Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Here amidst the shuffle of an overflowing day

Wednesday, December 22, 2010 5
I think snow is fucking great. I love it. I love the silence. I love it because only the stupidest of cunts is out on the roads and what very little noise they make is deadened by the blanket of corpse-faced white. This city, this Town of the Ford, it talks too fucking much. Talks, moans, bitches, screams and fucking howls. The snow has got her pillow held lightly over the face of this agonised terminal case and its constant pain. Snow won't kill the town, but it'll shut it the fuck up for a few days. And don't tell me it isn't beautiful. Tom said it. The Heart of Saturday Night, Track 1, listen to the whole song. Now there's something for you to do with your iPhone when you're stuck in a four hour traffic jam.

I get it, snow fucks people up. People aren't where they want to be and are desperately trying to get somewhere else. Just like every other day. But yeah, people slip and die. People put out their backs unacustomedly shoveling in a futile attempt to prevent the slipping and the dying. People have to the wipe the arses of those that slip, but fail to die. Fuck it, it's worth it. My iPhone fucks people up. My having an iPhone means people suffer. That's worth it too.

I love you snow.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

I wanna be the one to walk in the sun

Tuesday, October 12, 2010 8
I'm sleepy and somewhat loved up on endorphins and my feet hurt more than my shoulder which hurts quite a lot and tomorrow I will most likely have to walk backwards down the stairs which will not lend itself to the teaching of two yoga classes but what are you going to do? I'll tell you. You're going to listen to what I have to say.

A girl's night in. A boy's night out. Concepts of complete cuntitude, of comprehensive cockness. Why must we be divided so? Why must we be so divided? Yeah, yeah, yeah, we're familiar with Gimme's fake feminist schtick. But I have more. Check this shit out. They're getting "the girls 'round." Not the women, despite the fact that this all appears to be aimed at grown ups. The girls. And just so's you know, there's nothing better than not having to worry about bad chat up lines. Personally I can think of one or two things better than that and none of them involve worry or women and no me. But yes, it's a girl's night in. Yes, it's for the kind of people who like "baking up a storm", who love "gossiping all night long", who like to "dress down in PJs and watch the X-Factor". Who bitch about their best friend when they go to the toilet. Who cry when they hear their best friend bitching about them through the toilet door. Who wake up on a Sunday with traces of their farting, belching still drunk boyfriend's vomit on their PJs from when he came in arseholed after a lad's night out and tried to rape them, but lacking an erection, threw up on them instead.

Drop the fucking pink. Lose the gender norms. And the word is "around". Around. Get the girls around. Spelling it "'round" in every sentence in every fucking paragraph on every fucking page of your hideously pink website changes nothing.

Look, I'm sorry. I'm in a lot of pain. Go ahead. Give your money to cancer. I'm all for cancer. Go cancer! But please, find a way to do it that doesn't belittle us all and make me want to throw up on my girlfriend's PJs. Thank you.

Monday, October 11, 2010

Though your commitment to most would offend

Monday, October 11, 2010 6
I'm really scared. Everyone's all like "Ease back into it, be careful, don't do too much." And I mean everyone. Common Law. My mother in common law. Random people on and off the internet. But it's not like I have a choice. If I don't teach a full schedule then I don't get the sweet, sweet sugar, or I get about the same amount of sweet, sweet sugar that I'd get by continuing to dip into the threadbare pockets of the state. And the longer I don't do it, the more it's going to hurt. Had me a little crunching practise this morning to see how resting my shoulder blade on the floor is going to feel. I did maybe a third of the track I'll do tomorrow morning. Now, all of eight hours later I feel like someone has been knitting a scarf inside my upper abdominals. And not in a good way. I'm not all that worried about the shoulder. The shoulder will be fine. Probably. I'm worried about my poor, poor legs. Already suffering under an extra stone of weight, tomorrow they must perform three spin classes in addition to ten bizillion squats and lunges. I am going to die of achy legs.

Yes, that's right. Thought I might slip that by unnoticed but no. Yes. A fucking stone. 14 pounds. 6.35 kilograms. 111 Snickereses. Stop laughing. Stop. You bastards. Everyone, except my mother in common law, keeps telling me I look great. The bit of extra weight suits me. I look much healthier. So fucking there. But of course I don't. Naturally, it doesn't. I disgust my fat-arsed Winnie the Pooh self. Give me another two weeks and I'll be sending search parties out for my cock. So now I crave the pain. The pain that will make me not a porker. I crave yet I fear.

I really am very, very scared.

Friday, October 8, 2010

Oh my agony, know that I will never marry

Friday, October 8, 2010 6
So I finally got the truth. To achieve this I had to hold down my charmingly Northern (first in my new Oxymoron of the Week series) physiotherapist Aileen and threaten to punch her lights out. Metaphorically speaking. Even able-bodied, I'm not one for the punching and such are the knock on effects of my tip-tapping on the door of the big red van that I can barely punch dots, let alone trim and toned healthcare professionals from Donegal. But metaphorically I hurled her to the floor, and with my eyes I threatened a good beating should she continue her withholding ways and thus eventually the truth it did emerge. Six more weeks. At least. Before I get near normal. And I'm back to work on Tuesday agonizing pain or no agonising pain.

So the upshot is I wish I had cancer. Sweet sympathy giving cancer. Don't get me wrong, having an injury which most commonly occurs in conjunction with fatal chest trauma has been great too. Lots of lying around, a good dent made in Red Dead Redemption, and I even read almost all of a book! But I was up and making one-armed dinners within ten days and truth be told, people didn't really seem to appreciate just how badly I had fucked myself up. If you say you have cancer, even in a text message, you can feel people's awed sympathy hurtling back through the air before they can type so much as 'I'm going to start believing in god again just so you can be in my prayers'. Say 'I have a compound fracture of the scapula' and they're all 'LOL! That's like, in your toes, right?' Combine this staggering anatomical ignorance with the not unfounded assumption that it was all my fault and you have a sumptuous Nigel Slater recipe for who gives a fuck.

Cancer, though. All the good shit comes with cancer. Effortless weight loss. A lot more than six weeks off work should you want it. Hero status beyond even that of Floppy should you prefer to keep busy. That hushed sympathy heroin I mentioned before. Carte blanche to cheat your way to seven Tour wins, fuck up an economy with a best mate banker bail out, do pretty much anything you want. And most importantly of all, it's not your fault. Even if you're a fifty a day sunbed Sally, absolution is yours. Because it's cancer, because you're going to die. Well, we're all going to fucking die. Thank fuck. So the sooner I catch me some Big C and start absorbing those rays of sympathy and forgiveness the better. Karma being what it is, I can probably expect a diagnosis at my next session with Aileen.

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

Tommy thinks the crazies are back in my mind

Wednesday, October 6, 2010 6
We get 'Alive!' in the door every month now. Usen't to. I don't know what's changed. Maybe that red-faced tub of bully-producing cunt-rot next door signed us up, suspecting that her consistent rudeness and brazen Gerry Breen blowing wasn't fulfilling her converting the Gimme clan to Christianity goals. Or maybe they just give it to everyone around here because people around here all easily deluded tossers. Each is as likely as the other.

It will come as no surprise to you, given my opening paragraph, that I will not stand to be converted. Nor, my love of Janelle Monae notwithstanding, do I count my self among those who embrace delusion with ease. Any yet my big learning from this month's Alive! (fuck but I love that exclamation mark, it's so...cannibally) is that I have one big fat selfish cock of a vocation going on. Check out these cheerful chappies from right out there on the front cover:

It's not the first time I have found myself unable to tear my gaze away from an image of smiling potential pederasts, far from it, but never so gleeful a group, never so varied a vaticana.They're not quite priests yet, a quick hop, skip and jump to page nine informs me, but give them a mere seven years folks and and they'll be preaching with the most decrepit of them. And look at them. Jesus, but they're all so happy. Sure, at least one of them looks like he's not going to make it seven weeks without meeting his made up maker. Indeed yes, I'm pretty sure the guy at the front is Richard Cook, whose marry for power plan appears to have gone awry. And wait, isn't that the co-creator of Father Ted lurking at the back? Nevertheless, happy, perhaps even joyous they all certainly appear to be.

And happy I am not.

We know that to achieve this happiness I need to walk the Earth. This need has deepened of late, what with the self-inflicted Sunday injury and the injurious Sundays of affliction but I'm all grown up these days and realise that, in these Taoiseach in a cupboard times, being a hobo is just not an affordable fourth career path. So how about the priesthood? I get to sit around reading for seven years. Then I get to go somewhere far away where people think I'm great. Someone buys me clothes, brings me food, pays my rent. Assuming I keep my nose and penis reasonably clean I'm assured of a long and comfortable retirement with lots of serious boozing thrown in. I'm not seeing a drawback. And that drawback that you think you're seeing, why that's not a drawback at all.

My only concern is that my chosen order might have some slight issues with my atheism, hatred of the Poop, and somewhat salty speech patterns. Cunt them though, if they are reduced to recruiting the ribald yet humourless Graham Linehan, then they must be way past desperate.

So I guess I just leave a comment on the blog or something, right? Fuck, but I love making these big decisions. It makes me feel so Alive!

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

With the money from her accident she bought herself a mobile home

Wednesday, September 1, 2010 8
They say that you get more right wing as you get older. But then they say a lot of shit. I must confess however that as the years roll by I do find myself ever more prejudiced against the fat, the religious and 'people' who take an active interest in hurling. Yet I cling to my self-image as a lefty commie liberal douchebag who believes in all that crazy shit like science and the possibility that homersexuals might be human too. This often leaves me confused. As in the case of the proposed 'work for dole' scheme. Clearly this is a load of right wing cock designed to be shoved down the throats of those who are unemployed through no fault of their own. It will take jobs away from the qualified and serve merely to polish the government's unemployment figures turd. But, you know what? I kind of like it. It appeals to my inner Maggie Thatcher. I'm convinced based solely on my shaky impression of the life of this one guy I know that loads of people are sitting at home raking in almost as much as me for playing xbox all day. And while a little granny arse-wiping might not be their idea of the dignity of labour, it's sure to make me feel briefly better about my daily grind of commute. class, commute, kids, commute, class, commute.

Jesus, but I need to get back to work.

Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Only evil seems to live forever

Tuesday, August 31, 2010 12
I guess my Maggie Gyllenhaal post is just going to have to wait. Mick Lally is dead and this fucks me right off. What is it about not a cunt actors that I know and dying? Sure, the whole Tom Murphy thing was ages ago but I can't recall any of the countless absolute wanker actors that I worked with eating dirt sandwiches in the interim. But maybe that's all for the best. Existence is such a horrible sufferfest that long life is surely a greater curse than a relatively youthful death. So I guess, woo hoo! Mick Lally is dead!

Mick was kind and thoughtful and patient and funny. Not like an actor at all. I really liked him. I would go so far as to say that he was my favourite person on the whole gig. But because I enjoy speaking ill of the dead I am searching desperately in my memory for any evidence of his being less than a perfect gent. This is the best I can do: in the days before Youtube, when such a thing was something of a rarity, I lent him a video tape of Richard Burton being interviewed on Parkinson. He never gave it back. I would occasionally bump into him post-Glenroe and he'd always say 'Oh, I still have that video of yours, I must get it back to you..'

But he never did. And now he's dead.

Monday, August 30, 2010

There's going to be a joke coming

Monday, August 30, 2010 6
My anti-corporate commercial busting schtick is taking a bit of a pounding these days, as I endlessly and needlessly lounge before the altar of day time television. I say needlessly because I should really be up and about, washing the dishes, mowing the lawn, ruling the children with an iron fist. It's my shoulderblade that's broken, not my leg or my spine or even said fist of iron. And what do I use my shoulder blade for? Fuck all, that's what. Sure, it's consistently and nauseatingly painful, but harden the fuck up, right? Wrong. I am a total pain pussy and thus shall continue to lie mewling upon the sunroom sofa bed, calling for Common Law to unwrap my Dime Bar sweeties.

But what the fuck has this to do with my contra The Man stance? It's the ads. you see, the commercials. I am supposed to despise them with all my faux-Hicksian heart, representing as they do the very nadir of our oh so bottomed-out civilization. But I fucking love them. I love them for the hope that they hold, the hope of something better. Advertisements are the Obama of television, though like Hussein, they will always let you down. Day time television, television in general in fact, is so heart-heartbreakingly shit that I have spent the first few days of my self-imposed confinement flicking like a zombie fly fisherman from channel to channel. And so to ease the digital pain I now rest at the ad breaks, waiting to see what's on next. Sure, I'd like to force feed the fat, sausage stealing anti-obesity PSA guy to death. Naturally I wish to take the shards of a smashed LCD tv and jam them into Craig Doyle's UPC eyes. And of course I want to take the Barry's Tea Bangkok bitch on a tour of the darker side of the Thai capital so that she can take some tasteful pictures to send back to Mammy. But mostly I sit through the break in hopeless hope, convinced that all this is merely a precursor to an old episode of Sapphire and Steel or Battle of the Planets, or Darwin help me, a showing of Inherit the Wind. It never is, of course, but thankfully another ad break is never more than a flick or two away.

I suppose I could get Common Law to pick me up an RTE guide, but I somehow doubt that's going to help with the onrushing depression.

Saturday, August 28, 2010

Last night he flew to Baghdad in his magical armchair

Saturday, August 28, 2010 4
Picture me now, bouncing up and down on my tippy toes, doing that wavy hand to stop the tears of joy messing up my mascara bit. "Ooooh," I say at my most unintentionally camp. "Ooooh, I'm going to be an uncle!" Who'd have thought it? Well, fucking everyone truth be told. This brother of mine who knew how you know with a good melon was never getting married just for the tax breaks. This man has the trajectory of his life plotted out and until said trajectory is inevitably thrown off course by some kind of bizarre Hollywood cliché of fate or failing that, an alien invasion, the plans shall continue apace. And a logical part of this post marriage program was always going to be children. Congratulations to him and his lovely wife.

But it's not just them. Have you noticed? Everyone's having kids these days. People too young to be having them, people too old. The married and the unmarried. The rich and the poor. One of my oldest and bestest friends (second girl recently arrived, the tremendous sissy mickey) and the groin injecting junkie from my St James's ward. The mind-numbingly stupid and boring, and the soon to be so. And many of these people, even the smart ones, are doing it on fucking purpose. I mean, seriously. Do they have any idea how much children cost? Or how tedious and stressful they mostly are? Can they not see my rapidly greying hair, my spirit-crushed stance, my inability to stay awake past 11pm? Have they not heard of over-population, global warming, the re-introduction of college fees? What's the worse that could happen? Never experiencing the joy of an unrequested hug from your eleven year old? What you don't know can't hurt you. Dying alone with no one to listen to your interminable tales of former fake glories? Start a fucking podcast. A biologically driven feeling of emptiness and meaninglessness? Sure you get that anyway. How about the continuance of the human race? Don't make me fucking laugh. I mean, I really think we've done enough, don't you?

Case closed. Enough with the babies, people.

Now if you'll excuse me I need to go and criticise every little thing my daughter does as she kindly makes me lunch. Because there we have the only valid reason for procreation. Revenge.

Monday, August 23, 2010

And the sun hit the derrick and cast a bat wing shadow

Monday, August 23, 2010 11
With the exception of a gentle jaunt with the Nor Man, the most notable moment of which was the nimble avoidance of explosive bovine diarrhea, Sunday was my first proper ride since the Alps. I was not in ideal physical condition, having, on the previous afternoon, gone straight from the performance of a bizillion sqats to an accidental triple pint combo. And so it was that I hit the Sabbath hills in the company of Mr. M and my best Polish friend Marcin. My quads were achy and my head was fuzzy. It was glorious. Plenty of the usual climbing and a little never done before diversion to the allegedly highest paved point in the country. This involved some hairy descending on a steep, gravelly winding track. I skidded a little at one point but did not crash. Coming off Sally Gap I followed Mr M's line and for the first time ever was not downhill dropped by him. This felt very good. Later, on the final serious descent of the day, I skidded again, again on gravel and this time a little more violently. I regained control. With my heart pounding and a little tremor in my braking hands I took the rest of the decent at a more leisurely pace. All these close calls. But then there's always at least one a ride.

We split up just after Rathfarnham, Marcin heading back to his beautiful baby girl, Mr M to whatever it is that the childless do on a Sunday. I checked my clock and saw that I had plenty of time to shower, change pedals and have a little rewarmup before starting my spin at 12. It felt good to have done three hours and to still feel strong and ready for the rest of the day. I wished that i had made more use of the weather since I'd been back, made more of an effort to get out. I looked forward to the remaining warmish weeks and putting in some serious mileage. Glowing with all those good endorphins, I gave a little kick on the brief incline up to Orwell Road. I checked right as I approached the left hand turn. Clear, I would have called had I been with the boys. And then my hands came off the bars.

I don't know why. It happened fast. They were on the hoods. Then they weren't. I can only assume it was a bump or a pothole. But off they were. And as I was about to make a turn, albeit at a measly 30kmh, I really needed them on. Yeah, it happened fast. But everything else happened slow. Slowly, my latest bike and I sped toward the very wrong side of the road. Slowly, I tried to regain balance, get my hands on the bars, make the turn. Slowly, the red van in the corner of my eye hurtled towards me.

Oh so slowly. Slow enough to know I wasn't going to connect head on. Slow enough to know that I was certainly going to connect. I reached the bars to turn but not the brakes to slow. It was with pace and power that I shoulder-charged the van, pace and power enough to do insurance claim worthy damage to its side panel. With my shoulder. I bounced off. The bike flew away unscathed. I dropped to the tarmac and lay crumpled in the bright Sunday morning sun.

Monday, June 7, 2010

No one wants you when you lose

Monday, June 7, 2010 11
I'm moving. Again. Like you care. Oh, how I wish you'd care. But you won't care, because not unlike my long defunct "The fuck am I doing this for" list of spin classes blog, this new offering will focus purely on the mentalness of the physical. Working on the basis of write what you'd like people to think you know, The Rider from Cycles Goff (for such is its title) is about, you'll never fucking guess, cycling. Cycling what Gimme does and cycling what Gimme would like to do. Cycling what others do, and cycling what Gimme would like others to do. The posts will be brief but reasonably regular and as I have already mentioned, of no discernible interest whatsoever. They will also reflect my new positive outlook on life which includes a dramatic reduction in both obscenity and cynicism. See? You are totally going to fucking hate it.

The Rider from Cycles Goff may be found here. Cycles Goff does popular social media site here.

Thank you for your readership of Stranded on Gaia, I will be sure to return when I find the time to do something but cycle and watch cycling and think about cycling. And now write about cycling.

Thursday, April 15, 2010

I know we'll catch that villian

Thursday, April 15, 2010 5
Allow me to treat briefly of Ghost Estates. I gather there's a problem. And what might that problem be? Might it be that there are no shops around? Well, welcome to living in the bog. Might it be that there's no one around to talk to? Sounds fucking delightful to me. Might it be that there are dangerous, unfinished building sites that could be simply accessed by children? Uh huh, those are what we used to refer to as 'playgrounds'. If ghost estates actually housed, or indeed estated ghosts then for sure, we might have some reason to complain. No much of a reason though, what with the fun and frolics than inevitably ensue from a good haunting:



See? Recessions are great.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

Now Jimmy chose the Yankee blue

Tuesday, April 13, 2010 14
As Common Law, Data and I wandered Rikerless through Trinity College this Sunday, (the older daughter was with her new family, the Alis) my partner in drudgery asked if I would like to go back to college. Proud of my ignorance and pickiness, I immediately pointed out that I had never been to college and therefore could not technically go back. Common Law sighed.

"Would you like to go to college?"

As this question was posed we were passing a politely passed out pupil prone upon the cricket pitch, with a can of my Pims clasped lightly in his fist.

"Yes," I said, "Definitely."

"I don't mean so that you could spend your days drunk and lying in the sun. I mean so that you could study."

"Oh," I said. I needed to think about that one.

Which is all by way of bringing forth my statement of the day. I fucking love iTunesU. Sure, that's a lot of irritating wrong sized letterness, but what it provides! I'm currently attending Yale. Oh yes, I am. Every night as lay down my head after another day of meaningless exertion, I drop in on a lecture. I'm currently learning all about the American Civil War, from the esteemed Professor Blight. That is some fucked up shit, folks. And I haven't even got to the war bit. We're at slavery, me and the prof and fucking hell is pretty much all I have on that. And it happen yesterday, just about. Really, the temerity of Americans with their freedom bullshit, even the right-thinking ones. They have some serious memory loss issues, they really do. It's early days, but I'm pretty sure that Professor Blight's thesis will turn out to be that slavery and the Civil War fucked America and Americans all the way up. And you can see why he might posit the shit out of that too. Think of an American. First one that comes into your head. Fucked up, right? Mental, most likely. I know, mad isn't it? Isn't he, isn't she? That's the Civil War and all the messed up shit that caused it and all the messed up shit that it caused, right there in your mental mentlar picture.

But it gets better. I've just started alternating my Frederick Douglass with a little bit of the old philosophising. I was attracted by the title of the course in question which is, quite simply, Death. Get in! I dig a bit of death, me. And a bit of Death too. I'm only ten minutes into the introductory lecture but what a fucking ten minutes it's been. Shelly (he wants us to call him Shelly) has already put it out there that he has an argument to make, and that it is, in a couple of nutshells, this: Immortality is not desirable, there is no afterlife, suicide is a moral act and death is, in essence, fucking deadly. That's Irish deadly, you poor fucked up Gringos, an Irish deadly meaning fab.

So I'm getting educated. For free. On my telephone. Obviously I won't get a piece of paper, and thus the potential to earn more than the paltry sum that shouting at people brings in, but I'm pretty sure that to earn a bona fide university qualification one has to spreadeagle one's self in a spring-kissed cider stupor and I have neither the time, the money nor the emotional backing to be doing with that. And I'd also be willing to wager that a degree in Civil War, Slavery and Death does not pave the road to much wealth.

But I'll let you know how they turn out. Badly, I'm guessing, on just about all counts.

Monday, April 12, 2010

What did we ever do to these guys that made them so violent?

Monday, April 12, 2010 10
And still Gettingmyholegate rumbles on. Such would have been your obsessive refreshing and rerefreshing of all the interblogs in question that it seems unlikely that you will have taken on board the big news story of the weekend. Here's a hint, it had an aeroplane in it.

What the fuck is it with aeroplanes? Is it because they're just wrong? Because they are. They're all kinds of fucked up, planes. Look how heavy they are. Much heavier, for example than the plate I just frisbeed across the kitchen. And did that plate make it all the way to New York? Or Smolensk? Or even Inis Mór? It did fucking not. It fell on the ground and broke into a bizillion pieces. And now I have to text Common Law. That's the new rule, you see. I am required to text the lady of the house immediately following the breakage of any item by either the children or myself, including but not limited to, the children or myself. No longer am I allowed to clean up whatever it might be, hide the evidence and hope that my fake wife doesn't notice. Nope, not no more. Common Law is now subscribed to the Smashed Shit Text Alert Service and you can be too. Mail me your number and I'll make it so. Texts cost €1, €5 for optional photo of destruction.

Aaaaaanyway. Airplanes. Heavy, right? And there they are flying around the sky and only occasionally crashing. Wrong, right? And yet there seems to be something about dying in a plane crash that makes it okay to have been a right wing Pope loving gay bashing prick. If Lechy had snuffed it of a heart-attack would Poland be in mourning shock? Would Poland be united in grief if it had just been him and not his wife and a whole load of other big wigs? What's it all about, Alojzy? If Mary Harney and Brian Cowen were to die in a plane crash tomorrow how would that be? Would we shed tears? I know that cunt down the off licence would, but the rest of us right thinking folk, how would we respond? Would we unite in mourning? I would like to think fucking not. Pity for their families, for sure. But joy unconfined on every other level from this honest Greta. We're all going to die and really fucking soon too, so the sooner the hate-filled catholic cunts and the greedy grasping fuck the poor pricks kick the bucket the better, if not for all concerned, then at the very least for me. Now if you'll excuse me I'm going to smash some more plates. Riker needs a new pair of shoes.

Thursday, April 8, 2010

Born already ruined

Thursday, April 8, 2010 7
We got our brochure for the Grand Canal Theatre in the door today, hidden in among other marginally less offensive junk mail, such as flyers espousing the virtues of low rent golf courses and high rent Fianna Gael councillors. There has been discussion elsewhere as to just how shit the upcoming season in this newly opened thespian safe house is going to be yet still I felt compelled given my theatrical background to leaf through the brochure in question. My eye was caught and about ripped off its stalk by one particular potential musical feast.

The Priests.


This is old hat, one assumes. These guys are multi-million selling stadium outselling superstars so everyone else is going to have heard of them already. Not me. This was fucked up singing priest trio first contact for the Greta. (Did I mention that I've changed my name to Greta? Well, I have. Yours is not to wonder why, folks.) This was a first contact where they probed the fuck out of Greta's brain. How does this shit work? It seems to me that you are either a multimillion selling recording artist or you're a fucking priest. Vows of poverty, chastity and obedience would seem to sit rather uncomfortably with the coke snorting off the tits of groupies life of a Rock or even Shitty Hymns God. But wait! What's this?

"The Priests were adamant to never allow their music commitments to stand in the way of their day jobs and parish obligations, and this is written into their contract."

Call me cynical if you refuse to call me Greta, but if they are touring the States singing their little Jesus loving scrotes out then they're not in Ballymacsac ministering to the dying and recently unmolested, are they? By not being in their parish all the time, their new career is not so much standing in the way of their pastoral duties, as doing that thing where two people meet on the street and look to go around each other and both shift in the same direction and this goes on for a while until one party (me) begins to suspect that the other party (you) is doing it on purpose just to spend more time in the luminous presence of the first party (me). And don't give me that 'representing Jesus on The Jonathan Ross Show'. It's all over for Ross, all over for his audience. They're all filthy homo loving rimmers and are Calvinistically predestined to burn. These fuckers need to be tending to Mrs Ballymacsac and her hairy chin. She's torn between daily mass attendance and just staying home to sniff mephadrone and play Modern Warfare II. She needs you, The Priests.

And they look like paedophiles. I know, cheap shot, right. But I'm not saying they are paedophiles. I'm not even implying it. I'm saying they look like paedophiles. Look at them:

From left to right we have: old but sinewy and strong I'm just going to hold you down and rape you paedophile, then youngish I will try to just be your friend for the longest time and then my pats on the back and friendly punches on the shoulder will slowly become more insistent caresses until eventually I too just hold you down and rape you paedophile, and finally my face is actually a latex mask and after I hold you down and rape you will be unable to identify me in a lineup because I will have removed my rubber face paedophile. Is what they look like. Not what they are. Necessarily.

And where is the money going? I know I may be labouring this point a little but I assume that they're making a whole load of fucking cash from this. And I assume that whatever coin is left over from rent boy rental is going back into the church to help pay the travel expenses of other paedophile priests as they get moved from one fresh meat parish to the next.

Am I harping too heavy on the paedophile rapist thing? Perhaps. And perhaps the priests, if not The Priests, should not have done so much raping, so much covering up, so much enabling. Perhaps the Pope should resign, perhaps the government should force the church to hand over control of our schools and perhaps every deluded innocent and not so innocent who goes to see The Priests in the Grand Canal Theatre on the evening of my birthday should be called to fucking account.

Is all.

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

I wish I could write you a melody so plain

Wednesday, April 7, 2010 15
Twice, fucking twice, in the past three hours people have called to my door, taken one look at me and asked to talk to my mum. I am almost 36. I have a beard. A job. Two school going children.

I should take this as a compliment, I suppose. But really, I don't believe that they're asking to talk to my mother because they think I'm young. I believe they're asking to talk to my mother because they think I'm the retarded grown up son who in the good old days of yore would have been too busy being buggered in a state institution to come and answer the door to gutter peddling fat guys. I have the look of a special child granted too much freedom by our overly permissive society. I am Lenny. I am Boo. I am Forrest. I am Frank Cornish's older brother, all grown up. I am Algernon, but before he got the crayon stuck up his nose. It's the hair, I'd say, or the Easter egg smeared face. Or the vacant, yet haunted, eyes.

Next time this happens I'm going to drop one shoulder, grimace up my face and loudly groan 'Mummy! Mummy! The bad man touching Gimme! The bad man touching!'. That ought to enhance my sullied neighbourhood reputation.

Friday, April 2, 2010

You're far too keen on where and how, but not so hot on why

Friday, April 2, 2010 15
To pray The Way of the Ridiculous Weather Cycle requires only that you meditate before each station. Before each station you may say: "We adore you, O Gimme, and we bless you, because by your holy bicycle, you have redeemed the world. Kind of."


I. Gimme condemned. To going for a cycle.

II. Gimme gets on His Drek.



III. Gimme goes "Motherfucker!" for the first time.


IV. Gimme meets Mr M.



V. Mr M. says he's just going to go at Gimme's pace. Mr M. always says that.


VI. Nobody wipes the nose of Gimme. He blows a snot rocket then wipes His own nose.



VII. Gimme goes "Motherfucker!" for the second time.


VIII. At the start of the climb, Gimme passes that club jerseyed guy who had the temerity to pass Gimme on the flat. Gimme leaves him for dead. The sky starts to do something beyond merely raining.


IX. Gimme goes "Motherfucker!" for the third time. This time is both the loudest and wheeziest.


X. On Military Road, Gimme is completely soaked to the fucking skin by a sideways driving hail. He cannot see more then five feet through the mist. He tries to hide behind Mr M in a half-assed echelon, but the wind keeps blowing Mr M towards His wheel. He gives up and cries a little bit.


XI. Gimme begins the descent. His face, fingers and toes go completely fucking numb, instantly.

XII. Gimme dies on the bike. Or wishes he was dead. "Give me a couple of nails in my palms and a slow agonising suffocation any day", He thinks.

XIII. Gimme's body is removed from the bike.

XIV. Gimme's body is laid in the gym shower where it very, very slowly defrosts.

XV. Gimme teaches spin.


It may be safely asserted that there is no devotion which enables us more literally to obey His injunction to take up our bicycle and follow Him.



*Iconography by Riker*

Thursday, April 1, 2010

This is not a case of lust you see

Thursday, April 1, 2010 4
As soon as I came in the door I knew that something was wrong. Although it was only 8.30, I was well into my day, having risen at 5.30 to leave at 6, to teach at 7, to hammer it home at 8. Common Law was recently up, getting the children fed and ready for the second last day at Easter Camp. But I knew immediately that this was not merely early morning grogginess, nor even the crushing fatigue of a week of 14 hour work days. There was something profoundly amiss, a terrible trauma as yet unspoken.

I waited, we waited, until the girls were picked up and shipped off. I kissed, waved, closed the door and then softly, tentatively enquired:

"How's it going?"

"Okay."

"How was the show?"

"Fine."

"Did you go out?"

"Yeah."

"Have fun?"

"Hmm."

"Did something happen?"

"No."

A single tear rolls down her cheek.

"What's wrong? What is it?"

"Nothing."

"Tell me."

And suddenly the tears come in a flood.

"Oh, Gimme."

"What is it?"

She falls into my arms. I hold her tight. She speaks through sobs.

"They lied to me, Gimme."

"Who? Who lied to you?"

"They said March 31st."

The words are a wail.

"Who did? What's March 31st?"

"I believed them. I really believed it was finally going to happen."

"You don't mean..."

"Yes."

"Oh, baby..."

"Lego Harry Potter...it won't be out till May 28..."

Her body shakes, she can no longer speak.

"It's okay darling, it'll be okay..."


It's going to be a long two months.



Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Dedicate them all to me

Wednesday, March 31, 2010 6
"Oh Daddy, you're such a cunt!"

These are perhaps not the words one would ideally like to hear from the mouth of one's eleven year old daughter. But why is that? What the fuck is it about swearing and children?

Personally, and you may be shocked to hear this, I was an early swearer. In much the same way as I do not remember not breathing or not reading, I do not remember a time when, having been once again fucked over by the world, I did not feel the need to turn the air blue. Where I learned all these wonderful words remains something of a mystery to. There was no profanity on telly when I was eight, not like today with your frackin' this and your frackin' that, and my raising grandmother's most filthy phrase was "Jesus, Mary and Joseph". Nobody at school spoke to me so it seems unlikely that I picked it up there. In truth, I believe I was born with a motherfucker already blossoming upon my lips.

Eldest daughter Riker, she be no Gimme. We watched 'Stand By Me' together recently so I do know that she's aware of "shit", "shut the fuck up" and 'suck my fat one". As to the Major's favourite swear, she has informed me that she knows the C word but it turns out, disappointingly enough, that she was referring to "crap". But not unlike her mother, Riker just doesn't seem like the cursing type. It's hard to imagine a scenario that would draw from her so much as a 'Fiddlesticks!'.

Data, on the other hand, has a lot more of the Gimme about her. She needs these words, my second born, and the sooner she is taught them and then uses them to dissipate some of her stored rage, the better for us all. It would be wrong, I suppose, to take her aside tomorrow morning as she rails and rages against the injustice of not being allowed to bring both her blanky and her duvet to the breakfast table, and explain that if she would only take the time to employ the phrase "motherfucking shitting cock cunt" right in her father's face, she would surely feel a whole lot better. It would be wrong in that Common Law would not be happy. In every other way, it would be so very, very right.

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

"You're all wrong", I said and they stared at the sand

Tuesday, March 30, 2010 8
I haven't done a long ride since getting sick on St Pukey's Day, and so, in a desperate attempt to htfu (ttfu? I can never remember...) I made the rather rash decision to do all today's commuting by bicycle. Two commutes, 10k each way. 40k total, first into sideways snow, then into a biting headwind with wet from the snow clothes, then into a directionally changed biting headwind, and finally into razor like rain. With another biting headwind. Fucker changed direction again. The snow hurt my eyes, the wind shrank my willy, the rain made me most miserable and cold. I don't fell any harder or tougher but I think I may have given myself new moan ee! ah!.

No, no point. Common Law is deep in a tech week and I just felt like complaining. Off about your business now. Into a biting headwind, for preference.

Monday, March 29, 2010

Do you want me to dial the number for you?

Monday, March 29, 2010 9
Friday afternoon, and both of the younger ladies were off at 12. Guilt ridden by having had my mother collect them due to an uncancellable stupid fucking yoga class, I decided on a trip to the cinema.

"Pick a friend, each of you, any friend you wish, as long as they're free and not too loud, and to Coolock we shall drive!"

"Huh?"

"We're going to the movies."

"What are we going to see?"

Jesus, always with the questions.

"I don't know, Nanny McPhee or that dog thing."

Data wanted to see the dog thing. Riker was in favour of Nanny McPhee. Not that the title or content of the potential filmic feast had a lick of fucking influence on their preferences. Data wanted x because Riker wanted y. And vice versa. And so it is and shall be. We ended up at the dog thing because Riker makes more noise when she loses. Not really. It was because of the time. Or something. Honest.

I thought we we're going, essentially, to Beethoven IV. I expected adventures, dogs knocking shit down for bad guys to fall over, lots of cute kids and stupid sexist stereotypes and Richard Gere blinking. Me and Riker and Riker's friend Ali and and Data and Data's friend Medb, whose name is pronounced May Ve and not Med uh buh, no, really, that's what we all expected. And then nothing happened for forty-five minutes. But it was an oddly enjoyable nothing.

But then there was death and loss and loyalty and then more death. And Riker wept and Ali giggled and Data shifted and Medb shouted and yes, Gimme also wept and cried and wept some more. I don't even fucking like dogs. It was the loyalty, you see. It's in short supply around here. Riker? She can take me or leave me. Data? She'd happily trade me for a Cornetto. Common Law? Certainly my best bet but if I were to die by motorist tomorrow (fingers crossed, right Steph? You and me both) I'd like to think that she'd find another grumpy insecure cunt to make her the odd latte. No, what I need, perhaps even more than a full carbon frame, is a nice big dog. A movie dog, that walks itself and never poops and waits for me by the train station even though I'm a bad, bad man, who if not yet dead is most certainly dead inside. That's what I need.



Sunday, March 28, 2010

Always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself

Sunday, March 28, 2010 32
I am not a violent man, though I am a man who dreams of violence. That knitting circle shit last night though, that put me close. I was well tempted to follow that weasel faced fuck into the ladies and show him a little something about truth and directness, for it is truth and directness that this little man and his ilk so sorely lack. But happily some precognition of the night's possibilities had led me to taking the precaution of getting off my face on happy pills, so in reality the worst this little prick had to fear from me was a drug induced hug.

So, yes, truth. I do my best to speak my truth. Perhaps not as quietly as Mr Ehrmann would like, but most certainly as clearly. And these people do not. No, they speak crowd pleasing lies. I know that they cannot like everything, though they profess to, I know that they cannot find every experience 'brilliant' though this is what they would have me believe. And I know now, as I have always suspected, that they are as bitter and as insecure as Gimme himself. But nastier too, folks, more underhand, and shockingly, even more fucking pathetic.

A sunny Sunday afternoon, back in the big city.

"Did you win? Did you win?".

"Nah, the gay guy won, told he he would, it was a great post. But hey, look at this..."

And now a father shows to his daughter a blurred picture of his work projected on a big screen in a room filled with people. His daughter feigns the feigning of interest. Yet somewhere in her eyes he sees the flicker of a little girl who is proud of her daddy. That's what you took. And I may well be a cunt who had it coming, but I am a cunt who tells the truth.

And you, you are just a cunt.



Friday, March 26, 2010

Kill the headlights and put it in neutral

Friday, March 26, 2010 6
These blog awards are pretty fucking ruley, aren't they?

Congratulate your fellow nominees! Link to the sponsors! Don't take a shit, smear it on a postcard and send it to that mildly famous guy's ex-best friend's new boyfriend with a little note in the corner saying "Can you fucking believe that mildly famous guy turned anyone to cock, even indirectly?"!

And now the latest:

'Clap for everyone, please. We all deserve a clap for working hard on our blogs.'

I do not fucking see that. If, in the darkest of nights, you smashed all the eco friendly light bulbs in my house and used the shards to tattoo, in braille, the words 'Jesus but some lady must have really shat on a certain Limerick man from quite the fucking height' directly onto my corneas, I could not see it less. Lots of people work hard. Jeffrey Dahmer worked hard. Take it from me, dismembering is not an easy job. Do I, I mean does Jeffrey, deserve a clap? Do, oh let the nightmare not come true, culch.ie deserve a clap? The clap, to go for the cheapest available joke, sure. But a clap? No, I say, and again no.

And then there's the sheer volume of clapping required. There are 22 awards. Twenty fucking two. I assume one is required to slam the hams both when the winner is announced and after they have given their lengthy speech. Not being American, I will not be clapping myself or my speech, yet that still leaves 42 rounds of applause. There is no way my delicate fucking aristocratic palms can take that much pounding.

Decisions, then. Who to applaud? It seems so unfair to single anyone out that I believe I must settle for eating a whole lot of plant food and allowing the chemicals to decide. I really am looking forward to this. I hope to see you there, though I'd much rather you didn't see me.



Thursday, March 25, 2010

My favourite inside source

Thursday, March 25, 2010 10
Yer man was in the other night. Yer man. The push bike fella. Don't see as much of him now, do ye? Off the drink I think he is, or too fuckin poor, the gobshite. He was in his poofter get up, fuckin' tights on him, the scrawny cunt. Six corona he puts on the counter, the fuckin philistine, and hands me a tenner. Not fucking looking at me mind, watchin the telly. Primetime's on. Day of the reshuffle this is. I say "Howarye". He just fuckin sighs. "Putting out deck chairs, aren't they?" I look up at the telly. They're talkin about Mary Coughlan. "Wha?" I say. "Putting out deck chairs. On the Titanic." What a fuckin cunt. Another of them government knockers."Ah jaysus," I say, '"you're not another of them government knockers?" The look on his face is fuckin priceless. "You're kidding," he says in his faggy put on fuckin voice. "Wha?" I say. "You think the government are doing a good job?" he says. He's already fuckin close to chokin on his whatchcallit, his incredulity, chokin on it like it's a fat cock but I know I can get him fuckin closer. I can make the cunt gag. "At least they didn't move the main woman." More fuckin pricelessness. "You're not...tell me you don't mean Harney." He looks like he's going to fuckin shit himself the fuckin shirtlifter. "I do.""You think she's doing a good job?" I want him to get all fuckin emotional now, make the fucker feel like the twat that he is. "Don't get all emotional now," I say. He gets all fuckin emotional. Bangin on about trolleys, about how my Mary wants to fuck over the poor, about shite he knows fuckin nothin about. I let him run out of steam. And then I fuckin go for him. I give him all the shit about the HCP, all the made up trolley numbers, all the shit I practise on the wife, then I lean over the counter and fuckin point at him and fuckin tell the little fuckin faggot what's what. And he's about to start splutterin his response when Tony arrives, he wants a taste of that Rioja we just got in, so I dismiss the cunt. "I'll talk to you again,"I say. And he stands there for a second, his mouth hanging open like a fish, and then he turns and gets on his fuckin tricycle and fucks off. I pull down a glass for Tony and fill it up. And I feel fuckin deadly all night long.


Wednesday, March 24, 2010

I did not believe the information

Wednesday, March 24, 2010 8
I really was ill, you know. I wasn't making it up just to get out of cycling to Galway. I really want to cycle to Galway, honest. No, I do.

I woke up on Patrick's Day feeling nauseous. A burpitudinal volley every ten seconds or so, each one bringing back the memory of the previous night's chicken and sweetcorn soup. I was weak, shaky. Standing was something of an issue. "I know," I thought,"I'll go and ride up a big fucking hill." And so I did. I mentioned to the cycling buddies that I was feeling a little unwell. They nodded sagely and thought "sandbagging pussy". I had done 20k by the time we hit the climb, feeling somewhat otherworldly, having taken only one unusually agonising pull into the wind. So then we hit the climb. Or Norman hit the climb. And Marcin hit the climb. I tried to hit the climb. Then I tried to bitch slap it. To give it a chinese burn. I finally settled for waving limp-wristedly in its direction. It probably wasn't that much more than 3k, this climb, and only very steep in brief sections, but it took me approximately fourteen years to complete. Fourteen years of trying not to vomit, of trying to remember to breathe, of remembering that breathing made it worse, of realising that you can't really ride up a hill without breathing. Norman, who has never reached the top of a climb before me, was a dot in the distance. Marcin, who I consistently drop when I'm not being an idiot smoker, was already home redecorating his kitchen. I got to the top, and that was pretty much it for the moving for the next five days.

Everyone else on the Enterprise got this bug too. Got the bug, threw up, and recovered fully by the next setting of the sun. Poor everyone, right? All I'm saying is, if they wanted five days off work or school then as soon as their tum-tums started to feel a little dicky, they should have made the logical decision to ride up a really big fucking hill.


Tuesday, March 23, 2010

The sound the streetcars make as they pass my window

Tuesday, March 23, 2010 8
Time was I would roll groggy out of bed at 7.25 and spend five minutes crawling into Data's bedroom so that I might gently coax her from sleep towards her full on, in your face morning whingey whiningness. Then I started smoking again, so I was forced to get up earlier, and stagger downstairs for morning coffee and morning coughing. And then I stopped smoking again and found myself AMly energised and up even earlier, having grown used to that me time where I got to do the things that I really, really wanted to do, like emptying the fucking dishwasher and preparing Common Law's latte. These days, still smoke free, I rise at 6.30 and have time for that emptying, but also eating, and sipping and reading Bike Snob and setting up the morning for the knocking down that the children will do. It's good, I like the time. The time is nice. But here's the thing. As the mornings grow brighter they're chasing me, all three. Common Law first, who also likes the time, coming downstairs, bustling about doing stuff that I feel like I should have done, that stuff being my gig, what with her and her full time job gig. Then Riker, sitting merely awake reading in her bed, which makes me want to hustle her, to grumble if you're awake then get up and eat your breakfast, brush your teeth, fuck it, empty the fucking dishwasher. And now even the not so little Data, up yesterday at 7, demanding to be fed, dressed, brushed.

So I will push back my rising time once more. And soon enough I'll be up at 11 o'clock the night before, knocking back that first espresso and preparing for the day ahead.



Monday, March 22, 2010

I’ve got me a date with Botticelli’s niece

Monday, March 22, 2010 11
Self-portrait by Gimme A. Minute

Gaze upon my visage attendees of meaningless awards ceremony and tremble. Fucking tremble I tell you. As you may be able to tell from the photo above, I have been somewhat unwell and therefore cannot guarantee that I will arrive by bicycle, but there I will be, Zoolandering it up, giving my victory speech whether I win, win or win.

I am so going to fucking win.


Monday, February 22, 2010

Hold my hand on take off

Monday, February 22, 2010 21
It's difficult to hide one's true nature on a 180km cycle. Turns out I'm stupid, brave but predominately a bit of a cunt. And an ungrateful one at that. Stop to pick up a tenner that flies out of my pocket? I'm going to spit you out the rear of the chasing pack without so much as a backwards glance. Drag me along the N11 for the best part of an hour? I'm going to drop your ass on the first hint of a half reasonable climb. Spend some considerable time gentle schooling me in the art of up and overs? I'm latching on to the first faster bunch that I find so that I might practise my new found skills. Gimme, gimme, gimme. I'll take, take, take.

I may be a talentless wheelsucker with nothing but a decent engine and five weeks off the booze and fags going for me but this much I share with another Eddie, I don't give gifts and I expect pas de fucking cadeaux in return.

*

I would like to thank whoever nominated my unproductive ass for a Blog Award. I would like to, but I won't. My big gay priest one made the longest long list on the WWW. It's hard to ignore, that fucking list. Everyone tweets it, or emails you about it, or emails you about other people emailing them about it. Turns out every active and inactive blog in Ireland was long-listed this year, except for one, but then there were complaints and now that one's been nominated too.

So here is my promise. If I get short listed, like down to the last four or five or whatever, then I will cycle to Galway. 218 kilometres into the wind with only Mr. M to shield me from the elements. And if I win? If I win I will clomp cleated to the stage in my lycra, helmet and road dusted shades and let forth such an elitist, nay fascist, diatribe on how much better than culch.ie every website in the world must surely be. And then, because I don't drink any more and there would be no point hanging around hoping to be bought cocktails I will walk away through the boos and catcalls and hurled pint glasses with credits playing in my mind's eye and Aimee Mann's Pavlov's Dog playing in my mind's ear and all the credits will read 'Gimme'. Especially Gaffer. But especially Best Boy. And most especially Starring. Gimme, Gimme and Gimme.



 
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