes this guy seems normally normal. But when he spins, he clears. He not quite hacks. Loudly, repetitively, almost rhythmically. The music, be it MIA, Meat Loaf or Madonna, at even my favourite ear bleed volume will not drown this clearing out. Tonight a spinning lady who was on the next bike left the class. She could take no more. I saw her point. It must be some kind of condition, conditionally speaking. He doesn't do it when strolling about the gym floor. He doesn't do it as he dries and dresses. But he does it over and over and over again as he spins. So loudly, so consistently. I'm fucked if I'm going to bring it up with him. Soon it'll just be me and this guy in the darkened room, all others driven away by the endless not quite hacking and the ever increasing decibels with which I am attempting to combat it.



Monday, August 24, 2009

Would you get behind them if you could only find them?

Monday, August 24, 2009 8
So speaking of my dubious heterosexuality, I have no idea how you ladies do this shit.all the time. It's so much work. Even if I were to shave the face of one of those actors with the massive fucking heads and teeny weeny bodies, the surface area and indeed awkwardness could not compare to even the most petite of pins. And we're talking about my highly honed, tightly toned tree trunks here. Yes, we are. Yes, I have. I have been shaving my legs. For the Wicklow 200, originally. To look like a real cyclist. If I look like a real cyclist, I reasoned, I will cycle like a real cyclist. And so it proved. Yeah, sure, it might have been all the training, the smart fuelling, the EPO. But I was happy to give credit for that cycling symphony to my hairless legs. And then they started getting all hirsute and weird. So I did it again. And twice more since. But it must end, I suppose. Common Law has been complaining about the stubble (while kindly keeping her opinion of the entire concept to herself) and there's no way I can be arsed trying to reach the back of my knee more than once a week. If my chin only meets the razor every three days, my legs, the inaccessible fucks, aren't going to get the special treatment.

And yet I am already repulsed by this decision. Hairy legs. Yuck, and might I add, bleuch.

Sunday, August 23, 2009

Cruel winter chilled the bud

Sunday, August 23, 2009 7
I recently composed what has been described as 'the gayest text message ever sent by anyone, ever.' Observe:

"I'm curling up with Twilight and a big bowl of ice cream. That Edward, he's so mysterious!"

I cannot agree with the assessment. I reckon I've had a lot gayer.

Saturday, August 22, 2009

A night that's always brighter than the day

Saturday, August 22, 2009 8
While demonstrating a downward dog to the chick in the gym creche, Data frustatedly informed said chick that: "I've been trying to get this right for twenty years!". Ten days to big school. My little baby is going to school. This bundle of tantrums, this bindle of tetch, whom in pre-Purple days I ferried daily across town, by bike, bus, bagel and Luas. this little bint, is growing way up.

Common Law will cry, I predict, and I will stand there awkward and stone-faced as Data sprints away from us to her classroom, her too big bag weighing her down not a jot. I will save my tears for later as this weeping will be not for Data but for myself and my onward rush toward death and oblivion.

Thank fuck for chocolate.

Thursday, July 30, 2009

There's a ribbon in the willow and a tire swing rope

Thursday, July 30, 2009 14
That Canadian trip, that was some good shit. I did not entirely fuck up my various wedding speeches, using the age old technique of picturing my audience naked and masturbating each other. Father Finbar was clearly less nervous, but somewhat more absent-minded, briefly forgetting the existence of myself and my sister. His subsequent squirming beneath the outrage of my not remotely evil stepmother Janice was a joy to behold. My brother Pinkfloydsucks, having undertaken the disposal of six bottles of unused Merlot by use of his mouth hole alone, then 'accidentally' set fire to a tree in the family garden. Harry, my other under-married brother, decided that a dramatic dousing with champagne was the only solution. Ah, the excess. Three firefighters looked on, unimpressed by the inferno but amused by the attempts the cope with it. I am unsure as to whether their commitment to off-dutyness would have stretched to a burning house, but I like to think that it would. The bride remained radiant and completely flame free throughout.

There was cycling, natch. I climbed for two hours to a ski resort on a somewhat unsuitable triathlon bike, forgetting that ski resorts are quite high up and thus really, really fucking cold. My flimsy short-sleeved jersey failed to deal with the sub-zero temperature and my descent, always destined to be dodgy on an umfamiliar and unwieldy frame was transformed to death-defyingly treacherous by my uncontrollable shivering. The logging trucks weren't a great help either. And yet I lived to B.C. bud it up, see Othello (the black guy gets it), and beat my baby sister at pig basketball. All in all a wonderful week.

And that is why I don't send postcards.

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

I study him for the cuts, the scars, the pain no time can erase, I move hard to the left and I strike to the face

Wednesday, July 29, 2009 8
Let me throw you a hypothetical folks. Catch it if you can on the outside it's Brinker and underneath the Brinker, it's shit-ty. Say you're driving. Just tootling along, doubtless with the cruise control set to 10k per hour below the speed limit. You see a car ahead, on the right (let's assume this hypodermical is taking place in France) waiting, in stationary mode, to pull out when you pass. You just keep driving. I know. But let's say that there's yet another dimension to this hypochondriacal. You are batshit insane and convinced that every driver is as crap and careless and crass and blind as you and therefore that an automobile waiting in a slip road is almost certain to pull out in front of you, the clearly driving too slow batshit insane guy.

That's our scenario.

Do you:

a) Slow even downer, keeping both hands on the wheel so that you might avoid this potentially fatal collision.


b) Speed up, remove one hand from the wheel, and place it on the horn, working, one supposes, on the assumption that a car horn is some kind of highly advanced disintegration ray that targets potential obstacles. And do you do this every single fucking time this situation or anything vaguely resembling it presents itself? And do you also feel the need to announce every single fucking time that anyone is getting into the car "I'm not trying to rush anyone, I'm just getting the air conditioning going." Do you, in fact, announce this over forty times in the space of ten days as if nobody got it the first time?

If you answered 'b', then I am afraid that we are enemies, you and I. Not because of the bullying, the manipulation, the selfishness thinly disguised as selflessness bit. No, not because of those. Because of the air con horn thing.

Friday, June 26, 2009

Seven jealous fools playing by her rules

Friday, June 26, 2009 11
Who knows what sport Gimme hates the most in the whole wide world?

You, yes, you at the back with the painted on moustache, what's your answer? Rugby? Wrong. I can see why you might think that what with the almost infinite trauma and humiliation that this game inflicted upon my both fat and weedy person as a child. But no, Kellissa, rugby does not hold the top spot.

How about you, the tall lady with magnificent hair, jigging up and down in your seat, pumping your arm repeatedly in the air, making that keening 'I know the answer' noise? Go ahead. Hurling, you say. Hurling. I'm afraid not. Again, it's a reasonable guess, given my well known aversion to pointless pig-fucking savagery. But no dice, Fats.

Shush, now Common Law, we all know that you know the answer. And feel free to ease back on the uproarious laughter. As nobody else knows where this is going, you're just making yourself appear to be afternoon drunk again. And you've cut that out, right?

Yes, the not overly hairy headed recently unemployed looking gentleman. What's that you say? No, no. Speak up. Don't be shy. You have the look of a sports journalist abou you, sir. I think you might have hit Gimme gaming gold. Just one more time so that everyone can hear you...

That's it. Congratulations. Although I do prefer to use the term 'stupid fucking golf'.

Gimme hates golf. He hates the game. He hates the clothes. He hates the rich cunts who play it. He hates the rape of the land that it requires. He hates the fact that it's a fucking verb. We don't football. We don't go tabletennissing. He hates it all, and the rest of it too. And come 7.30am on the morning of July 4th, the morning of the opening of the Tour as it happens, hungover to fuck from the wedding rehearsal dinner, Gimme will, for the greater good, golf.

I asked a friend whose enjoyment of this 'sport' I have decided to temporarily overlook, for advice. It seems that along with 'dress pants' whatever the fuck they are, and a sense of appropriate sobriety, this wedding trip now also requires me to find a t-shirt with a penis on it. Someday my trials will be at an end, but it's not going to be any time soon.

I didn't call on the phone to say I'm alright

You'll be expecting some comment, no doubt, what with my sparkling reputation for slagging off the recently dead. Let's see, I've done Jesus (recently dead in relative terms), Wendy Richards, Bobby Fisher, Arthur C. Clarke, Katie French before she even kicked it, Paul Newman, Tom Murphy and most satisfyingly of all Jonathan Ryhs Meyer's ma.

But I've got fuck all on this one. A lot of good tunes, but it's not like he was going to be producing another Billie Jean or even another Dirty Diana so no loss there. First black crossover artist, he turns himself white. Not quite MLK. Possibly a paedo, probably a paedo, possibly not. I don't fucking know.

My big problem is that I can't remeber where I was when I heard the news. This is going to rule me out of many a dull discussion over the coming weeks.

Thursday, June 25, 2009

Winds of my thoughts passing by

Thursday, June 25, 2009 9
So the weirdest thing happened. Okay, maybe not the weirdest. Certainly not as weird as the time I cycled drunkenly around town going from Darragh Doyle haunt to Darragh Doyle haunt hoping to finally meet him in person so that I might tell him that I don't really think he's a tiresome tosser but am secretly and car crashingly in love with him. That was somewhat more weird.

So, a slightly weird thing happened. Some randomer landed on this good green gaia yesterday with a google search for 'Robert Eagar'. Robert Eagar was my grandfather. I clicked on the post in question which went by the name of 'Robert Eagar Notes'. Robert Eagar was my grandfather, he wrote Notes. As I clicked I tried to recall having written about this great man, but as it turned out the post was not about him. It was about me. Quelle fucking shocker. Clearly this was not the weird part. The weird part was that the post marked my first bleugh birthday. What was seriously freaky deaky is that totally unbeknownst to me yesterday marked the second. Same date. Like I say, not Darragh Doyle desperate drunken passion weird, but weird all the same.

It's meaningless, of course, particularly considering my many sulky sabbaticals over the last twelve months, but still, happy fucking belated bleugh birthday to me.

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

The sun is shining as it's always done

Wednesday, June 24, 2009 6
As a rule the folks I come across in my daily life are shit at their jobs. People in shops, for example. Rude. Telephone agents for just about any company you might care to name. Clueless. Everybody in my place of work, rude, clueless and ironically overweight. There are some almost exceptions. I have experienced the odd competent and even friendly bus driver. But I no longer take the bus, so they don't count. That chick at the toll bridge nearly always hands me my change in a satisfactory manner. But she too, could be a lot friendlier. At which point she'd be creepy. So in summary, everyone whose livelihood appropriation has some influence on the smooth running of my day to day existence could be doing a whole lot better. Get it together, fuckers.

And so we come to Michael. Michael has taught Data to swim. Michael has taught many a three and four year old to swim. And he does it with a patience, grace and humour even one of which I have to work hard to summon when faced with just a single traumatised post-toddler. But Michael does it every afternoon for hours and hours with up to ten of these occasionally hysterical children at a time. He charms, splashes, cajoles. He seems instinctively to know when to let them stand at the side of the pool howling and when to dispense unearned high fives. He's a fucking genius and has decisively wrested from the grasp of Paula Radcliffe the accolade of Gimme's all time hero.

Congratualtions, Michael.

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

Women and children first, and children first, and children

Tuesday, June 23, 2009 9
You know that bit in that Radiohead song off of Kid A where he goes "Ice age coming, ice age coming"? I can't remember what it's called so now I'm going have to go and look it up now. Stupid internet.

'Idioteque'. It's called 'Idioteque'. I quite like it. But I really like the 'ice age coming' part. Because he sings it with excitement as well as fear, like he can't fucking wait even though it'll mean he will die, because at least it will be different. Something different.

This is how I feel about my upcoming trip. Chances are that I won't actually die, I suppose. But you never know. Planes are always crashing after all, weddings are always being bombed. But either way, I've got the apprehension, the sweaty fear of speaking to and in front of many, many strangers. But I have the excitement too. Oh the excitement of being somewhere else, doing something else.

And I'll be wearing a tux. I am going to be so fucking sexy.

Monday, June 22, 2009

Have you ever kissed the sunshine, walked between the rain?

Monday, June 22, 2009 14
This guy is on my wheel.

We drop a lot of people, this fucking leecher and me. Up and up we climb, passing, dropping, passing, dropping, rider after rider. I have a magic rhythm in my head, and the puffed words one, two three four, one two three four on my lips. I have recently overheard a grunted 'Slieve Mann' and I know now that this is the big one, and that I have it in me to conquer it, to debase it, to fucking fly up the fucker. I am grinding out my lowest gear, but with some serious spright. Quick turnover. Light legs.

And this guy is on my wheel.

Fair enough, fine. I was dragged up the first third myself, by Chris the Courier. But now Chris is far, far below us. And I'm the one doing all the work. He's on my wheel, right on my wheel so I can't see him, judge him, judge his bike, his clothing, his leg hirsutitude, without a big fat turn around in my saddle. And doing this will cost me not just rhythm but also a modicum of the cool aloofness that I suddenly find myself aggressively cultivating. I make my one two three four a little quicker.

And this guy is on my wheel.

On and on. Up and up. There is beauty, I'm sure, spread out to my left. I can't see it. My eyes stay on the road just ahead, my focus on the rhythm and the avoidance of all these dangerously weaving slow coaches that I'm flying past. My lungs sear, but bearably. My quads sing, but tunefully. Now I see the yellow Powerbar tent in the middle distance and know that the end is nigh. I glance back one last time, yes, he's still fucking there and then I'm out of the saddle, one kick, two kicks, three. And I'm gone.

This guy is no longer on my wheel.

I look around at the summit, trying to identify this wheel sucker, this parasite, so that I might bask in his eternal praise and gratitude, but I don't know what he looks like so a thankless thankless task is what this search turns out to be. Did I imagine this pale or not so pale rider? Was he really there at all? He was, of course he fucking was, the ungrateful bastard.

Sunday, June 21, 2009

The generals hate holidays, others shoot up to chase the sun blues away

Sunday, June 21, 2009 17
What a stupid load of happy horseshit. You all feel better now? With your green backgrounds and your retweeting of videos and poxy proxy numbers? You do, don't you? Well, you fucking shouldn't. Here's what's happening, what's going to happen:

Khamanei says that Ahmadinejhad is president. So he's fucking president. You need almost total support and a wavering military to pull this kind of shit off and neither is in place for this particular revolutionary hue. The sooner these admittedly brave if somewhat naive people realise this, the sooner they're going to stop getting beaten and shot and then taken to hospital where they will be arrested so that they can be beaten and shot some more.

And the sooner the Western media and every asshat with a laptop stop reporting this forgone conclusion as if it were all about us, us wonderful cunts with our twitting machines, the sooner I can turn my attention to the Nevada City Classic and ultimately the upcoming Tour.

That's right Armstrong you scummy fucking doper, you're fucking next.

Saturday, May 2, 2009

Cock not Koch

Saturday, May 2, 2009 13
I am a disgusting person. I am constantly and brazenly unfaithful to my wife. She knows to expect a beating if she complains. I ignore my stupid, fat, whining kids. I'd drown them in the tub if I thought I could get away with it. I have stolen from charities and once kicked an ageing dog to death. Fuck it, I'm a practising paedophile. Why not? I practise all the time.

But it's all okay because I can write about it on an anonymous blog and thus, inexplicably, feel good about myself.

Friday, May 1, 2009

Hearts fail, young hearts fail

Friday, May 1, 2009 8
This is what I get for getting it together and sorting shit out. Observe as I struggle to express my sickening disgust at the triumvirate of motoring bastardosity that has fallen across my path.

Three days before the NCT: In for a service. Back brakes need to be entirely replaced. They can't do it in time. Hundreds of euro anyway.

Two days before the NCT: In to generic overcharging garage. Get brakes fixed. Hundreds of euro.

One day before the NCT: On the way to endure through 'Hannah Montana: The Movie' some cunt randomly fucks a stone onto a dual carriageway, hitting my front windscreen and causing a crack only just noticeable enough to be almost certainly spottable by the testers.

No, I don't have windscreen cover. I can't afford it. And I certainly can't afford this. I just can't afford it. Yes, yes, I know that I am a cunt and deserve all the misfortune that is heaped upon me by life and in fucking fairness it's not like I've lost my job or been burgled or bum raped, but if karma could see to widening, by just a teeny smidge, the time scale of this justifiable retribution, then that would be just fucking super.

Thursday, April 30, 2009

Gypsy death and you

Thursday, April 30, 2009 3
For the most part, I will be found here in the coming weeks. For the all part, you will be found bored off your tits.

While I have you, and just so's you know, everything about cars and car ownership is cunt.

Monday, April 27, 2009

I was a hero early in the morning, I ain't no hero in the night

Monday, April 27, 2009 15
Train, eat, sleep. Train, eat, sleep. It is a selfish and ultimately pointless pursuit, no doubt, but it makes me slightly happier, I believe. I believe as I face first my late night steamed fish and brown rice. Protein, complex carbs. Protein, complex carbs. It's not like I owe you cunts anything, you know. And I'd rather not sully my many moments of endorphin induced ecstasy by scribbling them down for your slobbering.

We'll talk when I'm 67 kilos. Or when I break 30 minutes for five miles. Or when I don't die in the Wicklow mountains.

One of these events is surely relatively imminent.

Thursday, April 16, 2009

I met a man in Katmandu who claimed to have two willies

Thursday, April 16, 2009 26
I would be a shitty paraplegic. The mere fact of being unable to move my right arm above shoulder height for 48 hours due not to a dramatic and exciting smashed collar bone bicycle crash but to the deeply unimpressive ailment commonly known as 'sleeping funny on it' turned me decisively into a immobile, chocolate stuffing, Simpsons Hit and Run playing, hot water bottle demanding, Cormac McCarthy's 'The Road' reading in one sitting, miserable cunt.

I hate not being able to do stuff with my limbs. Limb stuff doing seems to me to be a Gimme birthright and having to submit to 45 minutes of charmingly named, turns out I have met a nice South African Reetha inflicted agony to get said right right again was a heavy price to pay.

Gladness will no doubt reign with the knowledge that I have my full range of motion back with just the minor inconvenience of a sickening shoulder click on full extension. I am therefore off the Playstation and once again talking to the internet. Lucky fucking you guys.

Saturday, April 11, 2009

We'd all be speaking German, living under the flag of Japan

Saturday, April 11, 2009 14

What, both?

And while I admire the rhyming of 'beaches' and 'leeches' (France has jungles?), I think you might have done better than 'shoulder' and 'forward'. I seem to remember McCartney having the same problem, but at least he had the self-possession to blame it on John.

I know. Picky, picky.

Thursday, April 9, 2009

Minimum, maximum, beats per minute

Thursday, April 9, 2009 10
I can think of few things more irritating than lifestyle pieces about cunts who are attempting to commute by bicycle for the first time. I'm pretty sure even that sexy bitch Ingle did one once. They're always jolly and 'Oooh look at all the potholes!' and 'My, don't the buses come awfully close!' and 'Didn't I feel wonderfully smug as I passed by the lines of cars!'. These pieces always conclude with the acceptance of the fact that cycling is quicker, healthier and cheaper but that the writer won't ever be doing it again. They have a car!!! Who are they, Eamon Ryan??!! Hahahaha!!!!!

But this one takes the week old cheap Super Valu yellow pack custard cream. An electric bike is not a bike, you fat lazy pig, it's a shitty little scooter. You're not commuting by bike, you're commuting by cunt. You're a fucking menace to both real cyclists and on the upside, to cars. You will have burnt more calories performing your daily out-licking of Geraldine Kennedy on your return to the offices of The Irish Toss. And you did what? You fucking 'paused for a cappuccino'? How did you write that, read it back and not go 'Jesus H. Christ on a rich child's toy, how fucking pompous and cuntish do I sound? A million. A million pompous and cuntish I sound.'

Did diddums's feety weety get wetty betty? When you were outdoors? Moving through the rain? Who the fuck would have seen that coming? If you'd done any sort of research you would have realised how easy this is to remedy, you twat.

And just so you know, 'Tim', the reason you got a puncture is that you went into one of your beloved potholes, like the idiot prick that you are. I guess you were too busy not exercising to pay any attention to what was happening on the road ahead of you. And what kind of coat is that? And have you seen your fucking hair recently?

Should have got a proper bike, 'Tim'. Cheaper, and exactly the fucking same when sat in the garage as you drive to work because cycling an electric bike in the rain is just too hard. But at least you used an ill-thought out and pointless scheme to dick the taxpayer out of a bit of cash, huh?

Wednesday, April 8, 2009

One flash of light but no smoking pistol

Wednesday, April 8, 2009 14
Bull Island, Friday, April 10, 2009. A light drizzle falls on a sombrely dressed group who stand listening as a tall, middle-aged woman performs yet another oratory for her recently deceased sister. Some of the group shift uncomfortably, some listen intently, others, not being English speakers, concentrate on looking Mediterraneanly sad. There are wet eyes among each contingent. The speaker holds a large silver urn.

The drone of helicopter is heard, faint at first, but quickly becoming louder, nearer. Its whirr is answered by the violent screech of tyres. Instantly it seems, the helicopter is overhead, drowning out the persistent eulogy. A voice is megaphoned from the chopper as four police cars fly over the sand dunes and skid to a stop twenty feet from the mourners.

'Put down the urn! Put down the urn and step away!'

My oldest aunt stands paralysed, the most senior now of the Zealot sisters. The police captain speaks into his walkie talkie from a crouched position behind a car. 'Let her have the warning.' A shot rings out. A puff of sand an inch from my mother's sister's foot. She drops the urn, the lid falls and the ashes spill out onto the nature preserve.

'That's it,' intones the captain with a hint of regret. 'That's a scattering. Open fire.'

A rain of bullets cuts through the breezy spring morning. Screams. Moans. Death all around. Hans Brinker, shot through the shoulder, shrieks 'I told you so! I told you filthy Catholic hippies so!'

Remember when my step father Hans wouldn't drive us to Riker's communion, because of the law? He is currently concerned that the scattering of ashes is just as illegal as having four in the back of a car. Oh, how concerned he is.

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

One night he woke from a vision of his own death

Tuesday, April 7, 2009 11
I am changed. How I am changed.

I stepped out of double spin to discover a wild and windy downpour. No Purple in which to cower as I stick strongly to my new 'no more than one commute a day by car' meaningless rule. And I though not:

'Motherfucking, cunting, bastarding, fucking cunt bastard.'

Nor even:

'Perhaps I should fake a puncture and get a cab.'


'This last ten kilometres of the night is going to increase both my fitness and my mental strength.'

A single race, that briefest of competition tastes, has transformed me straight back into a smug, non-smoking, goal-driven go getter who actually relishes half an hour in the battering wind and rain. All the way home I looked forward not to a big fat doobie and a double Caucasian in a pint glass, but to the waiting broccoli salad, with the refreshing accompaniment of lashings of tap water. My latest goal is the Wicklow 200, and by all accounts mental strength is something that I will be needing in abundance. Dear reader, you are going to fucking hate it around here until, in a moment of weakness, I take up crystal meth with the same enthusiasm that I am currently applying to my training regime. And that could be a while. Or, you know, tomorrow.

But in the meantime there remains hope and sustenance for the car crash rubber neckers of my sick psyche. I had a dream last night. It was a sexy dream. Roisin Ingle was in it. Being sexy.

You'll be wanting to tell me what that means now. Though I think I'd prefer it if you were to just kill me dead.

Monday, April 6, 2009

I can't spell away this hurt that's drippin' down my cheek

Monday, April 6, 2009 9
Riker's report came in the post today. It's great the way they write 'em up and ship 'em out in April, thus providing my child and her friends with tacit permission to do what the fuck they want for the next three months. Go for it, girls. Burn the fucking school down. None of it's going on your permanent record.

The report runs as follows: in each subject one can be very good, good, fair or has difficulties. Fair as Riker is, she got no fairs. Difficult as her prematurely launched adolescence is, she got no has difficulties. And so I scrutinise every little good as if it said useless little bitch. There were only two. One was in 'English Spelling Ability'. Remember that for me folks, tuck it in the back of your very good minds for the conclusion of the post.

Then we have a section entitled 'General Comments'. Here's how that one panned out:

'Riker is a friendly, diligent pupil. She applies herself well in all areas of the curriculum, particularly the arts.'

Sic, folks. Fucking sic.

What the fuck am I talking about? This may upset, so you might want to get a drink or light a smoke or cook up a hit. Gimme was going to write hilariously about how the teacher misspelled the word 'diligent.' Except that she didn't. Gimme misspelled it in his head. Gimme didn't realise this until the internal spell checker pointed it out. Gimme the fucking pedantic spelling scold fucked up a spelling. Call the social services people, and have these children taken from me before I pass on any more of this good stuff.

I know this road leads straight into Cairo

Bock hates women, Medbh hates Bock, Twenty loves a good dust up.

You don't need to concern yourself with all this shit. All you need to concern yourself with is Gimme and how close he is to giving it all up, to walking the Earth, to car gassing himself now that he finally has a car.

There is no self-knowledge like the self -knowledge doled out in a road race. I reached the point this afternoon where I could do no more and hideously recognised that feeling. I am, in my everyday life, at the point where I can do no more. And there is so much more to do.

This is why I am a feminist. I am living in the world of women. I cook and clean and it is never enough. Sure, I walk through life with all the privileges of a man, but I come home to the oppression of a woman. So, I know. But I won't walk the Earth and I won't gas the car, because, weirdly, of this:

If this little goal can inspire in my Riker even a millisecond of the perfect agony I felt with 200m to go, then my work is just about done. Apart from the whole being alive and succeeding in her eyes bit. I guess I'll be going for that shit too.

Saturday, April 4, 2009

The only thing that's real

Saturday, April 4, 2009 15
There exists a picture of me, standing shivering in the early Canadian morning sun, socks pulled up to a ridiculous height in accidental homage to Paula and her squeezy tights, looking scared. Scared, scared, scared.

Shifting from foot to foot on a starting line bears some comparison to standing by the side of a stage, waiting for a cue. The sick sinking stomach feeling, the slight tremble, the mixed result attempts to control one's heart rate and bowels. But there is a single big fucking difference. Unless the play in which one is performing is 'The Real Life Beating of That Effeminate Guy Off Of Glenroe' then one can be fairly confident that one is not stepping into anything from seventeen minutes to an hour and a half of reasonably intense pain. Nerves before a show. Fear, fabulous fatalistic fear, before a race.

So a little 10k jaunt on the morrow, a brief lope about the park. Except that it won't be. I just sent a mail to the lady who conned me into partaking in this first race in five years saying that I am not after all, going to pace her around, hurling abuse like the abuse hurling pro that I am. No, I'm going to race the motherfucker, and attempt to break a pathetic 45 mins. And with two weeks training, I know how even this snail like 7'12 pace is going to feel. Really fucking sore. Super burny, in legs, arms, back and lungs. Right from the top and all the way through until about a klick to go at which point I will attempt to make it stop being sore and try to find the most sustainable agony that I have felt in half a decade. I'm looking forward to it.

And I'm really fucking scared.

Friday, April 3, 2009

It's not your business anyway

Friday, April 3, 2009 7
Riker was off early today for the Easter holidays, and I was running calmly late from my morning's class. My route home takes me past the school and I spotted her from a good way off, walking by herself and struggling mightily under the weight of the school bag that she had forgotten, once again, to empty. I was about to proceed with a little shock and awe demonstration of my new skid stop skill, but something gave me pause.

It's an unoriginal sentiment which gels nicely with my cliché-ridden opening paragraph, but there are few things more heart-wrenching that watching your child merely be, while you yourself remain unobserved. Even from behind there was much to be read, in her loping Gimme gate, the kicking and dragging of her feet, the turgid pace of her walk. Why so slow, Riker? Don't you want to be home with us? You think you're fucking Luka or something? Your back looks sad, my daughter. Why does your back look so sad?

I skidded up. She looked up, seemingly unsurprised, certainly unimpressed.

'What are you doing here?'

'Coming home from work. What are you doing here?'

'Coming home from school.'

'Oh yeah?'


'Take your bag?'


And then she was off, skipping along with me, doing her babbling brook bit, goading me into more SUV scaring super skids. And so it must have been the weight, not of the world, but of her bag that was bearing down upon my beloved Riker. It surely must have been.

Thursday, April 2, 2009

I have heard rumours all over town

Thursday, April 2, 2009 9
I get the papers, get the papers just once a week, on my Thursday, post 7am spin, drive home. As a rule I can't take current affairs too early in the morning, but when one or two (am I still doing the we thing, nah, I guess I've let that shit go) have been up since 5.30, Morning Ireland's 8.15 newspaper round-up seems positively afternoony. So here's the only item that managed to take my attention from abusing cunts in tanks through the closed window of my dearest Purple:

Queuing for food

I haven't read the article. Why would I? It'll only get me down. But allow me point out that if it was a lovely, sunny day and I wasn't doing anything else due to, I don't know, unemployment or some shit, and I had my iPhone with me and if I could be reasonably confident that my parcel would contain a Snickers or two, I would be quite happy to spend an afternoon standing in a free stuff queue.

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

People don't realize that two large pieces of coral, painted brown and attached to his skull with common wood screws can make a child look like a deer

Wednesday, April 1, 2009 13
The most important aspect of Monday's throwaway post about the difficulty and pointlessness of debating with morons has been lost in the mists of rage that descended upon Gimme for daring to offer a three word critique of a 'faux-naive rage bait' presentation by the most widely read guy in the history of the world. Move the fuck over Old Testament author guy (Dan Brown? I can never remember) there's a new buck in town.

To be Krystle: Gimme stands by his 'incitement to misogyny' remark and thinks people need to either chill the fuck or be less fucking stupid. Either or. They both work for the G man.

So to the aforementioned aspect of importance. It's the title, folks. Did you catch the title.? So very, very many levels. If you're new to the wonders of Stranded on Gaia, and I know there's plenty of you still dropping by today, you may be unaware that all of my titles are taken from the lyrics of songs. And they are always multi-faceted and worthy of your research. But deep as these daily headlines doubtless are, they be a piss puddle on the bathroom floor compared to that last one.

'Just like that robbery in '62'

Get it? You think you get it, but you don't. Yes, it is from a song by the name of 'You Keep It All In' which includes the line 'the conversation we had last night when all I wanted to do was knife you in the heart'. So there's your first connection. But the name of the song too, folks! The post is about keeping it all in rather than engaging with twats! So far so fucking brilliant, right?

But if you can fucking Adam and Eve it, there is even more. I might have used the line 'Just like that murder in '73'. But I chose to not. Instead, I used the one with the word 'robbery'. Why? Because the comment that I quoted to prove my point came from a website written by this bunch of people called 'Bock the....' Oh yeah. That's post titling shit that you can take to the bank, baby.

Save your applause until you have read some of the others:

The recent but wonderfully obscure:

Her mother said 'Love is not that way. Dear God he'll pay.'

The little Biafra playlet:

If Jesus saw Pat Robertson what do you think he'd say?

And one from way, way back in 2007. Back in the day when we got on so very well, even if they was telling me what to do. Sniff:

You won't believe what Mr. Stitches saw

Monday, March 30, 2009

Just like that robbery in '62

Monday, March 30, 2009 64
Gimme present (that's not a typo, we meant to use the first person plural there. We're a 'we' now, we've decided) a detailed look at how one might go about responding to the kind of comment that makes one want to reach aha like through the monitor and pull out the words in question so that one might set them on fire, piss on them, dry them out, set them on fire again and piss on them again before putting the resultant sodden pile of ashes in a tupperware bowl and posting said bowl, old school style, to their composer:

1) Read comment:

All too true Bock. The problem here seems to be that while the wife had another relationship she was not content to take his marriage away from him but also his family and his home and to set up the other man as a surrogate parent to his family.
While what he did was obviously wrong I personally can understand the pain and suffering he was going through. When someone is fucking with your mind you can get so deep into the mire that you can see no light at the end of the tunnel except maybe the train coming at you.

2) Physical and vocal but non-verbal reaction:

Do what feels right here. Grab your hair. Shriek. Realise that you don't really have any hair to grab anymore. Allow this to inform your shriek.

3) Verbalisation:

Mutter this to yourself, it's not suitable for the children. Something like: 'For the love of fucking christ fucking mary fucking the holy ghost, he fucking killed her.' Mutterings may be high in their pitch. Make use of this.

4) First draft:

Go on, get the mindless cursing, the ad hominen attacks, the scathing references to shitty, shitty tunnel end clichés out of the way. You'll want to open with something along the lines of 'He fucking stabbed her in front of their children you at the absolute best obtuse cunt.' Close with more cunts. Release the beast.

5) Second draft:

Do your smarty pants one.

'She was totally fucking asking for it, the bitch', works well.

'I'm not racist but...' is good too, but perhaps a little subtle for the kind of creep upon whom you are calling.

'You killed your wife too, didn't you?' on the other hand, fits the bill nicely.

6) Third and final draft:

This one is extremely labour-intensive involving as it does much thought, time, and trawling for the mot juste. It will be reasoned, logical and will have the power to lift the scales from the eyes of the horrible, the blind and the horribly blind. But you won't write it. It's too much work. Instead you should dial it back to smart-arse, and take it to your own bleugh where there's a chance not every fucker is firm in the believe that the ladies are our property to do with as we see fit.

This advice is applicable not just to the comment above but to the majority of comments on the same post. The post itself, being merely an incitement to misogyny, may need a different approach. We're guessing running repeatedly and face first into a brick wall might well do the trick.

Just victims of the in-house drive-by

You know when you’re playing GTA, not IV, but San Andreas, and you're just cruising around, looking for people to interesingly kill and suddenly there’s only like two kinds of cars on the road and a limited selection of pedestrians to run over and it grates just a little because everything else about the game is so fucking fantastic? You know when that happens? I thought so.

This been happening to me in 'real' life. Every second car on the road in the last few days has been a BMW. I've been boxed in, cut off and on Jesus Killer, almost mowed down. All by these Beemers, driven to a man and woman, by cunts. Terrible, terrible cunts.

And yet still I am not allowed to run them off the road and then shoot them in the face.

Saturday, March 28, 2009

And I felt like getting high

Saturday, March 28, 2009 12
We've fucked it all up and we will be extinct soon. Or as near as dammit. Post Zombie War levels of population is where we're going, if we survive at all, and it'll be all our fault. Even if a billion remain, incredible suffering and destruction will prevail. We know this.

Thing is, if you're reading this now, as opposed to when 'The Wisdom of Gimme' is bigger than the fucking Bible, then you'll be probably be dead before it gets too bad. Get in! We're the ones who fucked it up, we're the ones who had the chance to turn it around, but we don't have to pay! What an excellent deal. So whatever you fucking do, don't turn your fucking lights off. That would kind of mess with the plan for us to suck every available resource into our insanely comfortable lives.

So I just went outside. Walked to the middle of our L shaped cul de sac. Shrieked down both lines: 'Not one? Not one of you fucking cunts?'

And then I walked back to my darkened house. And turned all the lights back on. If they don't do it, I don't have to.

Thursday, March 26, 2009

Her mother said 'Love is not that way. Dear God he'll pay.'

Thursday, March 26, 2009 13
I cannot say that I believe it to be wrong. I am, of course, aware that society believes it to be wrong. But society has held many opinions through the ages, opinions that have now changed. The inferiority of women. The evil of homosexuality. The health benefits of smoking. And there was a time when my penchant for making love with the young would have been, if not encouraged, then certainly not condemned.

I had six good years with my step daughter, Katie. Our affair began when she was nine. This was a joyous time. She meant everything to me. I would have done anything for her. And she for me. But I cannot deny that feelings alter as the days, the weeks, the months pass, and by the time she fell upon fifteen our relationship had transformed. She had become sullen and moody, as teenagers will. Yes, I may fallen somewhat out of love with her. And while our nights together continued, I believe that she sensed my mounting disinterest and made the cruel decision to punish me. By talking to her mother, despite my warnings and then, shockingly, to the police. Oh, the lies she told. Rape? Abuse? What a joke. She consented. Consented with her eyes, her lying 'No's, her tears of joy.

I am a strong, fit fellow. I took part in the Rás for many years as a younger man. A domestique, serving my leaders, but still I completed the eight day race on three separate occasions. I have always kept up my fitness, and this has made my time behind these bars easier. Early on I came out on top in a scuffle, using my teeth to take a chunk out of my would be lover's penis and now, for the most part, I am left to my own devices. And yet, the way things are, I have another three years to serve. I will be fifty-five by the time I am released. It is a long time to live like this, without stimulation, without love.

All is not lost, however. They offer a treatment program here, you see, for so called 'sex offenders'. Rapists, abusers. I do not count myself among them. The uptake, of course, is minuscule. Ten men, I am told, who believe they can be 'cured', or who are, perhaps, looking to while away some of this interminable time. Needless to say I have never considered joining them. But there was news this morning, on Morning Ireland, news that filled me with hope. Olive Travers of NOTA, The National Organisation for the Treatment of Abusers, dear Olive, with her wonderful Hi-de-Hi voice, has advocated the offering of incentives for the take up of these 'cures'. Incentives such as temporary release. The public has to come to terms with this, she says. They can't have it both ways, she says. We are to be made safer, she says.

I know what I am, and I feel no remorse. But I am also capable of feigning a little shame, working through these 'treatments' so that I might leave this place, however briefly, and go to see my Katie. She will, I know, by now, be both old and worn out. But still I would like to see her. To tell her that I forgive her. To show her that I forgive her. For that, I will happily spend some hours nodding and displaying my most mournful of faces. I pray that Olive gets her way.

Morning Ireland, March 26, 2009 Interview begins at 27 minutes.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

It's over, you don't need to tell me

Wednesday, March 25, 2009 19
I was so very young when we were first together that I barely recall how it felt. Just seventeen when we first parted and I believe I may have been a little relieved even then. And now as we reach the same point, so many years later, relief is once more my dominant emotion.

I'd like to say that 'it's not you, it's me'. But in all conscience, I cannot. It is you. I've done nothing wrong. Tried my best. Even at the beginning, after that briefest of honeymoon periods, it was something of a struggle. But I did all I could, always.

I have to say that there were times when I was a little ashamed of you, even embarrassed by your brazenness. Your constant need to be the topic of every conversation, at the most inappropriate times. Was it absolutely necessary for us to discuss you at that funeral, as the body was lowered into the ground?

Sure, there were good times, when you would appear suddenly before my eyes, surprising me with your beauty, your independence, your vigour. And perhaps there were times when I revelled in the attention you brought. But the bad days always seemed to outnumber the good, and when, in these last few weeks, I found myself attempting to buy with expensive gifts and treats your affection, or at least your occasional compliance, I knew that our time together was near its end.

I was trying to recapture my youth, I admit it. I should have known better. I'm truly sorry if this hurts you, but you could have made it so much easier. I only ever wanted you to be long, you only ever wanted to be big.

I will shed no tears as I, Monday to Wednesday, fork out my seven euro in Just Cuts.
◄Design by Pocket