Friday, April 29, 2005

A rat ran past Ba Mizu last night and I saw him from where I was standing outside Grogan's having a smoke. Reminded me of the big rat we called 'Herbert' which I saw from the Porto Vecchio in Florence. Laughing inwardly that I was standing outside a dingy, old worldy, pre tiger maddness institution and the rat was running past that pub where I witnessed a beautiful blonde woman, drunk to the point of obnoxiousness, falling, flailing in the bathroom shrieking about how she would 'roooide anything, anything for a shag'.

Not that sex is not something I enjoy, but I saw her later, dressed in her posh clothes, skinny to the point of perfection, pawing and staggering over men and I wanted to vomit. Of course, it was fabulous darling, fabulous.

Bull. Last night was fabulous. Grub in Cornucopia, pint in Grogans, Comedy in the International, where Ardal O'Hanlon wowed us trying out his new set. He's looking fierce old though, would never pass for Fr Dougal now. And we were dissed, for the first time ever, me and my mate. Because I snorted. Shouldn't have snorted.

It was great to be heckled from the stage with my mate who was there the first time I saw comedy live in The Comedy Club, London.

We should laugh more. We really should. Until our knickers are wet or the snot gushes from our nostrils. Wicked laughing is best. We're all going to kick it, so what's the point in agonising over it. As someone said to me the other day, 'Stiofán. Now that's an unfortunate name'.

Monday, April 25, 2005

The barman in Bowes is a character. We were the only ones there last night, Sunday, and we went outside for a smoke. On our return he was standing on the bar, jiving, asking us to join him for a dance. He proceeded to take down old 'curios' such as a bottle of talc from the 1920s or somesuch bygone era.

Sterile Dublin could do with a laugh or two, and Bowes - when it's quiet and he's on duty - has it in buckets.

I was at my neighbours fiftieth on the weekend, down in the local soccer club. Cocktail sausages and chips so hot they burn your lips. As the woman down the road said, Peter Kay was the DJ. Classic. Half way through the night they stopped everything to do 'Play your Cards Right', which involved oversized cards, a beer-gullet with a dodgy PA system and a dolled up sixty year old dolly bird with a constant smile. Topped only by the twenty year old diva who took her shoes off in order to shake her booty to the joy and rapture of all the seventy year old grandpas sitting agog at the edge of the dance floor.

You'd almost forget your cat died. Until everyone reminds you, teary eyed, or should I say beery eyed. My toe-biting beast was run over, probably by a skanger in a Seicecento driving at 60mph. Bring back hanging I say (I'd like to say I'm joking, but I won't).

Aw well, Arthur, you lived well, and if you're haunting me like one of the neighbours thought you might be, I can take a little furry shadow anyday - like I said, we all need to laugh more.

Thursday, April 21, 2005

My Granny used to say horrible things. She told me about a little baby she had had that was dead and that it had been in a shoe box in the scary toilet in her bungalow before they got rid of it.

I didn't like that toilet because it was black, it was cold and the flush was pulled by a chain. No other toilets I knew were black or had a chain, they were all white and had a lever you would press down.

I didn't like toilets much, it occurred to me that I could fall down the toilet. It also occurred to me that something could be hiding in the pipe and it could come out and somehow the flush would go at the same time and I would be sucked down into the toilet with that horrible noise. I hated the noise of the flush. It was nice enough when the seat was down because then it just sounded like water, but when the seat was up it was such a loud sucking, gushing sound that I was scared.

Friday, April 15, 2005

sipping coffee in café bar deli

if work sucks, take the afternoon off like we did and sip your coffee in café bar-deli on george's st.

at eur1.80, it is cheaper than a take-out from O'Briens (eur1.95) and you can chill out and feel a bit special.

the food is nice, but like everywhere in dublin over-priced. just don't do what i did the first time i was there, try to give the menu back (it doubles as a place-setting). also: from memory i believe they serve wine in little glasses, so don't be surprised. this seems to be a trend, with Gruel doing the same stylie.

have yourself a few shots of coffee and a good giggle and the unbearable lightness of being becomes bearable.

Tuesday, April 12, 2005

Tuesday the 12th April 2005

I didn't get the job.
My best friend has emigrated again.
Things in work aren't great.
I went for a walk and it started to rain.

Wednesday, April 06, 2005

wednesday's web musings

Now is the first time today that I've calmed down and realised it is Wednesday, and that it is April. Tragedy being that it is almost the beginning of Thursday, which bodes ill for my musings over Wednesday.

None the less, I should spend a while thinking about today and how it flew - work was a mad confetti of press queries, excitment, sitting around and waiting to be able to release something.

Didn't get lunch, spent five minutes in a bookshop and the rest working or couching (this afternoon). Not that the bookshop wasn't exciting - bought himself 'Of Mice and Men' and myself 'East of Eden'. Nostalgia? The pre-teens (or as evil marketers refer to them as 'tweenies' - ew, how disgusting) were spent reading Steinbeck and I felt like (a) sharing the joy and (b) refreshing my memory so I knew what I was raving about.

Which reminds me - never rave about a book if you can't remember it. I spent two years ranting about Camus' Outsider (how predictable - age 16, Cure-head, yawn...) which was just dandy until himself picked it up and it became obvious that I have the memory capacity of a geriatric goldfish - tragic.

No danger of that this time, no siree. The only fears are that (1) Steinbeck will let me down and spoil those lovely memories of enraptured reading or (2) I'll realise I can't remember an iota of the story or (3) the experience will be disconcerting, kindof like a vague sense of déja vu...

But hopefully not. I'm crossing my toes that that evil manipulative young woman I remember from East of Eden still exists, and that this time I'll read it on a whole new deeper level. I hope I don't get toe cramp!

Friday, April 01, 2005

Goodbye Pope John Paul

Before I was two, when Dublin was a flood of flared trousers, psychedelic fabric and my mum still had long glossy black hair, I'm told I saw the Pope when he was helicoptered in to Maynooth, where my parents still clung onto the dream they had bought a house in what would be a suburb of Dublin.

It's not a memory I share with them, but there is no denying that growing up in Dublin in the eighties meant living in the last vestiges of Catholic Ireland. The churches were brimming and children dreamed of the piles of ten penny bags, cool-pops, stinger bars and dip-daps that would result from their Communion money.

Pictures of the Pope blessing the good Catholic unions hung in many of my friends houses. I didn't know the man and I've never been religious. On 5-7 Live tonight there was talk of 1,000 people going to a mass in the Pro Cathedral for the Pope. Vox-pops of men and women hoping that the pope won't die or wishing his successor the best of luck.

Conflicting reports on whether he's still alive or dead. But for one moment in 1979, Pope John Paul held the equivalent of a U2 concert in the Phoenix Park. When I was a teenager I worked in a factory and an older co-worker told me that she and her mates had walked from a night-club in town to see the Pope's talk. It wouldn't happen now I don't think.

Like it, loathe it, think it irrelevant, but any death like this, where each second is commented on, is strange and I think a bit sad. So, I never knew you, but best of luck Pope John Paul, wherever you're off to.

in memory of gonzo writers

I'm sipping my glass of sauvignon blanc thinking how it sucks to not want to grow up when I realise I'm not listening anyway because she's talking about being in love with him maybe, and the last time I listened she wasn't. And then it occurs to me that maybe I haven't listened properly for a few months or something, because it all seems a little sudden. After all she's vowed never to be in love, but I want to say the right thing.

Don't want to jeopardise her being in a relationship through folly of words. Now she's saying she's afraid that I won't like him because the only time we met he was sulking. I disagree, but that was not the right thing to say and now I'm sipping my wine and we're contemplating an argument I had with her friend about WB Yeats when I was in college seven years ago and probably drunk, I can't remember it well.

I'm trying to remember how we skipped back almost a decade and am contemplating shedding a tear at the sadness of it all when her dad rings, he's outside, and I'm trying to say the right thing to make them be in love and make her understand that I can't remember seven years ago and sort of make her feel happier, she's rarely happy, but when she is then she's beautiful, and then it all seems to heavy and after she's gone I finish the bottle alone and feel sad about the fact that hunter is dead and then that gets me to thinking that lots of the good dudes have died recently - miller and derrida and all - so I write this and now I'm tired and I'm going to bed goodnight.

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