“Its over near the rusty car!”

I live in a town which up until this evening I’d thought was pretty big. For a town. It’s got a few shops, a few pubs, some petrol stations and other random shite. Its grand. Population? About 10,000 – 15,000. Not massive, but enough to render any inhabitant relatively anonymous to other random inhabitants. 

But today I got an impression of how small it actually is. I was asking my friend where the river came out into the sea. ‘Over there, ya know! By the GAA pitch! Its over near the rusty car!’. ‘Oh right, right’. A rusty car is a landmark. Small town!

Nothing else of any significance. I got the head eaten off me earlier for voting for Martin McGuinness in the presidential election (of a few months ago!). This lad’s reasoning was that McGuinness has (supposedly, and most likely) killed, or ordered the killing of people. I can think of at least four former Irish presidents you could say the same of. I said this. His response was the usual ‘Ah that’s different!’. ‘How? Just because it was back in the day?’. ‘Yeah, that was independence!’. ‘So’s what he was fighting for!’. Some people. Thick as vasoline. Impossible to reason with them.

Like gargling peanut butter!

Later.

You’d swear they wanted us to leave!

The Government (of Ireland) are on the verge of publishing their most frugal budget to date. Cuts must be made, everybody knows that. And we were all prepared for some drastic measures to be taken. But its still a massively uncomfortable pill to swallow. A great big chunk of Toblerone pretty much. And its the same every time a proverbial shit hits a proverbial fan in this blasted country. They make a balls of it by taking their eye off the ball for a few years, and then the entire place is fucked. You’d swear they wanted us to leave! 

So customary are Irish governments with having to impose such ‘austerity measures’ (read as ‘We Fucked Up Taxes) that they have the process of preparing the Irish people for a Budget (capital B there) down to a fine art. They say ‘Oh, well we have to cut here! And here! And a bit here! Sorry, but we must! Austerity measures!’. And then they send out some weasel-ish scapegoat on the news to tell the people that they’re only going to make 9 out of the 10 cuts they promised. And we all breathe a sigh of relief, because that 1 cut we avoided was a tax on drink and cigarettes. 

But what I see coming in this budget is a joke. ‘Universal household charge’. If you managed to get a house for a ridiculous price during the boom, and you paid the mortgage or paid up front, they’re going to tax you for it now. After you pay a fuck-tonne for it. While I’m not sure if the tax is only for people who have paid off their mortgage/bought the house without a mortgage (a tax on those currently struggling to pay a mortgage would be just a little bit much; they’re not complete animals) but I presume it is. I don’t necessarily agree with taxing the rich because they’re rich. If someone was lucky enough to buy a house and pay off the mortgage (which has tax on it already, lest we forget) and indeed pay the other taxes along with that then that house is theirs. I know we all pay PAYE, VAT, and a whole other array of taxes every day, but surely the Government turning around and saying ‘Actually, we’re going to need you to pay us some money if you want to live in your own house’ is a bit Mafia? Or have I got the wrong end of the shit-laden stick? Perhaps. But can you blame me when this government is being as vague as ever?? No. You can’t.

Later home-dawgs!

…and I’m old

Yes. 22 has come. I have now sailed past the teens, and past 21. A fiercely young age really, but none the less, old. I can’t really get up to mischief any more. Mischief is for people 21 and under. I must be good and mature. Bollocks!

I will in my hole be mature. Why on earth would I cease to have the craic? Admittedly, hangovers are a more present evil now which should theoretically put an end to the three day benders of my younger days. I’m nursing a pounding headache this morning. And working Monday to Friday shoul

d

curb it even more (it has).

But I’m still young. So fuuucck that! I shall have the craic. Get up to no good. Run from the Gardai. Craic will be had. There will be craic.

So shag it. I shall not conform to ageing. I’m not gonna buy a motorcycle or nothing. This is not a mid-life crisi

s. This

is

mere

youth.

Live forever.

I’ve got a fucking beard!

What up? Not much? Good. That’s the way I like it. No spiel about your car breaking down or nothing. On with business then. 

I’ve got a fucking beard! We’re doing Movember in the office. The idea is you grow a moustache to raise money/awareness for Prostate/Testicular Cancer. Basically everyone looks like a massive fucking idiot for 30 days and everyone donates pity money to charities, and everyone’s more aware about men’s health. Now. I cannot grow a moustache. I can’t. I can grow a pretty decent beard. Bits of ginger in it; very Celtic. But the upper lip has always remained hairless. So. What I planned to do was just not shave for the month, and when a moustache started to appear, shave the beard, leaving the ‘tache for all the world to see. No embarrassing growth time either, so everyone’s a winner. That was 18 days ago. And by this stage I’ve a fairly thick beard (and the moustache is getting there). If I shaved the beard there’d be a respectable enough ‘tache left to pick it up. But I do like the esteemed look the beard gives me. All I need are some Buddy Holly style Coca-Cola-bottle-lens-glasses, a cardigan and a corncob pipe. To the onlookers I would appear to be the smartest man on the planet. Aesthetically anyway. 

So that’s my great bit of news for the weekend anyway. I plan to strut the beard for a while anyway. Until a girl calls me ‘revolting’ or something along those lines. That’s what happened last time… 

Anyways. I bid thee fairwell and a good weekend. I shall spend it with friends getting fucked up.

Peace and love, peace and love (Ringo Starr you gombeen)

John

 

Procrastination!

Hows it going. I realise that I haven’t done shit with this thing in ages. But now I am back. Not out of any fondness or anything, just to kill some time. So, apologies WordPress, this is just a meaningless fling. I will not call you. I will not come to your Debs. I will not even stay for breakfast.

So, what to procrastinate about. A lot of shit which I could potentially get out of the way. The Simoncelli crash. Any MotoGP fans? No?.. fuck, right. Man. City taking over the known universe with oil money and Argentinians? That is a bit ridiculous really. And it defines exactly my reasons for not watching football any more. Give some two-bit team twenty-eight trillion pounds and they will be good. Where’s the dignity in that? As much as I hate Man United, and relished in City’s 6-1 thrashing of them, I couldn’t help but feel a little bit bad. As wealthy as Man United are, and as much money as they’ve spent on players like fucking Rio Ferdinand (the most over-rated, over-paid footballer since Adi Akinbiyi) and Wayne Rooney, they’ve got nothing on City. If City got Messi, that would be the end of the world. The world would fucking end. And they could afford him, probably. But Barcelona are too fucking cool to sell him. Legends. What kind of team is sponsored by Unicef? A cool fucking team. They give €1.5 million to Unicef through the FC Barcelona fund every year. Legends!

So, moving on from football. Winter. And the perpetual weather-shitball that is Ireland. Actually, fuck that. I’m 55 years too young to be moaning about the weather and my joints being sore and all that. Fuck it. The Red Hot Chili Peppers it is. I just saw them live in the O2 in Dublin. My fuck were they amazing. I was a bit worried they’d be shit without John. But that Josh Klinghoffer is a fine fine guitarist. A bit timid still, but in time he’ll grow into the same kind of behemoth John was. The album worked perfectly live. I was anxious about seeing the five songs off ‘I’m With You’ live. Because it’s not my favourite Chilis album. Not my least favourite either now, don’t get me wrong. ‘One Hot Minute’ is my least favourite album. Dave Na-fucking-varro. What a fart of a being. I dislike that album immensely. But ‘I’m With You’ is definitely one of their best, having seen it live.

Bottom line: English football is shit, and go see the Chili Peppers if you can. They’re awesome.

Later, my people

I AM BACK AGAIN!

Dear computer,

I actually forgot I had this thing. Honestly. The summer came and I began drinking a lot, and just having mountains of craic. Serious. I almost OD’d on craic. This is one of those occasions where I’m glad its spelt ‘craic’ and not ‘crack’.

Anyways, now the rain has cometh and the summer has endedeth, I bring you shitty witty banter from the world of boredom that has now hit me square between the eyes. Christ ’tis rotten. Women and children running under newspapers. Men don’t seem to be caught out in the rain today. How odd is that!? Maybe we’re just smarter on rainy days?.. One thing is for certain. I am not going outside today.

 

I AM BACK!

Yep, back in the blogging game. Tough auld game this. Like dealing crack. Life on the line kind of shit. And if I’m completely honest. Brutally, clinically honest. I forgot the name of this website, and that is why I wasn’t updating. Isn’t that farsical? I have a head like a sieve.

Anyways. Whats happened in the last few months that I can get outta the way now? I did my exams, and did horrendously in them at that. You think you did bad? Belt up fuckers, I did far FAR worse. Tenner bets. I’d confidently lay a tenner down on that. I may as well have taken a shit on the English department head’s head… read that slowly, I promise it makes sense. Department head’s head…

English is a Marmite subject. By that I mean, you either love it, or you hate it. This is not to be confused with literature, or reading. I love reading. Love it. Nothing beats a good book. English though. Let me describe what English entails at university level: 1 Read a book. 2 Maybe even enjoy the said book. 3 Analyse the book (you can see where we’re slipping here). 4. Write a shudderingly long essay about the (nonexistent) examples of vaginal expression. 5. Go fucking insane; so insane that you beat a squirrel to death with a toothbrush. Luckily, I gave up half way through step four, so not a single squirrel came to any harm. 

The end.

I feckin’ love rain!

Rain is a right bastard when you’re waiting on a bus. Or a train. Or any time you’re outside really. And that ‘wet rain’, the rain that somehow gets you wetter quicker. Thats a right bastard. You get home and your mam is there ‘you’re SOAKED! Have a shower!’. ‘WHY!!? I’m already fucking SOOOAAKKED!!!!’. And despite the fact that I live in Ireland, the rainiest place in the known (and probably unknown) universe I do not own a raincoat. Or any waterproof clothing. So I’m always soaked whenever there’s rain.

But on a Sunday. When you wake up and the rain is pelting the windows and the wind is rattling the doors. Thats epic that is. You grab yer duvet, pick a good seat by a window and read or whatever. Dry as a bone. Warm as wool. Snug as a bug in a rug. I fucking live for that shit man. I read all of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets that way. Was an unreal day. Rain bouncing off the windows, reading my Harry P.  Thats the great thing about rain. You’re there, in your eiderdown tower, booking it up, laughing at the daft feckers getting soaked outside and sipping on tea.

Gotta love rain

Fashion is a heap of balls

Fashion is like the Irish weather. Its meant to change fairly chronological. Spring, summer, autumn, winter. But it never goes that way really, does it? Summer can be as rainy as a Hugh Grant film. Winter is just a word to describe the period between summers. A period of immense cold and rain. It doesn’t make sense, but its reality. Fashion is the same.

I don’t follow fashion. I wear whatever threads look nice to me. But theres one thing I can’t really understand. In the new HBO show Boardwalk Empire they’re all dressed in three piece suits. Not just Steve Buscemi, everyone. Even the poor people. Black, white, rich, poor. They all wear bitchin’ suits. So then. At what point in history did we decide to ditch the perfectly pimpin’ three piece suit and don the hoodie? Seriously. What a monumental pile of cock. It makes no sense. Suits look a billion times better. I’m genuinely perplexed and irritated by this.

Rant over. And out.

Patricks Day has been and gone

Patricks Day has been and gone. Globally reknowned as the greatest piss up on earth. Americans drink green beer through straws, while here we drink cheap Danish swill from cans and expensive Irish whiskey from the bottle (my apologies to Messrs Tuborg and Jameson for ruining your image). But on this most Irish of days one of my friends refused to listen to Irish music of any kind. This same lad hates it when ‘Irish people speak Irish to each other. Its annoying’. He’s about as Irish as the Union Jack (which is, interestingly enough, a quarter Irish but for the sake of my point we’ll ignore that).

What I’m getting at is that on the most Irish day in the year, during one of the most horrific recessions in history, at the peak of American globalisation this person is refusing to maintain any hint of Irishness. There’s nothing to be ashamed of, we’re Irish and whatever the state of our economy or system of government we must never ever forget this. If we do then they’ve won. Who are they? People like my friend. The naysayers. Fuck ‘em. Éire abú