Wandering down the Western Road in Cork the other day I came across this advert taped to a bus shelter. I took a snap on my phone (hence poor quality) It says:
"Male, 32 yrs, Handsome. educated, Third Level: Seeks ANY female for marriage. The wife will receive regular payments and will still enjoy her single life.Text or phone: 0871253643"

Any takers?

AUSSIFIED: PART ONE

I was back crime-fighting with Crapman this weekend, if by crimefighting you mean drinking and watching episodes of "Porridge". Crapman Jr. (the little bro) will be heading off to Australia soon so we had a sesh in Zanzibar to send him on his merry way. Crapman sent me a text saying: "Hey mate. We're upstairs in that pub whose name isn't in predictive text so I'm not going to bother." Why he bothered with his lengthy explanation of why he wasn't going to bother is a mystery. Actually, thinking about it, I strangely understand. I'm convinced that all people who don't use predictive text all go to Wagamammas for dinner as it's the most non-predictive friendly venue in the whole of Christendom and beyond. In fact, I went there the folowing night with Sarah to alleviate my predictive stress.
Anyway, back to that predictive unfriendly place. We met a guy there - Leo - that we went to Playschool with, and we reminisced...
"I remember our Playschool teacher," said Leo
"I remember I called her 'Mum'" said Crapman.
"I remember being given a three-piece jigsaw and having trouble with it, " said I.
(pause)
"Yeah I remember you being about that thick" said Crapman.

That wasn't the only person I was reminiscing with... In Zanzibar I met Zeno, a lovely wee Spaniard that's good mates with Johnny Ramos (A Spot of Weeding, Nov 2004). Zeno is about as Spanish as they come, but her perrenial trips to Wexford has graced her with spice of South-East Irish drawl. So just when you do the typical English-speaker thing of carefully pronouncing all your phrasing to avoid interpretive confusion, she'll put your in your place be calling you, " Ye smelly tinker ye!" We hardly recognised each other - since our last encounter, she had ameliorated her ravishing glow, and I've probably deteriorated like a wet tissue that only have ragged slivers of snot holding it togther.

In "O Canada" (about two Flogs ago) I wrote about how Canadian culture seemed to be seeping into my life. While that's still going on (I'm supposed to be meeting three Canadian girls on Thursday night - giggedy giggedy!) but I find myself simulaneously "Aussified", being surrounded by Australians. A curiously apt term, as I tend to spend most of my time with them just as that: Ossified. And f**k can they swear! When I came back to the Big Schmoke, Crapman - hardly a prude by any standards - commented on the frequency of my colourful adjectives, and blamed it on a roughshod munster lifestyle. It was outside the Bank of Ireland by Trinity, waiting to cross in the pissing rain, some bastard in a Beemer displacing a large puddle all over yours truly, that the truth behind my linguistic colour was revealed.
For it was then that the Australian in me came out. My first reaction was to cry out "F*CKIN' C*NTS!" and I found I did it with a broad Aussie accent. I can point the finger of blame firmly at Kez (look at PICTURES opposite, first from the right) as the aforemantioned exclaimation is her personal mantra. Honestly, never trust a woman who's phone says "f*ckers" for some reason everytime she turns it on.
Aussie's are great though, especially when they are waitresses - as Kez and Jacqui are. I love the way when they say "Do you want a water with that?" It sounds exactly like a fart in the bath.

Tomorrow is Australia day. Close your ears kiddies.

Cá BHFUIL MO CULTúR

Last weekend something monumental happened. From out of nowhere, probably from some crevice by the Lee that had gone unnoticed for centuries, Cork suddenly pulled out and dusted down some culture. Clara was back in town, so of course I was feeling a little tender from the night before, as that woman usually arrives upon a wave of alcohol and carries you with it. Well, she can't really be blamed but I like having a patzy for my raging alcoholism.
Anyway, I wandered through Patrick street with drums pounding inside my head - no wait - that was some drummers giving it a bit of welly. I found the dudes then, whereupon we absorbed the bands and with a wee helping of beer the hair of the dog was fully licked. And then, as darkness descended, we went on to see the fireworks.
Now, arming firey rebel Corkonians with 3500 kilos of fireworks may seem like an extremely unwise thing to do, but they gave us plenty to look at, successfully managing to leave buildings unscorched and faces unsinged. In the middle of it all there stood what can only be described as a massive dildo on Patrick's bridge with a few more off in the distance. That's my ideal job I've decided, a cast model in dildo factory. I feel like I should offer it up to the female community, after they've given me so much. In fact I'd do it pro bono. Ahem.

Meanwhile back in the real world, after the fireworks we got ourselves some chips and stuff and then on to the Mardyke where the official party was. The tag line for the event was "Where's me Culture?", a corruption of the home-grown Sultans of Ping anthem about having your geansai nicked in a nightclub.
"So where IS me culture?" says I.
"Aw look there it is!" Donna says, pointing to the weirdo performance art dancers in the midst of the the beer-swigging big-fish-little-fish boogiers. They were all clad in white - It looked for all the world as if it was out-patient's day from the looney bin. Everyone gazed embarrased into their pints, hoping that if they didn't make eye contact they'd go away. Me, Donna and Clara spent the first 40 minutes trying to locate the cloakroom, and we found it in the bowling alley of all places. Clothes hangers were stretched across the lanes and the guy you handed your stuff to - knowing he couldn't mark the lovely buffed floor - had to nimbly leap between the lanes in order to find a home for for your jacket. It was actually very graceful and entertaining. We hopped ourselves between the many room and events the Mardyke had to offer, losing people along the way. That crazy canuck Clara (try saying that very fast!) disappeared completely, probably riding on her alcohol wave or off being bauld somewhere. Meanwhile, the rest of us sampled the eclectic acts that were popping up around the place celebrating the fact that Cork had, after a long exhaustive search, found its culture.
It was down the back of the couch all along. Typical. I keep finding my virginity there too.


Giant Dildos invade Cork

O, CANADA...

I'm not sure how it happens, but every now and then I get plagued by a different nation. Regular Flog readers (all one of you) will be aware that this has happened a few times before, at one time it was Portugal, another time it was Spain(I've had recurring bouts of this) and also Estonia, to the result that I had to bloody go there to cure myself. I mention all of this because it's all happening again, this time with Canada for some reason. Everwhere I look there is something canadian infiltrating my life. All of a sudden, Ireland seems to be full of the f*ckers, and it seems that all the random people i meet in pubs and stuff are all from icehockeystickland. As we speak there are two Canucks sitting behind me at work, giggling to themselves suspiciously. What do they know that I don't? Did someone shave Canada Rules into the back of my head while I was asleep? Mind you that just might be frighteningly possible...

Canada is pretty quiet, he's that moody dude in school who hates the guy he's sittin beside, and basically avoids eye-contact with everyone to avoid being asked a difficult question. Growing up, the only access we had to Canada was the Monty Python's "Lumberjack Song" and programme "The Littlest Hobo." So for many years I thought the country was full of either transvestites and - well - hobos. Clara, one such delightful canuck I've encountered, is the original Littlest Hobo, a wee thing that wanders from place to place solving problems and sometimes even crimes probably. And then you turn around and she's gone again, probably to solve more problems worldwide. She's certainly made me recall that classic themetune:
http://www.culttelly.co.uk/lyrics/hobo.html.
Those who remember, remember. And those who remember, regret the invention of memory.

Quite apart from the giggly moose-divers (did ya see what I did there?) behind me, I realise that I'm wearing shoes given to me by the Littlest Hobo herself, and the socks she gave me, not to mention the Canadian quarter I have in my back pocket. Can I just clarify at this point that it wasn't HER shoes and socks, I haven't quite gone into brown-dunking showbusiness just yet. I like the quarter though, especially since the cheeky Canadians have a moose behind the Queen's head. Them Canadian's like doing things behind people's back.
I just wish they'd stop giggling!

Canada -probably through malicious defamation by their southern continental co-habitants - has the reputation for being a little boring. I reckon that - and the more I think about it the cooler it sounds - that Canada should invade Alaska - you know, just for a laugh. If nothin else, it'd make great telly. Can you just image switching on the news today and hearing: "This just in, Canada has invaded Alaska. We can confirm that George Bush is currently trying to locate it on the map..." It'd be brilliant. Lets's face it we'd all be up for 'em.
The Canadians behind me are laughing again. Maybe I'll remind them of William Shatner's "Common People", that ought to shut em up.

RETRACTION

I just re-read all that Christmas stuff I wrote. It's true what they say. Too many sweeties at Christmas-time DO rot your brain.