Thursday, May 26, 2005
Hey everybody! Here's my cut out and throw away guide to having a shit night out in Dublin, and not just any old shit night out but one to make Johnny Baudrillard proud of you too.
1. Go to Temple Bar
2. Go to a 'Mexican' Restaurant and order a 'Rare' steak covered in 'Hot' Chilli Sauce, for 'just' 18.95 euro.
3. There's a funeral home, part of Bloom's Hotel wedged between Dame St and that Mongolian Restaurant round the back of Oliver St John Gogarty's, and it's doing a pretty unsuccessful job of masquerading as a pub. I forget it's name but that's ok because I wouldn't dream of giving it any extra publicity. A bigger, faker, more soulless Irish pub in the centre of town I do not know. I've been to more authentic Irish pubs in France and Belgium. Fuck, even the Scottish Pub in central france where I first fell in love with my lady is a more authentic Irish Pub. There is more atmosphere on the moon, i imagine. Two things stand out above all the newly created oak casks, new oak panelling, reproduction beer adverts and mummified leprechauns in the window:
The Guinness is only available as 'Extra Cold'. Coupled with a barlady who must have learnt how to pull pints from a pamphlet, it was quite the most dogshit pint of the black stuff i've probably ever had. A Guinness should not be soupy and congealed. The head should not be so big and thick as to prevent the dark liquid underneath from coming through when drunk. It should not taste like battery acid and bins.
My second complaint is harder to comprehend. The music playing throughout was a greatest hits package of The Beatles, possibly the Red Album or perhaps Number 1's I thought. All the early hits were there anyway. But there was something wrong with them. The recordings were perfect, all too perfect in fact. As i listened carefully, I began to notice minute differences between these and the originals i'd grown up with and knew, like most people on earth, inside out. Then suddenly, in the intro of Love Me Do, the bass came in played sounding like one of those organs that you play with your feet. Clearly not Paul playing Bass. And so it was revealed - an almost perfect studio rendition of every Beatles hit, except played by robotic session musicians and close-but-not-exact singers, in glorious 80's stereophonic sound and with the odd bit of wrong instrumentation thrown in just to contradict the entire purpose of the recording. The answer nobody could fathom was the answer to 'Why?' when the Beatles albums are freely available in all good record stores and, indeed, virtually every home in Ireland. So there it is, fake restaurant in a fake 'good-time' area of Dublin, followed by a fake pub playing fake music. You can't hear it right now but in my head i've got Alexander O'Neal, a good Irish lad no doubt, vociferously challenging these establishments through the performance of his 1986 hit single, "Fake".
And if you really want the full experience, get empty-stomach stoned first and go with 5 french people, some of whom no spikka no inglis, then try and fail speaking to them in their own language about absolutely nothing at all. Begin questioning your football allegiances (in my case - none whatsoever) as you gaze longingly into the pub tv screens opposite whilst the Liverpool Reds eat the babies of FC Berlusconi. Have another 'Margherita'. Stare at the sluts. Make plans for suicide.
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1. Go to Temple Bar
2. Go to a 'Mexican' Restaurant and order a 'Rare' steak covered in 'Hot' Chilli Sauce, for 'just' 18.95 euro.
3. There's a funeral home, part of Bloom's Hotel wedged between Dame St and that Mongolian Restaurant round the back of Oliver St John Gogarty's, and it's doing a pretty unsuccessful job of masquerading as a pub. I forget it's name but that's ok because I wouldn't dream of giving it any extra publicity. A bigger, faker, more soulless Irish pub in the centre of town I do not know. I've been to more authentic Irish pubs in France and Belgium. Fuck, even the Scottish Pub in central france where I first fell in love with my lady is a more authentic Irish Pub. There is more atmosphere on the moon, i imagine. Two things stand out above all the newly created oak casks, new oak panelling, reproduction beer adverts and mummified leprechauns in the window:
The Guinness is only available as 'Extra Cold'. Coupled with a barlady who must have learnt how to pull pints from a pamphlet, it was quite the most dogshit pint of the black stuff i've probably ever had. A Guinness should not be soupy and congealed. The head should not be so big and thick as to prevent the dark liquid underneath from coming through when drunk. It should not taste like battery acid and bins.
My second complaint is harder to comprehend. The music playing throughout was a greatest hits package of The Beatles, possibly the Red Album or perhaps Number 1's I thought. All the early hits were there anyway. But there was something wrong with them. The recordings were perfect, all too perfect in fact. As i listened carefully, I began to notice minute differences between these and the originals i'd grown up with and knew, like most people on earth, inside out. Then suddenly, in the intro of Love Me Do, the bass came in played sounding like one of those organs that you play with your feet. Clearly not Paul playing Bass. And so it was revealed - an almost perfect studio rendition of every Beatles hit, except played by robotic session musicians and close-but-not-exact singers, in glorious 80's stereophonic sound and with the odd bit of wrong instrumentation thrown in just to contradict the entire purpose of the recording. The answer nobody could fathom was the answer to 'Why?' when the Beatles albums are freely available in all good record stores and, indeed, virtually every home in Ireland. So there it is, fake restaurant in a fake 'good-time' area of Dublin, followed by a fake pub playing fake music. You can't hear it right now but in my head i've got Alexander O'Neal, a good Irish lad no doubt, vociferously challenging these establishments through the performance of his 1986 hit single, "Fake".
And if you really want the full experience, get empty-stomach stoned first and go with 5 french people, some of whom no spikka no inglis, then try and fail speaking to them in their own language about absolutely nothing at all. Begin questioning your football allegiances (in my case - none whatsoever) as you gaze longingly into the pub tv screens opposite whilst the Liverpool Reds eat the babies of FC Berlusconi. Have another 'Margherita'. Stare at the sluts. Make plans for suicide.
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Wednesday, May 25, 2005
i should explain - my boss has an obscure ethiopion funk tune for a soulseek identity - part of his ongoing obsession with this dude. sample music here
Session Start (nutgroist:my boss): Wed May 25 10:13:17 2005
[10:13] nutgroist: good moaning
[10:13] my boss: TomPaine’sBlues?
[10:14] nutgroist: no thanks, i'll stick with the british consitution
[10:15] my boss: so you are not TomPaine’sBlues
[10:15] nutgroist: im anyone you want me to be as long as you pay me
[10:16] my boss: that's ok
[10:16] my boss: just that someone chatted with me on Soulseek
[10:16] my boss: called TomPaine’sBlues
[10:16] nutgroist: oh right
[10:16] nutgroist: got a transcript?
[10:16] my boss: and i thought that maybe it was you
[10:16] my boss: can't seem to be able to copy it
[10:16] nutgroist: were they exceptionally funny?!
[10:17] my boss: hmmm, how to answer
[10:17] nutgroist: it's a reasonable mistake to make if they are
[10:17] nutgroist: just copy and paste, no?
[10:17] nutgroist: use the ctrl c, ctrl v keys if the mouse wont do it
[10:18] my boss:
(9:53)[TomPaine’sBlues] mahmoud?
[my boss] yes
[my boss] lovely track
(9:55) [TomPaine’sBlues] mahmoud ahmed?
[my boss] yes
(9:55) [TomPaine’sBlues] you are mr mahmoud ahmed?
[my boss] no
(9:55) [TomPaine’sBlues] you are the BEST my fried!
(9:55) [TomPaine’sBlues] the BEST
(9:55) [TomPaine’sBlues] i see you
(9:55) [TomPaine’sBlues] i see you many time
(9:56) [TomPaine’sBlues] waaaaahhhaaaaaa wwwaaaahhhhhaaaaaa
(9:56) [TomPaine’sBlues] yes, baby
[my boss] oh yes
(9:57) [TomPaine’sBlues] you have big one
[my boss] some say so
(9:57) [TomPaine’sBlues] i see on stage, you have very big one
[my boss] you are most generous
(9:57) [TomPaine’sBlues] waaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
[my boss] and what about yours, is it big too?
(9:59) [TomPaine’sBlues] i am small man, only one wife, not big chief between legs
(10:00) [TomPaine’sBlues] enough seed to sow small field
[my boss] well some prefer small ones
[my boss] I say....if the field is small why bother with a big one
(10:00) [TomPaine’sBlues] my wife-sister prefer big style
(10:01) [TomPaine’sBlues] she is big woman
(10:01) [TomPaine’sBlues] like our mother
(10:01) [TomPaine’sBlues] big, big woman
[my boss] your wife is your sister?
(10:01) [TomPaine’sBlues] that is so
(10:03) [TomPaine’sBlues] her husband died, so it is law that i supply her a husband
(10:03) [TomPaine’sBlues] he suffocate in sex accident
[my boss] ah yes, the pleasure of oxygen deprivation but such a risky game
[10:19] nutgroist: !
[10:19] my boss: so i thought maybe it was you
[10:20] nutgroist: reasonable but obviously way off
[10:20] my boss: and I have just searched his files and he has some your very favourite artiste
at which point i change the subject, since it was so obviously me
|
Session Start (nutgroist:my boss): Wed May 25 10:13:17 2005
[10:13] nutgroist: good moaning
[10:13] my boss: TomPaine’sBlues?
[10:14] nutgroist: no thanks, i'll stick with the british consitution
[10:15] my boss: so you are not TomPaine’sBlues
[10:15] nutgroist: im anyone you want me to be as long as you pay me
[10:16] my boss: that's ok
[10:16] my boss: just that someone chatted with me on Soulseek
[10:16] my boss: called TomPaine’sBlues
[10:16] nutgroist: oh right
[10:16] nutgroist: got a transcript?
[10:16] my boss: and i thought that maybe it was you
[10:16] my boss: can't seem to be able to copy it
[10:16] nutgroist: were they exceptionally funny?!
[10:17] my boss: hmmm, how to answer
[10:17] nutgroist: it's a reasonable mistake to make if they are
[10:17] nutgroist: just copy and paste, no?
[10:17] nutgroist: use the ctrl c, ctrl v keys if the mouse wont do it
[10:18] my boss:
(9:53)[TomPaine’sBlues] mahmoud?
[my boss] yes
[my boss] lovely track
(9:55) [TomPaine’sBlues] mahmoud ahmed?
[my boss] yes
(9:55) [TomPaine’sBlues] you are mr mahmoud ahmed?
[my boss] no
(9:55) [TomPaine’sBlues] you are the BEST my fried!
(9:55) [TomPaine’sBlues] the BEST
(9:55) [TomPaine’sBlues] i see you
(9:55) [TomPaine’sBlues] i see you many time
(9:56) [TomPaine’sBlues] waaaaahhhaaaaaa wwwaaaahhhhhaaaaaa
(9:56) [TomPaine’sBlues] yes, baby
[my boss] oh yes
(9:57) [TomPaine’sBlues] you have big one
[my boss] some say so
(9:57) [TomPaine’sBlues] i see on stage, you have very big one
[my boss] you are most generous
(9:57) [TomPaine’sBlues] waaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
[my boss] and what about yours, is it big too?
(9:59) [TomPaine’sBlues] i am small man, only one wife, not big chief between legs
(10:00) [TomPaine’sBlues] enough seed to sow small field
[my boss] well some prefer small ones
[my boss] I say....if the field is small why bother with a big one
(10:00) [TomPaine’sBlues] my wife-sister prefer big style
(10:01) [TomPaine’sBlues] she is big woman
(10:01) [TomPaine’sBlues] like our mother
(10:01) [TomPaine’sBlues] big, big woman
[my boss] your wife is your sister?
(10:01) [TomPaine’sBlues] that is so
(10:03) [TomPaine’sBlues] her husband died, so it is law that i supply her a husband
(10:03) [TomPaine’sBlues] he suffocate in sex accident
[my boss] ah yes, the pleasure of oxygen deprivation but such a risky game
[10:19] nutgroist: !
[10:19] my boss: so i thought maybe it was you
[10:20] nutgroist: reasonable but obviously way off
[10:20] my boss: and I have just searched his files and he has some your very favourite artiste
at which point i change the subject, since it was so obviously me
|
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
on this day in history:
2005: the Nutgroist blog innovates new techniques of plagiarism, ripping off both Couscous and Nutgroist
2004: Ted Bumgay of Of, Arizona owner of the world's fattest cock, dies of unrelated injuries. Cholestorol tests, however, prove definitively inconclusive
1993: Dave the Petunia, the world's first always-funny talking plant, dies live on stage at The Sands, Vegas after failing to respond to the crowd's heckling "You're just a pansy"
1966: Perennial spinster Miss Eleanor Rigby of Woolton, Liverpool, dies. Funeral sparsely attended.
1958: Watt Tyler, the original young soul rebel, is finally released from prison and immediately signs to Parlophone where he releases a series of high quality rock 'n' roll records before tragically being put to death by the Mayor of London in 1381
1944: In a last desperate attempt to change the course of history, Hitler declares war on Germany
1939: The Second in the trilogy of really cracking World Wars begins ahead of schedule.
1928: Adolph Hitler finds Ian Kershaw's biography of Adolph Hitler at a car-boot sale of time-travelling artefacts in Linz. The last chapter having been mysteriously ripped out, Adolph decides to buy it anyway 'just for fun'
1916: Preposition Tax lifted
1902: On the anniversary of her death and under immense public pressure, Queen Victoria reluctantly abdicates. Both Cardinal Wolsey and Thomas a Beckett tender their resignations in solidarity.
1901: Queen Victoria dies upon hearing the news of her favourite twin-sister, Catherine the Great of Russia, Horsefucker
1900: Catherine the Great of Russia, whatsername Parker-Bowles' great granny, dies, tragically crushed by a 2 ton urban myth
1890: Van Gogh, mad phlegm painter and greatest artist of his day, dies from an uncauterised head wound. It is the end of an ear.
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2005: the Nutgroist blog innovates new techniques of plagiarism, ripping off both Couscous and Nutgroist
2004: Ted Bumgay of Of, Arizona owner of the world's fattest cock, dies of unrelated injuries. Cholestorol tests, however, prove definitively inconclusive
1993: Dave the Petunia, the world's first always-funny talking plant, dies live on stage at The Sands, Vegas after failing to respond to the crowd's heckling "You're just a pansy"
1966: Perennial spinster Miss Eleanor Rigby of Woolton, Liverpool, dies. Funeral sparsely attended.
1958: Watt Tyler, the original young soul rebel, is finally released from prison and immediately signs to Parlophone where he releases a series of high quality rock 'n' roll records before tragically being put to death by the Mayor of London in 1381
1944: In a last desperate attempt to change the course of history, Hitler declares war on Germany
1939: The Second in the trilogy of really cracking World Wars begins ahead of schedule.
1928: Adolph Hitler finds Ian Kershaw's biography of Adolph Hitler at a car-boot sale of time-travelling artefacts in Linz. The last chapter having been mysteriously ripped out, Adolph decides to buy it anyway 'just for fun'
1916: Preposition Tax lifted
1902: On the anniversary of her death and under immense public pressure, Queen Victoria reluctantly abdicates. Both Cardinal Wolsey and Thomas a Beckett tender their resignations in solidarity.
1901: Queen Victoria dies upon hearing the news of her favourite twin-sister, Catherine the Great of Russia, Horsefucker
1900: Catherine the Great of Russia, whatsername Parker-Bowles' great granny, dies, tragically crushed by a 2 ton urban myth
1890: Van Gogh, mad phlegm painter and greatest artist of his day, dies from an uncauterised head wound. It is the end of an ear.
|
Sunday, May 22, 2005
i know what you're thinking - 'it's sunday, i wish this bloke who writes Nutgroist would stop trying to be really quite exceptionally funny, no, what i'd really like to know is what the internet's most popular number is. And I want to know now.'
Me too, bitch
1 - 1,910,000,000
2 - 1,550,000,000
3 - just 1,320,000,000 instances of said numeral
4 - 1,210,000,000
5 - 1,240,000,000 - controversial overturning the natural descending order of things to steal an extra 30,000,000 on 4
6 - 953,000,000 - we've gone under a billion instances at last. rubbish. you should be ashamed of yourself 6
7 - 886,000,000 - huh, 6, you're starting to look pretty good actually. 7 - you should be shot, you traitor. 'lucky' indeed.
8 - 858,000,000 - i honestly had no idea the competition was so bitter between the big players in the old numbers game
9 - 805,000,000
10 - 1,150,000,000 - the Bo Derek effect continues
11 - 865,000,000 - look what you've done, Osama - you've upset the natural order of things so much even 8 and 9 have surely turned against you now.
12 - 927,000,000
13 - 681,000,000
14 - 621,000,000
It was at this point i decided i finally had a reason to learn programming, so went away and taught myself all there is to know about writing a routine or whatever that will automatically google all the numbers that i require to be googled in such a fashion. unfortunately for me and you, it's logically impossible and faced with such a finality of a conclusion, I have chosed to put the project on the backburner until i can get round that it cannot, by definition, be done. I had to make space on a crowded backburner so it's now wedged neatly between the delectable quality pie crust still waiting for its promised unicorn mince to the left and to the right my surging career in comedy.
15 - 755,000,000
16 - 638,000,000
17 - 593,000,000
18 - 651,000,000 - a barely legal number perhaps, but it makes me suspiciously reappraise the size of 15
19 - 605,000,000 - probably accounting for its poor showing here, it's a little known fact that the average age of American soldiers going off to fight in Vietnam was 19. (curioser still, when they returned home, they say none of them received a hero's welcome)
20 - 808,000,000
21 - 511,000,000
22 - 483,000,000
23 - 438,000,000 - interestingly, '23' is the precise number of women i havent slept with (so far)
24 - 591,000,000
no listing for 25 since it's my unlucky number. don't ask me why, i'm just crazy that way
26 - 421,000,000
27 - 412,000,000
28 - 425,000,000
29 - 401,000,000
30 - 675,000,000 - popularity is probably down to 30 being the legal age of consent for teen porn on the internet for those in the know
31 - 369,000,000 - the last prime number before 37, can it really be a coincidence?
32 - 218,000,000 - you're losing interest now, aren't you?
33 - 179,000,000 - if truth be told, so am I
34 - 164,000,000 - 34: "me too"
35 - 195,000,000
36 - 178,000,000 - this is so fucking boring
37 - 165,000,000 - i missed out on a shag the other night, can you tell?
fuck it, here's the big one
2005 - 2,590,000,000 - well, my my, fancy that, whoda thunk it etc
now f u c k o ff
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Me too, bitch
1 - 1,910,000,000
2 - 1,550,000,000
3 - just 1,320,000,000 instances of said numeral
4 - 1,210,000,000
5 - 1,240,000,000 - controversial overturning the natural descending order of things to steal an extra 30,000,000 on 4
6 - 953,000,000 - we've gone under a billion instances at last. rubbish. you should be ashamed of yourself 6
7 - 886,000,000 - huh, 6, you're starting to look pretty good actually. 7 - you should be shot, you traitor. 'lucky' indeed.
8 - 858,000,000 - i honestly had no idea the competition was so bitter between the big players in the old numbers game
9 - 805,000,000
10 - 1,150,000,000 - the Bo Derek effect continues
11 - 865,000,000 - look what you've done, Osama - you've upset the natural order of things so much even 8 and 9 have surely turned against you now.
12 - 927,000,000
13 - 681,000,000
14 - 621,000,000
It was at this point i decided i finally had a reason to learn programming, so went away and taught myself all there is to know about writing a routine or whatever that will automatically google all the numbers that i require to be googled in such a fashion. unfortunately for me and you, it's logically impossible and faced with such a finality of a conclusion, I have chosed to put the project on the backburner until i can get round that it cannot, by definition, be done. I had to make space on a crowded backburner so it's now wedged neatly between the delectable quality pie crust still waiting for its promised unicorn mince to the left and to the right my surging career in comedy.
15 - 755,000,000
16 - 638,000,000
17 - 593,000,000
18 - 651,000,000 - a barely legal number perhaps, but it makes me suspiciously reappraise the size of 15
19 - 605,000,000 - probably accounting for its poor showing here, it's a little known fact that the average age of American soldiers going off to fight in Vietnam was 19. (curioser still, when they returned home, they say none of them received a hero's welcome)
20 - 808,000,000
21 - 511,000,000
22 - 483,000,000
23 - 438,000,000 - interestingly, '23' is the precise number of women i havent slept with (so far)
24 - 591,000,000
no listing for 25 since it's my unlucky number. don't ask me why, i'm just crazy that way
26 - 421,000,000
27 - 412,000,000
28 - 425,000,000
29 - 401,000,000
30 - 675,000,000 - popularity is probably down to 30 being the legal age of consent for teen porn on the internet for those in the know
31 - 369,000,000 - the last prime number before 37, can it really be a coincidence?
32 - 218,000,000 - you're losing interest now, aren't you?
33 - 179,000,000 - if truth be told, so am I
34 - 164,000,000 - 34: "me too"
35 - 195,000,000
36 - 178,000,000 - this is so fucking boring
37 - 165,000,000 - i missed out on a shag the other night, can you tell?
fuck it, here's the big one
2005 - 2,590,000,000 - well, my my, fancy that, whoda thunk it etc
now f u c k o ff
|
Thursday, May 19, 2005
Puerile lines on being told I'm a failure in life by Ireland's Tramp of the Year 2003
I bought this bitch back to my room
without a proper look inside
her eyes, her heart, her 3 sexholes
ran deep and wet and far and wide
i spread her on my nice chaise-longue
and filled her with my hot Me-paste
i hammered in my greasy tong
and glued her fast with scrotal waste
she cried for joy or was it pain
or was it the onion she had for a brain
seeping tear-gas through her head
which i'd just fucked until i bled
cream tears onto her puffy count-
ry scone-like baps of melon tats,
she made a little stuffed-pig grunt
and sucked it up like vampire bats
live by, love by, die by the pork sword
now that's a fact and that's my motto
so into my bum-shaped heart we bored
to death's a bitch and life's a lotto
within you found an anal coin
twas left there by some figure shifty
and scratched you did the card of life
we got two deaths and quids one-fifty
now i've got gAIDS and you've got HIVes
a bloody race to lose our lives
so here's the orange, here's the sock
please pass the needle, where's my cock?
im wanking as you read this verse
i need your hot and sad disgust
i hope this turns out for the worst
to haemorrhage my angerlust
|
I bought this bitch back to my room
without a proper look inside
her eyes, her heart, her 3 sexholes
ran deep and wet and far and wide
i spread her on my nice chaise-longue
and filled her with my hot Me-paste
i hammered in my greasy tong
and glued her fast with scrotal waste
she cried for joy or was it pain
or was it the onion she had for a brain
seeping tear-gas through her head
which i'd just fucked until i bled
cream tears onto her puffy count-
ry scone-like baps of melon tats,
she made a little stuffed-pig grunt
and sucked it up like vampire bats
live by, love by, die by the pork sword
now that's a fact and that's my motto
so into my bum-shaped heart we bored
to death's a bitch and life's a lotto
within you found an anal coin
twas left there by some figure shifty
and scratched you did the card of life
we got two deaths and quids one-fifty
now i've got gAIDS and you've got HIVes
a bloody race to lose our lives
so here's the orange, here's the sock
please pass the needle, where's my cock?
im wanking as you read this verse
i need your hot and sad disgust
i hope this turns out for the worst
to haemorrhage my angerlust
|
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
Questions posed this weekend:
1. Since it is not unknown for the odd visiting American tourist or two to have asked, upon encountering the existence of County Mayo, "Gee, is that where Mayonnaise comes from?", has anyone gone further down the road of wrong conclusions when confronted with the famous Avoca in Wicklow and enquired as to the provenance of that fine slimy nutfruit Avocado? We just don't know.
2. Why is it always 'Women and Children first' when it's Men who do all the work around here?
3. Would you like to come over and suck my nob? It's fine if you want to. Honestly, it's no problem. Swing by, i'll most likely be in.
4. How come this blue brie I bought the other tastes more like a green cream cheese?
5. What does Bertie Ahern actually stand for again?
6. Why is my hair turning Irish?
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1. Since it is not unknown for the odd visiting American tourist or two to have asked, upon encountering the existence of County Mayo, "Gee, is that where Mayonnaise comes from?", has anyone gone further down the road of wrong conclusions when confronted with the famous Avoca in Wicklow and enquired as to the provenance of that fine slimy nutfruit Avocado? We just don't know.
2. Why is it always 'Women and Children first' when it's Men who do all the work around here?
3. Would you like to come over and suck my nob? It's fine if you want to. Honestly, it's no problem. Swing by, i'll most likely be in.
4. How come this blue brie I bought the other tastes more like a green cream cheese?
5. What does Bertie Ahern actually stand for again?
6. Why is my hair turning Irish?
|
Monday, May 16, 2005
EXCLUSIVE!:
WORLD PREMIERE REVIEW!:
STAR WARS!:
REVENGE! OF! THE! SITH!:
A short, short time ago, in a cinema near, near away, I sat with my popcorn, press-pass and penis-cream in a darkened room and gazed up in childlike wonder at the flickering screen afore me. And so, the hyperspace drives all re-serviced, monstrous tendrils freshly waxed and the mysterious Force rebalanced, it's time once again to don your brown monk smock, polish your light sabre and finally learn Klingon for lo, the si(x)th (sic'th)(sic) and final part of the second Star War trilogy, a sexiology if you will, has finally hit our screens and WOOOAAAAHHHHH! What a movie! I couldn't believe my FUCKING EYES if you'll pardon my Huttese. There was just so much going on, I felt privileged and honoured to be among the first to see it and review it.
But anyway, I'm getting sidetracked, so, I digress.
The basic plot outline features many of the original characters from the previous films but, here's the genius bit, in new and exciting situations. Peering through the pitch black of the movie house during one of the slow bits I noted the many shocked expressions on my fellow scribes as another shocking revelation shocked them to the core. Bear in mind, we all of us here were Star Wars fanatics to our death-star hearts. There were also some women there. Presumably friends of someone or other.
I won't spoil it for you but get ready for an awesome fight scene in the 19th, 42nd, 65th and 118th minutes of the film. I also won't spoil it for you by saying whether anyone you might suspect of turning into Darth Vader does turn into Darth Vader. And as for that other bloke, don't worry, he does/n't die in the end. Relax.
Among my personal favourite bits were when the man did the thing and then the other thing. It was brilliant. A typically Lucasian bit of excellent stuff. A special mention must go to the Sound Effects department who must've worked overtime on the old tinplate and football rattle to get some of the sounds. You should hear them, it's all BZZZZZZZZZZ and WHEEEEEEEE and stuff. While we're on the subject, the Effects themselves were always competent. I got a real sense of being in the middle of a galactic space holocaust, I don't know about you. And the Special Effects were just wonderful. All sorts of great things happened on screen which delighted me. Very special. I for one can't wait for the next one, episode 4, scheduled to be released sometime in 1977.
In the meantime, if you can't wait that long, my advice is go to a cinema now and get a ticket for this. Then go into the cinema and see it. And do take the children*
*if you don't have children, take some you don't have. They're easily found outside cinemas during working hours and evenings and will be glad for the company.
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WORLD PREMIERE REVIEW!:
STAR WARS!:
REVENGE! OF! THE! SITH!:
A short, short time ago, in a cinema near, near away, I sat with my popcorn, press-pass and penis-cream in a darkened room and gazed up in childlike wonder at the flickering screen afore me. And so, the hyperspace drives all re-serviced, monstrous tendrils freshly waxed and the mysterious Force rebalanced, it's time once again to don your brown monk smock, polish your light sabre and finally learn Klingon for lo, the si(x)th (sic'th)(sic) and final part of the second Star War trilogy, a sexiology if you will, has finally hit our screens and WOOOAAAAHHHHH! What a movie! I couldn't believe my FUCKING EYES if you'll pardon my Huttese. There was just so much going on, I felt privileged and honoured to be among the first to see it and review it.
But anyway, I'm getting sidetracked, so, I digress.
The basic plot outline features many of the original characters from the previous films but, here's the genius bit, in new and exciting situations. Peering through the pitch black of the movie house during one of the slow bits I noted the many shocked expressions on my fellow scribes as another shocking revelation shocked them to the core. Bear in mind, we all of us here were Star Wars fanatics to our death-star hearts. There were also some women there. Presumably friends of someone or other.
I won't spoil it for you but get ready for an awesome fight scene in the 19th, 42nd, 65th and 118th minutes of the film. I also won't spoil it for you by saying whether anyone you might suspect of turning into Darth Vader does turn into Darth Vader. And as for that other bloke, don't worry, he does/n't die in the end. Relax.
Among my personal favourite bits were when the man did the thing and then the other thing. It was brilliant. A typically Lucasian bit of excellent stuff. A special mention must go to the Sound Effects department who must've worked overtime on the old tinplate and football rattle to get some of the sounds. You should hear them, it's all BZZZZZZZZZZ and WHEEEEEEEE and stuff. While we're on the subject, the Effects themselves were always competent. I got a real sense of being in the middle of a galactic space holocaust, I don't know about you. And the Special Effects were just wonderful. All sorts of great things happened on screen which delighted me. Very special. I for one can't wait for the next one, episode 4, scheduled to be released sometime in 1977.
In the meantime, if you can't wait that long, my advice is go to a cinema now and get a ticket for this. Then go into the cinema and see it. And do take the children*
*if you don't have children, take some you don't have. They're easily found outside cinemas during working hours and evenings and will be glad for the company.
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Saturday, May 14, 2005
Monday, May 09, 2005
Saturday May 7, 11:10 PM
Sex researchers shed light on unpopular sex acts
By Amy Kalin
SAN FRANCISCO (Reuters)- From bondage to "breath play" and zoophilia, it's not easy keeping up with society's fast-developing sexual trends.
That's why some of North America's top sexologists are hunkered down with academics and therapists at a Fisherman's Wharf hotel this weekend: to swap findings about everything from teens with underwear fetishes to transgender couples.
"These couples have problems that I didn't know how to deal with," said Olga Perez Stable Cox, president of the Western U.S. region of the Society for the Scientific Study of Sexuality. "You have to understand the culture, otherwise you're an outsider, and you don't get it."
my italics
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Sex researchers shed light on unpopular sex acts
By Amy Kalin
SAN FRANCISCO (Reuters)- From bondage to "breath play" and zoophilia, it's not easy keeping up with society's fast-developing sexual trends.
That's why some of North America's top sexologists are hunkered down with academics and therapists at a Fisherman's Wharf hotel this weekend: to swap findings about everything from teens with underwear fetishes to transgender couples.
"These couples have problems that I didn't know how to deal with," said Olga Perez Stable Cox, president of the Western U.S. region of the Society for the Scientific Study of Sexuality. "You have to understand the culture, otherwise you're an outsider, and you don't get it."
my italics
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Friday, May 06, 2005
Thursday, May 05, 2005
Thansk to all the readers who've sent in their used tissues and old snotrags (and the dirty bas who just sent me snot in a jiffy bag - nice touch, literally) - here are the results of the consultation given to them by world-famous snotreader ordinaire David Van Day...
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I like this one. A small, centralised pool of weak green pureed bogies often indicates a fortuitous moment to change careers. However in this case it's more likely that it's a good time to hang on tight to your current employment, know what i mean?
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What a delightful formation! The blower has had most fortunate luck to produce such an intensely personal, delicate arrangement from their engorged, syrupy sinuses. However, on closer inspection i'd say the most likely reading of this is that their future is pretty much fucked.
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The taste and hue of this squamatal snotjelly strongly suggests the next time this person has sex they will conceive, regardless of whatever contraceptive method they choose or age and gender they happen to be.
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I've seen this before. It's a disease rare and unique to these isles and leapt from our piscine cousins to our human brethren about the time we started dipping them in babybatter before frying them and eating them. This person has contracted the Common Cod and should seek therapeutic analysis from their nearest available typesetter
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Classic case of the Lurgy masquerading as the Common Cold. Go get some Lurgy pills from your doctor immediately or you will most likely feel a little bit under the weather until it clears up by itself.
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Take some ground cumin, fenugreek seeds, pomegranate juice and a metric tonne of streaky bacon and swallow whole or you WILL die
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I'm fairly certain there will be an imminent death OR large lottery win in this person's family before the end of this sentence
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The mucul fungi in the Outer Quadrant and the whispers of veridescent snivel which joins it to Werbeniuk's Cusp indicate a good time for timeshare investments in coastal Spain would be the early to mid 1980's
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This person clearly has a cold or possibly flu. I would advise seeing a medical practicioner at once
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Tuesday, May 03, 2005
Scene 2:
Same day, couple, car, Connemara etc. This time, it is several hours later, 9:30pm in fact, and we are trundling down to Clifden where signs of civilisation have been spotted on Saturday evenings. It's cold and wet, we are hungry, it's our anniversary (something we proudly share with the Devil's Birthday and Hitler's Deathday) and they apparently stop serving at 10pm - we've also been up and driving since 4am. As we leave the long road out of Cleggan, a fine funny fishing village straight out of the Big Book of Cliched Irish Tourist Locations, we see a man standing by the roadside in the pooing rain with his thumb out, no coat and a vacant look of desperation on his face. I stop, no longer with hesitation but entirely out of duty. After all, a few hours ago we had discovered that people round here help eachother out as standard - there's no pissing about - if you need help you simply ask and you'll probably get it. You'll also give it in return with just as much certainty.
As he gets in we can see he's a big guy with a happy face and his first comment "thanks for stopping. Are ye going down to Clifden?" in that lovely sharp, querelous Connemara accent delivered in sober tones puts us both at ease.
Unfortunately, that is the only sober thing he said. Having got in and made a good first impression, this is what happened next:
"tanks fer dis. tanks fer dis. tanks fer dis. no, sure, tanks fer dis. yer a god man, sure. tanks fer dis. tanks. tanks. tanks. are yer gown ter cliffen, are yer? oi gown ter cliffen. tanks tanks tanks fer dis. zat Van Mrrrrrsssssnnnn on der rayjo? torrrrn'tup! TORRRRN'TUP!"
It's dark, late and dangerous on the roads. They twist and turn round blind spot hairpin bends with no streetlighting and ugly ditches on either side. Nevertheless, I FLOOR the fucking car and for the first time ever, the missus doesn't seem to mind. In fact, she does something else entirely unexpected and remarkably unwise:
SHE: So... what have you been up to today then?
HE: OI BIN DRANNNNNNNKIN!
If i hadn't been juggling with our very lives in that moment i would have sunk my head in my hands at the 'you-thought-it-was-all-a-joke, nobody-really-gets-into-situations-like-this-in-Ireland-ness of it all'
"Oi bin drankin awl day oi 'av n now oim gown t' drank s'maw at d'pob, yer gunna comen av a drank w'me now. tanks fer dis. wassa name o'd'pob now? wassa name o'd'pob? d'ye kno'd name? wassat pob colled? tanks fer dis. yer gunna comen av a drank, oi gunna get yer a drank, now."
SCREECH! We have arrived in Clifden. Alive
And with that he asks us to let him out at this highly inappropriate place in the middle of the road, he knows where he's going and thanks for the lift, again and again as he slowly, s-l-o-w-l-y backs out of our car and he'll see us later.
Incredibly, and I'm sure you really won't believe this, but we never did find that pub.
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Same day, couple, car, Connemara etc. This time, it is several hours later, 9:30pm in fact, and we are trundling down to Clifden where signs of civilisation have been spotted on Saturday evenings. It's cold and wet, we are hungry, it's our anniversary (something we proudly share with the Devil's Birthday and Hitler's Deathday) and they apparently stop serving at 10pm - we've also been up and driving since 4am. As we leave the long road out of Cleggan, a fine funny fishing village straight out of the Big Book of Cliched Irish Tourist Locations, we see a man standing by the roadside in the pooing rain with his thumb out, no coat and a vacant look of desperation on his face. I stop, no longer with hesitation but entirely out of duty. After all, a few hours ago we had discovered that people round here help eachother out as standard - there's no pissing about - if you need help you simply ask and you'll probably get it. You'll also give it in return with just as much certainty.
As he gets in we can see he's a big guy with a happy face and his first comment "thanks for stopping. Are ye going down to Clifden?" in that lovely sharp, querelous Connemara accent delivered in sober tones puts us both at ease.
Unfortunately, that is the only sober thing he said. Having got in and made a good first impression, this is what happened next:
"tanks fer dis. tanks fer dis. tanks fer dis. no, sure, tanks fer dis. yer a god man, sure. tanks fer dis. tanks. tanks. tanks. are yer gown ter cliffen, are yer? oi gown ter cliffen. tanks tanks tanks fer dis. zat Van Mrrrrrsssssnnnn on der rayjo? torrrrn'tup! TORRRRN'TUP!"
It's dark, late and dangerous on the roads. They twist and turn round blind spot hairpin bends with no streetlighting and ugly ditches on either side. Nevertheless, I FLOOR the fucking car and for the first time ever, the missus doesn't seem to mind. In fact, she does something else entirely unexpected and remarkably unwise:
SHE: So... what have you been up to today then?
HE: OI BIN DRANNNNNNNKIN!
If i hadn't been juggling with our very lives in that moment i would have sunk my head in my hands at the 'you-thought-it-was-all-a-joke, nobody-really-gets-into-situations-like-this-in-Ireland-ness of it all'
"Oi bin drankin awl day oi 'av n now oim gown t' drank s'maw at d'pob, yer gunna comen av a drank w'me now. tanks fer dis. wassa name o'd'pob now? wassa name o'd'pob? d'ye kno'd name? wassat pob colled? tanks fer dis. yer gunna comen av a drank, oi gunna get yer a drank, now."
SCREECH! We have arrived in Clifden. Alive
And with that he asks us to let him out at this highly inappropriate place in the middle of the road, he knows where he's going and thanks for the lift, again and again as he slowly, s-l-o-w-l-y backs out of our car and he'll see us later.
Incredibly, and I'm sure you really won't believe this, but we never did find that pub.
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Scene 1:
It is the late afternoon. A young couple have been driving through the wilderness of Connemara all day. They approach a t-junction in the middle of nowhere, just past Roundstone on the R341. A Land Rover with a Horse-box sits at the side of the road. As the couple dither about which way to turn, there being a distinctly Irish number of signs on the road, a horn is sounded from the direction of the Land Rover. The driver within, on his mobile phone, beckons to the driver of the young couple's car. For some reason, this puts him into a state of readiness to take whatever is coming (rather than drive away quickly as he would do back in England). So both drivers exit vehicles and meet at the crossroads...
Land Rover Man: I need a lift to Ballyconneely
Me: Oh, ok. (to the missus) Are we going there?
She: Yeah, we are actually.
Me: Ok, do get in.
Land Rover Man: Hang on, i've just got to make a call to check about the keys.
And he stands there for 5 minutes talking away about keys an flicking through a keyring while we sit there wondering how this has happened. And then all our crap is cleared from the backseat as this grand old Galway country gent in full riding regalia gets his muddy self into our car and settles down for a short ride and a good chat.
Me: So what's up? is your car broken down then? Will your horse be alright there on it's own?
LRM: Ah no. I have to get over there to pick up some horses. There's no horse in the box yet. The car's not broken down at all. But there's 7 or 8 of my horses coming down this way and I have to get them. Have you seen them?
Me: I don't think so. Honey, did you notice some horses back there?
She: No I didn't see any.
LRM: I expect they'll be along. We may see them on the way. So... do you prefer Ireland to England now?
After our initial shock at being asked the 64,000 euro question at last after a year here (and as his opening question too) and giving our best answer (which im not giving away), there ensues a long conversation about england, ireland, dublin, galway blahdeblah. choice snippets of his include:
"I have 1600 acres of mountain and seven loughs down in Loughrea....I don't have time to fish for the lovely brown trout anymore...I run a horse museum....pop in sometime and i'll give you both a tea...see those rocks over there. they're seals, they're not rocks at all"
They are rocks
So anyway, we enter Ballyconneely and go up through some lane or another until we get to a house with a Land Rover parked outside. He gets out and thanks us profusely, then pulls out a set of keys and opens up the Land Rover and drives off. Bizarre.
So, to summarise...
He isnt broken down. He isn't in a hurry. He doesn't have a horse in the single horse-box. He has to pick up seven or eight horses that might be running wild. He needs a lift from one of his functioning Land Rovers to another of his functioning Land Rovers. He simply saw the first car that came across his path and expected it would be alright to grab a lift off them, no questions asked and no obligation to provide a consistent explanation. And d'you know, he was quite right.
I hope that's clear.
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It is the late afternoon. A young couple have been driving through the wilderness of Connemara all day. They approach a t-junction in the middle of nowhere, just past Roundstone on the R341. A Land Rover with a Horse-box sits at the side of the road. As the couple dither about which way to turn, there being a distinctly Irish number of signs on the road, a horn is sounded from the direction of the Land Rover. The driver within, on his mobile phone, beckons to the driver of the young couple's car. For some reason, this puts him into a state of readiness to take whatever is coming (rather than drive away quickly as he would do back in England). So both drivers exit vehicles and meet at the crossroads...
Land Rover Man: I need a lift to Ballyconneely
Me: Oh, ok. (to the missus) Are we going there?
She: Yeah, we are actually.
Me: Ok, do get in.
Land Rover Man: Hang on, i've just got to make a call to check about the keys.
And he stands there for 5 minutes talking away about keys an flicking through a keyring while we sit there wondering how this has happened. And then all our crap is cleared from the backseat as this grand old Galway country gent in full riding regalia gets his muddy self into our car and settles down for a short ride and a good chat.
Me: So what's up? is your car broken down then? Will your horse be alright there on it's own?
LRM: Ah no. I have to get over there to pick up some horses. There's no horse in the box yet. The car's not broken down at all. But there's 7 or 8 of my horses coming down this way and I have to get them. Have you seen them?
Me: I don't think so. Honey, did you notice some horses back there?
She: No I didn't see any.
LRM: I expect they'll be along. We may see them on the way. So... do you prefer Ireland to England now?
After our initial shock at being asked the 64,000 euro question at last after a year here (and as his opening question too) and giving our best answer (which im not giving away), there ensues a long conversation about england, ireland, dublin, galway blahdeblah. choice snippets of his include:
"I have 1600 acres of mountain and seven loughs down in Loughrea....I don't have time to fish for the lovely brown trout anymore...I run a horse museum....pop in sometime and i'll give you both a tea...see those rocks over there. they're seals, they're not rocks at all"
They are rocks
So anyway, we enter Ballyconneely and go up through some lane or another until we get to a house with a Land Rover parked outside. He gets out and thanks us profusely, then pulls out a set of keys and opens up the Land Rover and drives off. Bizarre.
So, to summarise...
He isnt broken down. He isn't in a hurry. He doesn't have a horse in the single horse-box. He has to pick up seven or eight horses that might be running wild. He needs a lift from one of his functioning Land Rovers to another of his functioning Land Rovers. He simply saw the first car that came across his path and expected it would be alright to grab a lift off them, no questions asked and no obligation to provide a consistent explanation. And d'you know, he was quite right.
I hope that's clear.
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