A CHRISTMAS TALE

Christmas is an event like a penalty shoot out is a game of football. Both anticipated and anti-climactic, the day is a psychological and cultural landmark that in some sense is cataclysmic; we have an advent that begins circa July and when it comes, our holiday cheer fizzles out with the season itself, until we’re left with the sudden realisation that time neither slows down nor stops at this time of year, the world continues to turn and 2005 is not a distant future with flying automobiles, pills for dinner and William Shatner as the saviour of mankind. No, when the last Rose is munched, when the novelty jumper loses its limited impact of mild kitsch humour and the space under the tree becomes a near-void awash with scraps of wrapping paper and the coffee creams you tried to hide - you realise that the future is here. Neither Christmas, nor the New Year is a landmark you can effectively divide your time between, it’s a glimmer of relaxation and oblivious happiness, and indeed this is how we should see it. We should resolve ourselves to the fact that all “I’ll have it done by Christmas” resolutions were fanciful, and the spirit of lazy contentment is not entirely consistent with that plan to catch up with everyone in your phone book. I was queuing on Christmas Eve for the last bits of pieces, feeling my seasonal spirit dissipate in amongst the crowd-heat and bustle, when I thought of all this. Christmas is supposed to be the antithesis of pressure, not its synonym. So I emptied my mind of all thoughts, a process which by all accounts doesn’t really take very long, and in this claustrophobic rushed environment, a sudden ease fell upon me, that nearly made me so comfy that I had to fight the temptation to lazily scratch my ass and stretch to the point of farting. There’ll be plenty of time for that in the days to come. Ah yes, irresponsible consumption and flatulence: the real meaning of Christmas.

And what would yer man Jaysus have to say about all this. My heart goes out to him really, it must be a pain in the arse having your birthday on Christmas day. Not only that, but that Santa bloke is stealing all your wind. Imagine the scenario, circa 4th century A.D, a bunch mythical pagan cratures:
“What’s the craic with this Christianity thing?” says Seamus the Leprechaun.
“I dunno, I mean no-one believes in us anymore,” the Elf says, “I mean, how many babies do we have to steal and bloody forests do we have to enchant to get any attention anymore?”
“It’s alright for you,” says the Fairy “but being a Fairy is now a ‘mortal sin’ and I’m going to go to hell for apparently packing the brown.”
Stavros, the big Greek Centaur sighed. “It’s not easy being a Centaur either. It’s impossible to find a pair of pants that fit, and wherever I go, I am followed by a horse’s ass.”
“Well, I for one am going to do something about this!” says the elf, rising from his enchanted stone, “me and my elf mates have a terrorist plan to stem the flow of this ‘Christianity’ thing!”
So, on a cold and eerily still night in Myra, in Turkey, a bunch of determined Elves are hiding in a shrubbery of a rather shabby looking tenement villa. There is not a creature stirring, not even a mouse. They are watching a faintly lighted window with grim anticipation, their beady silvian eyes searching the window for a sign of their target.
Inside, stands Nicholas, future saint and all–round decent bloke. He watches the licks of fire casting a wavy luminescence about the tiny room, the dying hearth painting the faces of two young sleeping girls with a soft orange glow. Without a sound, he carefully places two bags of gold - one for each of the maidens - at the end of their bed, allowing himself a satisfied smile at his own charitable act. Earlier that day, the girls’ father had been sobbing in confession, begging for forgiveness for the fact that he will have to sell his two young daughters into harlotry, because he can no longer afford to keep them or marry them off. So this Christmas Eve, Nicholas was leaving two dowries for the girls, saving them from a life of shameful prostitution, completely unaware of the fate that was to await him. Noiselessly, he descends the aperture of the room into the shrubbery below.
“Get him lads!”
Suddenly, old Nick is jumped upon by a dozen pint-sized tormenters, who bite, scratch, tear, punch, kick and nipple-pinch him into submission. Finally, when the fight in him is spent, the elves pour him into a sack and dump him as far away from away from civilisation as they can physically manage.

And in the North Pole he remains, his Elfin captors still waiting for their ransom from the Vatican. In the mean time though, they are content to allow St. Nick out one day a year, and are content to build toys and deliver them as per Coca-Cola sponsorship agreement. St. Nicholas, who changed his name to Santa Claus to make himself make sound more cosmopolitan and sexy, still performs his act of Christian charity, but must honour the secular clause (no pun intended) of his merchandising deals. So as you are enjoying all those Santa goodies, bear in mind that Amnesty International are trying in earnest to get the North Pole sweat shops closed down.
Something to think about.

THE ANGELES: THE DIRECTOR'S CUT

Well the next phase of my Cork life has begun: I've started working for a big international corporation which shall remain nameless. Not that I'm afraid of getting sued or anything it's just that in many circles it's a dirty word. We handle calls here from all over the planet, confirming for me now what Corkonians have always known: This really is the centre of the world.

Trying my best to double-job too. About 5 minutes of research in the morning and then off to earn some cash. This morning, passing throughg UCC, The bells of the Honan chapel seemed to be clanging non-stop, it was like a marathon session of the Angeles. Mind you, have you ever seen the Director's Cut? It features a cameo by the pope. Except he can't look contempaltively in the air, he just sort of wiggles a bit with a tiny but noticable bit of dribble working its way onto his shoulder. Honestly though, the Angeles is a great programme, especially that funky themetune, I'm just waiting for the dance version to come out. I'm not sure if the Honan Chapel bells was an extended angeles though, it was more like God had slept through his alarm. Again. Honestly, the lad seems to spend most of his time on 'snooze.'

A SPOT OF WEEDING PART TWO

Well the day had finally arrived. And didn't they look glorious; Knoola was a peach and Rimmer sported a rose-red waistcoat that made him look as cool as a "cool as fcuk" t-shirt. Actually, I could have sworn I saw that very slogan embroidered in gold on the crimson motif. St. Mary's Church Leixlip (above)was where I saw Rimmer and Knoola tie the knot - or rather, where I saw Rimmer get married to Knoola's arse, thanks to a strategically placed floral display. What a place to get married! A beautiful 12th century church,since been endowed to the Church of ireland: As I whispered to Crapman's mam before the ceremony: "Not bad for a pagan church, eh?" And I took Protestant Communion (hey, if it's good enough for Mary McAleese, it's good enough for me) but I have to say it didn't taste like the Christ I know. Protestantism is obviously Christianity for vegetarians. I mean, where's the meat? If I'm going to go into a church the least I expect is a good feeding. What do you get in a Baptist church, "Christlite: Twice the jesus with half the fat"? or in a Presbyterian: "I Can't Believe it's not the Son of God."? After seeing a sign advertising "Gluten Free Hosts Available" (see below)outside a cathedral in Cork a few weeks back, I've begun to question if political correctness and modern ritualistic cannibalism can possibly co-exist.

Ahem, I rant.
Anyway, after damning my soul for all eternity by partaking in a glorified Black Mass (I'm only joking all you Lutheran heretics, please don't impose any punitive penal laws on me), with Knoola and Rimmer officially hitched, we got down to the serious business of eating, drinking and obligatory humiliation of the cuppy happle. Johnny Ramos and I were - as Knoola put it - "like the gay couple at the wedding". Damn I knew I shouldn't have written "I hope you find the eternal happiness that we have found" on our jointly-bought wedding present. And he never even bought me a drink. Men!

After we all good-humouredly made a tit out of ourselves on the dance floor, I tactlessly did impressions of both Stephen Hawking and Christy Brown. The only laughs I got were because of the fact that I was using my right foot instead of my left one for my unconvincing Christy Brown. Dearie me, after taking the mick out of the eucharist and two famous cripples I am SO going straight to hell, and if I wasn't I am now, for using the word "cripples".

So before I get myself into more trouble I'll simply raise a glass: Here's to Rimmer and Knoola, may they have plenty more fun weddings in the future.

Feck, I did it again.


...Hmmm, I must learn more about this...

A SPOT OF WEEDING: PART ONE

The ancient philosopher Homer once said: “Webster’s dictionary defines a wedding as: ‘the process of removing weeds from ones garden’.” I don’t need to tell you that this was the wise Homer, that that bloke that spouted out that Odyssey yoke In Hellenistic times. Recently I saw this episode of The Simpsons taking careful note, knowing that the weeding of Lulee and Rimmer was just around the corner. Johnny Ramos came back into town for the grand occasion; he hardly had time for the tire rubber to squeak onto the runway before he was whisked away to the ‘Nock for Awn-ya’s birthday dinner in Lali’s. Now, for those of you who don’t know, Lali’s is a spot of extreme historical importance, as it used to be the “Flanagan’s” newsagents from yore. I saw a 1930’s historical photograph of Portmarnock’s seafront some years ago where the only two buildings that matched the modern landscape were the thick-walled 17th century Martello Tower - designed to withstand a cannon volley and centuries of meteorological battery from the Irish sea - and, you’ve guess it, Flanagan’s. Growing up, it was not so much a newsagent but a Museum of Products Past, with many of their dolly-mixtures dating back to the time of the building of the Martello Tower. I can see them now, the soldiers cooped up in their battlements sitting wistfully on their barrels of gunpowder, drawing straws to see which one is going to leg it down to Flanagan’s to get a fuck load of blackjacks. Well perhaps not, but all I’ll say is that when it closed about seven years ago, they were still selling Marathon bars and New Coke.
Anyway, all I’ll say is that when the waitress came around to take my order, I resisted the temptation to say “A ten-penny mixture and a Curly Wurly.” It just would’ve been plain sad.
Juan lavished gifts upon us, giving Awn-ya and Lulee aprons (a brave move) and gave me and Crapman undies (a brave and somewhat disturbing move). I gave her some cleansing products and a pair of socks (an extremely boring move), and we all sang her “Happy Birthday” very badly (a cringing move).
We left at about midnight, not wanting to outdo ourselves. After all, we had T minus 37 hours to the big gardening… er, I mean wedding.

NEW CORK, NEW CORK

The revolution is coming, and the rebel county has started slowly but surely to suck me in, their anarchic proganda fashioning and moulding me against the imperialst Pale. Well not quite. On my first night, I took a little walk down the town, through the window of Burger King I saw blood splattered across the floor, and a bloke who had Cork's county colours oozing from a few orifices, chatting to some Gardai Shickalonees.
Yep, this was Cork.
A few yards down the road there was an ambulance outside McDonalds where - through the window - I could see a young lad laying prone and immobile on the stairs.
Yep, This was Cork.
The Gaza strip has nothing on St. Patrick's Street I'm telling you. I abandoned my little walking tour of Cork city at this point, bought a copy of the Echo as it was sung at me by a nearby vendor (literally sung, as anyone who has been in Cork will testify), and sat in The Bodhran pub to read it. Beside me there was a fella who was gazing melancholically into his pint. He raised his head to look at me, shaking his head in despair, and said:
"Superman's f*cking dead, boy!"
Yep, this was Cork.
I saw Tommy Tiernan on the Late Late recently (yes I watched it, I'm not ashamed, I'm proud!), who was talking about Cork:
"I love going down there, people say to you: 'Hello, Welcome to Cork, Wecome to Cork; you know the best thing about Cork is, is that no matter where you are in teh city, you can stop and say to yourself, "This is Cork"!... Yes I'm from Cork... it's my favourite thing about myself'... God help us if we ever have a president from down there, that's something that should never be allowed happen, can you imagine the international shame of it, in the U.N: 'Hello I'm the President of Ireland, but more importantly, I'm from Cork!'"
The following morning I was walking through the town again. A young girl cut across front of me, stopping suddenly to say to her friends in a perfectly stereotypical Corkonian drawl: "Oh Lang!" she cried, "I left my coat in Supermacs!"
Yep, this was indeed Cork.
Viva la revolution.

A TESTES OF STRENGTH

October 1st
My eyes flittered open and they were met with darkness. Weirdly, thirty seconds later my alarm clock gave me an annoyingly insensitive audio poke, sounding for all the world like evil laughter, its laughter coming to a derisive climax when I realised the awful truth: It was five-bloody-thirty! What clever bastard booked a 7 o’clock flight? Ah yeah, it was me. What shockingly handsome poor judge of time I was!
Well Rimmer’s Stag weekend would be something to look forward to; starting with a few pints of Guinness in Wootten Bassett. Despite having a name that sounds like you’d find it under the “severe” subheading in a medical dictionary, Bassett was a nice wee place that served a palatable pint of the Black stuff. Actually I believe Wootten Bassett is Anglo-Saxon for “farting hunting dog.” The last time I was here, Eoin asked me to get him a “sex-on–the-beach”, So I went up to the bar and said, “Hey, can I have a sex-on–the-beach?”, and he actually replied – and I’m not joking ya – “What… the drink?”
I wouldn’t mind, but were in the middle of Wiltshire, there wasn’t a beach for fucking miles. The barman looked suddenly sheepish as he recalled his own words, and hurriedly buggered off to fix me the drink
There were no such extravagant drinks this time around, it was straight Guinness all the way, and sadly, no offers of seaside nookie. If that had happened, I would’ve paid for the taxi fare to Weston-super-Mare meself. Weston-super-Mare? Actually, I’d walk to Inverness if I was given that sort of offer. The strangest thing about that night was the vision of Crapman, who sported new haircut that was as severe as Nazi Germany in a bad mood. In a moment of madness, he had dispensed with 40 per cent of his body mass. Personally, I call it follicilicide.
Anyway, with big plans for the next day, we hit the hay early, although in my semi-drunken state I wasn’t quite sure what those plans were. Something about painting our balls or something.
If Hans Blix had been in that minibus on the way to Bournemouth, he would have found ample evidence for the international community to invade that minibus. For had our collective booze-farts been used on the Kurds back in 1991, Saddam would’ve done a much more thorough job. In fact the fart-gas pressure inside that bus must’ve been so great that I’m surprised we didn’t all get the bends when we opened the door. Seriously, we almost had to eat our way out.
We already had our Paintballing gear on when Eoin arrived. As he donned his combat fatigues and his balaclava, he couldn’t resist saying “Jayz, this is just like home!” discreetly out of earshot of Rimmer’s British copper posse.
What happened next was a sheer massacre. Several times over. You know the tag-line to the movie Platoon that says “The first casualty of war is innocence”? Well it’s not; the first casualty of war is the first guy that gets shot, which happened to be me on more than one occasion. On our second game, I found myself the hapless foot-soldier standing in front of the flag-bearer, in amongst a hail of fluorescent green bullets. I was pummelled in under a minute. Now I know how all the Irish dudes felt in Braveheart. I tell ya, if I ever do go to war, I’d be the guy with the bright future and the pretty dame back home that has to get it in the opening act to highlight the tragedy. Well, at least I would be if I had a pretty dame or a bright future.
We kept careful stock of our ammo, to ensure we had enough for the final event. As a stag special, Rimmer and Tudor had to don nice big fluorescent jackets and were our only targets for the final game. So, my over-riding image is the poor bastards being pursued by a throng of commandoes hungry for blood. Unfortunately tackling someone before one’s wedding might result in your wedding-tackle being fecked, as Rimmer found out. I take it back: the first casualty of war is the one who gets a bullet wound to the knackers. Before we came, we were told by Rimmer’s fiancé Knoola: “Don’t shoot him in the back! He’s got a bad back!” But she never said anything about the goolies. Despite a brave stand-off, Rimmer had been let down by his Achilles bollocks, his love-blobs ironically crippled on their last night of freedom.


Rimmer: needs to acquire some holographic testicles.

GO LAUGH AT OLAF

Sept 10th

So, my Estonian adventure was coming to a close. The morning after Kristi's midnight feast, I was atop St Olav's In Tallinn, the highest building in all of medieval Europe. I felt woozy and light headed; it was either vertigo, or Kristi's Alsace pie. This type of medieval skyscraper did beg some interesting questions though: where oh where in medieval Europe do you find a Maxim hydraulic tower crane? "No, no Hansel, jump MUCH higher than that..."
There's an interesting story behind St. Olav's: Once upon a time bishop of Tallinn said: "Here lads, I've got a deadly idea, let's build the tallest building in the world!" So they all called him a mad bastard but went for it anyway. The only problem was, to build it would cost more money than the treasury would allow(Bertie's Bowl advocates take note). So this geezer comes along and says: I'll build it for you... for free, IF you can guess what my name is!" So they pulled out ye olde baby-name book and started rattling off a load of names. But to no avail. Then one day someone followed him to his gaff, and his mum called out the window: "Here, Olav, would you hurry up yer dinner's nearly cold!"
"Shurrup ma! They'll find out what me name is, It's embarrassing enough as it is!"
So that was that. And I thought my middle name was bad. This is a moral tale of bad enterprise: to promise to do something for free believing that no-one will guess your name makes very bad business sense, especially if when they DO have to pay you, they'll see it written there on your P45. It reminds me of the time I said to Crapman, "I bought you your Christmas present... they only clue I'll give you is that it's a computer game. I'm not telling you anything else about it except that when I saw it in the shop, I said "There's "Arnie"... gift!"
That's a true story unfortunately.

By the way, I highly recommend Estonian Air; their air hostesses don't look like bad copies of Star Wars figures sold in pound shops, they're actually good looking.

KRISTALLY DELICOUS

Sept 4th
We were treated to a monumental breakfast of Pancakes and freshly-squeezed cow-juice, after which Courteney and I were good-naturedly humiliated by being thrashed at basketball by Julika’s little cousin; we forgot our problems with a bit more splashing about in the water, this time in the full sunshine. Then we made our way back to Tallinn, where we met Kristi, who prepared a grand delicious meal for us. And we were only three hours late, which is good for us. Now, I’d perhaps over-emphatically told Kristi that this dinner was the highlight of my entire trip, so I’d better adopt the tone of this Flog entry accordingly. Ahem.
Upon our entry to Kristi’s Kitchen of delights, our very senses were enwrapped in a sublime ecstasy, sure God’s own Manna could not provoke such an overwhelming onslaught of unrelenting hedonistic delight; And the taste! I could hear the buds on my tongue cry out in earnest and unanimous gratitude that I had led them to this place, their entire existence so obviously leading up to this moment. As I chewed, more taste explosions rocked my very soul, its texture as soft as feathers, yet as succulent as honey-tinted spring-water. And as the last mouthful disappeared down my oesophagus, my heart cried out “More, more, dear God, give me more!” a part of me knowing that as the gastronomic orgasm subsided, there could be no repeat performance, and a little part of me died inside. But its memory lives on, and as I think of Kristi’s cooking, a sad smile spreads across my face, and I know that one day – one day – I will taste it again, and I pray that the time between that day and this one, somehow quickens its pace.
In other words, it was good grub.

Sept 4th

Suddenly, I was in the blazing sunshine, somewhere on the south coast of Spain. The sun was low, painting everything a pale yellow, the silhouettes of Courto and Butterfly were before a sizable crowd. He was on bended knee, she was elated.
“Right,” he said, “I’m off to get the ring”.
She turned and urged him;
“Keep it under a tenner, boy.”
I awoke to see Butterfly smiling at me from the next bed, blissfully unaware that she had been made out to be a cheap bitch in my dream-world. If only she… Ow! My head! What WERE we up to last night? With low gusto on my part, we got ready to take ourselves off to the countryside, the herbaceous forest air cleansing my system as we went. Courto and I drank pure water from a stream, Courto devising an unconvincing “pagan ritual” to go along with it. Then we went to a swamp in the midst of some woods, were we circled for hours, went slightly insane, lost our map and then whinged snotty-nosed into our camcorder. No - wait - that was The Blair Witch Project. The only witch we saw was a one made of wood, hanging menacingly amongst the trees – er… just like in The Blair Witch Project. We had a wee swim in a serene but Guinness-black pond, which for all the world reminded me of the water-tank by my Grandmother’s bungalow; a terrific, smelly abyss. As night set in, we headed to Butterfly and Bluelita’s Auntie’s gaff, where we had a late-night sauna session, cooling ourselves off by intermittent dips in the pond outside. Steam rose from our heated bodies as we swam, and it rose like the briefest of clouds into the moonlit sky. I saw a shooting star there and I made a wish, but damn it, Miss Knowles still hasn’t rung. The only knickers I was getting into was when I put on Courto’s boxers by accident afterwards. However, my pores utterly cleansed, I had a gargantuan feed, and then a soft welcome sleep.
We were on the Spanish coast again, Courto was holding a small potato snack for some reason. Then I realized it was a hula-hoop, and he was putting it on Butterfly’s finger.
“It’ll do,” she said, “but if this is on my finger, we’ll have no grub at the reception!”

TAARTSLIFE

We headed south to the “student city” of Taartu today. The idea of a “student city” did fill me with some skepticism; thankfully however , my fears were unfounded. I had expected the aroma of sweat and used prophylactics, mingled with the fainter – yet unmistakable - smell of stale beer and kebab-tinted vomit. The air was sweet, and I don’t mean it was doused with a fog of incense and ganje, it was as crisp and as clear as flat 7up. I had also expected the city streets to be cluttered with old leaflets for anarchy clubs and 5-cent-of-your-next-Big-Mac-or-cheeseburger tokens (oh wait, this was the continent, should I be saying “Royale-with-Cheese?) yet the streets were colourful, smooth and sterile; I could have been walking in Legoland. Honestly, what type of students were these? I thought at least one corner of the town square should be taken over by greasy gamers, the opposite corner having a stand selling tickets for the Fashion Show, the stand manned by some bulimic orange yoke with a horse-like overbite making her look like a throwback from The Simpsons.
The first person we saw, however, was not a student, but a tetchy woman who screamed at Butterfly as Butterfly was turning up her driveway trying to turn her car around. They exchanged some heated Estonian unpleasantries, while I stood on the sidelines ready to pour some hot oil on the situation. As the evening progressed… well, I’d love to tell you about the rest of the night, but to be honest, it would be fabricated stories revolving around a some isolated pockets of memory. My confusion was impounded by the fact that the club we went to was called “Club Tallinn” (hang on, didn’t I just come from Tallinn?). Imagine a place in Listowel called “Club Dublin” – it would either burned to the ground or renamed the Uppity-Jackeen-Bastard Inn. Come to think of it, imagine a “club” in Listowel. The last club they had was held by a Neanderthal. Which are still the indigenous peoples, I believe. I should know, they’re me kin.

GRABBED BY THE BALTICS

After somehow finding Butterfly’s gaff in the labyrinthine streets of Tallinn - with the unmistakable feeling that Vodaphone were squeezing my testicles as I made a few guiding phone calls - she drove us out to restaurant for lunch; a big place by the beach that looked like the upturned hull of a boat. The disaster-stricken sailors, seemingly unable to emerge from their tomb of crushed wood within, had taken up gastronomy, and cooked any fish that happened to wander in through an upturned port-hole. Oh, and also somehow they managed to make the wreck a Wi-Fi area. All of this is, of course, as bollocks as Vodaphone’s roaming rates, but my version of the history of Tallinn’s public eateries is far more interesting. Now, on the way back we went to the Pirita Monastery, and me an Courto when ghost-hunting in a dungeon. Most Haunted Live would’ve been proud, except the suitable creepy mood was ruined by having to dodge the pebbles that Butterfly kept throwing down every available hole. Courto was convinced that there was a wee ghostie in one dark corner, with a spooky pale pallor and drab ill-fitting out-of-fashion clothes sporting a stupid little beard; but I think he just saw me.
That grisly incident behind us, we retired to Butterfly’s where me, Courto and her Dad managed to polish a full-sized bottle of brandy during the course of the night, where I found my Estonian magically improved, as did my ability to drink Brandy in large quantities. It had a fierce kick off it alright: Oh! speaking of kicks, here’s a pic of a part of The Old Tallinn walls. I think its place name speaks for itself.

A LOAD OF BALTICS

September 1st

My first morning in Estonia had myself and Courto - fellow Eesti-virgin and Dublin bowsie - braved the Tallinn streets all on our own. Butterfly wasn’t sure she could trust us, which was of course a ridiculous notion. So, after a few visits to some discount brothels, we met up with Butterfly in a trendy café called the ‘Kompressor’. I managed to ‘kompress’ most of my delicious pancakes and a divine Russian soup called Seljanka, and with a filled belly I made my way around medieval Tallinn. I visited the oldest pharmacy in Europe, but sadly, they were out of eye-of-newt. When I emitted a cheeky fart, they tried to apply some anal leeches, but I wasn’t having any of it. Surprisingly, however, the elixir of life was going for only a few Estonian Kroons, which was handy.
Butterfly brought us then to St. Nicholas’ Church, yet it was blatantly false advertising. There was no jolly red-suited man with a paedophilic grin and a sack full of goodies. I was expecting a grotto or something but there wasn’t a candy-cane or even an elf in sight. Nothing; not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

The rest of the day we wandered around absorbing the sights, Butterfly revealing an expansive knowledge of her city that would put a tourist guide to shame. She invited us to wander into any shop we wished, as long as I didn’t talk to any Russian women (any other nationality was okay, I think). We followed the narrow cobbled streets to the Old Hanse restaurant, a real gem of a place decked out in medieval décor, serving medieval food in a medieval style. I was in my element – especially after a few honey beers and sweet wines. We met Kristi there, another good Estonian chum I met in Dublin. Afterwards she took us to a ‘chocolaterie’, and after a cupan tae, we went for a wee bit more booze in something called the “Wally-Bar” or something like that. When the name was mentioned, a sardonic smile spread across Kristi’s face, an expression not that dissimilar to a Dublin reaction to “Let’s go to Dr. Quirky’s!” (or should that be “Qworrrrrkeeeees!”). So, I wasn’t convinced. Still, a pint’s a pint, and a drinking-hole’s a hole, and soon that warm fuzzy feeling came over me, happy in the knowledge that my Eesti- hymen had been breached, with almost no pain at all. Butterfly wasn’t content with the lack of pain I had endured, so afterwards I had a quick, night-capping street-fight with her, where I quite literally kicked her arse. E. Honda eat your baltics off.


E.Honda: Even Butterfly could kick his arse

THE TALE OF SIR FLASH: PART TWO

Tuesday 17th

Now I was approaching my quest: Avid Flog-readers will already be aware of my failure to find the Holy Grail, famously located in the Catedral de Valenica. To fully understand my pain, a revision of “The Tale of Sir Flash” may be worth doing. All I’ll say is that the Grail was the only thing I had told Addy I wanted to see. I think you can see where this is going.
We entered the Cathedral again, and I oohed and Ahed and eh?ed at all the appropriate moments. I was impressed by the reliquary of St. Victor, but I was impatient to see the Grail. In my mind’s eye, I spied the Castle Arrgh in the distance. Addy guided me out of the Cathedral and into a beautiful Basilica behind, where Addy pointed solemnly at a shining golden tabernacle.
“There lies the Holy Grail, “ she said, suitably Merlin-like, “you see you can’t actually see it…”
“Wow.”
And I would have returned to Ireland, convinced that I was shown the last resting place of the Cup of Christ. Yet it was not to be.
Now, my Spanish isn’t even up to first year pass level, but I can understand it better than Addy thinks. In the gift-shop, she talked to some `aul ones who told her that the Grail was actually in the cathedral. And it was now closed.
“We’re in the wrong place, huh?”
Wide-eyed she regarded me.
“You understood that?”
So she tried to fob some other yoke in the hope that would satiate my thirst for the Grail. Like so many knights before me, I had almost been duped, fooled by a demonic temptress determined to sway me from my quest.
“Ye tried to fool me!” I pointed accusingly.
“Keveeen, what do you think who I am?”
Next time - I thought – next time…
I had written on my birthday that I should flee to Spain, to rid myself of evil Estonians. Now I’ll try the opposite to see what happens. Eesti here I come!

FART ON... AND YOU'LL NEVER FART ALONE

Ah! This is the life! Somehow an all-day trip to an outdoor pool didn’t leave me scalded like the bejaysus; probably `cause I spent the maximum amount of time hiding from the big bad sun under a palm tree. So I had a great time soaking up some lovely shade, avoiding the spray of vitamin D, and opted to soak up some glorious chlorine instead.
The next day it was back to the beach, where I took great pleasure in introducing to Addy a new English word: “Jellyfish”. Addy then introduced me to a strange Valencian drink called an “Horchata”, which was a weird yoke with milk and chufa (whatever that is), it was soft, smooth, and sweet like the bejaysus: so much so that I felt my teeth disintegrate as I sipped it. You had to eat it with something called a “farton”; Addy’s instruction that I must “farton” the Horchato could have resulted in an enormously hilarious yet embarrassing moment, yet thankfully I did realise that “farton” was, in fact, not a serving suggesting. Mind you, it may have given the flavour an added earthiness, which may have been quite pleasant.

SCARING THE LOCALS

Addy and I tried to wash away our hangovers with a short trip down the beach. So there I was, blinding the poor unsuspecting population of Valencia with my whiter-than-white skin. I had marine wildlife surrounding me like I was some sort of Jellyfish god. I invited a few stares from the locals; hardly surprising, I looked like an albino with a fright. There was shipping miles offshore using me for navigation; I was like lightning in blue shorts. Well – they do call me “flash” after all.
After I had lathered enough sun-cream to protect Chernobyl, I was ready to take whatever abuse the Spanish sun was going to give. Greased up as a foxy-boxing lesbian, the sand was sticking to my skin so that my legs looked like family-sized fish fingers. But I let it fret me not; I delighted in dipping my ivory bod into a sea that (a welcome change from the ‘Nock) didn’t make you a eunuch for the next twenty-four hours.
That night we returned to the beach, this one a wee bit north, at Pucol. As I sat in this outdoor bar, being plied with some free booze from Addy’s friend Gloria who worked there, I wondered how this sort of thing would actually work on Portmarnock beach. It would be quite difficult; the homely, earthy ambiance of the shelters didn’t quite detract from the icy blizzard from the east, that would blow the head off your pint and freeze its body, all in the same gust of arctic zephyr. Besides, if there is a bar on the beach, where would people go to have sex? Back into Tamangos? Well wouldn’t be the first time I suppose. I’m not speaking from experience mind, the sexiest thing I experienced in Tamangos is being fleetingly wedged in a doorway with some yoke that looked like she had eaten a few too many wedges herself.

So, knowing that that was one thing Ireland could never match, I savoured the moment. I sipped Budweiser from my thimble-sized cup, listening to verbal abuse from Addy. Ah, this is the life.

TERROR AT SIX-AND-A-HALF FEET

Friday 13th
So begins our Road-Trip to Valencia. Again, there were plenty of reminders of road-death the whole way down. Valencia was hot and humid, where I encountered my friend Addy once more. Flog readers have already been aware of her; See ‘The Tale of Sir Flash’ for more details (April). For the first time some of my other friends (Johnny and his girlfriend Marta) finally get to meet her, thereby verifying her existence, proving that she in fact isn’t a figment of my imagination. For Addy is a delightful cartoon of a woman, where a laugh is never too far away. Judging the way she handled the barbeque that evening however, laughing was far from my mind. A streak of pyromania almost made me looking for alternative accommodation. Luckily however, The Valenican firemen didn’t have to be called out; come to think of it, I was at a party with 12 girls, so maybe that had been the plan all along. The night progressed with all sorts of delightful concoctions being poured down my Irish yap. One of her friends even attempted to teach me Flamenco dancing, but I assured her there was only certain clubs in Dublin where I would get away with that.
“They say that Spanish women have very strong wrists,”I said as I watched the twisting and turning of her flailing limbs.
“Que?”
The explanation which followed somewhat lessened the limited comedic impact of what had meant to be an off the cuff (no pun intended) remark. The merriment continued down by the beach, in an outdoor club. But the fun didn’t stop there, oh no. As six of us filed into the lift at typically late Spanish hour (7 am or so), the lift gave an ominous shudder and stayed between floors. The Movie of my life I had hitherto referred to as “Sorry: The Flash Bogi Story”, but now “Terror at Six-and a Half Feet” seemed more appropriate. Maybe they could get Ewan McGregor to play me? We managed to open the doors and we found a small gap, through which Addy’s brother was able to laugh at us. All at once, I found that the other five had found a spot on the tiny floor space, curled up and gone for a wee siesta, I was the only eejit left standing, pinned against the corner. I considered using the mass of bodies as a sort of Spanish chica mattress (a not entirely unappealing idea) but I realised that being steam-rollered by a potato-munching heffa-lump Irishman wouldn’t help improve the worsening situation. The police soon arrived, who, to my amusement had “Garda” written across their shoulders, reminding me that the Spanish were, after all, (very) distant Celtic cousins of ours. Then some firemen arrived, and they all stood around babbling espaňol for a while before deciding to hoist us through the gap. I could’ve bleedin’ done that meself. At least if I had any doubts (and before you say it, I haven’t) I now have proof that I’m not homosexual, having being hoisted to freedom by three burly firemen and feeling narey a trouserial tingle. It was 8 am when I finally found my bed, memories of my horrific ordeal quickly ebbing away.
So the firemen had arrived after all. Addy seemed to have got her wish…

I'LL TAKE MAJAHONDAS

Madrid, Thursday 12th
I was gazing thoughtfully at the Madrid beige-belt, when our pilot came on the intercom. There was no doubt I was no longer in Ireland; today I had exchanged the rain-soaked green pastures of home, for forty shades of brown. The pilot was telling us we would be landing shortly - how shortly I did not know - but he had the untimely misfortune of informing us as the plane was dipping into huge infertile beige Madridian mountain; a mountain that looked for all the world like a godzilla turd. However I was anxious to get off as soon as possible as we had been late taking off. They had given us all sorts of standard tick-the-box excuses, but for all we knew it could have just been the pilot trying to dislodge a very difficult piece of snot. After I’d landed, and after I’d met my old pal Johnny Ramos, all I had to endure was a short trip to Johnny’s folks’ place in Majahondas, which Johnny playfully referred to as Manhattan (and just like Manhattan, it could be bought for a few dollars worth of trinkets, I thought). Johnny delighted in telling me along the way how many people had died on each road the previous weekend, which was not so much disturbing as it was splatter-pantsingly scary. Feck it, I thought, at least a mountain-crash would’ve been a scenic death…

THE UNUSUAL SUSPECTS

Well Flash recently hit the big 26 folks, and a mighty shin-dig was had in Ron Black's in my honour. As ever with this time of year, a lot of the usual suspects were away on holidays and stuff, but so many old face crawled out from the woodwork I half expected Michael Aspel to give me a big red book at the end. So many faces...so many Flog episodes... Rocky was there, my provider of medieval pornography, as was Davey, The Tullamore mucker [Getting Medieval on your Ass], as was Jimmy, the transsexual-sympathiser[Look Away! She's a Tuck-away!], as was Sarah, my companion in Cork [Romancing the Stones] as was Butterfly, who has been in too many Flog episodes to mention. Butterfly met my brother, and said to me "Your brother is very good looking..." and almost within the same breath, said "He's nothing like you!" Ah thanks a million. Happy bloody birthday to me! I'm going to piss off to spain now, to get away from all these nasty women!

Crapman is feelin a little blue these days. And to top it off, Awnya decided to tye-dye the Crapsuit(tm) and the crapmobile(tm)'s bell broke off. So this is for him, hope it raises a smile!

Grrrr Great days!

HELLO BLUE-RINSE MY OLD FRIEND...

An interesting addendum to my shite-talking about blondes in my last entry. I was listening to the radio recently, and they were talking about how the "dumb blonde" myth is in fact a self-fulfilling prophesy. A Psychologist in a German University was claiming that people's low expectations of blondes leads to them under-performing, and they tend to fit the social patterns set for them. The only flaw in Professor Jens Foerster's thesis was made evident by his admission that he himself is a blonde. Therefore, if by his rationale society makes him say stupid things, then his theory must be bollocks, then we can say that he isn't saying stupid things and is in fact right. But then he can't be right by his own theory so he must be wrong. I'm so confused! I must be blonde too.

As a welcome change of pace, I was surrounded by grey hair at the Simon and Garfunkel concert in the RDS. My first introduction to Simon and Garfunkel was through our PE teacher's perennial choice of garb. Every day, it seemed he had his "Simon and Garfunkel World Tour 1982" tee-shirt on, so that even today I associate their lilting folk melodies with the stink of rancid sweat. So you can imagine, I start humming "Mrs Robinson" on Dart trains on a regular basis. Oh and true-to form, our PE teacher had grey hair, and not much of even that.

But a merry time was had by myself and Rocky (remember her, she was my medieval porn researcher)and on the way out I couldn't help but laugh at the announcement that came over the tannoy.
"Please make your way slowly to the exits."
I looked around at the blue-rinse throng around me,
"Some of these guys don't really have a choice, do they?" I said,waiting patiently for the guy with the walking stick in front of us to make his way out of the arena.

In work the following week, I was relating this story to someone, with the mistake of allowing myself to be overheard by a grey-haired electrician who just so happened to have been at the concert. Man was I caught rotten. Pretty stupid but sure what do you expect from me? I must be blonde...

THE INCIDENTAL TOURIST

Butterfly's little sis Bluelita's in town, adding another blonde head to the ever- increasing recessant-gene invasion of Western Europe. It is strange that Evolution actually has it in for the blonde, even the red head has a more genetic dominance. Perhaps, if we ask it nicely enough, Evolution might forego the phasing out of the blonde and have a go at killing off all the gingers instead.

I brought two such blonde heads to the Guinness Brewery, one American and one Estonian. They tried to entice us to impart with a whole 12 Euro with the promise of "free" pint of Guinness. Mind you, at that rate it's probably cheaper than Lillie's Bordello (not that I'd have any direct experience you understand). I think the seven floor exhibition is designed not to enthrall or educate, rather to develop a huge thirst for that "free" pint in the Control Tower-esque Sky Lounge at the end. And the Guinness there was real nice... although at 12 Euro it'd feckin want to be. I asked Bluelita did she like it.
"it was... interesting." she replied.

The next excursion was to Dublinia and Christchurch. On my way there I overheard a little seven year old kid on the train. "I'm gonna shag you mam" he said. The mother was both incensed and mortified.
"Where did you hear that?!"
"Malcolm. He says to me 'go shag your Ma'... Mam what does shag mean?"
"Er... I don't know"
"Yes you do!" he chided.
She gently ruffled his hair
"It means to this with your hair"
Quick thinking, I thought, but it may backfire. Sure enough, a few minutes later, enough time for the carriage to be replenished with unsuspecting passengers, he piped up again.
"Mam!" he cried, "My hairdresser shags me!"

I met Bluelita afterwards and told her the story. "Interesting" she said.
We entered the mid-season Dublinia exhibition to find it half empty and half the dispalys out of order. We spend several minutes pelting the wax figure in the stocks ("hit my nose to find out why I am here" the display said) only to find out he was broken too. Not really a surprise considering the way me and Bluelita were attacking the poor guy. Actually, by that rationale, I'm surprised we didn't create a few authentic cannonball holes which would be an unexpected boost to the authenticity of the exhibition. If Bluelita was unimpressed by the level of broken exhibits and renovations, she was even less impressed by the guy at the Christchurch reception who accused her of being German. Despite a blue-eyed blonde-headed demeanour like a Ayran racialist's wet dream, Bluelita was surprised by the assumption and was quick to correct him, thankful for the fact that at least he hadn't had said "Russian."
Outside I asked her her verdict of the visit.
"Interesting" she said.

Half way down the road, we were abducted by aliens, given the secret of eternal life, brought back in time to meet Jesus, and then swooped back to the present to capture Bin Laden. When we were dropped off in O'Connell Street afterwards I was overwhelmed.
"Wow!" I said,"What did you think of that?"
"Interesting." she said.

BACK IN THE 'NOCK

Crapman has been on at me to increase the frequency of my FLOG posting... like I have something interesting to say on a regular basis. Considering I've moved back home now, my life is as about as interesting as a road worker who's given up on his hole and has decided to stare back at people on the bus instead. It's also about as stimulating as a lengthy shagging session with Timmy Mallet (see photo below).And about as entertaining as a man who tries to come up with an interesting and witty similie... but... fails miserably.

So apart from the scurrulous remarks about my blog posting, it was cool hangin with my homie Crapman on Friday. I use phrases like 'homie' and 'hanging' deliberately, because whenever I'm with Crapman I slip into 15 year old mode.So, in that spirit let me explain that me and him are two bad asses from the 'Nock (that's 'Portmarnock' for those not cool like us)who like to play our Commodore 64 computers when our parents are out, sometimes even until right after midnight,we even say rude words loudly even if people might hear us. I was like "hey dude maybe the Amiga is better than the Commodore 64", he was like "hey get a life" and I was like "No way" and he was like "way!" and I was like "dude!" and he was like "hey man that's phat" and I was like "no man it's glandular and they ain't man boobs they're pectorials" and he was like "wha?" and I was like "oh nevermind."

Just to remind myself that I wasn't actually fifteen, it was my friend Jo's 25th birthday then on Saturday, and I venured to 'Tamangos' back in the 'Nock. The Tag-line is "Where the gang still goes", which is true, unfortunately it's the same gang that went there circa 1980.On the Prowl in Tamagos is as dangerous for me as entering the deepest heart of Africa; you're likely to end up with someone's Ma, sister, someone from an Out-patients field-trip from Portrane Mental Hospital, or even worse, an ex-student. These dangers, coupled with drink prices comparable with the G.N.P of a third world country, didn't manage to ruin a perfectly good night, and gave Jo a good welcome to her second quarter century. Moving back home, then, has it's sweet elements. All together now; "Don't be fooled by these rocks that I've got/ I'm still / I'm still Flashy from the 'Nock!"

Timmy Mallet, cool personified

WOULD THE REAL FLASH BOGI PLEASE MAKE SENSE

I recently had an identity crisis, Flogophiles. I met Butterfly and Courto in The Orchard in Rathfarnham,along with all of Courto's mates from school. The evening started off on a ghostly note, with Courto telling us stories of hauntings in his house, but that wasn't the spookiest moment, no no. Those of you with faint hearts should look at

www.nicefluffykittens.com

right now! During the night I continuously heard my name being called: "Flash!" came one cry, then I heard my name being used in varying coversations as I tuned in and out of them. Then it came to me... there was ANOTHER ME there! Or at least, someone who seemed to have the same nickname than me. It didn't help that Flash 2 was taller, stronger, better-looking, wittier and altogether cooler than I was. He was Flash the superhero, whereas I was more like a free sample of Flash liquid - and not the nice new lemony stuff either.

"Flash" seems to be little more than ironic nomenclature at times, despite the fact that I do try and make my job "flash" and exciting. I regale my listening audience with tales from my intrepid medievalist adventuring (some more ironic nomenclature). Last week, for example, I went to visit the Book of Kells, only to find it had been absconded by some Nazi treasure hunters. I hopped on a plane to try and catch them ,but both pilots parachuted out of the plane and I was left with a beautiful but feisty cabaret singer with a man's name and - bizarrely - an annoying lippy little Asian kid who was a bit retarded frankly. We crashlanded on some beautiful location somewhere and after saving a few villages and stuff I infiltrated a top-level Nazi base, where it was practice-your-english day and all the Germans - that I had no trouble rendering unconscious - were exactly my uniform size. I got captured however, whereupon I had a hilarious reunion with my father Sean Connery, where after some excellently entertaining dialogue, we escaped on a motorbike and sidecar. By happy coincidence, we found ourelves on the road to where the Holy Grail was kept, and we, the Nazis (who aren't so bad after all once you get to know them) That Arab guy with the Fez, and a crusader knight made the Cup of Christ into a beer-bong and partied til dawn. Sadly for the retarded Asian kid, we stuck a few chinese fireworks up his arse for a laugh, before we realised it was actually miners dynamite. Ah well, at least it shut the snivelling little fucker up.

And now I fear I may have totally lost it... perhaps it's time to have another look at fluffykittens.com...

www.nicefluffykittens.com

ROMANCING THE STONES

I was down in the People's Republic of Cork last weekend, staying in a twee hostel in the middle of the city. Kelly's hostel's delightfully bright colours almost overpowered the delicate aroma of the gap-year hobo-adventurer types. I was pleased to see that the walls (that were painted such a shiny yellow it would make your nose bleed) were embossed with Irish poetry, until I saw the grevious spelling error in "The Fisherman." 'Written' has two Ts in it damn it! We were staying in a room that had WB Yeats writen (er, I mean 'written') on the door. I hope he didn't mind. Actually I'm sure he didn't, since he's been dead since 1939, which come to think of it, would certainly have accounted for the smell.

We checked out UCC campus and Fota Wildlife Park, and swung up to Blarney Castle on the way back. There was an impenetrable queue of rabid over fifties yanks so we decide to give it a miss. It was probably for the best; God knows I talk enough shite without my verbal skills being impounded by the blessing of the gift of the gab to cap it off. It was a pity though, I was looking forward to a decent snog that weekend and I thought an inanimate magic rock was at least a sure thing. Disheartened but not defeated we swung by the Rock of Cashel but when we tried to kiss that, people thought we were a bit mental and we were kindly asked by the proprietors never again to return to the Golden Vale. Or, indeed, buy any Golden Vale products. Next week I'm going to the Giants Causeway, 'cause I hear she's an 'aul slut.

CRACKING THE KNACK OF THE ZODIAC

By some bizarre cosmic alignment - exactly the type of thing astrologers try and tell us we should be concerned about to attempt to justfify their everso tenous role in society and grip on reality - I've found myself off work for the past number of days. So it's been ample time to do all those little things that I haven't had a chance to do, except for the fact that I still haven't got around to doing them, spending too much time shopping and drinking. Time, for me, is like sex; When you don't have it you miss it, and when you get it it usually costs money.

But I haven't been too bad with my cash; I had a quiet enough Saturday, I went out to visit Jo and her baby daughter; she's a spritely young thing that has a fascination with my nose and standing on my groin. And the baby's not much better either. Jo inflicted some god-awful film called Watermelon on me, which was on Sky Movies that night. Honestly we send satellites into space to beam back our worst mind-warping shite; I'd have felt better if the Death Star had had it's beam trained on us. You can see I wasn't a fan. The film was so middle of the road it was a danger to traffic, and the plot so thin that Dr. Atkins is using it as a case study. And despite the promising title, Anna Friel didn't flash her "watermelons" half enough. What is a man to do?

I went home and read the paper, to try and rescue my chick-flick-addled brain. Glancing at the Horoscopes, "You will see a shit film" it read, "it will cause you to write an over-emotional gripe on your web-log." Maybe there was something in this astrology thing after all. Or maybe, and I think that this is a bit more likely, I have too much time on my hands and it's manifesting itself in late night newspaper-reading hallucinations. Who needs drugs? Just watch adaptations of Marian Keyes Novels, it will create the same effect. There - there's a horoscope for you. Fergus Gibson eat your bollocks off.

SATISFACTORY FLOG ENTRY, NEEDS SOME LOGICAL PROGRESSION

My deepest and humblest apologies Flogophiles, It's been a while since I wrote any Flog entry, but recently exam correction has taken over my life. From dawn 'til dusk I've had my big red pen out thinking up inventive comments to explain why I've failed everybody. I don't ever want to see another misspelling of "marriage",another sentence like "I think this story is funny because" or another incomprensible scrawl which may or may not have been actually written by a crayon-bearing chimp. And as for bad synonyms, bad synonyms are really... bad.

It infects every part of your life unfortunately. After unwinding after a day of scribbling comments like "poor critical analysis", "needs more development" and "what utter shite, God this guy is really thick", I found myself in front of the telly assessing the programmiing in my head. "This plot needs more logical progression" says I to Friends, "good, but needs more exploration" I said to a documentary about Jordan, and TV3 News got "too loud and annoying". I knew I'd totally lost the plot when I said "lacks substance and structure", before I was reminded I was watching the Angelus. I realised then that it wasn't at all bad, it has a pretty catchy theme tune, you have to admit. Although why it has a video plus number I'll never know.

GETTING MEDIEVAL ON YOUR ASS

I'm applying for stuff at the moment which is never fun. I realise I 'm going to have to use poncey words in my applications to impress my betters; that is words longer than three syllables and avoiding slang words like "poncey". I'll also avoid that incredibly hillarious and not-in-the-least-bit tiresome age-old gag of writing "yes please" wherever it says "sex". Maybe I could learn Latin or something to look posh? Yeah - that would be cool, I could litter all my correspondence with phrases like "confessio", "celebratio", "ad infinitum" and "depeche mode".

It hasn't all been work though, I have engaged in a little bit of rampaging too. I met Davey (what a clever pseudonym!) in O'Brien's on Leeson Street (that's the pub, not the sandwich bar) which was a handy stroll down from me. He was celebrating the end of his masters exams, so it was always going to turn into a bit of a dirty night from the start. We hopped into a taxi at the end of the night to follow the crowd into the Porterhouse, and decided that we were going to be foreigners for some reason. I asked for "The Porterhouse please" as stilted and as ordinary-level English as I could, and then we nattered nonsense French for a while: I'm not sure, but I think we had a intense discussion about the location of the train station and how many brothers and sisters we had - all in an accent so unconvincing it would embarrass Pepe Le Peu. Davey leaned forward and said in a slow, deliberate, thinly disguised midlands accent "Are you Busy Tonight?" sounding for all the world about as foreign as Father Ted. "Where are you from?" The driver asked us. "I am from, eh..." Davey scratched his drunken head, "I am from, eh... I am from, eh... eh... Tullamore!"

The following morning I found that Rocky, my flatmate, had slipped something underneath my door. It was an article about sexual practices in the Middle Ages with a post-it saying: "thought you might find this interesting!" So, it was either the most bizarre come-on you could possibly get, or I have friends troweling through medievalist journals looking for the dirty bits. There was lots of poncey Latin in it though, and guess what? The Latin for "climax" is "celebratio". How very apt.

MAY THE FIRST BE WITH YOU

Merrion square was buzzing on May Day, a celebration was being held to welcome the new scrounger countries into the EU. Did I say scrounger? I meant Skanky. Did I say skanky? I meant wanky. Did I say wanky? I meant something far less politically incorrect. Just pick you own adjective form this list: friendly, open, beautiful, allied, peaceful, definitely-not-going-to-immigrate-to-the-west-at-the-drop-of-a-hat.

I am just jealous of course; despite the blazing sunshine, the various stalls offered a glimpse of eastern promise, countries that had a beauty unspoilt by the onslaught of the gee-whiz-honey-aint-that-quaint-they-got-automobiles-here-too tourism machine. I met Butterfly and Evie on my way there (remember St. Patrick's harem?); they were there on business, helping out at the Estonian stall. When we arrived, the stall was a sea of blonde, perferated only by the odd skin-headed knacker trying his best to pilfer the mini bottles of Estonian Vodka. In amongst the flailing limbs, the poor lady distributing these much sought-after free samples looked like a victim from "Dawn of the Dead", and indeed if her career in mini-bottle-distributing ever takes a nose-dive, I'm sure she'll get plenty of work as a low-budget horror character actress.

I noticed the German stall was placed unwisely across from the Polish one, the latter looking like it was indeed being invaded, but it was only people trying to get their hand on Polish sweeties. Besides, the Germans seemed too busy annexing the Sudetenland at the time.

But my favourite was the Danish table, 'cause they had lego. I tried making a deadly spaceship but some bastard four year old had used up all the wing pieces and those cool tiles with the computery bits painted on them. There was a large sheet there for people to write their messages on, their good wishes for the Danish nation. Except one person wrote - and this was my favourite aspect of the whole day - "Welcome to the EU Holland!" I'm not sure what part I felt I should correct first. I didn't bother at the time, I was too busy trying to prise some bits of lego apart with my teeth.

IN THE VICINITY OF TRINITY, A HAVEN OF VIRGINITY

Met my old friend Terry Jones last week. By "old friend" of course I mean I don't really know him at all, and by "met" I mean I seen him on the telly.

Well I did see him in the flesh. And I'm not talking about his nudey moment down his hole in "The Life Of Brian". I braved that dangerous terrain that is Trinity College Dublin to see him give a talk; I felt a bit like Luke Skywalker dressed up as a stormtrooper wandering around the death star. I even imagined I heard a sinister heavy beathing and hissing, before I realised it was the collective emanation of hot air from the Trinity Students around me. His illustrious talk on "Who Murdered Chaucer" was the perfect tonic after my "pilgrimage to Canterbury", last week. I liked his talk the same way I liked his book. It had lots of pictures.

On Saturday then I had an "Irish" dinner in Butterfly's flat. You remember her? she was the one who got pissed and tried to steal a map of Dublin on Paddy's day. But wait... what was that? An irish Dinner? Surely that's just spuds and cabbage? Well, yes actually, but beautifully made and had me stuffed right to the gills (well done Courto). You can forget about your Fondue-Savoyard or your coq-au-vin, we got REAL food here. Although, very often Irish dinners can be Beani-ar-an-tost (beans on toast), chincher-suas-an-bother (Chinker down the road) or Ginn-Is-Tru-an-arsehole (Guinness after guinness after guinness). A good night was had by all, and Butterfly got rat-arsed again; fortunately since we were in HER house she couldn't very well steal anything from herself. Maybe she should have a bite of the little known Irish dish: "Cleip-tu-maini-ach".

But I exaggerate, even I can do that on a rare occasion. I fear I've been very mean. I can hear Terry Jones berating me: "he's not a Blog-writer, he's a very naughty boy!"

THE TALE OF SIR FLASH

I was busy killing brain cells like the bejaysus last weekend. I took myself over to Brighton for a few days to meet up with some dear old friends. Brighton is a funny town; it's numerous second-hand shops and peeling white-painted houses gives it that authentic jumble-sale look, while the summer influx of hundreds of weirdos and homeless people make it seem as if Brighton is the last resting place of the unwanted and smelly, before being washed into the sea. Yes, it is a charming place, but also the arsehole of the British Isles. And you thought the arsehole of the British Isles was Jeffrey Archer.

But I love it for the booze. The Royal Pavilion? Brighton Pier? Pah! The only sights I had were double-visioned ones of beer labels and drunken viewings of countless episodes of "Dangermouse" and "Henry's Cat" And there was much rejoicing.

I took a break from my beer fueled reveling by a little trip to Canterbury, not too far away... Sorry should I say THREE trains away! I wanted to take that trip to see what the fuss was all about for all of Geoffrey Chaucer's little characters, The Shrine of St. Thomas of Beckett to be exact. But as the sun was becoming golden as I took my final train from Tonbridge, I began to think I wouldn't quite get there... Just like the little characters from the Canterbury Tales. I had a sudden flashback to January of 2003, the last time I tried to re-enact a medieval story...

The only things I knew about Valencia were, (a) That's where my mad friend Addy lived, (b) it's close to where they throw all those tomatoes in that mad Spanish festival thing, and (c) it houses, somewhere, one of the objects that is purported to be the actual Holy Grail. So my quest was then, (a) to see Addy, (b) to throw a tomato at her, and (c) to seek and to find the Holy Grail, preferably avoiding any taunting Frenchmen. By the time I saw the Catedral de Valencia, the Grail still eluded me, and Addy was tired. Yet I insisted in at least seeing the top of the cathedral, the vista of Valenica would be a tonic against any grail-disappointments. She huffed and puffed and moaned and then huffed and puffed some more as we climbed the ancient staircase, and when the summit was reached, I absorbed the postcard-perfect picture of the city before me. Meanwhile, Addy lay in a heap, spread-eagled underneath the great bell. Unfortunately, it turned Two O'Clock as she did so.

The bell rang out two cataclysmic clangs, the sound resounding throughout the city, and right through Addy's Brain. She moaned some more: "Oh Keveeen I cchave a ccheadache!", before I quickly pointed out that she was damned lucky it wasn't midday.

About a month later I found my ticket to climb to the top on the floor of my bedroom, and I smiled, remembering Addy. My smile faded when i turned the ticket around, only to read IN ENGLISH, "While you are visiting the Cathedral, please do visit the Chapel of The Holy Grail" I was sick as a fucking dog I can tell you. Just like Sir Percival, the knight who was berated for not recognising the grail when he saw it, I was berated for being within yards of it and not opening my fucking useless peepers.

Yet I did manage to see Canterbury, only to find that the shrine of St. Thomas had been removed from Canterbury Cathedral in 1535. I mean, the cheek! No-one told me! It's like going to the circus that they set up at the end of the road only to find out that they'd fucked off 450 years ago.
That Henry the eighth bastard. Wait til I see him, I'll half-realise one of my spanish quests and lob a tomato square in his protestant face.

Note to self: Don't try to do anything, ever.

WEPT FOR ST.PADDIO, GOT FRISKY IN THE BAR-O

The Night before Paddy's day I had a dream, I dreamt St. Patrick himself came to me, and said "Jaysus, your dreams are pretty fucking boring if you're dreaming about me..." He then prattled on for a little bit, but it was so boring that I don't really remember what it was about.

Who's this? He came to Ireland circa 432 and rid the island of its snakes, he systematically united all of Ireland's warring tribes through Christianity, and he went from place to place, everywhere leaving miracles in his wake. That's right - it was Bono. He's done pretty much everything. 1798? 1916? The guy who first accidentally tasted a black industrial effluent and decided that it should be bottled as the worlds finest stout-cum-emulsifying agent? All Bono. No wonder he wears orthopedic trousers (aka leather pants), he must be fucking knackered.

On Patrick's day itself I was a foreigner enjoying Paddy's day. I went with some Johnny foreigners (none of whom, strangely, were named Johnny) to Croke park, in order to misinform them about the rules of Gaelic football. "Why does he sometimes bounce and sometimes kick it into his hands?" the Portuguese girl asked me "Well", says I "ye see, the ref is given them all points for style, it's like Pop Idol you see, that's why they call it 'soloing'." Then: "Why does he kick it OVER the bar and not under?"... "Ah well ya see, see yer man up there in the crowd? last week he sneaked into HIS field and fisted HIS sheep, so now he's trying to give him a concussion"... "Why are they beating the shit out of each other?"... "Again, it's points for style, think of it as the most psychopathically violent ballet in the entire world" - "Is that why that person is wearing a tutu?"... "Eh no, that's RTE sport correspondent Colm Murray... that's what he ALWAYS wears, under his desk."

Then on into The Porterhouse to meet two divine Estonians (word to the wise, if you ever want to enjoy Patrick's day to the full, surround yourself with lovely foreigners, they think you're brilliant just cause your Irish - the ONLY time of the year that happens to me!) It was packed more than a tin of sardines with tight trousers and giganticism. There was plenty of Irish dancing and I tried a bit of my 4th class-educated 'one-two-threes', but there was only room for 'halves'. The merriment was put in peril however, when one of the bouncers assumed I was having some sort of fit, and pinned me to a surprisingly painful set of exposed nails. Upon realisation that my manic jogging on the spot was in fact my interpretation of 'The Irish Rover' I was released, with a caution. I mentioned the name of Michael Flatley however, and he became somehow more understanding and less critical. I convinced The two Estonians, Butterfly and Evie (their requested pseudonyms) that it was all an Irish tradition and it was all part of the dance. Strangely, they accepted this violent fiasco as an Irish tradition, and continued with their celebratory antics (which was having a boogie while I minded the bags).

Then onto a party in UCD, after Evie and I got Butterfly onto a bus and prevented her from stealing a map of Dublin (honestly, for most people it's beer glasses or ashtrays!). There I celebrated the death of the holiest man in Ireland (apart from Bono) by numbing myself to the world with Cognac, red wine and Estonian Vodka, listening to an yet another Estonian girl tell me how sexy Irish men were. I left that night in high spirits after being physically threatened by her hugely discontented and extremely blonde boyfriend. And then I dreamt of St Patrick again, this time surrounded by a harem of Estonian beauties who were all complimenting him on the size of his crook. "Not so boring NOW are you?" I called over to him, as he begins to use the anology of the shamrock to infer a threesome.
And I watched.

DINNER, DINNER FLOGMAN

Met my old buddies Hayman and Crapman at the weekend, a crime fighting threesome in the least sexual sense of the word. We arranged to meet at the Market Bar (tm) off George's Street (Hayman wanted the George, this seemed a happy go-between) in order to establish our own super-hero-style justice league, knowing that the bar itself was actually the underground lair of one of our arch-nemeses. At least judging by the decor, I was expecting either to be leapt upon by a degenerate, some cross-eyed morlock type of whom society has entirely washed its hands, or to be sold a pair of shoes.

The whole plan fell apart anyway, when we quickly recalled we weren't super-heroes at all and we didn't actually have any arch-nemeses. Hayman had some hiberno-virgins in tow, two exquisite yanks who had scarcely ever dipped their toes in the international sea. Not that I'm surpised, when you come from the States the international sea is freezing and full of jellyfish. Steve and Nadia you brave souls! (especially Nadia) Hopefully our paths will cross again soon in this crazy world.

Crapman, Steve, Nadia and I did try to ditch Hayman a couple of times, though the opposite side of the Bar was not a very imaginative hiding place. The success of our cover relied too heavily on our victim's inabilty to turn his head more than 100 degrees. Nevertheless, our clandestine sub-gathering seemed very promising at first, but our sense of victory was short lived when we realised that Hayman didn't really give a bollocks where we were.

We joined forces again for some piggy-back wars - Crapman was my horse and Steve was Nadia's. Hayman was atop some blonde girl coming out of Hogan's, but I really don't think she was playing. Anyway, flush with recent successes in Afghanisatn and Iraq, The Americans won again, and I was knocked from my horse, quickly protesting vehemently that I didn't have any WMD in the first place. Then I let rip and that blew my cover.
And my pants.

To compensate for our dejected sense of defeat, we forced the Americans to eat Iranian food, and we sat there eating our meal while reading aloud passages from the Koran. Zaytoon pumped us full of enough mysterious tastes to last us the Nite-link home; which was Portmarnock via the outskirts of Galway (or so it felt) . I went to bed that night with heavy eyes and a heavier bowel. Needless to say I awoke the next morning with my arsehole in tatters, realising with a start that we did have an arch-nemesis, and he cooked food in Zaytoon.

FLOGESIS

WELCOME!

In the Beginning, there was nothing. Then God created the sun, the moon, the stars and saw that it was good, and then He made the Earth and He saw that it was only alright, but ye know it'll do 'til we get someone in to fix it.

Then He created oceans and all the little animals, except giraffes, He gave those as a job to people on work experience and they seriously f**ked up royal.

Then He created Man, and saw that it was good. Then He created Woman and saw that she was naked. Then He created the sexy lingerie industry because He felt that nakedness was too obvious, and the real excitement lay in what you couldn't quite see.

Then He created Flash, and He realised that the whole thing had got out of hand, and that the project had diverted from His original vision, so He washed His hands of it, and is now running a small sports shoe sweatshop in Malaysia.