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...

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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.