Monday, February 28, 2005

Hand me my laminated certificate (made in China), funny leprechaun beard (made in China) and bog full of blarney (made in China) for I have arrived. I have reached full plasticity in the pantheon of Paddyness. I'm going to change my name to something more, er, Irish. Because Oim Oirish Oi am, no really, oi rarlly am.
I had a grand weekend (see how easily this funny new language comes to me): Whelans on Friday night (and you should see this dude if you ever get the chance cos he's fair dinkum and proper bo, as the older generation of Dubliners might say), Saturday night/Sunday morning dancing the drunken, doped-up dyked-up Tango, and finally, most gloriously, walking out into Lansdowne Road at 2 o'clock on sunday afternoon to discover what happens when Ireland take on England in the rugby. I have only experienced such an atmosphere at rock concerts and music festivals before. I pay particular tribute to the guy who passed me dressed as St Patrick, in full Irish colours, for the match. But the sentimental bit I have to say is that halfway up Pembroke I realised, in one of those semi-demi-quasi-epiphanic moments that this city is now my home and i'm damn lucky to be here.

an hour later, I'm sitting in my lounge watching the match, windows open to hear the crowd from the stadium (yes, if anyone wants to come round and fuck me/kill me, i live in the heart of D4 not too far from the stadium - i'll be waiting with clean cotton/plastic sheets) and I realise, with even greater shock, that i'm cheering for the guys in green and hoping those blokes in the white aren't going to score. It all becomes quite abstract with me and sport, admittedly, but i quite obviously found myself supporting Ireland and completely depersonalised the English team from my mind. And when 'we' won, I felt as happy as Larry, or Paddy to be more precise.

(aah, isnt that just the pithy way we Irish literary giants like to end our witty articles these days...)


Wednesday, February 23, 2005

Saturday night, the Redbox, Lee Scratch Perry and the Mad Professor. A gig partly attended for my love of live reggae, partly for box-ticking ('yeah, course i've seen Lee Perry') but mostly cos i was bored and invited to go. Now I don't know if you know this, probably not since i think it's a bit of a well-kept showbiz secret, but in actual fact Lee Scratch Perry suffers from a form of mild eccentricity. So when he came on covered in cd's, christmas decorations, wearing a spangly wizard's hat and mumbling something about DUBlin being the city of DUB, i think some people remembered this long-whispered rumour. Nobody knows if it's really true of course - it's probably all an act. Just like burning down his own studio and all the master tapes back in the early 70's cos he thought it had got possessed. Pure theatricality no doubt. Just another publicity stunt.

Anyways, the reason I mention this is because he invited the audience to have an imaginary spliff with him, so we all followed his lead and raised our fingers towards our lips and took a big imaginary toke on our imaginary spliffs, blew out and then all cheered. All except for someone in the front row who obviously couldnt take it anymore and lit up a big grassy bomber for real. Perhaps they knew that if they held onto it that would spell financial and physical difficulties for them, security was already closing in, so they passed it on to the man himself who took a few puffs and passed it round the band while they played. I have not heard cheers like it in Dublin - everyone knew what had just happened and for a minute we all thought that chaos would take over and everyone would start skinning up. I was ready, anyway.

But no - the spliff went back to the crowd, got handed to a woman who traded puffs for kisses (i think it's fair to say that grass is not easily obtained in this country, so she got what she wanted and fair play to her as they say round these parts) and them on stage got on with the gig. Which was great, by the way.

Craic cocaine ? 1 leprechauns hat full of finest bolivian to 2 leprechaun hats full of ruddy faced Irish blarney. *must* be green.
Let's have marketing knock up some samples ready for St. Patricks day and see if the boys from Guinness will do a tie in ?

my inbox is full of stuff like this. the man needs a blog...


Monday, February 21, 2005

Foxhunting with Dogs has been banned in Britain. But some people dont want to stop hunting. And others dont want to stop stopping them from hunting. For the sake of fisherman everywhere, here's a couple of simple, legal alternatives for foxloving doghaters, calm and reasonable class warriors, chinless toffs and the newspaper editors that depend upon them:

Doghunting With Foxes: Let's crazy it up a bit and see how the other half do things. Foxes, after all, are vicious little wild dogs. Get a pack of them together and teach them to hate domestic dogs, then release a lone beagle into the woods and let the little red fuckers get some payback. It's not brutal, it's nature. Honestly you city people just don't udnerstand.

Foxhunting With Foxes: There's nothing in the lawbooks that prohibits fox-on-fox violence. Train foxes to hate foxes using classic British divide-and-rule tactics. Just put a white line in the middle of the forest and start spreading rumours that north of the line is a better place to live than south of the line.

Foxhole Hunting:
Again, nothing illegal in sending killer dogs hurtling through the countryside to attack a small hole in the ground. To show good faith, the hunters should issue a public warning to all foxes to stay out of the way on hunting days. Perhaps they could even offer compensation for damaged holes. This one could really get the whole community together

Dr Fox Hunting:
My ultimate fantasy and one I share with anyone that's had to endure his evil on Capital Radio. We should hunt him down with rabid dogs, then sedate them and rip him to shreds with our own teeth. Then stick him back together and do it all over again. And again.


Friday, February 18, 2005

im sorry but im not finished with this yet. i'm so fucking annoyed about this. i mean, im still a quite extraordinarily handsome man, of that there's no doubt, but i wanted long hair because i am at very much the twilight of my youth and i fully believe that i will not be able to grow my hair long. soon, it will start growing inwards and start mucking up my brain. i can already feel it tickling. so this was it, my last chance. snipped and, AND, FUCKING HELL, SHAVED. So, the fucker got his clippers out anyway, two different sizes, and went to work on me regardless. Then swept away like so many loose clippings of hair in a barber's shop.
When i arrived in Dublin i thought all those job vacancy notices in shop windows that quite explicitly demand 'Must have FLUENT English' were a little bit naive to say the least. I mean, you wouldnt apply for the job if you couldnt read the application and if you couldnt read it then you wouldnt be able to live here anyway, right?
Well i get it now. This fancy foreign fucker, i have no idea from where - he seemed to have facial and racial characteristics from every region on earth (spanish skin, eskimo eyes, african lips, anglo nose and mong forehead) - asks what you want, waits patiently for your reply whilst pretending to listen carefuly, then simply tells you what he's going to do the same way an Australian often ends their sentences with a rising cadence so it comes out like a deeply posed question?!?! So you can answer yes or no, it doesnt matter. He wasnt asking you in the first place.

'Ok, so i'd like to carry on growing my hair, i want to get it just above shoulder length really, but thin, you know? my hair is naturally very thick and quite curly so i just need it thinned out and tidied up a bit please. ive been growing it for about 3 months now and its all out of shape, but i'm really trying to get my hair long again, ok?'

-yes, ok. so you want short back and sides?

'no. i want to keep the length, just tidier please. do you understand? i want to grow my hair long but not out, not like a big balloon, alright?

-yes. yes. you want scissor cut? can i use razor?

'scissors i think'

-yes. yes. ok. please remove your glasses.

10 minutes, 12 weeks of hair and 13 euro later, i have a short back and sides.

you fucking monkeycunt.


Thursday, February 17, 2005

Meaty, possibly nutritious, low in fat and cheap as chips. Find 100's of delicious recipes for this newest of fad foods.


Wednesday, February 16, 2005

[15:43] JY: i havent seen the news yet - is Jacko still 'ill'
[15:43] f3: yeah, he's been admitted to hospital with a mild case of attempted suicide
[15:43] JY: haha
[15:44] JY: so obviously suicide
[15:44] f3: definitely
[15:44] JY: can you really imagine him in prison ?
[15:45] f3: no
[15:45] f3: and nor can he!
[15:47] JY: funny, his album titles sum up the whole thing - Off the Wall, Thriller, Bad, Dangerous, ....History
[15:47] f3: !


Friday, February 11, 2005

Had Raclette last night at a French couple's house. Amidst all the communal jollity that such a meal often promotes, I found myself turning to the good lady and remarking in a purposefully loud voice 'God, first they invite us round for dinner, then they make us cook it ourselves. We've been had'.

And just as soon as the first words had left my brain, travelling down to the arse to pick up some baggage and then on towards the mouth, I began to realise the folly of such a joke. Not only was I deliberately misunderstanding the whole process and abusing their hospitality, i was committing the oldest of errors: a joke that must've been cracked a BABABILLION times before. To give you a more universal example, imagine sitting down tonight with some friends and playing Monopoly. Then, in the middle of an inventive and hilarious exchange of conversation someone at the table implores you all, in a revelatory voice, to 'imagine all this money was, like, REAL'.

So I did that, only with French people and their food.

And wouldn't this story be much more entertaining if...

a: JonnyB had written it
b: they'd looked at me and in all cruelty asked 'why, what on earth do you mean?'
c: i'd immediately shat my pants and was forced to do a famous Rabbi Dance as penance for dropping my cheese into the fondue

But instead, I have to relate in a surprising and entirely self-aggrandising way that I had the stunning good fortune to have picked probably the only two people on earth never to have been confronted with such a tired, weak joke. They laughed and didn't think any more of it. I was so shocked, even disappointed that I hadn't made such a twat of myself, that I even asked them 'isn't that the oldest joke in the book? havent people in the Savoie been making that joke for about 600 years?'



Thursday, February 10, 2005

we are all indebted to the DJ Councillor and The Friar for this:

Image Googling Ainsley Harriot

i had a very strange experience yesterday. Walking through the centre of Dublin, I saw a perfectly normal man, a lovely old Dubliner turned out nicely but with a big black smudge on his forehead. Of course, to see an old man with a slightly tragic facial disfigurement is still commonplace in this day and age and if I had believed in god I would have thanked him for making me pretty near perfect. So I thought nothing of it and moved on. Until I turned a corner and saw another old man sporting something similar. And then a middle-aged couple. And then a couple of flower-traders. And then a whole family. I thought, for one brief moment, 'this is it. i've gone mad. i've gone absolutely mad. at last' and went and looked in the nearest shop window to see if i, too, bore the mark of the Beast. Was I merely to be given a silent portent of the coming tribulation, or was I too a child of the Apocalypse?
Staring hard at the still-very-handsome-for-my-age image in front of me, it was as i suspected: I was not one of them. So I had been set apart from the sons of Satan and chosen by God to warn, to organise and to fight. My mission was clear and with this in mind, I sat down to contemplate how my fate had resolved so clearly in such a direction. I revelled in my purpose, feeling validated in my childhood decision to believe my bullshitting parents that i'd been marked for greater things. I begun to think of weaponry.
I also came *this* close to calling my analyst and shouting 'I think i've gone fucking insane! I can see a sinister black mark on the foreheads of about 10% of the people in Grafton St'. But instead I went to the gym, my reason for being there in the first place, and ran myself silly to forget all about it.
90 minutes later I walked out, fully refreshed, into a swarm of people rushing through the late-afternoon and pretty much immediately saw at least another dozen people with the Sign. What amazed me was that nobody else noticed, or seemed to notice, and that they felt they could walk through this world without fear of recognition. A highly relevant passage from Revelations sprung instantly to mind and I laughed grimly to myself, the newly apppointed Angel of Death, but for fear of copyright enforcement I shall pretend to have forgotten it entirely for this account.
So as I walked past Trinity on my way to Tara St, a well-dressed and not unattractive girl carrying flowers, a handbag and the black smudge of Beelzebub was strolling parallel to me and I thought i should confront her right there. It would bring the fight to them. Besides, she is not unattractive and perhaps we can achieve universal peace if she just lets me do it to her. I know I would get halfway there anyway.
And so:

"Excuse me, I don't mean to be rude but...what's tha..

-It's Ash Wednesday!

"Ohhhhhhh! Of couuuuuuurse! So you..."

-Have some ash put on my forehead, yes

"Aaaaaah! Of couuuuuuurse! Um, good for you!"

-ah thanks.

"All these people. I was thinking...you know...I thought I was going MAAAAAD!"

She smiled. And turned left.


Tuesday, February 08, 2005

ok, i'm out on bail for a brief amount of time, so here's what i propose: a handful of more quite reasonable suggestions for the future of your planet. i would appreciate any experts in the relevant fields shooting me down in flames in response. not literally, obviously. that's what got me into this trouble in the first place. but in the comments box please.

Free-range, Organic, Fair-trade Marijuana: Yes, when the revolution comes, when our collective consciousness unifies and when politicians wake up, maaaan - i'll be ready. So when they legalise weed, obviously a lot of the dealers are going to go back to being accountants and the big tobacco companies will move in and take advantage of their incredible distribution facilities. But as usual, nobody will think of the sizeable niche of nice middle-class families that want to have an ethical smoke. This means if they can see a picture of a poor but dignified, grateful ethnic family on the side of their packet, thumbs up and smiling in a field of weed (a bit like that Peter Tosh album cover) and realise that every time they skin up, another 3rd world kid gets a chance at school, they're happy and you've got their money. Another wank-stroke to confirm they've made the right lifestyle decisions. And to think, no pesticides, no GM, no chance of a nasty cancerous side-effect (ok, not true at all but they want to believe it so let them). And, and, oh, oh, i'm gonna blow....eeeuuuurrrggggghhhh. Pass the Green+Blacks recycled papyrus cum-blotter please, Cassandra.
For the rest of the population, sure they won't give a fuck. they'll continue to buy the cheapest, shittiest product on the market or, more likely, down the market.
Seriously though, somebody should do a study on how much of a chav pacifier it is. And make the consumption of glue and alcopops punishable by death - on taste considerations alone. But put THC in their Poptarts and Sunny Delight, a diet they begin whilst still in the zygotic stage and they won't be bothering us for anything more harmful than some spare skins, innit geez.

Male Marijuana Plants:
Why the fuck can't you buy these in your local garden centre? They look great, everybody will think you're cool and since they produce not one milligram of the psychoactive ingredient in dope, they're not against the law. Especially handy if you're growing 80 female plants upstairs and you have to call the police because you've been followed home by a local nutter. Not that this has ever happened. Especially not in a dodgy area of North London 10 years ago. Oh no. So just pull it out and show him the receipt. in fact, buy 80 of them, sell 'em on or chuck 'em, and just keep the receipts. 'yes officer, i know they do smell a bit. i don't know, maybe they're hermaphrodites? i think i'll take them back to the shop. i wouldnt want to be sitting on anything illegal. no i don't want to press charges. im sure he meant no harm trying to climb through my flatmates window shouting 'I'M A FRIEND! I'M A FRIEND'

The Hot Air Shower: Why do we need towels at all? Can't there be a big shower unit which blows out hot air and gets us dry and warm that way? Of course there can. It's just a lack of political will on our part to demand such an easy convenience. That and a surprisingly powerful towel lobby.

Helium Shoes: What's stopping you from pumping a small canister of helium into a special airtight chamber in your shoes or trainers? Fear of heights? The Simple Gases lobby? Nike's lawyers? I don't know, but it's the best way i know to get an extra spring in your step.

Cult TV: Literally. Do a full Reality TV show in the loopiest ashram, commune or spiritual retreat you can find. Make sure there's plenty of hard ritual group fucking and first-class new-age gobbledegobbley and you have yourself a guaranteed hit. What cult DOESNT have a charismatic leader who wants more attention? What cult DOESNT have many tasty ladies and their jealous male partners, all in a fragile state of mind and willing to submit to anything? To add spice, bring in an auditor to go through the books at the end of the series.

Immigrant Island: Another tv show, but only as an extra revenue stream. The main point of this (and i recall i might have blogged this obnoxious idea once before) is to satisfy everyone caught up in the 'I'm not racist but...' stream that runs almost silently through the asylum debate they have in the UK. I propose that anyone who wants to come and live in Britain be allowed in with open arms. Open arms that immediately clasp shut around them and forcibly stick them on a transport to some imperial hell(o)hole like the Falkland Islands, Ascension or the Isle of Wight. Any godforsaken old chip of Empire will do. We stick them into centres where they must learn english or teach it to those who havent, and they must all learn about the new way of life in Britain. This means being made to read the Sun, watch Eastenders, listen to Blazin' Squad and generally get briefed on the current state of societal relations in the country. If they can last there for a year and still want to live in mainland UK, they are more than fucking welcome. They're eminently suitable people who will most likely rise to the top of their chosen professions and make extremely valuable contributions to civic life. In fact, with the rapid demise of social cohesion in much of Britain, they may be our only hope. The ones that decide it's not for them after all, can fuck off. Guardian readers and Daily Mail believers ('readers' is a little unfair, no?) should both be happy. Televise it and the Brits may have to do a little bit of soul-searching of their own. Australia and Canada, get ready.

National Service for Chavs: We're all together on this one aren't we? I needn't have to make a strong case, right? We quickly pass an overnight law that states that anyone caught wearing Burberry under the age of 40 has, by default, signed up to 2 years in the Army and must report for duty in Belize at 9AM the next day or face a rigged military tribunal.

National Service for Immigrants: Hmmmmm.
National Service for Everyone: Maybe.
Immigrant Island for Chavs: Poor Islanders
Immigrant Island for Everyone: Yes. Every British resident has to spend an enforced year away from home thinking about the value or otherwise of remaining in the Isles. You'll come back happier and finally have something to talk about with your neighbours.

The Encyclopaedia of Falsity: Where in the world can you go to discover that the sub-Saharan African worm that lives in your cockhole knows nothing of late-sixties Free Jazz? Nowhere that i can think of. We need a central repositry of all things wrongly asserted, falsly attributed and generally lied about. I call this new invention 'The Internet'

I have a feeling some of these have either been tried or at least suggested in jest elsewhere. i don't care. i've run out of things to blog and still people come to read so i've got no choice. funny service will be resumed never.
incidentally, wouldn't this make a fine book? 100 perfectly lovely, amateur solutions for a better life with stark, brutal, professional refutations of each idea on the opposite page.


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