CHRONICLES OF HERNIA ADDENDUM

Knoola was very upset that she wasn't mentioned in the last Flog update. That was very inconsiderate of me, given that she's now up the duff. Congratulations Knoola on the baby, I hope you'll name it Cian after its father.

CHRONICLES OF HERNIA PART II:
THE LION, THE WITCH, THE WARDROBE, THE ARTDESK, THE DOUBLE-BED, THE TELLIES, ABOUT FIFTY BOXES...

The crapmove was on: Crapman and Mrs. Crapman needed my muscles in the 'Nock: They were busy moving out to the Shinny. Loughshinny, to give it its proper name, is about as boggerville as Dublin gets. The weekend was a disorientating trip that dotted between the 'Nock, the Shinny, Finglas and Woodies DIY. So, a weekend replete with glitz and glamour I'm sure you'll agree.

The best thing was the chance to be a white van man for a couple of days. I suggested that we all had to take off our shirts, but we decided against it because our frying-pan tans weren't defined enough. That, and we lacked that drug-user slimness of the average white van man. For some reason, when you're locked in a tight cabin with two other blokes, your sex drive becomes worryingly high, so that any half-decent blondie out woalking showing the tiniest bit of skin must be eye-poppingly observed almost to the point of crashing.
It was great.
To pass the time on our multiple journeys, multiple games of Yellow-reg were played, meself, Crapman, Wayner and the Crapdad whacking the pure shit out of each other everytime a UK registration plate came into view. Which was a bit ugly on the Belfast road on a Sunday when everyone was heading home after the weekend. Especially when I was sitting in the middle, riding bitch. As if manual labour wasn't tough enough, I had to endure beatings.
Ye know, in case I slackened up.

The Crapmum still hasn't forgiven me for saying "she was spouting the worst" of the lewed language BOOZED AND CONFUSED (March 2005), or indeed for referring to her as the Crapmum. Ahem. So, later that night, as we partook of some much needed MSGs courtesy of the local chinker, she proved me wrong by utterances so blue I can hear the Caribbean calling her for its sky back. My own mum won't let me go down to the Crapcave anymore, she says the crapmum is a bad influence on me. I told her to "f**k off and get c**ting real."

This is the only picture anyone has ever taken of anything in Loughshinny.It's a big hole.
(In the picture, not Loughshinny.)

INTRODUCING FLASH 'THE COMPASS' BOGI

Recent changes on flatmates saw Jax move out to the other side of Cork City, just below the cusp of prime Knocknaheeny real-estate. Knocknaheeny, for the uninitiated is an idyllic quiet suburban model village, occupied by friendly approachable locals and surrounded by well-kept fields, and on a bright sunny day, I like nothing better than passing these fields and counting the burnt out cars, keeping an eye out for any fresh graffititied murals or heart-warming community messages.

It’s just such a pity it’s so far away, just over 50 minutes by foot, at a hastened pace. Undeterred by my failed short-cut attempt which almost had me walk through some fella’s back garden and go off the edge of a cliff (Somewhere Over the Ballyhooley Road), I tried to devise a short cut out towards Jax’s new gaff. I whipped out a map and plotted my course, and set out in the Mediterranean-style noontime heat, to discover the ultimate short-cut to Jax’s place.

An hour and twenty minutes later I finally arrived at her Monastery Hill address, walking with my own body weight in sweat in my shoes, with a fresh frying-pan tan from my hairline to my farmers-tan borders. I was welcomed with a ritualistic slating and – thankfully – a cool can of Carlsberg ™ .

“Why didn’t you ask for directions?” I was asked.
My response was one of wide–eyed incredulity.
“Because I have a penis,” I calmly responded.

THE ELECTRIC GIGALO

Honestly, who came up with the term 'Quiet drink?' We all know it doesn't exist. It's like one of those euphemisms designed to lessen the impact of the drama of what it really entails. It's like you saying "I'll be back in a minute" when we know you mean "I'll see you when Tibet is free," or saying differently-abled when we know you mean cappers. Oopsie, going to hell for that one.

Our newbie flatmate Canuck Ellie - yes another bloody Canadian, I dunno I must smell like moose or something - suggested I join her for a pint, so I went down to the Le Cheile. Ellie has been in cork for quite a while, some six years or so, so she's morphied into quite the dialectal hybrid. Which means she won't say "c*nt" but she'll end all of her sentences with "do you know" (pronounced j'unno) and throw in a "like" for good measure too. J'unno like? So a pint was had, and then onto the Newport beer garden for another pint. We talked about who we know who's gay and who's not.
"You can tell, like a gay guy from a mile off, j'unno?"
"Can you?"
"Yeah It's easy when you're a girl, like, j'unno?"
"Well then," I said, purely to test her of course:"How can you tell I'm not gay?"
"Aw Kevvy, like," she says, "you're not gay... j'unno.You have that... sort of... horny electricity... j'unno?"
I couldn't help looking down at my crotch.
"What, can you see it?"
Horny electricity? What the hell is that? I wondered privately that if I stuck my willy into the battery compartment of a CD player could I make it work? Perhaps I should experiment with this physical aspect of myself I never knew I had. Imagine Donna coming back from Dublin to find me trying to rodger her iPod. Also, how much light could I produce by making sweet love to a shaft of a torch?
"Horny electricity?" Says I, "well tell you what, rub this up and down and see if balloons will stick to you."

Then we went onto L.V's for another drinkie-poo. There, out of the blue, I bumped into three fellas from school, two of whom I hadn't seen in almost ten years I'd say. They were there for the L.V's 'Craichouse' comedy night, doing some stand-up would you believe. So more booze flowed, and things got blurrier and blurrier. The acts were class, fair play to the lads; Ellie got a big kick out of them, except at Colin Ryan's version of "Sunday Bloody Sunday", retitled "Tampon bloody tampon." In fact, Ellie's face was as funny as the act itself.
A quiet drink? pah! The beers were drained as was my 'horny-electricity'. Which is virtually on permanent power-cut anyway.