Daniel Gay Lewis on Arsebook!

I've never been an Arsebook user myself but my wife is. Someone once told me that a woman had thrown an angel at him and I've been agin it ever since.

Last night my wife was browsing Barack Oboma's Arsebook page (goodness knows why) and who should pop up as one of the President's friends but her sister-in-law.

"You won't believe this", she told me, "Louisa is appearing as one of  Oboma's friends on Facebook".

Out of his 5,717, 379 supporters, I had to agree, that it was indeed pretty amazing. Downright weird. Laurent Jamart, my wife's brother's wife and Daniel Gay Lewis. Extraordinary!

Then she realised. It wasn't by chance at all. Arsebook compares your friends with the presidents and show pictures of the ones you have in common. Mystery solved, we went happily to bed.

I awoke at 4am in a cold sweat.   

Drunken Caledonian Ramblings

After watching Masterchef last night (thank God it's over!), I put the kids to bed, picked up a coupola hundred High School Musical cards which were scattered over the four corners of the living room (six if you count the bay windows), poured myself a bottle Bishop's Finger (as opposed to a finger of Bishop's Bottle) and sat down to listen to the John Martyn interview on the radio. 

To my great, well slight, shame I've been living in Ireland for nearly seven years now and I haven't troubled myself to learn the language. They have certain news programmes in Irish on RTE radio and, whilst I almost never turn them off, I can't understand anything that's being said. But I allow it to drift by incomprehensibly anyway. 

A bit like John's drunken, Caledonian ramblings last night, in fact. If there were any Irish people listening to the interview (and surely there must have been) I think they would have known how I felt. I don't suspect they would have turned off either though.

U2 Security Blanket

As U2's new album wraps itself around the nation today, possibly the world, it exudes, within it's bland fibres, a soothing warmth we haven't felt, or needed, for a long time.  Not since the 1980's, the last great economic recession, have we been so ready, desperate even, to embrace the idea of absolute averageness. U2 have always provided this in spades. 

The album even sounds like the 1980's. Bono's soaring, anthemic melodies and meaningless lyrics paired with The Edge's shimmering, shard-like lead-guitar provide a nice, cozy security blanket for the way we live today. The band have taken a few experimental deviations over the years, with border-line catastophic results, but they know better than that now. From now on, I'm sure, they'll stick to what they know best. Their medium is the median.

A well known rock journalist who I can't name for reasons too complicated to explain told me:

"Maybe the moral is, interesting isn't necessarily what the world wants. Maybe it just wants reassurance."

He did this via the medium of Twitter, by necessity, in less that 140 characters.

To borrow a line from the greatest rock band on the planet,

"No alarms and no suprises please"

The Number Detectives

The "The Number Detectives" "chase down" numbers and "text them back for free".

The soi-disant "The Number Detectives" are Eircom. When they say "chase down" they mean they look the number up on their system. And when they say they "text them back for free" what they mean to do is create a general air of confusion and false assumption in your brain.

Here's their whopping great big directory enquiries rates here:

Two questions arise from this piece of research that I did:

1. Do they think we're stupid?
   
2. Which dirty bastard left their beer can there?
   

Unbosomed Solipsism Alert

This new Twitter thing is in possession of a staggering amount of unbosomed solipsism. In case you don't know, you're supposed to answer the question, "What you you doing?". 

Indeed, many people use it like this and, mundanely, simply tell you what they're having for breakfast or that they're about to do a wash. Here's an example today from the famous film director, David Lynch, whose movies never fail to challenge and intrigue.

Good morning everyone. It's Wed, Feb. 25, 2009. Here in LA, hazy blue skies, muted golden sunshine and a very slight breeze. 55°F 13°C.

Yes, very good David. 

The dictionary definition of "solipsism" seems to sum up this type of Twittering very well indeed.

Sometimes, though, Twitter can be good. When the above question is ignored in favour of "What are you thinking?" it gets better. You get poetic Twittering like this from a Raqhun:

A misty, messy morning in the woods of Waldeck, but the Moon shines clear above the mist, and the birdbath's unfrozen

I've watched these woods swell from icy barestick Imbolg to green riotous Walpurgis 62 times, and each time seems more precious, miraculous.

Untidy spring snowdusting half melted. Moonlight and dawnglow cast double shadows on pied forest floor.

Bit pretentious for you? What about this Alan Carr guy though. He's a comedian, I believe.

He don't care 'bout nobody but hisself.

Cowan Approaches Lent

Welcome to Shrove Tuesday! The most important day in the Catholic calendar.

Shrove Tuesday is an old liturgical term which can be roughly translated as Pancake Tuesday. Tomorrow is Ash Wednesday in which ash, taken from the remains of a sacrificial goat, is smeared liberally over the victim's chest and thighs. On Thursday begins Lent in which we turn away from alcohol and prostitutes and back towards God. For forty days. This brings me neatly to today's topic which is my Dad's mate Hugh Cowan.

Sadly, I must begin by reporting that Hugh is unfortunately a Rangers fan. He's in his sixties now and he wears a large black puffa jacket with the motif SONNETTI emblazoned improbably across the back. Hugh is no fan of the Catholic tradition (specifically Celtic FC)  but, for many years now, has given up alcohol (not sure about prostitutes) for Lent. This tends to reduce his level of comedic genius by roughly 60%. This can be inconvenient to say the least.

I've been in the pub a few times, during Lent, with Hugh and he'll religiously stick to orange juice rather than his usual cider and rum mixture. I always ask him why he does this to himself. His answer is always the same. "Musters, as Hornsby says 'That's just the way it is'".

That's his catchphrase you see. It's not very good is it!

Why? Why Not?

Hi Pop-Pickers. Here's the first FTWWLT collaborative playlist created by you (whoever you are) on the life-giving, life-taking Spotify. (Click to make it big!)

As you'll no doubt notice the theme of the playlist is Q&A couplets but, I'm sure you'll agree, quality has not been sacrificed in order to shoehorn in, well, Q&A couplets. It's a fine piece of work and I look forward to listening to it.

Do keep 'em coming right here.

Get Pissed Monday

Seems like today is "Get Pissed Monday" in Galway. 

I went out for my lunchtime constitutional and everyone was either in the process of getting pissed or had already achieved it in resounding fashion. This was at 1pm on a Monday!

I was walking behind, at a respectful distance, six young girls who were drinking cans of cider and getting pissed. I slowed down a bit to let them get further ahead in case they picked on me. A car went by and beeped loudly. Stupidly I raised my hand to waive and quickly realised that, of course, he was beeping at the "lovely girls" on "Get Pissed Monday". Sadly, he saw me waiving and thought I was an idiot.

Four or five more cars went by and boisterously beeped at the girls. I'd fallen further behind by now, I actually needed my binoculars to see them properly, so I had plenty of time not to stupidly waive at the cars as if they'd been beeping at me. 

But I did waive anyway. They weren't to know that I knew they weren't beeping at me!

Half and Half

There's very little more improving in life than spending the day with your children. Or, even better, mine own. And none more better than today. Sunday!

We rose early and played Spotify for a while. Then we went for a walk on the bikes. Such fun! After brunch which is a mixture of breakfast and lunch, we played games.

We brought the boat into the house and had a game of "boats". Then we went over to the desk, which is a fucking disaster, and played "desks". After a quick round of "push piggy shove" and "Number 1o to Garboldishham" we settled down and had a game of "lighting the fire". Such fun. It's hard to express how much I love my children.

Then, at 3:45 I phoned my my neighbour Niall. Normally we do "half and half". I asked him where he, and much more importantly, his children were. He claimed he was at a family Christening. I was furious. I told him that under no circumstances must he take his kids away for the day again.  

Such selfishness!

Only Taking Pictures

Here's an idea! An idea applauded roundly by the good people at Spotify themselves no less 'pon their 'blog. It's this and bear with me for it's, er, an idea.

You take pictures of your cd collection. Like, wherever they are. On the shelf, the cd rack, perched on an old clipping mat, wherever. Then, you link, from each cd pictured, to the album on Spotify itself. With me so far? Well that's it.

Now, whenever you want to play a cd you don't get it from the cd rack. That's old hat now. Absurd. Instead, for the way we live today, you simply go to the picture on your computer and click the one you want. And, hey presto, it plays out of Spotify.

Is it any wonder I drink?

Fields of Athenry

Sitting in the car surrounded by the fields of Athenry waiting on the dotter to stop having a piano lesson. Arse shavin making his Arse nal debut and look at those small free birds fly!

This message was originated from a mobile phone on the Meteor network.

Race of Pygmies

In Galway's roughest pub, which cannot be named for legal reasons they're having a quiz upstairs.

The prize goes to the first person to get a question right. It's something of a race of pygmies. Which is lucky given the clearance between the top of the stairs and the ceiling.

Health Food Shop

After the Oscar Wilde fiasco, I went to the health food shop to buy some oat cakes. I bought two flavours, cheese and rough.

Whilst I was there I wondered if they had any hot sauces? I'm a massive fan of the hot sauce genre and am always on the lookout for new kinds. 

I said to the woman, "Do you have any hot sauces?"

She looked delighted and slightly dazed by the question. 

"Yes", she said. "I think we do. We have one here". 

She pointed to the Tabasco.

"Anything else?", I asked, trying hard not to rain on her parade.

"Yes", she said. "I think we do have some more" 

She looked around, her head spinning in the neck socket. I knew then that she was quite mad and probably evil.

"Yes", she continued, "these over here", pointing at some Asian sauces. 

"We have oyster sauce, soya sauce ..." she read from the labels. "I think these are quite hot."

"You think?", I asked.

"Yes, I think".

"Only quite hot?", I asked, menacingly now.

"Yes, quite hot".

"Do you have anything that's definitely very hot?", I demanded.

"I think the Tabasco is quite hot", she said, a single bead of sweat trickling down her nose.

I thanked her and went to pay for the oatcakes. As I left she was intently studying the ingredients on bottle of rice wine vinegar looking, for all the world, like this was her very first day on this planet earth.

Drunk and Wilde

My friend ageing hipster, himself an ageing hipster,  put me in my mind of Oscar Wilde this morning by quoting him whilst twittering.

Later, whilst walking in Galway, I saw Oscar sitting 'pon a bench with a drunken old fool. I thought there might be a blog in it so I took this picture. I wanted to take a picture of Oscar alone but the drunken old fool insisted on being in't. 

He said "Sit down and give me a bit of your old craic ya cheeky dosser."

That's right, the drunken old fool called me a cheeky dosser! I didn't have the slightest bit of "old craic" and, anyway, I knew he only wanted money. So I gave him a euro for a cuppa tea and bid him good day.

Wilde said:  

I was working on the proof of one of my poems all the morning, and took out a comma. In the afternoon I put it back again. 

He's a genius with the words all right but he keeps some dodgy company these days.

Gerry Rafferty Alive!

Scottish singer Gerry Rafferty [1] had, until being found sunbathing in Tuscany, vanished clean off the face of the planet.

They'd looked for him everywhere. From Baker Street to bookie and all points between. He was last seen in hospital suffering from liver failure so, not only was he missing, he was presumed quite dead. He was so missing, in fact, that magazine articles were written about him. Decades of intrigue were to follow.

All this until the other day, when he turned up at a swim-to bar in Firenze drinking cold beers.

[1] My daughter has named her toy giraffe after him. G.Rafferty (geddit?). She'll be pleased when I give her the news.

SMS Mail Test

1212 this is just a ... Test:-)
--
This message was originated from a mobile phone on the Meteor network.

Twitter Ye Not

It's a little hard to believe (though not impossible) that the real Tom Waits, arguably the most influential and innovative recording artist over the last twenty years, would be twittering, apropos of nothing, about that Levi's ad. I think we may have an impostor on our hands.

None More Black

The idea that white South Africans would, thirty years ago, apply olive oil in order to develop a swarthy look is not without irony.

No indeed. It is a veritable furnace bubbling with white-hot irony.

Over coffee this morning a friend of mine, he himself a white South African to this very day, confirmed that he, and many of his peers, did just this and have the skin problems today to prove it.

I said to him, "I suppose you just wanted to look black, eh?".

"NO WE DIDN'T", he boomed. 

But he didn't boom it in a racial way. He boomed it in a jovial way. He's no more racist than you or I. 

Wednesday morning. In the kitchen. If you can't joke about racism what can you joke about, eh?

Blogger Graffiti Limbo

This was chalked 'pon my mildewy sill this morning.

Does anyone I have power-hose I can borrow?

Chrome Profanity Warning

I'm quite fond of the new Google browser, Chrome. I don't hate Google in the way that I hate Apple, for example.

Sure, they're a big global corporation and all but I feel they add value to my life rather than being sinister, anti-competitive, style-over-substance fashionistas. Like Apple, for example.

And my hitherto browser of choice, Fannyfox, seemed to be getting a little uppity what with constant demands for upgrades and general cheek and nonsense. She was becoming a fickle mistress and who in the wide world needs that!

So I switched to Chrome and, for the last few months, we've been very happy together. It has a much better interface and frankly I don't have any need for all the fancy-Dan Fannyfox plug-ins and widgets that Mcgenius and his ilk seem to base their entire existence on.

But, today, it broke. I asked it to browse to my tennis club and it simply couldn't do it. I don't know why. That's fine though, we all make mistakes, it's how we deal with them that matters. I'm afraid, however, that Chrome did not react well. It went a bit crazy and swore. In a way I've never heard before. Or hope to hear again. It was very upsetting, look!

Bad Boy!

Friendly International Fixture

It is with the greatest possible regret that I must announce that the West British football team will face Nigeria in a friendly encounter in London, England on 29 May.


The game will take place at Fulham's Craven Cottage with tickets priced at £35 (adults), £19.50 (concessions). The real cost, of course, is impossible to evaluate.

Morrissey Bends Sinister

Oh Lord! Morrissey was on The One Show tonight. I watched it en famille and took this screenscrape (photo with my phone).

The old contrarian was in predictably unpredictable form. Typically, prime-time tv doesn't do unpredictable and contrary but that's clearly betting without The Boy With A Thorn In His Side.

When he was asked how hard it had been for him to be unemployed in the seventies he refused to play the game. He said that he simply decided not to get a job because he didn't fancy any jobs. It wasn't hard at all.

Then my kids were a bit noisy so I didn't quite hear the next question. I think Adrian Chiles was, for some reason, expressing sympathy for white-collar workers who'd been thrown on the scrapheap after years of success. Morrissey chipped in "Therefore, why sympathise with them?" to a chorus of disapproving studio well-nows. 

As my mate Andy elegantly put it:

Nobody bends sinister quite like Steven Patrick Morrissey.

The Redoubtable Broon

The redoubtable Broon was on typically irascible form for Celtic yesterday.

He got a nasty looking whack on the head in the second half and despite appearing to be unconscious for a while he continued before eventually falling down again. As he walked reluctantly off the park you wondered if he had any idea where he was.

The medical team took a good look at him after the game and informed manager Strachan that it was really quite a serious head injury. After careful consideration Strachan decided not to mention it to the Bold Broon on the basis that he hadn't really noticed anything.

What you don't know wont kill you, eh.

Here's A Hoo

The biggest pest on my internet, and that's up against some pretty stiff competition, is undoubtedly Norton Security Scan. I was minding my own business, listening to Spotify, when up it pops, with no regard whatsoever for the fambly Sunday, and starts doing its business in my dining room. Here it is here in this picture:

I asked it repeatedly to go away, via the 'Cancel Scan' button but unfortunately the 'Cancel Scan' button appears to have been disabled. It's a pain in the arse. The biggest pest is actually Adobe but it least it has the good sense to leave me alone during dinner.  

Chicken Stock Fiasco

How to make chicken stock:

• Throw bones into large pot
  
• Add an onion, cut in half
  
• Add some garlic, celery stick, carrot, anything that comes to hand
  
• Add tap water
  
• Boil up for an hour or two.
  
• Place sieve/colander in sink
  
• Pour contents of pot into sieve/colander
  
• Watch in utter dismay as stock disappears down the sink.
  
• Shake head in disbelief. 
  
• Laugh ironically (optional)
  
• Drink less in future.
  

Download v Stream

The boy Mcgenius twittered me thusly:

"Not in same space as emusic - it's streaming & playlisting - not downloading - no?"

He's right and wrong. Spotify is indeed streaming and playlisting but it's definitely in the same space as eMusic. I know this to be true as I just cancelled my eMusic subscription in favour of Spotify.

Spotify is great. Given that I rarely listen to anything I download more than once or twice why in the name of Satan's Blessed Trousers do I need to own it? 

Spotify. For The Way We Live Today.

Cheerio Cheerio Cheerio

Most normal adults, 'cept p'haps soft headed ones who checked their taste buds in the luggage hold of their early teens, don't really eat cheerios any more.

I do. I eat them all the time. Never, ever out a bowl with milk tho'. I just had seven or eight straight off the top of our bed. On the way downstairs I found another three on the landing. As I removed the sofa cushions from the 'Wendy House' I found another brace. I'm sitting here typing and look! here are one, two, three, four more 'pon the side of the fruit bowl.

My choice is this. I collect them up and throw them in the bin. Or I take the easy option and throw them in my mouth. I take the easy option. It's not ideal but it's quite easy. 

Pub Last Night

I woke up this morning with a head like a ... like a ... like a ... well, it was a bit like a head, really. But it was a sore head. I'd been out drinking again you see.

There was a time in my life when drink simply wasn't enough. I'd start on beer and then I'd want something else. So I'd have a whisky. Then I'd get bored with those two and spice them up with some crisps. Then a jar of mussels and a nice Cuban cigar. 

These were heady days indeed. But nowadays, of course, eating mussels in the pub is illegal. Even smoking cigars is deeply frowned 'pon. So last night I had to make do with merely beer, whisky and crisps as this picture proves beyond any reasonable doubt.

Here's the boy Shallds who is very shy and, frankly, a bit rude. It's too late for me now but I'd advise you to avoid him if at all possible.

Gerry's Barber Shop

Just went to Gerry's Barber Shop for, of all things, a haircut. Five of your English pounds.

Despite 25 years in the business Gerry is simply not very good at the old haircutting game. But, crucially, this is reflected in the price. Up with this kind of thing!

On the way back I spotted this van which appears to combine automobile repair with good old fashioned racism.

Hospital Cleaner Story

My Mum told me that the cleaner had worked in the hospital for 42 years. She's 72 now and still going strong.

She always walks in straight lines and God help you if you get in her way. She doesn't like visitors much but seems to thole us somewhat. We were waiting in the corridor last night while my Dad was being prodded and poked at. She walked straightly passed us and we dodged her left and right. Then she turned back and said:

My husband was out for a walk last night. He met a man with a dug.

My Mum and I looked at each other blankly. Perhaps 42 years cleaning the hospital had got the better of her. But she continued:

He asked what the dug was called? 

Blacksmith.

Blacksmith? That's a funny name for a dug. Would he make me a sneck fur ma gate?

If ye keep looking at him like that, he'll make a dart fur yer arse!

Then, off she went, cackling to herself, pushing her trolley along the corridor like a tram.

Beer, Whisky, Thoughts

Pub was very quiet last night. Eerily so. Perhaps due to the credit crunch grown men can't borrow any money to buy beer. Sad days indeed.

I sat down alone with some beer, whisky and thoughts. It had been a strange day full of mixed omen and I was happy to be in that place. But nothing ever stays as good as it should be. A guy I knew back from the days came over:

"Ah Musters, howya pal?"

"Not bad ... mate", I said, his name eluding me entirely.

We chatted for a while and I asked about some mutual acquaintance. His reply threw me a loop:

"He's my elder in the church".

Two things here:

1. Going to church is one thing. Admitting it in a pub seems a bit ... gay, no?
   
2. What the fuck does his age have to do with anything?

An Internet Story

Something great just happened. I think it happened by pure chance. But joy 'pon joy that it happened to me, Musters!

She said:

As you can see yours has two pins. We only have ones with one pin. So there may be a gap.

I had no idea what she talking about. I'd only gone in to browse at the gráillings.

But then she said:

Do you have access to an internet?

Surely it was just pure chance that she said that. It's true that when she'd got to the word "access" I'd already guessed she was going to ask me about internets. And I thought:

Please say an internet

But, surely... surely in that split second I didn't have the power to make her say an internet. My powers don't normally work that quick.

Long Tall Texan

What with all the snow and increasing incompetence of the hapless Home Secretary it was with great joy that I received a textual massage of the soul from m'colleage and best friend in the world, Mcgenius. It said:

Les billets Lyle Lovett sont arrivés. Woo hoo!

Roughly translated from the  original French:

The tickets Lyle Lovett have arrived. Woo hoo!

The tickets Lyle Lovett had arrived! Woo hoo, I cried! 

Oh Sit Down

Can someone tell me this (and tell me no more)?

Why do people wait in a queue to get on a flight? Is it so very important to get a specific seat?

Last night, our flight was delayed [1] and people waited in line, standing up like that, for about an hour. I just sat down and read my book, like that.

When the flight was called I simply mooched up and joined the end of the queue. People looked at me like I was cheating or something. I'd joined the end of the queue.

Very strange indeed!

[1] Ryan Air did their best to redress this by checking no passports,  going ludicrously fast and then banging the plane down thumpishly 'pon the Edinburgh runway.

Adobe Flash Player

I'm quite a busy man you know. What with one thing and another it can be struggle to get through the day on time. Sometimes it can be after 10 of the clock before I'm safely tucked up in bed with m'book.

No Adobe, whoever the fuck you are, I don't want to restart my computer. I don't care about your stupid updates. I don't want you. Why are you here?

Yes I know you're a flash player. Too fucking flash by half if you ask me. And as for your big brother Acrobat well anyone related to that fucking pointless time waster is no friend of mine.

I do apologise for the language but, for goodness sake, I'm a busy man. 

Dupe The Fop

She pretends to go to sleep. When her sister is asleep she creeps out of bed, quiet as a church mouse, and comes downstairs. To watch Masterchef.

I'll be drinking tea and possibly nibbling on a Ritters Sport. I'll give her a square even though she has already brushed her teeth. Like me she's a fan of the marzipan which, I believe, is highly unusual amongst human beings. Next, she'll start to guess who will win and so will I...

Only this time, on this blessed evening, I will not have to guess who will win. I know who will win. And victory shall, at last, be mine.

Warning Masterchef Spoiler

The BBC will be furious! Well they will be if they find out anyway.

This morning, on Irish radio, we had a Masterchef contestant talking about her experiences on the show. She was under strict orders from the BBC to reveal nothing about the actual show, which will be broadcast tonight. Because that would only spoil it for we the viewers.

She wasn't allowed to tell us what she cooked. 

She cooked crab to start with, followed by lamb on pea puree with chocolate cake with sauce to finish. 

She certainly wasn't allowed to tell is whether she got through to the quarter final or not. Definitely not. That would be going too far.

She got through to the quarters.

Drunk or Something

Last comment on John Martyn. Sadly, we've had something of another JM dominated weekend but I solemnly promise this will be the last. For the sake of the children. The babies.

But the opening track on Inside Out, Fine Lines, will close the matter. For a good while anyway. I swear he's willfully slurring his vocal stylings. It's almost as if he's drunk or something.

Dreaded Sunny Day

A dreaded sunny day.

Every single speck of dust, crumb, scratch, fluff, blueberry, teabag showing up in all their appalling thereness 'pon the wood floor.

Crumbs are the worst. I hate them. They are the devils own work [1] and there's not the woman [2] born I wouldn't throw out of bed for making them.

All I wanted to do today was crawl back into bed until it was dark and the house was clean again.

[1] of course, there's no such thing as the devil, that's just God when he's drunk
[2] or, indeed, man

One Eyed Man

Brown's recent "British Jobs For British Workers" pronouncement seems to have gained plenty traction. I'm sure even Clarkson would get behind the "Scottish idiot" on that one.

Truly, in the land of the blind the one-eyed man is king!

Clarkson Rides Again

It's too easy to hate Jeremy Clarkson. Very easy indeed. Even a child could do it.

But hold on. What's this? He's in trouble for calling Gordon Brown a "one-eyed Scottish idiot".

Perhaps I've been wrong all along here. Me personally, I would have opted for "one-eyed Scotch idiot" but it's stellar work nonetheless. Well done that man.

More Bad News

It's all unrelenting bad news these days isn't it? You could say unremitting but I said unrelenting and I stand by it.

If it isn't war or the economy, it's the death of folk/jazz/funk legends and it's all bad, bad news. 

We need some good news stories. Something positive to get us through these tenebrous times. That's why when you hear that they're about to make a musical about the life of Marilyn Monroe you put your head in your hands and cry "no more, no more, please...".

Isn't He Lovely?

It could be argued that spooky wee orange, as he's no longer called [1], is getting above his station.

Opinion is divided on him. Frankly, I still fear him. Everyone else simply adores him. I've lost control of the situation. It would now be unimaginable for me to eat the snivelling little ... sorry. I must be careful. He's very popular round the office. Much more than me.

But still, (whisper it!) he's only a wee orange. I definately think he's getting above his station, like.

[1] he's been named Paddy lest he be mistaken for an orangeman.

About the Journey

I don't know anything about roads. Some folks talk with great authority about which roads they use to get to work. Some of them take different roads on different days and know why. They even know the name of the road.

I don't have a clue about roads. I just get in car and go. Usually I have no recollection of any aspect the journey, far less the road names.

It was very cold this morning and the roads were icy. Dropping the eldest daughter off at school I saw a great opportunity to discuss the road conditions with another parent. I seized it!

"Roads are pretty bad today, huh Ronan"

"Yea, traffic's chronic".

"Well", I ventured, "pretty wise to stay slow on these roads, eh".

What he said next threw me a loop!

"Ah, well, the side roads should be fine, so".

The side roads! But I thought ... wouldn't the ... if it was icy surely the main ...

We got in the car and drove, in companionable silence, to work. I'm now resolved never to talk about roads again.

The Re-United States

From the Great Barack Obama, President of the (Re)United States:

I know a seacret. Computers are the pongeyest things I have ever seen in my life! You should throw them in the bin the minate you get one. There not the boss. They can't think for themselfs.

(anon)

More Wee Orange

Thanks so much to everyone who wrote in about spooky wee orange. It means a lot to all of us, it really does.

The response was overwhelmingly in favour of spooky wee orange and most people felt that he'd been harshly treated (by me). One correspondent want so far as to call me a "fruit fascist". This view was shared by many people in my office, some of whom refused to eat even a segment of spooky wee orange.

So it seems I am wrong. Far than being spooky, spooky wee orange is, in actual fact, cute. Everybody loves him. Even I have learned to overcome my fear. Here he is perched 'pon my monitor watching me work.

Best of all he's started to make friends with his own kind. Here he is frolicking with some bigger oranges.

I plan to bring in another spooky wee orange tomorrow. I'm after eating that one up there!

The Devil Delusion

There's a story today in Ireland about a man (A) who was found not-guilty "by reason of insanity" to the charge of murdering another man (B).

Apparently man A attacked man B with some garden shears because he (A) was suffering from a "devil delusion". Therefore he was mad. 

Devil delusion. 

Are they saying that there isn't such a thing as the devil now? Honestly, it's hard to keep up.

Wee Orange 2

Here's another one which came in with my normal fruit allowance today.

I took this picture when I arrived in work and everything seemed fine for a while but, sadly, the spooky wee orange was rejected by the normal fruit. I think, like me, they felt threatened.

It sat there alone and unloved looking up at me, it's decrescent demeanour eating away at me...

So I ate it. I don't want to see it's like again.

Wee Orange 1

At dinner last night I looked into the fruit bowl and felt a bit dizzy.

I told my wife I loved her and to cherish the children. I waited but nothing happened.

"What ... is ... that?", I stammered.
"Oh that", she laughed, "isn't it funny, it's a little cherry orange".

I thought my time had come. The sight of diminishing fruit seemed as likely a portent as any.

Recovering slowly I told her that I didn't think that it was in the least bit "funny". Unless she meant funny peculiar. Which she didn't.

Arse Biscuit TV

I finally got to watch Oz and James Drink to Britain tonight. This is a programme I've loathed from afar for some time now so it was an absolute pleasure to loathe it in person.

I think the BBC must have realised that there was something odd going on because they invited me to press the red button and watch one of my favourite bands, Elbow, playing with the BBC Concert Orchestra [1]. From Oz Clarke to Guy Garvey at the press of a button. The ridiculous to the sublime.

Flicked over quickly for the end Masterchef. My eldest made me do it, honest. The middle aged woman who claimed to be Emily, 30, who made invisible biscuits said:

"I'm not going to walk away from here and say I'm never going to cook again. That would be ridiculous"

Yes, Emily, 30, it would be. Bloody ridiculous, hen.

[1] here it is, if you're in England.

Final Fantasy VII

I was chatting to an avatar earlier.  She's one of my favourite characters in Final Fantasy VII apparently. 

The strange thing is this. The whole time we were chatting she was thinking...

Well, you can see it there for yourself what she was thinking.

Apparently we're now on Final Fantasy XIII. Can someone please write in and explain what's happening?

Ever After Yoke

Sometimes, before you start something, you wonder:

Will I ever be after finishing this yoke?

(It might be an egg but it needn't be)

During it you might say it again:

Will I ever be after finishing this yoke?

You'll probably be fairly confident but you don't really know do you?

Then, when it's all over you say:

I'm after enjoying that yoke.

Unless you didn't enjoy it. In which case, if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all.

Paint 'pon Banister

I remember, over three years ago, having Christ'mas drinks in the famous Crane Bar, drinking bottles of Guinness and discussing this shoddy piece of workmanship. The craic was ninety and the drinks were flying that afternoon. I don't recall being in the company of a more raggle-taggle bunch of losers, boozers and jacuzzi users before or since. 

We talked of many things that day and for a few blessed hours at least we put the world bang to rights. We applied absolute clarity to all matters which came to that rickety old, beer stained table. But it all kept coming back to this. This shambolic piece-of-shit paintwork kept tapping at the pub window demanding our attention. Like an alcoholic poet on payday it just refused to quit that place. And ultimately it got it's way and ruined the inebriated beauty we'd created with it's careless slapdashery. 

And here we are more than three years later and still, each workday, it taunts me. I just took this photo of it [1] and thankfully no-one saw me. Taking a picture of some shoddy paintwork 'pon the banister of the office stairs would be very hard indeed to justify.

[1] please do not click on this photo as it becomes bigger and the sheer awfulness becomes even more apparent.

Skype Wolf Chat

I was chatting to a wolf friend on Skype earlier. 

He was telling me about his weekend on the prairie and we inevitably ended up discussing lunar matters.

The strange thing is this. The whole time we were chatting he was thinking :

"Intelligence is not measured by answering questions, but by questioning answers".

And that's what White Fang does all the time. He tries to gainsay me on every little thing. He's a right argumentative little bugger. Especially at this time of the month.

May You Never

At 6:44 she said,

"Please, please ... for the love of Christ, stop playing John Martyn".
"Don't you like it?"
"I really like it ... I really, really do", she said. "Please, though, just switch it off now".

We put on some show tunes instead. She's a very wise woman.

Go Down Easy

I tried plenty of stern remarks with the kids this weekend. They've been high maintenance at times with the cheek and the nonsense and all.

Nothing seemed to work. They ingredients were:

• 1 part seen
• 3 parts heard

It was becoming intolerable. At one point I had to switch off John Martyn the better to be heard.

Desperate, I exclaimed, "Give a sucker an even break!!!".

They looked at each other. I looked at them. They looked at me. We all looked at my wife. For a few seconds nobody was looking at anyone else.

"Buck up your ideas!!!", I told them before storming off to take some clothes off the radiators.

Rum and Orange

For obvious reasons I've been drinking rum and orange this weekend. It's been a major success.

I don't know how you feel about this but I've been messin' with the recipe a little. More than just rum and orange is going into my rum and orange. Here's the kind of thing I been doing:

1 part light rum
1 part triple sec
0.25 part calvados
2 parts orange juice
half a lime
pour on ice
top off with ginger ale

First class, delicious drink. I believe John would have downed it with gusto damn you bet! It put me right where I wanted to be. I didn't want to know about evil. I only want(ed) to know about love.