THE FLOG

2007-08-05T18:11:00.000Z

WHAT'S THE KRACKOW

I was hardly expecting anyone to be there, and yet the healthy bustle of the Krakow’s streets told of no mad exodus from Poland that I had imagined. As the plane had descended that morning, I gazed at the stripped fields and bright red rooftops and had imagined a post apocalyptic cityscape, with nothing but perhaps a few Triffids, mutants, or those yokes from 28 Days Later roaming around. Yet the city was one built for a heavy throng of people, kiosks stuffed with the contents of a tescos lined the streets, buses and trams had people crammed tetris-style into the limited space.
As we passed through customs and the Arrival gates, my travelling companion Aga turned to me and began a extensive conversation in Polish. Ah sh*te! (thought I to myself) - that’s it then is it? No more English for the next five days? Am I to be linguistically imprisoned through some bizarre Polish language-usage custom that I knew nothing about? Was I going to spend the remainder of my holiday being asked if I want to see the dessert menu in a loud voice? Thankfully, though, she clocked my look of sheer horror, giggled, apologised, and continued on in English.
When I was in Rome, I had giggled that the bus that took us from the plane to the terminal took the same amount of time as it took to say “how far?” In Krakow it was exactly the same. Not only that, but the bus that waited outside to take us to the train station, took the same amount of time as it took to clear your throat before saying anything at all.
My body was telling me it was the night before, and through my crusty-eyed early morning fumble through the town I yearned for a bed. Upon reaching our apartment, I realised that finding a bed was only half the battle. Somewhere in the complex, builders were shouting at other builders because they were working too loudly and drowning out their own let’s-see-who-can-smash-rocks-the-loudest competition. This surprised me because I thought all the Polish builders were in Ireland finishing off the M50. After a few restless hours we got up and had a late lunch; I religiously took down the name of all the delicious stuff I ate for this blog, but I lost wherever I wrote it, which is probably a good thing since I can’t be khacked trying to write all those quare letters that the Poles like to write. Polish writing is like latin script that has weeds growing from it.
Walking down the main street towards the square, I saw outside one cafe a big group of English stags, and felt that primal urge momentarily well up in me (See “The Haystag”), I felt for a second that looking at all these lovely Poles my own would stiffen, but that feeling switched to a type of pious awe when I saw the giant Cathedral in the main square, silhouetted birds swooping bat-like around it’s turrets, with the ominous dramatic thump of Bach being pounded out by a troupe of accordionists. With a lump in my throat I remembered that I was dangerously close to Vampire country, but then my nerves were calmed by the players switching to a lovely segment of Vivaldi’s Winter, as the sun gently set on Krakow.
When Aga suggested that we go visit a Salt Mine, I had a fleeting vision of being enslaved in some communist gulag, being forced to scratch pure salt bare-handed from a cave wall with the hope that I might get some ceremonial commendation from my comrades for having worked so hard that I no longer possessed fingertips – however satisfying that would’ve been I’m glad that the Wieliczka salt mine was no longer in use. There, one of the oldest mines in Europe, first dug out in the 14th century (using nothing but fingertips, of course), where obviously ultra-bored miners carved out exquisite works of art from the cave walls. Jaysus, the Poles are even industrious about their skiving off. I had all sorts of Hieronymous Bosch visions when was down these, helped in no small part by the eerie orange lighting, never-ending staircase, and the punitive whipping from the large bare-breasted demoness. That last bit did seem an odd part of the tour.

When I was young, we would go out to my Grand-Aunt’s home in Clash, which is flat, almost featureless stretch of the Kerry countryside, with all the fun of a day out in a parked car with a packet of crisps. In many ways, at first glance at least, Aga’s home village Czerkiesy was a lot like Clash. When I first saw a photo of the place, my first words were “um.... where IS everything?” It had all sorts of hidden treasures though; We drank around a pond-side fire-pit looking at the stars and fireflies, within throwing distance of a large unspoilt wood. We picked strawberries and wild strawberries, both planted and wild, and walked through forest and cornfields wrapped around the horizon. We went cycling through forest paths and waded through fresh clean rivers. It was all like a Steinbeckian dream, if it wasn’t for the fact that I managed to mangle my bike on the unkempt steinbeckian mud-road, and scuff my knee on the glass-like Steinbeckian grit. That aside, one cool thing I got to do was drive around a bona-fide communist tractor. It had the robustness of a Soviet tank and all the colour of a mis-matched any-thing-will-do scrap metal. I was delighted, Aga was terrified. Mind you, she was following behind in the suspension-less mis-matched Soviet trailer. After the tractor and bicycle incidents, I was not permitted to upgrade my mode of transport from bi-pedal. I’ve more or less mastered that whole one foot in front of the other thing. You should see me, I’m deadly.

Aga in a field

Flash the Frog

Communist Tractor!

Communist cycling!

By the way that's a sausage above

Communist Strawberry picking!

2007-07-08T13:45:00.000Z

DOCTOR WHO ANNUALS

Here are some of the best moments from Doctor Who Annuals from 1979/1980!

... And time travel and interplanetary adventures might cause her to chip a nail!
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What's more sinister? The Sponge, Clark Gable giving Sarah-Jane an orgasm, or The Doctor looking on with interest?
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Apparently Dr. Who is gay. Oh, and his surname is suddenly actually "Who".
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And preumably The Doctor had the same tack with the wretched "darkies" when he visited Rhodesia in 1900. Translation of "Ruarrrg": "yes the beach is straight ahead, third left. Watch out for the Zulus"
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Okay so he's NOT gay...
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Nudity in Doctor Who? yeah why not!
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"She does not offer any informantion to help them in any way" - Yes she IS a woman. Doctor Who flying the flag for mysogyny yet again!

2007-05-25T15:36:00.000Z

THE HAYSTAG

And so it has come to pass that the almighty Hayman has joined the Wide-Aisle club and agreed to don the marriage shackles of his beloved Kristeen-A. The old super hero troupe; Crapman, Tedman and myself converged to offer our condolences in the traditional way, by wetting the bridegroom to be in beechwood aged nectar and indulging in copius misogynistic and animalistic debasement. We rediscovered the joys of double entendre, bio-warfare level farting and the giggle-factor of words like “boobies”.

It was tough to keep it all under control. Earlier that day I could feel the bachelor-party boar inside of me, the primal affections slowly awakening. My lady friend Aga and I decided to visit Dublin zoo and I began to identify with the ruthless sexual efficiency of the shameless monkeys. Aga stared in wonder at a Rhino who was trying to have it off with his apathetic partner, when all I really wanted to do was give them a bit of privacy. I felt the bachelorette succubus was welling inside her too, either that or she’s just a bestial pervert.

And yet that feeling grew. Walking through the streets of Dublin on a Saturday night it was almost infectious; Stags and hens where grazing and pecking (respectively) everywhere, terrorising the innocent, arousing the primal urges of others. I saw one devil-horned bunch of hens on the quays and from somewhere inside of me I almost uttered the words “Get your tits out for the lads,” but I managed to stop myself halfway through. Unfortunately halfway through is “get your tits out” so I still got a slap.

And then to the party itself, hoping those primeval aspects would keep in check. What is it about the company of men that can so easily arouse sexual veracity? Is it pack mentality? Is it a deep-rooted desire to ‘kayak down the brown valley’? Thankfully Hayman et al aren’t handsome enough so our passions were quiet un-enflamed in that regard. We conducted ourselves with the best dignity that we could under the influence of don’t-give-a-f*ck juice. Dignity unravelled a bit towards the end, with a plethora of dirty jokes (with rude words such as boobies and worse!) and a traditional game of Bollocks which nearly got us kicked out of Fitzsimons. Not unexpectedly, Hayman won. After that we managed to find our way home despite losing Trev-R the Haybro somewhere in the mix for a while.

The next morning I went through the bachelor do checklist: 1. Hangover? Check. 2.Vomit/ urine/ faeces not deposited on sheets? Check. 3. Actually do I even have sheets? Check. 4. Actually am I actually in a bed? Check. 5. Actually am I in my own bed? Check. 6. Shit am I even indoors? Check. 7. No be-horned Bachelorette hen nowhere in the vicinity? Check. 8. Faint memory of dirty jokes and almost being kicked out by a bouncer? Check. 9. Faint panic at wondering what my OWN bachelor do would be like? CHECK.

2007-04-08T21:18:00.000Z

THE HAYFALL

2007-03-30T18:38:00.000Z

Okay, okay I'll stop making jokes about celebrities having birthdays on the same day as those people in my my life who are truly important. It has become a yearly tradition to displace the name of a a man truly admire and is dear to my heart, with Norah Jones or Eric Clapton. I want to say HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU ROLF HARRIS. I want to say, as someone who is clearly not a celebrity, I'm sorry for neglecting you for all these years.

Rolfman blows out his cangles.

2007-03-29T18:20:00.000Z

HAPPY BIRTHDAY THAT DUDE WHAT WROTE BLADE RUNNER AND CHARIOTS OF FIRE MUSICS

Today is the birthday of fat Greek Musician Vangelis. Happy birthday Van - you the man! No one else of note celebrates their birthday today. Just Van.

2007-03-14T19:24:00.000Z

DARK SIDE OF THE MOON

Astrologers have said for centuries that the moon's eclipse has a disruptive effect on the human, upsetting the ego, unbalancing the passions, and breaking down everything from relationships to technical equipment. Largely new age rubbish, you might think, but considering the long classical association between the moons movements and womanly moodiness, I am ready to open an ear to their less the scientific view. After all, if there is a connection between the full moon and the flowing of blood, be it menstrual or otherwise, imagine the bodyshock that something as momentous an eclipse could give you. I, for one, forgot about the lunar eclipse last Saturday, and as luck would have it I was sitting in a comfortable cinema while outside the darkened room the peoples of Cork City (and beyond presumably) underwent apocalyptic celestial emotional contortions their judgement-day screams were inaudible under the sound of Hank Azaria and co. having a meta-humorous whinge in For Your Consideration. I sat there, in the Kino cinema, sipping my cup of tea oblivious to the astrological disaster that was going on outside.

We exited the cinema onto Washington street, the street lamps washing the bleary faces of eclipse witnesses a dirty yellow. There seemed to be something in the eyes of these tortured souls, something in-between having looked into the abyss, seeing the tortures of the damned, and having a couple too many scoops early on in the night and can't quite get in anywhere. A large horde of boisterous male revelers where inches away form us amid the crowd, asking everyone not very politely if they wouldn't mind terribly getting their "ticks out for the lads". At least I think that's what they said. It was hard to to penetrate their ill-defined harmony; all I could think of was listening to Christy Browne underwater.

Our pace hastened, we avoided the embarrassing indignity of having to respond to the horde, embarrassing since I had ample flaccid pectorials the sight of which they were so eagerly requesting. A few yards later, we passed an alleyway where some nice gentlemen were painting a wall with a a coat of fine yellow. Except change the words "painting a" with "throwing copious amounts of beer bottles at" and a "coat of fine yellow" with dribbling dutch piss-water, probably procured form the off-license, the wall of which was now coated in this fine piss-yellow. Passing the courthouse, a few yards ahead I was almost I had to stop in my tracks while a skateboards rattled down the steps and almost broke its fall with my head. Me and Aggie stopped and stared at this invisible homicidal skateboarder, before pressing on, ever-wary of the increasing dangers closing in on us.

At the corner of Patrick's Street and Merchant's Quay there stood an old gent cautiously cradling his walking stick, as if he was struggling to stay upright against the bustle about him. For a moment I thought him to be a sober bastion of sense amidst the ruckus, before he muttered something at me.
"What did he say?" Aggie asked.
"Just walk, walk quite fast."
"Why? What did he say?"
"I think he just asked me if he could come home with me."
And walk fast we did, getting to the sanity of the Cornerhouse, the least rowdy pub in the world. We felt like survivors of a natural disaster, like the heroes of The Day of the Triffids or 28 days Later. In that vein I suggested that we should repopulate the species and we should get on the job toute suite - it was our duty - nay our destiny. It was a tough job but I said that if the situation demanded it I'm sure I could rise to the occasion. The only thing that raised was her eyebrow and her hand as it came into not-so-soft contact with my cheek.
Women. I blame the moon.

2007-02-18T22:27:00.001Z

MEDIEVAL MONKISH MADNESS

Recently my double life as a medievalist and Internety person was encapsualted beautifully in this short youtube video... enjoy!

... In fact thrusting monks into the 21st century is almost a comedic genre in itself, check out these similarly-themed cartoons:
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Poor monks!

2007-01-27T20:46:00.000Z

THE FLOG HAS ALL THE ANSWERS

Recently Wired.com posted 42 questions to which we don't know the answer to. Now some mistake me for being scientifically inept, so I thought, sure I'll have a go at some of em.

Q. What's at the Earth's Core?
A. Loads of dinosaurs and James Mason.

Q. Is time an illusion?
A. Yes

Q. How does a fertilized egg become a human?
A. It goes into this glass yoke like in Superman 2 and it loses its powers.

Q. Why is fundamental physics so messy?
A. It stared out not so messy. Then its mother cleaned up after it all the time, and then when it became more developed, it was its girlfriend. Seriously, we've all said this fundamental physics like a million times, but still it's us who never get our Radiohead CDs back because it's left it in some hidden crevice of the universe.

Q. Why don’t we understand turbulence?
A. Because it speaks with its mouth full

Q. Why do the poles reverse?
A. Cause they realise they can only get crap jobs in Ireland as as well.

A. If there is life on other planets, why haven’t they contacted us?
Q. Would you if you were them?

Q. Where are my keys?
A. There.

2007-01-10T12:54:00.000Z

COMPUTER BOG WARRIOR (2 - Street fighter 2)

2006-11-10T22:25:00.000Z

THE NAKED CARROT

Crapman's job is trying to break microchips, as is my understanding. My mental image of him is holding a sledgehammer "testing" the strength of the microchips, dipping them in a variety of beers "just to see what would happen" sticking them in ice-cube trays for a day and then frying them with onions. Then if they work afterwards it's safe to say it's ready for the market.
"I have a new job!" he tells me one day and inwardly my image of him firing microchips out of a cannon towards a wall on fire was demolished. Then I realised that it was much the same job, whatever that was, except in Clontarf. I asked him to explain to me the difference:
"Well," he says, "Imagine if I was picking 100,000 carrots a day and now I have to pick 300,000 carrots, I have to move faster, and thus I will become a more efficent carrot-picker"
This was news to me as I always thought he was an electronic engineer, and never believed his interests extended to high-level horticulture.
"Not much room in Clontarf to grow carrots" says I.
"This is the 21st century mate, high-rise carrot fields these days. Try to keep up!"

He went on to say that the head carrot-pickers were sending him to Florence to pick carrots there, which took me back to my own recent Florentine adventure, where me and Kim extended our Rome trip to take a train to see David. Inspired by Michaelangelo's assortment of near-naked Sistine doodles, Kim made it her mission to go and see the most famous nudey man in the world, which stood a 17ft pillar of pure manliness in the Accademia Gallery. It was Kim's idea. She's a right dirty ho.

I felt that before I came to grips with some nudiness I should make an attempt to sanitise myself, just in case I touched something I might might give a disease to, or get a disease from, so I washed my hands in that bronze pig fountain in the nearby marketplace. Then we rolled up our sleeves, and went to man-handle some art.

We stood in the middle of the gallery, our heads cocked, gazing on the elegant marble.
"He does have huge hands..." Kim said, pointing at the famously out of proportion mitts.
"Leave him alone," I said, staring down at my own square farmer hand-shovels.
"He does have a small willy", Kim said, staring at the famously out of proportion love muscle.
"Leave him alone," I said, staring down at my own guidebook, which clearly said that David was designed for a high pedestal, which would normalise the penis size from a perspective distant and below.

While Kim was getting her fill of willies and rock-hard arses, I was enthralled by the finest lot of late medieval art I had come across on my entire trip, and I lapped up this feast, taking care not to dribble. My medievalist guise poked out but became a little uncomfortable when I recalled that Hannibal Lector also posed as a medievalist when he was in Florence, so my medieval sensibility popped back inside, lest I go and do something mental, like eat kim, or hang a police detective, or go to the opera.
I watched "Hannibal" again when I got home, and felt myself reaching for the fava beans and the chianti when I saw how he washed his hands in the same bronze pig fountain...
I should have just picked carrots.

2006-10-14T18:52:00.000Z

PAPAL ATTRACTION

The Vatican was the big one… I was in a mission to meet Pope Palpatine and learn the ways of the dark side of the force. I was sure to meet him somewhere along the corridors of the Vatican Museum, possibly in his bath-towel on his way to switch the heating on or something like that – somewhat affronted and surprised by my cry of “Hey Benny!”, almost choking on his Vatican Cocoa from his Vatican mug, before he mellows and says, “aw howerye” and brings me down into the Vatican vaults for some of the Vatican wine collection, using a few priceless medieval manuscripts to mop up the Pope’s wine spillage – he’s a messy drunk that one.

But that’s not what happened unfortunately. We didn’t have the Pope offering us a personal tour around his gaff. Instead we had to settle for our Guide – handily enough called Guido, as he led us through the ornate rooms of the Vatican museum, past so many frescos I thought I would choke. Too much beauty in the one place makes it harder to appreciate, it’s like not being able to see the wood for the trees. We had decided to go on a Monday, which we learned afterwards was a fiercely thick idea, since everyone who went on a Sunday and saw that The Vatican was closed then came back the following day.

We were throng-herded through a tiny crevice that lead to the Sistine Chapel where our absorption of Michaelangelo’s five year effort was punctuated by the Vatican security giving people a bollocking for using their cameras. The ceiling itself is a neck-creakingly exciting viewing, seeing Adam and God in their original glory, not being replaced by Bart Simpson or the Flying Spagetti Monster. No photoshopped nonsense here, every lick of paint in its original untampered, uninternet-memed beauty. Good old Michaelangelo, how he found time to battle Shredder I’ll never know.

2006-10-03T15:27:00.000Z

QUEER VADIS

Sightseeing is a bit difficult when you've last night blind-drunkeness to limit your vision. On our second day of Rome the wall-to-wall landmarking was overwhelming, and it hurt my head even more. We walked down past The San Carlo Quttro Fontine, the small Carloni Basilica beside it, and then past the president's gaff - at the Quirinale - which looked like it was being guarded by the village people. Two pink-lipped cartoonish sailors flanked either side of the buildings colossal doors and had some prancing traffic-cop types giving me the eye in a highly violating manner. It was enough to wake you up, and I could feel my buttocks clenching guardedly when one shiny guard came close. Italian men, I pointed out to Kim, are better looking than the women and that's just wrong. Well-preened smooth-skinned adonises with crotch-hugging designer clobber, affectionately touching people of both sexes, is enough to make you nervous or else go on the turn. Not me though, I likes me Italian women soft-jawed and me Italian men all looking like Super Mario.

A coffee by the Trevi fountain was all the perk I needed. We sat there recharging our batteries, and the cowherd of tourists filed past us, flowing down the cobbled streetlet like water. Some of this Trevi-fountain run-off would flow into the plethora of souvenir-shops, collecting all sorts of made-in-china debree along the way. We watched as the shopkeeper of one of these across the way broke out into song, her voice lifting over the hissy mono of her stereo, oblivious to our bemusement. We owed her a little rummage around her shop at least, if only to catch her rendition of the next track. We didn't buy anything though. We're cheap like that.

With the Pantheon and the Chiesa di sant Maria Sopra Minerva under our belts Something caught my eye then, as we passed the Templo Adriano. A calendar of pin-up priests sat at one of the souvenir stands, each month of the year looking more ruggedly divine than the last. Maybe I was dizzy with the gayness of the place, but I had to buy it. If you had been there, you would've too. When Kim and I got back to Cork, we'd give it to Jacqui, who we're pretty sure has a secret penchant for men who look like gay priests. The best present ever.

2006-10-02T14:51:00.000Z

ROMAN CHARGES

The weather had been clear over Europe: the captain had come over the intercom to tell us we were sweeping over Paris, saying the Eiffel Tower was visibible. You couldn't miss it, it was lit up like a Christmas tree. My first view of Rome was similar: the starry orange streetlamps criss-crossed the paralleled streets, punctuated by the Colosseum glowing like a giant novelty candle holder.
The Pressure was on: I was to meet Kim at Rome Campioni airport, my flight had been late exiting Shannon , and Kim had been waiting for me, half-starting dozens of word puzzles since she landed over two hours ago. Now though, we were waiting on board for the bus to carry us to the airport. Fair enough I thought to myself, it might have been a heck of a walk. Except when we piled ourselves into the shuttle bus we zipped around a corner and we were at the terminal before the rush-for-the-seats crowd had a chance mould their ass-groove into the seats. When we got to Rome central, directions for the hostel actually made us walk in a circle - I should have known when it listed three lefts in a row - and this directional maze meant that I was hardly able to find my way back to our hostel for the rest of the holiday without Kim's help. There's nothing like a bit of female visual sense to overcome the shortcomings of male directional logic - so much for "give me the map, I own a penis". The hostel was a stones throw from the Termini station and the Piazza del Republica, a semicircled set of ornate eigtheenth-century buildings with a fountain in the centre. The fountain was placed on one of the most impenetrable traffic islands I've ever seen. There were people over there though, sitting by the fountain, though how they made it there is anyone's guess. I imagined that they had in fact been there for months, and they all hade complicated back-stories like the characters on LOST. I'm sure at the finale of LOST it'll be revealed that the whole adventure took place on a traffic island – that's my theory anyway and you read it here first.

The Piazza de Republica. Many have crossed the road to visit the fountain. Few have returned

The following morning we walked down to the Colosseum, passing Trajan's Column and The Roman Forum on the way. Our tour guide for the colosseum was called Isabella, and Kim found it hilarious everytime she introduced herself to a new member of the group: "I'm Isa for your questions" she said. We felt it was a bit unclassy to introduce yourself as being "easa" people might get the wrong idea. Many Ooos and a plethora of Aaaahs later and we had finished our Colosseum tour, and then we began our Italian holiday tradition or taking pictures of Tiger and Evil-Donkey, the more famous the location the better. In the Colosseum, we realised we decided to take them when there was a large surge in the crowd, leaving people baffled and bemused.

After a Pizza and siesta, we headed out to test the nightlife in Rome. On the corner near our hostel there was a bar-fight in progress, possibly the most gentlemanly I've ever seen, this was good old fashioned fisticuffs, all upper body work, with punches you could hardly imagine impacting on the male-preened visages of the Italian fancy-men. We drank expensive pints in two Irish themed pubs, Marconi's and The Fiddler's Elbow, before meeting a bunch of Canadians with "Road pops", which is basically legalised knacker drinking, and so we spent the reminder of the night drinking Peroni in the Piazza, with only the odd conversation with a dodgy Italian drunk to punctuate our liquid Picnic. One hairy-palmed trog tried to convince us to get on a bus with him to God knows where, where we would have been castrated like a Nero concubine and forced to partake in some eunuch orgy. Fortunately, amid the Roman lust for violence and the ever-increasing threat of gentlemanly fisticuffs we survived our first night in Rome. The next morning however it felt that Trajan's Column was being erected in my head. All I wanted to do was escape to some Island somewhere - and I knew just the place.

Garth Marenghi's Darkplace

2006-09-19T11:58:00.000Z

2006-08-12T14:55:00.000Z

FICKLE MATTERS

So I finally got the Crapman and the Crapwife down to the sunny south. I found them in their new Crapmobile with all the Craphounds sleeping in the Crap boot. I got in the Crapmobile then and gave Crapdirections to my house, almost trying to direct them across a pedestrian bridge. Pretty of crap of me. But we finally did get up to Monastery Hill, the soiree which followed was far from crap, complete with beer, rice crispy buns, and medieval-themed baking from the beacon. She spelt out the word "alchemist" - her medieval epithet for me - atop the buns with silver edible baubles. At least I hope they were edible. This was silver that wasn't turned into gold anyway, it came out the other end relatively unchanged through bodily alchemy. Speaking of it, poo-poo became a bit of a running (no pun intended) theme for the remainder of the weekend; whilst sitting eating ice-creams in the Bishop Lucey Park the next day, Crapman imposed upon a piece of performance art an interpretation of "taking a rather large uncomfortable dump." His name is Crapman after all (well, not really). Not to stay on a mucky subject, but "poo" comes from the Middle English word poupen or popen, and it originally meant "fart." The word "fart" appears to be much older, coming from the old english "feortan," proving indeed that the fart comes before the poop. I'm glad though, because I hate it when they come at the same time, it's embarrassing not to mention messy. I'd like to say that etymologies and medieval word-associations were floating around my head while watching the performance art thrust upon us, but Crapman was right: it was shit, and that's all I could think about.

2006-07-16T17:26:00.000Z

THE CRAPCAVE AND THE CASTLE INFLATABLE

Awnya and Crapman had the grand opening of the Crapcave(tm) and had us intrepid superhero types over for a soiree avec les slabs of meat sur le barbeque, avec un chef Anglais dangereuse.

Anyway, so there I was out in Loughshinny, sipping on my cheap-assed Bavaria beer, when out their back garden I spied - shimmering in the sun with undiscovered treasure like some newly discovered Aztec pyramid - was one of Man's most extraordinarily amazing contributions in the history of invention and inflatables. The Bouncy Castle stood there, wavering slightly as the air coursed through it with a gentle enginious hum, filling out it's inflatable crevices, taunting me with it's pneumatic quiver.
As the sun began to dip behind the Fingal the trees and hedges, the thought occured to me - to us - that surely the last child must be gone, surely it's past their bedtime, surely now, we could take that castle, it could be ALL OURS... There was just one rule: NO SHOES.

So my army of men, with an average age of 28, stormed the Castle Inflatable, throwing ourselves through an invisible portcullis all trying (put failing) to look as cool as yer man off Die Hard. Our hefty lumptiness almost toppled the castle on it's side, and our efforts to oust each other from the castle's interior concussed at least one of our party (poor Jonanthan!). Through this rumpus pandemonium, one of the neighbour's kids approached us, and said - arms folded and eyebrow arched - "Playtime is over!"
So shamefaced, bruised and concussed, we made our way back to the adult world at the opposite end of the garden.

"How much did the Bouncy Castle cost you?" The Crapdad asked him.
"1080 euro," Crapman replied.
"1080 euro!"
"80 euro to rent it, a thousand more cause these f*ckers have wrecked it!"

2006-07-07T16:21:00.000Z

CAMPY-FRIES

You know what's cheaper than going on holidays? Surrounding yourself with foreigners and pretending that you're in their country. Or simply sample some minute aspect of an exotic society with a bit of imagination, and you never have to go too far from home. Thus, a trip to the the local offy for a few cans of Dutch Gold becomes a vertible Whirlwind tour of the Netherlands. Or, for the truly adventurous, a sip of Tiger transports you to 19th century India, as part of a pompous upper-class toffee-nosed safari hunters, tracking down a particular ferocious - well, tiger. Also, when you are abroad, a quick swig of the Guinness will stave off homesicknesses, by instantly injecting a bit of tooralooraloo into your heart, transporting you to a typical irish location, such as a dirty bus stop in the rain surrounded by pot-bellied farmers and bling-laden scangers.

The last of the Americans have now left Cork; the wind billows through the Leeside Apartment blocks, melodiously rustling some stray plastic bag - a remnant, perhaps of some trip to tescos from a bygone era to buy macaroni and cheese or peanut butter and jelly. The boisterous hubbub that emantated from there on a friday or saturday night has given way to the clumsy fumble of some nightclub refugee, foot-scraping and shuffling down the ghostly alleyways surrounding Leeside. I can no longer pretend I'm passing by Little America, I can no longer fool myself that I'm visiting a microcosm of the USA. Meg, the last American did give me something of an American sending-off however, when she - along with the penultimate american, Paul - suggested we should go camping for a night somewhere in the Cork surrounds. We bussed it to Clonakilty, whereupon we hiked out to Inchadoney in the blazing sunshine. When we arrived the sun was obscured by clouds and remained so for the rest of the trip. That did little to dispirit our emprise though; we found an empty stretch of beach and camped in a sheltered crevice in the rolling mossy dunes, that seemed to go on indefinitely with not a soul in sight.

One illegally set fire later, and the camping trip was underway. The primal animal in me dug out a very effective hearth, which was a refreshing change, for normally the primal animal in me just makes me into a desperate-for-lovin'-but-still-can't-really talk-to-women tit. Here's where the yanks introduced their national campside cuisine, which was a benefical experience for me coming from a country where such outdoor gastronomy remains undeveloped as our camp food must come under the "can it be eaten raw in case it rains which it definitely will let's face it" category. So I tried some of that peanut butter and jelly stuff, fire-cooked hot dogs, and of course, "S'mores". Now these things consisted of crackers not unlike Liga between which lay melted chocolate and marshmallows browned over the fire. Tasty, but of a level of sweetness only really suited to the American palate. Every bite, though delicious, had a sort of diabetes-rapping-at-your-door aspect about it that had your teeth partially anatomised in your head and had you hankering for a slice of Mr. Brennan's best bland loaf afterwards.

The next day we had a quick bollock-shrivelling dip in the ocean, followed by the best sandcastle in the universe. I nerdly employed medieval building techniques,though I've yet to see a medieval castle with dismembered crab claws protecting a portcullis made out of broken mussel. Despite my slightly cultural American experience, I discovered that I couldn't deny my Irishness; for, in spite of the constant cloud cover, I was red as an embarrassed devil. I shone like a hellish lighthouse and I had people coming into my bedroom at night to develop photographs. Try to heroically convince people that "oh it doesn't hurt, really" when there's people draping their washed bedsheets over you to dry them off. Since then, I've been heating bathwater for needy families, and my dead skin can be seen in the form of a snow-scene in the latest Neil Jordan film, where I'm frantically rubbing my arms from a heightened winch off-camera onto Stephen Rea's head.

2006-06-16T14:57:00.000Z

FROM HOGGY'S TO HAGGIS

I left the Callshop at midnight, bearing my sobriety like a crutch through the crowd of the messy sunday drinkers, who were rolling about the streets hodgepodge and haphazard. I hung outside Hoggy's debating whether to treat myself to some Garlic cheese chips, but the line of swaying soakage-seeking post-pubbies didn't appeal so I decided to abandon my grease-quest. I had an early morning, after all, for in a few hours I would be jetting off To Edinburgh on my first trip away in what seemed like an eternity.

So, with little sleep, I found myself the next day climbing Arthur's Seat, a large mound from where you can view the whole of Old Reeky (an uninviting old name for Edinburgh apparently, from the time before the river was filled in with a park). Sitting there - Arthur didn't mind by the way - the vista reminded me of a screenshot of SimCity, where a beginner has decided to put a castle, a palace and - just for a laugh - the Athens Acropolis all within a few squares of each other. Somehow it all works though, and we wandered carefree and up and down the Royal Mile, through GreyFriars and so on until we worked up a sufficient thirst to legitimise an afternoon pint. We drank in Bobby's bar, named after Greyfriars Bobby, the little Dog who famously slept on his masters grave until his own death. The Dog's death is, Bobby's master wasn't buried alive that I know of. Suitably oiled, we went into a dinky tourist shop and biught a tasteful tee-shirt with Sotland on it, only to discover that my cohort Meg had bought the same one. We toyed with the idea of wearing them both so we'd be the typical scoff-inducing memorabilia-wearing matching tourists. Then came the Haggis, my very first try, and suitably impressed I downed it with more gusto than I had anticipated. A pint at Finnegan's wake, followed by another at Belushi's which had the coolest vending machine in the world: the jacks had more than the bog-standard johnnies for sale, but for a few extra pound coins you could vend a vibrator, a blow-up doll, or even handcuffs. I was relieved, having left my vibrator, blow-up doll and handcuffs back at the hostel. No wonder there was a line for the cubicles what with people using their new "Bendy Brenda" dolls and their "Goliath Pleasureators" and whatnot. Not real names by the way, and they're patent pending, Flash Sex Products will be in bathroom vending machines in September. My ones'll be better though. Flash's Chocolate Butt-Plugs (tm) are already arousing suspicion. Suspicion? Er, I mean interest.

After the next day's lazy stroll around in the city - where Flash, ever the avid medievalist, walked up to the entrance of Edinburgh castle but didn't bother going in - we resolved to do one of those Highland Tour things. The Third day had us bussing
it north, to explore the wilds of Scotland. We stopped off at a wee town(see how I can fit in with the locals with my flawless use of colloquialisms there) called Dunkeld, which apart from a lovely Cathedral, was home to a shop that sold kettles exclusively:
"Excuse me, do you sell teapots?"
"No, just kettles."
"Hmmm what about milk jugs, do you sell them?"
"No, just kettles."
"Phone credit maybe?"
"No, just kettles."
"Very well, then. I'll just have a packet of Chewits and a Curly Wurly."
"We just sell Kettles."
"Kettles eh? What about Harmony?"
"That's not even a thing, it's an absract concept. We JUST sell kettles."
"Okay then, I'll have one kettle then."
"Actually we're out of kettles at the moment."
"Damn. Well what about a saucepan? I could boil water for me tea in that."
"No, just kettles."
"You're not much of a kettle-shop are you?"
"Piss off."

An hour later, and we were in Loch Ness. And I mean in, as we decided to paddle in it's freezing waters. Saw no monsters, but the revelation of my sun-shy whiter than white Daz-ultra legs put fear in the locals and attracted the interest of several paranormal scientists that were present. We took a boat ride to the middle of the lake, but my makeshift Nessie-whistle, based on the one they used to summon Godzilla in the cartoon series in the 70's, failed to work. Never trust dinosaurs, isn't that what the old wives' tale says?

When we arrived in in Edinburgh we went to meet Kim in her pub called "Dirty Dick's,"
just a few doors up from "Filthy McNasty's" and (probably) across the road from (probably)"The Guarded Fanny." All this and not a sexy vending machine in sight.

2006-06-10T20:36:00.000Z

DESPERATELY SEEKIN' THE BEACON

My friend the Beacon recently went to New York. Honestly she did. It didn't happen that she was she was asked out on an obscure date and thinking quickly responded that she "had to go to a conference in New York" and hence couldn't go. And it didn't happen that she contacted me to say:
"I need flight times quick! because he's talking out picking me up from the airport and everything and I don't know what to do!"
And it didn't happen that I had to go online and work out what flights went where to construe a convincing travel itinerary, to bolster the Beacon's elaborate lie. That's not what happened at all. And to prove she DID go, I provide here photographic evidence, for all of you unbelievers out there:

2006-06-01T09:26:00.000Z

THE RETURN OF THE JODI

That's it, I have no other reason for writing this FLOG entry other than that title. I just had to use it, I just had to wait until Jodi returned from somewhere.

And after a month of galavanting around Europe, breathing her own special blend of American crazed ultrapresence into the life of many unprepared locals of various Euopean cultures, she came back for one last adventure in Cork city. And now she's gone again, another Leeside American has repatrioted herself back stateside. I'll make an effort to remember her at her worst - and therefore most hillarious. Like the time when she decided it would be a great idea to pull down Nancy's pants leaving her standing before us with her 18s-certificate nether-eye peering at us like a frightened flushed-out rodent. Utterly exposed with a capital Utter. Or the time she soberly sipped her first sip from her full pint in the Bailey, then dropped the whole thing and ran away. Or the time she proudly exclaimed her fear of midgets. Or the time she came by my shop after downing a bottle of wine and then almost falling in the door shouting my name over and over - quite loudly - much to the amusement of the other customers. Or the time she came in and saw my boss there and rudely pointed and said, not to discreetly: "Who's THAT guy?!!" Or the time she fell in the Lee on her last day, and screamed:"aaaagh! I'm in the Lee! What do I do? What do I do?"
Anybody else with any good Jodi stories let me know... until then we salute her, the Crazy Jew!

2006-05-03T09:38:00.000Z

ERIC CLAPTON'S ENGAGEMENT

We here at THE FLOG are pleased to announce Eric Clapton's engagment to long-time beaux Christine. Congratulations Eric.

No-one else is getting engaged as far as I know, right Dave? ;-)

Christine and Eric Clapton on Eric Clapton's graduation day, when he got his MBA last summer. No-one else I know graduated around then.

2006-04-20T16:42:00.000Z

BLACK FRIDAY

With excitement unbefitting of the solemnity of Good Friday I boarded the Dublin bus, that would eventually take me to The Crapcave and a pint at the now-famous Black and Parrot. I amused myself via a text conversation with Jodi, a delightful inhabititant of the Little America area of Cork. I have great fun with Jodi, because she's teh only jewish person I know, so she bears the full frontal attack of a granary-store of racial slurs that have not until found a worthy recipient.
"When's Easter?" she had asked me a few days before.
"Ah, you know Easter... " says I, "that's when your people killed my God!" to which she guffawed appreciately.
I thought of that as I texted her from the bus:
"You'd hate it here," I texted," all the pubs are shut! What's a guy to do?"
"What?" she replied, "The pubs are never shut, what happened did the pope die or something?"
I wished for a moment then that there was a emoticon to signify a weary slapping of the brow with the palm. Instead, I replied: "No! Jesus died!"
"Oh yeah," says she, "It's like Black Friday or something"
I was about to reply with "It's GOOD Friday you crazy Jew!" before I realised it was was the Gentiles, not the Jews who were crazy - for "Black Friday" was probably a better name.

2006-03-30T20:56:00.000Z

ERIC CLAPTON'S BIRTHDAY

It's Eric Clapton's birthday today! Ain't he great. Look at him here, doesn't he look cool but horrendous at the same time:

There's nothing more special about today. that's it.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

...except that I got this email from Cian today:

Flash,

On this day every year for the past few years you've made the usual
joke to Hayman about how today is Eric Clapton's birthday chortle
chortle hardy har har. Well, I think enough is enough! That
particular horse has been flogged to death and its time we focussed on
why today is so important to Hayman; its Norah Jones' birthday today
and well you know it.

okay in that spirit:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY NORAH JONES!

Norah Jones: Isn't she lovely. And it's her birthday today and Eric Claptons but no-one elses

2006-03-20T17:06:00.000Z

POSTCARDS FROM THE DREDGE

St.Patrick's Day is a day celebrating a Welshman, celebrated chiefly by Americans, celebrated chiefly in a shade of luminous tropical green that is outside the forty-shades found lapping the hillsides of even the John-Hindiest of sunny days, celebrated in the most morally-lapsed unsaintly manner possible. In fact the only Irish people who celebrate it to the fullest is Diageo, owners of Guiness and Baileys. But wait - that's actually an English-owned company and all.

Who cares though? St. paddy's day is sanctified drunkeness, seemingly religion-sanctioned debauchery, trying to combine the Irish penchant for brew and a symbol of our clerical distinctiveness. All philosophies are a million miles away though when you're standing watching the carnivalised parade trumpeting past you on a damp and unseasonably frigid Friday afteroon. I bumped into the American 'troops'from the Little America area of Cork who live near the shop I'm spending all my time in these days. Any by sweet Jesus did they look ridulous: war paint, wigs, all this bright green shite that made me look down on my pissy browning shamrock shame-faced like the man with the tiny willy in a row of occupied urinals. I realised that in order to convery my Irishness I had to be content with the fact that I was Irish. I found myself wandering the stands with two them, Jodi-with-an-I and Kristine-with-a-K (for a nation that can't spell they sure are particular about their misspellings). Kristine-with-a-K was already sozzled with a capital S, and wandered down the road singing The Divinyls' "I Touch Myself" much to the wonderment of the four-year-old in front of her. I wandered away from the Americans and met up with fellow scholar Sarah for a bit, where we delighted in taking some bawdy pictures. Unfortunately at last report this picture was the screensaver to one of the computers in the English department:

Oh dear. But that's exactly the sort of thing all those John Hindeists should be taking pictures of to capture the spirit of the St. Patricks day of modern Ireland. Just look at some of these postcards that supposedly entice people to the Emerald Isle...

John Hinde. He must wait for that one sunny day in Ireland and then go mental with his camera. What a deceptive bastard.

(One other point about this photo: There's obviously a house on fire in the distance, why don't that badly-dressed couple DO something?)

The fact that this postcard has the words "industial estate" at the bottom of it should have been a clue that they were doing something fundamentally wrong. But that's not the only problem: It's a bloody pre-fab in the foreground. A big dirty prefab. Not only that but this postcard includes a car-park. And it looks like the Trotters' have parked their three-wheeler there.

It's field. And it looks pretty brown to me. The skanky umkempt bit of my back garden where my dog does her Mr.Whippies would get more tourists than that obvious land-fill.

It's a road in Skibbereen. Nothing more. Probably a tourist attraction for it's pot-holes. "Gee Maureen, that must be where Leprechauns live!"

How to take a picture for a postcard in Waterford: Wait for the grimmest, wettest day of the year, then wait 'til twilight. Oh and ensure you have half-obscured the only building of historical interest with a lamp-post.

Don't be fooled: That sun in the top left-hand corner has been cleverly photoshopped in. It doesn't matter how much colourdy sh*te ya border the picture with, it's BRAY. It's still got pebbles that would rip the verucas off ya, and a sea that'll bleach your pubes for free.

2006-02-21T16:09:00.002Z

THE KINDER OLYMPICS
I've been a bit lax with the medievaling recently. In fact, I've been so lax with English as a whole I find myself inventing new words - like "medievaling." I've been covorting with medievalists recently too to try and get myself on the straight-and-narrow, but even that seems to decrease my acadmic prowess. When I meet The Rich the evening usually gives the false outward appearance befitting of - as Rich is - an eloquent anglo-saxonist who offers the UCC English department with a bit of Oxford Alumni decorum. Yet there is no medieval muscles being flexed, only the biscep and tricep exercise that comes from the flow of Rich's austere taste in wine. An austere taste utterly lost on me i might add, who has the open-mouth-instert-here attitude towards any variety of alcohol - though I AM learning. About the only thing I am learning in Richard's company. His Oxford-alumni penchant for chess is also has attempted to culture me; though Rich - being legally blind - has a bizarre shaped chess set that have nipples on them. Which at six in the morning after a night of wine-tasting I find mildly exciting. Don't ask me how but I found it difficult to decipher between the King and Queen though, which probably explains my problems with women, too.

The Beacon is the other medievalist I have acquinted myself with in an attempt to inject a bit of lift into my flaccid medievaling whip. We had made earnest plans to meet and devise a studying schedule to get us both to actually work a bit. However we applied out academic inventiveness to devising a 'Sweetie Olympics' yesterday. Now, we haven't patented this idea yet so I'm trusting yous all to give us credit for this. Sarah won the Revels event, and I won the skittles. What you do is this: in the Revels event you have to pickm one out, and then judge its flavour. In the skittles even you must pull out one and put it in your opponent's hand: they must then chew and guess the colour.
Of course this is just the tip of the Fox's glacier mint. We din't even partake of the Smarties or fruit pastilles event. I'm still fighting to get the "Walkers-Tayto Challenge" recognised as a sweetie-olympic sport, and the exact rules of th M&M event have yet to be finalised. To train ourselves into the sweetie Olympics, The Beacon also bought me this haddock-cloured cola bar which had a small cartoon dog on the back with the following description: "Coola the dog: Full of bright ideas some of which are sensible. He's not convinced the kids take him seriously enough."
What the fook? Answers on a postcard to 28 monastery Hill please. I think I'll scan it and send it into www.Engrish.com.
As for sweetie training I'm not sure I'm able for it, I woke up this morning with a skittles hangover, after intaking enough E numbers to fill a comic book where someone falls off a cliff and says "aieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" in every frame. Ow! I can't even eat for Ireland. Now the Bullshit Olympics, I'd have a fair chance there.

2006-02-11T23:12:00.000Z

MESSY WESSY ADDENDUM

Just had a thought.
Don't panic it happens once in a while.

When the departure from Ballyhooley road finally happened just before christmas, it looked like me and Donna may have to take up our friend Jacqui's long-standing invitation to move in with her up in Monastery Hill. I did, but Donna, in true Aussie obstinance said:
"Nah. Shit. I'm not movin' up there, it's too faaah (far). It might as well be facking Africa."

And where do you think Donna's living now?

That's right, f*cking Africa.

2006-01-27T22:30:00.000Z

COMPUTER BOG WARRIOR

(1 - Paperboy)

2006-01-23T15:49:00.000Z

MESSY WESSY

The Yahtzee Nazi herself, Miss Donna Wescott, has taken her very wee body away from Ireland, leaving a Donna-shaped hole in Cork City. No more would I hear her intermittently screech lyrics from her iPod as she potters around the kitchen. No longer would I hear the expression "too bright" whenever we entered anywhere where the lighting level was a few degrees above pitch. No longer would I have her getting dressed and then asking me if she looked like a boy, or if she's going to work. No longer would I have her to ask me to refrain from looking at her arse. No longer would I look into her little sad face and hear her say "aw I was holding out Kev" whenever she heard of any of my romantic escapades. No longer would I hear hear her girly farts followed by a cheeky "oops!". No longer would I dance with her whilst making our way up ballyhooley road,her iPod earphones split between us. No longer would she call me Buddha whilst rubbing my year-round christmas belly for luck. No longer would I hear that classic joke :"What did the Leprechaun say to the rabbit?... f*ck off!" No longer would I get my arse kicked in scrabble, atupidly allowing Donna to include "wog" as a valid word. No longer will I hear that deeply philosophical musing: "would you rather do a donkey or a dead person?" No longer would I have trouble distiguishing between the names "Alan" and "Ellen" throught her thick Melbourne accent (or is that Malbourne?"
And no longer will the expression "f*ckin c*nts" seem as socially acceptable (I once suggested "fornicating vaginas" as a substitute, to which Donna's response was: "Keep it clean Kev..."
Poor Donna was a little emotional when we parted ways. Emotional and drunk. The dirfference bewteen drunk Donna and sober Donna is demonstrable through these two text messages she sent me, one on her last night and the next the morning of her departure.

Drunk Donna:
"kev I'm actually crying typing this. I'm going to miss you so much. I hope you come to Aus. I can't imagine not having you around"

Sober Donna:
"Hey Buddha. Just about to board. Take it easy and ya better get to Aus! Ya c*nt!"

Charming girl. I'm glad she's f*cked off.

A very Messy Wessy takes some quiet time on Christmas day

2006-01-14T16:17:00.000Z

PANZERS AUF DER UNIVERSCHEN

This Christmas, the planets were aligned in a peculiar way, not only did it give me a feast of North American-ness as has been mentioned, but also resulted in a rare meeting of the "Panzies of the Universe," a group of Portmarnock vagabonds that fancy themselves as intrepid superheroes in another plane of existence. Hayman, Crapman and I met up, along with the Crapwife and the Crapcousins, for a long night of silliness. I'm not sure where the name for our little group "the panzies of the universe" came about, but I'd like to think it's a contraction of the more masculine and fearsome "Panzers of the universe" after the German tank thingy (an easy way to make anything scary is simply to translate it into German, suddenly "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" takes on all sorts of sinster overtones). The title of "Panzies" would make it sound like a homosexual love-in, but we're all as straight as a Roman road I can assure you. Okay, so Hayman and I shared a double-bed. Okay so we talked long into the night about our dreams to set up a gay club in Portmarnock called "Port-My-Cock" (Get it?). Okay, so at certain points of the night there was almost definitley spooning, and okay, so I got random pokes from the ample Haywilly (tm). But I can assure you we're all-belching all-farting all-FHM-reading sport-watching your-mothers-a-something-joke telling bunch of chisled iron archetypes of butchness. Well, except Crapman. Me and the Hayman having been trying to drag him out of the closet for years.

It was with a weary head that I arose the next morning to make my way back to Cork. And sitting comfortably was very difficult for many hours afterwards. Thanks a lot Hayman you smelly Feckit.

2006-01-07T19:57:00.000Z

I GOT MY MONEY BACK

In October I wrote a Flog entry that utterly backfired."RID YOUR HOME OF CANADIANS OR YOUR MONEY BACK", referred to two Canadian friends of mine Kara and clim (or is that Clara and Kim? their teedle-dum and tweedle-dee aspect can result in a morphing of their identies) It read: "Now that that double-act have again departed, Cork is more serene place. No longer is there a whiney north-American drawl to razor-blade through the silence, no longer does the beamish-and-dogshit Cork air have to carry the impossibly-loud octave of a people who must all live very far apart from one another 'cause all they seem to do is shout." Not long after I get an email with "sneak attack" in the subject line. "Hey dude, just when you thought you'd gotten rid of the canadian girls we go for a sneak attack when you least expect it. We've booked flights into cork dec 21 and fly out on the 30th. and it's all your fault. we we're listening to the Pogues christmas song you burnt for kim, got tiery eyed [sic]and booked flights all within the course on 30 min."
Sketch lads.
Suddenly the stock of Megasleep Earplugs Ireland went up four hundred percent, the pubs of Ireland ordered an emergency shipment from Diageo, and the Dail passed a rushed bill to make an Hiberno-Canadian sexual coupling a finable offence. The hatches were bolted down, the airport police were put on high alert, and the nervous popuation quickly readied itself. The cattle huddled hodgepodge in the corner of their fields, the more vunerable woodland rodents scurried to their dens and burrows, and the birds - for the moment at least - had silenced their carefree chirps.
The storm was coming.
I reread the email as I sat in the internet call-shop, imagining this pre-apocolyptic scenario when something extraordinary happened. This attractive twinkle-eyed young girl came in and asked me for my contact details. But wait - that wasn't the extraordinary thing: from her lips there came an unmistakable North-American inflection that was - amazingly - soft spoken.
Lindsey, a cherubine Missourian seduced me into an entirely new North American world, to the beer-swill and bubble of the energetic U.S population. And there - typically - I found myself again, surrounded by the storm.
And then hurricane Clim hit. It was like tag-team-North-Americans: As Lindsey's plane landed in Kansas, Clara and Kim were boarding theirs in London ready to visit their home away from home. Cork was ready for 'em and so was I. I hoped. I had missed them, accents and all, and they were just the fun-and-frolicks tonic I needed after my all-too-brief exposure to Lindsey. So bring-it-on, what-up, yee-haw and rootin-tooin etc. American dollars welcome here, me love you long time.

2005-12-21T09:18:00.000Z

THE FLOG CHRISTMAS SPECIAL

(Last year's Christmas story was a confusing and wholey un-christmassy tale about the origins of Santa Claus, where St. Nicholas was actually kidnapped by eleves on behalf of consortium of global pagan creatures, and exiled to the north pole, all in an attempt to dechristianise Christmas. Yes. That was it.

This years tale comes courtesy of Crapman, who either wrote this tale or found it circulating on the net somewhere. Crapman, being an even bigger geek than yours truly, has access to the darkest sweatiest crevices of the world wide web, and has the knack of pounding out the most useless crap from the internet's layered fibres like an aul wan pounding her old hallway rug to expunge some of the generation-spanning dust particles. What I'm trying to say that Crapman could spam you more times than the word is written in the script of that Monty Python sketch. And this is just one example.
Enjoy, and Merry Christmas to all my readers, I hope you both will be very happy.)

The Story of the Knack-tivity

Dere's dis boord called Mary, yeah? She's a virgin (wha' de fook is
dah?) She's not married or nuttin', but she's got dis felleh, Joe,
righ'? He does joinery an' all dah. Mary lives with him in a flah
dowwen in Nazareh. One day Mary meets dis yungfelleh Gabriel. She's
like `Wha are yeh bleedin'lookin' ah?" Gabriel just goes "You're
fookin' pregnant so yeh are". Mary's scarleh. She gives him a fookin'
earful: "Are you bleedin' startin'? I'm no fookin' sluh. I never bin
wih no one!"

So Mary goes and sees her cousin Liz, who's six months gone herself.
Liz is on a mad buzz, bud. She's filled with spirits, Barcardi
Breezers an' all dah. She sez te Mary " Ah howeyeh, Mary, I can feel
me chiseller in me stummick and I reckon I'm well blessed. Think of
all deh money we'll be getting from deh social." Mary goes "Yeah,
s'pose you're righ'" Mary an' Joe haven't goh a fookin' bean so they
have to po nse a donkey, an'go dowwen the Behlehem on dah. Dey get to
dis boozer an' Mary wants to stop, yeah? To have her yungfelleh an'
all dah. But there's no fookin' no roohem at the inn, righ'? So Mary
an' Joe break an' into this garridge, only it's filled wih animals.
Cowis an' sheep an'all dah.

Then these three lads tourn up, lookin bleedin' rapih, wih crowens on
der heads an' all dah'. They're like "Ah Jaysis, howeyeh!" an' say
dey're deh tree wise men from de East Wall. Joe goes: 'If you're so
bleedin wiyis, wha de fook are yizzer doin' wih dis Frankenstein an'
myrrh? Why didn't yeh just bring gold, 20 Blue and Boorberry?' It's
all about to kick off when Gabriel turns up again an' sez he's got
anudder message from dis Lord hardchaw.
He's like 'Deh coppers is comin an' they're killin all de chisslers.
You better fook off to Egypt.' Joe goes 'You must be fookin' off yer
bleedin'rocker if yeh tink I'm goin' te fookin' Egypt on a fookin'
donkey' Gabriel sez 'Suit yerself, bud. But it's your look out if yeh
stay.' So they go dowwen teh Egypt till they've stopped killin deh
foorst-born an' all an' annyways it's safe an' dah.

Then Joe and Mary and Jesus go back to Nazareh, an' Jesus turns water
into Dutch Gold.

2005-12-15T16:47:00.000Z

HEADWRECKED

[warning: this review contains spoilers and nut traces]

In my recent bout of celeb-spotting, my flatmate Kieran went one up on me. Walking down Bridge Street, Cork, he saw Ed Harris. Unable to resist he went up and tapped him on the shoulder.
"You're Ed Harris." He said.
"Yeah I know." He replied.

There's nothing sexy about smoking, Ed. Haven't you seen that Nico guy?

Ed (I think first-name terms are appropriate here, having met someone who once met him and therefore a special unshakeable bond is thereby forged) was in town for the world premiere (no less) of Neil La Bute's play Wrecks, a one-man play in the form of a monologue dramatising Eddie's (I think I can call him Eddie, considering our newly-formed friendship by association) inner thoughts during his wife's removal.
As Eddie-baby (I think I can call him Eddie-baby, considering how close we've become) sparked up a herbal cigarette whilst reminiscing about his wife, some stupid person behind us - some auld biddy philistine - turns to her auld biddy philistine friend and says in a squeaky Cork pitch: "What about the smoking ban?"
Thankfully she didn't pipe up again, apart from some HRT-induced sighs at Eddie-woo-woo's (I think, after all we've been through I can call him that) most charmingly witty utterances.
But wait - what was that? An elephant had somehow acquired a hoover and was cleaning in the room behind the auditorium, clumsily banging the back-room skirting boards with about as much care and soft-touchedness as Mike Tyson playing tiddly-winks. Well, that's my theory anyway. While the audience ignored the incessant humming and thudding from somewhere outside the theatre, trying not to get some disturbing natural mental picture of whatever they associate with humming and thudding together, like Daniel O' Donnell having it off with a fridge or something, Eddie woo-woo-peach-pie-snuckims (that's my special love-name for him) broke his monologue to address the audience:
"Does anyone else hear that noise?"
Thankfully the elephant finally hoovered up all his empty peanut shells - or broke through the back wall, you know, whatever happened first, and the play could continue. There were no further interruptions, apart from one ambulance sirens a-wailing flying past our theatre, an airplane apparently flying out of control above our heads and a fart flying out from some fellas arse.
Oh yes, the fart I'd almost forgotten about that. Now, I loathe to demean the performance with this incident as one of my biggest memories of the night, but it was bloody hilarious. It was a comedy fart, you see: it manifested itself as a high-pitched squeak that sustained itself for just the right amount of time that you can't pretend it didn't happen and it actually becomes part of the show. Still, it least it'd be better than an SBD. Mind you, the perpretrator could at least blame that on the elephant next door.
The play's oedipal twist has received some mixed reviews. An Article in the Observer said that the revelation is "wholly unconvincing and cheapens" the play, when in actuality the sense of naturalism about the incest makes us question the relationship between morality, the ideal of love and the pursuit of happiness; although the only review that I could think of as I left the theatre was: "So... Ed Harris is a motherf*cker..."
I think I'm entitled to call him that. Us being such great buddies now and all.

2005-11-24T22:15:00.000Z

AROUND THE WORLD IN RACY WAYS

Reading through The Travels of Sir John Mandeville at the mo. It's a gas little book written in 1356 which also happens to be the most famous travel narrative of the Middle Ages, kicking the medieval arse of Marco Polo. I especially love some of the 14th century woodcuts included with the edition I'm reading. Here are some of them... Michael Palin's nothing on this fella I'm telling ya.

2005-11-12T22:01:00.000Z

SCARY MARY FROM TIPPERARY

Scary Mary from Tipperary, a fellow refugee from the former anonymous multinational that we worked for a few months ago, has just announced she is moving back to Cork. I should have known when Duncan's horses did turn and eat each other and other portents of a grisly doom. She told me she was coming back when I bumped into her in that must-go venue the Brog - Cork's number one dive, endowed with a special blend of wee-wee and waiting-on-that-grant-to-through unwashed academic. Immediately after she told me she was to return, she thought for a moment and with due delight said: "I'll be on your website again, yay!" So, I can't disappoint the fans eh? Although fan is a bit too strong a word maybe. If she's a fan it'd be one of those pissy ones you get in a pound shop that offer no relief from the heat and break after two days anyway.
Since I started working in the airport, Mary has taken great interest in the celebs I've been spotting there. With that in mind, on my birthday she gave me a 'Fame & Fortune' card with an inscribed card: "Here's a chance to meet your hero Marty Whelan." With excited anxiety I scratched away that grey filmy shite they put over those cards, wondering: would I match any amount and thus gain that fame and/or fortune they so brazenly promise? Or would I get the three stars I needed to get on the telly? I'm telling ya, the millions of grannies countrywide scrubbing away that heavy lead membrane every day, it becoming dust and evaporating up into the atmosphere, is probably the single biggest cause of greenhouse gases - why won't people realise?!
But, as I scratched, the environment took a secondary concern over the glitz and glamour of RTE studios, as the third star slowly revealed itself (all in an above-board kind of way) and the thought filled me: Telly here I come! I was sure Marty would pull mine from the pot, I was sure of it...

When I say that Mary was interested in the celebs I saw, I say "celebs" very tentatively because most of them wouldn't be quite on the A-list, lets just say. In fact most of them would be another 26 imaginary letters behind Z, about two letters up from yer ma and her friends. Nevertheless, here's a little list: Mary Elizabeth Mostrantonio (yer one Maid Marian from that Kevin Costner yoke), Jeremy Irons , Dylan Moran, George Hook, Dave Fanning and parliamentary pin-up Brian Cowan. Mary, hoping to better me, took herself off to the national ploughing championships - like the welly-wearin bog warrior that she is - in order to catch a glimpse of Bearlgoir Hector, as the crowning achievement of our spot-the-celeb game. Instead all she got was a paparazzi snap of winking weatherman Ger Fleming.

And now I'm cross. Why? Cause that mustachioed orange-faced baxtard Marty Whelan never pulled my name from the drum. So now all I have is my imagination to whisk me onto the programme.
"Hello there Flash..." says Marty, the light playfully sparkling the glitter in his quivering moustache as he speaks.
"Is that your real name?" he continues, glancing up from his information card.
"Well obviously not Marty."
"Oh right, well it says here that you've been working in Cork airport, tell me any big celebrities passing through there?"
"Well, Marty, there's the likes of Dave Fanning and that, it's all on my website there."
"And..." she says with a smug chuckle, "have you ever seen me there?"
"No Marty."
"Oh... well."
"But I did see you in a newsagents the other day in Malahide, Marty"
"You did?"
"I did Marty. And I followed you home then Marty."
You did..."
"Yes Marty. I know where you live now Marty. I've been back a couple of times there now Marty. Lovely place Marty."
Marty now looks around somewhat nervously.
"And I befriended your youngest daughter there Marty. And she let me have privileged access to your home Marty."
"What the..."
"And I've taken a few pictures, Marty."
"You took...?"
"Yes, in fact I've brought some of them along here tonight..."
Marty lets out a small gasp as I whip out enlarged photos pasted to card and mount the first one facing camera two.
"Here's Marty getting into the shower." I flip to the next one.
"And here's Marty coming out of the shower. It's a certain favourite of mine this one, I like the little bit of suds on the moustache particularly.And here... Here's a picture of two men in gimp masks, doing... strange things to one another, and there in the background,in the leather shorts, it's... yes: Marty Whelan."
Marty has a frozen quizzical look on his face.
"And here," I say holding yet another picture upright,"Is Marty Whelan in drag."
I take a closer look.
"No wait.. that's actually Thelma Mansfield."
I take an even closer look.
"No, wait, I was half right, it's actually George Hamilton in drag, yes! I dunno how that got in there now."
I hesitate with the last picture privately reviewing it before I decide to flash it at the camera.
"... And this one... this one, well I'm not sure if I can show this one on the television Marty, it's... well, let's just say it's Sean Moncrieff with a Dyson." "Marty?"
But Marty is now after running out of the Mmntrose complex, trying to hail a cab on Nutley lane.
But all this is just in my dreams. Sigh! I may never get to show those photographs...

2005-11-06T17:38:00.000Z

THE CORK FILM FESTIVAL (II)

Security

Watching this film was a little like working in an old hardware wholesaler. It was dank, seemed to emit a hum of fluorescent light across the cinema floor, and the Triskel Arts centre even smelt like weathered metal and grease. By bizarre coincidence, this film was also about working in an old harware wholesaler, where our hero hides himself in a box to see who's been nicking a few odd nails. Yes, that's it. The director was sitting behind me so I resisted the urge to do what Rock Hudson did during the first screening of 2001: A space Odyssey; that is, standing up and saying: "Could someone please tell me what the hell this is about?" You'd think from all this diatribe that I hated the film, but once I had adjusted to being ensconsed in the dreary film setting, it was engrossing and even endearing. Still, like masturbation with sandpaper, I'm not sure if the pleasure was worth the pain.

Frequently Asked Questions

Believe me, I had a few of those when this film was over. This is a Spanish film set in France, which means that there is not much keeling of womeeen and cheeeldren, but there is a man eating a croissant. A science fiction piece, it tells of a terrifying dystopia where women are our overlords. Just like a normal society except no-one can drive and PMS requisitions you a couple of personal days (joke!). It is also a society in which sensuality is not allowed, and you must give up your uterus to gain admission to the gestapo-like sisterhood of metacontrol. Not sure of the point they are making here except that it seems that to gain power femininity must be discarded, so power and control still seem to be a masculine aspect. Also, in a strange twist to the Nineteen-Eighty-Four formula, it is a man, Nano, who changes the female protagonist's view of the Doctine. So, an interesting film, but still prescribes to the still typically male-dominated arena of science fiction, which i think they were trying to distance themselves from.
Still, the scene where they destroy the Eiffel tower because of its phallic appearance is bloody hillarious, and will be of some solace to everyone who's had a run in with a rude parisian. There's another thing. No-one says "sacre bleu" or wears a beret. I'm sorry, but France to me is a stripey-vested old fella on a cobbled street corner chomping on a garlic. That doesn't make me ignorant, does it?

Zero Degrees of Seperation.

I saw the director Elle Flanders getting on a plane the next day. She wanted to know which way to her Ryanair flight, ignoring the Ryanair plane in front of her.
This film has stuck in my mind quite a bit, even though the synopsis didn't sound too appealling. "I wanna go see this maybe" says Donna, looking at the Film Festival programme, and I glanced at the blurb: "A unique journey through the complex lives of Israeli and Palestinian gays and lesbians in inter-ethnic relationships..." I glanced at her skeptically. "Come on," she said, her Aussie drawl stretching every syllable to its elastic zenith, "It's a bit a culchaaaaa"
"Culture, eh?"
"Na, na, na: culchaaaaaaaa"
The film, despite its promise of an insighful look at brown love in a warzone, was a treat: One of the Jewish protagonists, Ezra, challenges the border controls with an authority that outways theirs, making these encounters both engrossing and hillarious. His deadpan answer to the question "What is your desination" is "An orgy in the valley." The look of fear in the eyes of post-adolescent troops travels down the lens at the speed of light, the strain of the couples' differing political stances becomes a recurring theme throughout.
Oh, and we got a free badge. That swung it for me.

2005-10-24T13:38:00.000Z

THE CORK FILM FESTIVAL (1)

Cork Recently had its 50th annual Film Festival. I decided to check it out, mainly 'cause I don't have a telly. Here is a selection:

Minotauromaquia: Pablo Into The Labyrinth

This is basically Wallace and Gromit in Spanish. Except Wallace has become Pablo Picasso and Gromit is transformed into a big ‘aul friendly beast of the underworld intent on eating poor old Wallace. For ten minutes we see Wallace wander around a labyrinth where he’s confronted with images of his own artistry. The Wrong Trousers are there, as is that yoke he uses to wash windows. Except that it’s not Wallace remember? It’s Pablo Picasso and so the things he meets are big plasticine doodles
which frighten the bejaysus out of him. How could ‘magic morla’ be used in such a scary adult way? Bosco must be rolling in his grave.

Jean Luc Picard was worried when he suddenly found himself in the audition line for creature comforts

The Exorcism of Emily Rose

A trouser-soilingly good scary film. Based on a true story (probably in the same way as Braveheart was historical and Fahrenheit 9/11 was a documentary) the film focuses on the trial of Father Moore, who seems a goodly man, if only for the fact that he’s on trial for something other than playing polishing the candle-holders with the alter-boys. In a series of flashbacks, we’re told of the fate of Emily, who starts off as a mile epileptic psychotic but ends up being possessed by six demons, including Hitler, Nero and even Lucifer. Honestly, at least Regan only had the devil – six is just plain greedy. Jennifer Carpenter does a convincing and terrifying turn as the embattled Emily Rose, without any pea-soup in sight. I like a good scary film, but this one almost made me have an accident. Honestly, at particular moments, I thought my rectum would prolapse, or at least leave the mark of Flash for future generations on the Cork Opera House seats. Upon leaving, I listened to the uppity techno-bable of the seasoned movie buff around me. “I think the use of music was executed with hitchcockian perfection” uttered one velvet-jacketed poseur; another may have said “I think the lighting was inconsistent and served only to labour the point on some occasions.” And then there was me: “I think I shat my pants!” Which would have been as effective as any review.

Emily Rose:
Never playfully dollop ketchup on your girlfriend’s forehead when she’s having her monthlies:
Click here

2005-10-03T16:57:00.000Z

RID YOUR HOME OF CANADIANS OR YOUR MONEY BACK

I finally managed to oust all of the Canadian contingent of Cork. Clara had been gone for many months, Kim recently also toddled off to meet her, and Ellie – my roommate who taught me all about my ‘horny electricity’ – jetted off to sunny Bilbao to impress her whirlwind canuck-Irish temperance on an unsuspecting basque population. She’s probably one of the more explosive things to pass through that country in recent times.

The taxi-driver rapped on our door promptly at 5 a.m. on the morning of their departure, heard by everyone except Ellie and her fella Javi themselves. Not wanting to barge into her bedroom, I decided to call her by phone. I had to ring her several times, which is no mean feat considering the only way I can get reception is by pressing my face up against the third floor bathroom window or leaving the house entirely and going up to the grotto up the road where the Virgin Mary seems to be a good conduit for talking to more than just God. But she was smiling at me that day, I managed to place a call through to Ellie from our living room - and I gave Mary a thankful nod through the window from where we can see her glow in her neon-blue electric holiness. A few minutes later I heard a shuffle and a panicked ruckus, before they finally spilled out the door of 53 Ballyhooley Road for the last time. She knocked on my door to offer me an appreciative teary goodbye. She got in return a heartfelt pillow-muffled “nynnngg”.

As if clocking in for their Canadian-in-Cork shift, Clara and Kim returned just as Ellie left. It was nice to see them again though, especially Clara who had gone missing for an age and a half. It’s always interesting to hear a foreigner's take on things Irish, the absurdity of things buried in a peat-bog of multiple absudities, where oddities of our land are preserved but forgotten about.
"Your ads on T.V are crazy" Kim said with a poignant eloquence that somehow broke through her beery slurs, "every second one is for some sort of yogurt or something that helps your digestion. All the others are for loans. You guys have to stop spending money on expensive yogurts that help your digestion and then you wouldn't need loans." I was about to argue that Ireland isn't in fact obsessed with it's digestive tract when Clara kindly reminded me of that chat-up line I used on her: "Do you want to come in for a cup of tea? I've got peppermint tea, you know it's very good for your digestion..." More fool her though. The line actually worked.

Now that that double-act have again departed, Cork is more serene place. No longer is there a whiney north-American drawl to razor-blade through the silence, no longer does the beamish-and-dogshit Cork air have to carry the impossibly-loud octave of a people who must all live very far apart from one another 'cause all they seem to do is shout. And do you know what? I'm going to miss it. After spending so long bumping randomly into Canadians - after for so long not really believing it was a real country at all - the silence will be deafening.
Oh well, I've plenty of hillarious accents around me to keep me happy for a while. I do live in Cork after all.

2005-09-19T14:20:00.000Z

CUCKOOS KNOB... ISN'T THAT AN ALE?

So I've left that middle age trollop that is the Wife of Bath. I cracked my medieval whip all over her ass and she's still annoying me. I'll go back to her in time, 'cause I'm not quite finished with the know-it-all whore. The Irishman in me is pumped up to full wife beating potential; I'm told by the Canadians and Aussies that I've surrounded myself with that it's an endownment of our angry celtic-viking blood, which is bollocks 'cause I've never laid a hand on any of those Canadians nor Aussies that I've surrounded myself with. Headbutted them all to f*ck, but never raised a fist.

After I wrote in PIMP MY BRIDE, I realised I know a real-life Wife of Bath. Recent nuptualissimo Knoola and her hubby Rimmer have recently bought a place in Bath, which is good 'cause they both need a wash. Probably a good thing they're leaving Wooten Bassett: Crapman highlighted some of their nearby towns, including "Sodom" and "Cuckoos Knob." Check for yourself, copy and paste their post code SN4 7DN into this website). As if the name "Wootten Bassett" wasn't bad enough, which doesn't sound rude as such but might as well have been called "flatulent dog" which is never pleasant.

Incidently I put in the postcode from when I lived in brighton, BN1 6DR and got this, which considering its being the gay capital of England, it's hardly surprising. Which by the way is NOT why I lived there. Ahem.
So, just to prove my heterosexuality, I'm off to whack a few ladies about the place.

2005-09-14T14:14:00.000Z

YAHTZEE NAZI

Not having a television is bad for your mental health. Too many nights in the local, with no entertainment to go home to except a puzzle-book, a Scrabble board and a travel version of Guess Who. A shopping trolley on the way home from the pub becomes a veritible endophin-overloading medium of pleasure. I had Donna, my tiny wee Aussie flatmate pushing me in it up the topographical nazi that is the hill of Wellington Row. Her child-like muscles struggled with my portly frame, veering me this way and that until eventually crashing me into a car. A sing-song Cork cry rang out: "Be Careful!" signifiying that - the talented people that we were - we managed to whack against the only occupied parked car in the whole of the McCurtain Street environs.
Pure skill.
In an effort, then, to try and get us to spend more evenings at home not getting into mischief, Donna decided that buying dice was the only way to go -demonstating perfectly reasonable logic - and relax with some evening games of Yahtzee. I suggested nude wrestling but she wasn't going for it. I met her in the city centre and so began our quest to find dice. Toymaster, Smyths, the 2-Euro Store, both Euro Stores, The Pound Shop, the "Mmmad!" gadget shop, the other gadget shop, The Discount Store, the other Discount store, Other Realms, The Sports stores, Tescos, Dunnes, The English Market - none of them had dice, and Donna even found it hard to understand why newsagents didn't have them. I told her that lose dice weren't really stockable items, because most people lacked a degree of sanity that she lacked. So, our tails between our legs, we were about to head to the pub in consolation when we happened upon a small oldey-worldy toyshop called Pinochio's, where they stocked every variety of Donna's dice, whereupon she spent half an hour deciding on colours, and the another half-an-hour deciding on a size. This is a woman, after all, who spent a month trying to buy Jeans, and will only buy bog roll from Dunnes 'cause Tescos turd paper is "too expensive." So home we went to play Yahtzee, which is far shittier than our lost afternoon warrented; and do you know what else? It's perfectly playable in the pub.

Yahtzee: All you get is dice in a big box

2005-09-06T15:21:00.000Z

WHERE'S MY FLOG YOU BASTARD

... so read an angry text from flogophile Crapman. He then had the audacity to ask me for a favour. Snivelling little f*cker. He wants me to help him think up his name for his website. Hmmm. What about something like this?

2005-08-09T15:26:00.000Z

PIMP MY BRIDE

Another wedding came to the fore again recently, this time it was Sabs, a dear old friend of mine, from back in the mists of time, since the B.A days where it all began. Back then the medievalist whip I keep trying to crack now was but a stump, and now it's fully erect and whipping all over the place. Well kind of. At the moment I need some medievalist viagra, the Wife of Bath is giving me grief, the smelly whore.

But the Wife of Sabs was neither a whore, nor was she (as far as I'm aware) smelly. In fact, she was (as a homeless woman on the streets of Dundalk noted)only fabulous. I had to scarper, sadly, as something momentous was happening elsewhere in the country: after a long and exhaustive search, I had proved that I wasn't quite the unemployable wretch I thought I was, and Cork airport kindly came to my rescue, starting the day after the wedding. And just in the knickers of time too: things had got so bad that Crapman had recently offered me a tenner if I piggy-backed him from one end of the 'Nock to the other, and after getting as far as the bollards at Burrow Court, just metres from the Crapcave, he gave up on me and gave me 2 Euro for my trouble. I went out immediately and bought a wonka bar, to try and find that elusive fifth ticket, but there was no climatic moment where my poverty would be destroyed and my dreams were realised in an instant. Bastards.

Sorry, now, where was I? Ah yes I was talking about wives and stuff. Having recently hit 27, a startling thought just struck me. I remember many years ago... oh wait, imagine if you will a bubbly shimmer, accompanied by strokes on a harp. That's right - look out I think I'm having a Flashback. The harp strokes fade out and I'm in Washington D.C. with Hayman, and there's a fortune teller with my hand in hers and I'm wondering what the hell is going on. Moments ago, myself and Hayman had misinterpreted a sign saying "The Amazing Angelina - two sessions for five dollars" and went in trouserially augmented. Now she was telling my future and the 'aul happy lad is draining back to size. "You weeel haff a long life," she says in a Latino slur, "but samtheeeng weeel jchjappen to youuu that weeel mean youuu weeel nearly die." As I'm trying to get my head around her extra eeeeees and consonants that sound like a klingon's dying gasp, I finally cop that she was telling me that one day I'd neeeeeeeearly die. Great. But that isn't the worst of it. Wait - an interruption: Some Spanish flows in from another room - an older voice, female, where Angelina, amazing as she was retorts something back in defiance. I'd like to think she was saying "Mama I'm weeeth a very important client heeere, extremely jchjandsome by the way," but it was more likely "Angelina, what are you doing in your room?" - "Just telling some sucker his fortune, Mama, so shurrrrup, I'll be down for me bleedin' dinner in a minute." Then she settles back to gazing mystically in my hands, looks up and says (and this is the scary bit I was telling you about) "youuu weeel be marrieeed when youuu are twenteee-seben" - My heart drops - "and you weeel jchjave treeee cheeeeldren by the time youuu are theeirty." My heart crashes to the ground like Marlon Brando in a defective Bungee. Married when I'm 27? Three kids by thirty? Bloody hell!
So here I am, at 27, in my year of destiny. Some of the girls here in Cork and now looking for a wife suitable for me, and I realise that Angelina may have been Amazing after all. The girls never knew about that incident in Washington in 2002, which makes it all a creepy coincidence. So I hope the girls do a good job. They can hold auditions, maybe, and I'm sure I.T.V will approach them for a reality T.V series. They can call it: "Pimp my Bride" or "I'm In An Arranged Marriage - Get Me Out Of Here!" Send a picture, along with measurements and a list of likes and dislikes (including bedroom openness) to findawifeforflash@hotmail.com. The search is on. Apparently.
(The Wife of Bath need not apply.)

The Wife of Bath. What a ho.

2005-07-31T12:09:00.000Z

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.

2005-07-26T13:11:00.000Z

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.)

2005-07-20T13:47:00.000Z

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.

2005-07-09T16:14:00.000Z

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.

2005-06-25T14:02:00.000Z

BLOODY STUDENT

Fly up? Check. Food on face? Check. Stray snots? Check.
Thus, with pretended elegance and great aplomb I delivered my paper at the medieval conference. As I whittled on, I saw some brows furrow in an attempt to grasp what the hell I was going on about, but after twenty minutes these was an appreciative applause. Phew, I had got through it. As one representative of the University of Geneva said: “I liked that book you gave us in twenty minutes!” Okay so I packed a lot in, but it was worth it, when else would I be in a position to address my peers and seniors in such a dramatic background as Oxford? Even the frolicking Lincoln university students could not hamper our collective spirit of erudite playfulness. Even working in such close affiliation with Trinity representatives didn’t seem to matter. It was all a big back-slapping wine-sipping academic love-in, and I was lubed up to the nines. The event degenerated into a faux-sophis drinking session, carrying ten pizza’s from Pizza hut back to the co-organisers apartment, which just so happened to be a former crash-pad of none other than Billy Shakespeare. He was a guy what wrote some plays and stuff.
We polluted the ghostly magnificence of the place with improper table manners and our teaching of the C-word to a Dutch student. I realised I was edging towards the Oxford profanity of debasing the 500-year old majesty of the town with my presence.
Just like a bloody student.
Aw well, more lube anyone?

2005-06-23T12:58:00.000Z

I FARTED SO I'LL FINISH

Oxford is a city that has to worm its way around a collected mass of some 39 colleges, like polyfilla working its way between the cracks. In a recent article, The Econonomist said: "The university is essentially a collection of medieval monasteries run like a workers' co-operative." I don't really associate grandiose end-of-ear party mayhem with monkish behaviour. There was no dark age solemnity here, just first and second years wandering around ridiculously dressed up to the nines for their end of year exams, followed by some beer-soaked after-party revelry. From this vantage point, you could see people who a few hours before looked like thay were classically trained to reingest potential farts, degenerate into a gaseous escape of chaos.

I stood on the sidelines and observed the local customs, as part of the tweedy conference entourage. Oxford city is actually a giant campus, with highly condensed landmarks within a small radius. It was a tourist dream, and I had to do something a bit touristy within the small window I had available. So I went on the Oxford Story, a Dvblinia type of exhibition. There was no-one about so I felt a bit like Britney Spears, having to shop after hours to avoid mixing with the "normies" of society. The tour began by having to sit in this old fashioned student's pew, that turned out to be in fact a car on what was a fancified ghost train. Through my earpiece I could hear Mastermind's Magnus Magnusson explaining the sights around me. The "train" takes you up a type of winding staircase, and gave me the sheer willies as it creaked and cranked my 12 stone frame up its steep incline. I wasn't so self conscious about my weight as I was then, especially as Magnus seemed to explain stuff quicker than the feeble mechanics seemed to be able to pull me. I was afraid for a while he'd be talking about Oxford's 20th century alumni while I was still looking at Roger Bacon (13th century). To make matters worse, I envisaged a catastrophic snap, leaving me spindle down the track Temple of Doom-style
having to fist-fight some Indian demonic cult members as I did so, before crashing dramatically out the front door, plowing through a heap of ridiculously-dressed-up exam goers, and eventually getting lodged in some 15th century bookshelf in the Bodleian library.
But wait, what was that? Magnus Magnusson, the bloke with the learned air from the brainiest programme on telly just said: "in the Middle Ages, people thought the Earth was flat..."
Tut, tut tut. That is one of those myths that just won't go away. This offensive miscarriage of history was perpertrated by Legend of Sleepy Hollow author Washington Irving in the 19th century, in a single sentence. Let the word go forth. Think about it though, how can any civilisation that observed the stars possibly not give the Earth a spherical shape? Ah Magnus, you're only a tool.

Magnus Magnusson
Look at him there. What a spa.

2005-06-10T12:01:00.000Z

MY CUSTOMS CUSTOM

Cracking my medievalist whip, I ventured to Oxford. My trip began in the traditional way for me, with me being stopped In U.K customs for a reason I have yet to determine. I can count on one hand the amount of times I've flown into England and I haven't at least been stopped momentarily. It's not as if I wear my "Al Qaeda Aren't So Bad" tee-shirt every time I fly. Or do I have an I.R.A Doppelganger out there somewhere? No wonder I was so nervous going to Belfast, I must have a "quality" that says "This guy's trouble." If not a quality, I do have a tee-shirt that says that. Note to self.
This time I was stopped, taken aside and asked to fill out this questionnare, while the copper flicked through my passport asking me what I was doing in the U.S in 2002 et cetera. I just calmly accepted the drumming of questions with a resigned patience, I felt like one of the usual suspects in a police line-up. Afterwards I heard the familiar:
"Nothing to worry about sir, just a random check," He said as he was cramming an endoscopic camera in a tender place. Okay, so I made that last bit up, but I did laugh to myself about the intrusiveness of this "random check," and wondered about the mathematical possibility that 8 out of ten visits should result in a "random" check. I mean, how long would it be until I heard:
"Sorry Sir, it's just a random strip search."
"Sorry Sir, it's just a random crevice inspection."
"Sorry Sir, it's just a random brutal beating."
"Sorry Sir, it's just a random forced-confession signing."
"Sorry Sir, it's just a random being jailed for 15 years for a crime you did not commit due to a gross perversion of justice."
"Oh, no problem, you're just doing your job!"

Mind you, maybe they're all reading the Flog and have targeted me as a trouble-maker.
Oops.

So let me finish off by saying how much I admire Her Majesty's Police Force. They are consummate professionals, and their helmets don't look in the least bit like breasts. The next time I fly to Englan I know a part of me will be sad if my old friends don't give me at least a quick acknowledging penetrating stare.
"Have you forgotten me?" I'll say, "I feel so, so common..."

2005-06-03T15:29:00.000Z

THEY ONLY COME OUT AT NIGHT

The next day I found myself in Belfast, a city I've had no reason to visit in my 26 years on this Earth. Clara and Bonnie were shocked, before I explained to them that for the longest time it didn't offer much to the youthful southern male unless you liked getting your head kicked in.
Naturally I was terrified, and the uneasy quiet that descended on the city centre circa eight o'clock in the evening didn't help matters much. It was a bit like the opening sequence to 28 days Later, except spookier. I couldn't shake the feeling of "What do they know that we don't?" whenever I saw a lone individual lurking the streets at night like we were; no doubt they had emerged from their bunkers in order to scavange some food for their trembling terrified families.
"Why is it so quiet?" Clara mused.
The truth hit me.
"Because they come out at night!"
"Who?"
"The Protestants!"

The two Canadians persuaded me to get up the next morning and take one of the Black Cab Tours of Belfast. Now, for those of you not in the know, this a tour that is is scarier than any Ghost Train in existence, it kicks that Ghostbus tour thingy's ass. For the first forty-five minutes, as the driver drove us into the heart of the Shankill road loyalist stomping ground, I couldn't shake off the feeling I was entering the confines of Mordor, or I was a bit like the bit in Star Wars where they infiltrate the Death Star. The Tour guide was great, encouraged the two Canadians to get out and take a few photos, but added with no sense of comfort to me, that he himself was too scared to get out of the cab. So, folks, I dressed in a strormtrooper outfit and walked across the Shankill Road heartland, being sure to keep my mouth shut the whole time. The tour guide had pointed out one mural of interest:
"Notice," he said in apt ghost-story register, "that this painting of a UVF gunman is painted in such a way that the gun seems to be pointing at you no matter where you stand!"
"Look at him!" said Clara in a loud and proud voice, as we were in the middle of the estate, "he knows your Catholic!"
My eyes darted around to see if anyone was pointing at me screaming Invasion-Of-The-Body-Snatchers style, but thankfully no-one had hear her. Nevertheless I was terrified that Clara's not-too-unsubtle voice should boom some secret information to the rather stern-looking locals.
Somehow I managed to get back into the cab trousers-unsoiled. I felt a little more comfortable I have to admit once we had driven into the Catholic side, and especially when the cab driver himself revealed his own particular bias. And when I say more comfortable I felt that for the first time I could actually speak. And just in case we were in any doubt as to the nature of his affiliation, he took us into the Sinn Fein headquarters no less. And further doubt dissipated when he was in the middle of a stirring oration about Bobby Sands and some mate of his opened the cab's passenger door and had a chat with him. Clara thought it was hillarious:
"So Irish!" she said.

So he drove us back to the hostel and I felt like a new man. I was so relieved I felt I was inhaling for the first time that day. I had never been so self-conscious about my accent. Nor had I ever felt so partisan: I couldn't help but look at Clara disapprovingly as she took a picture of Oliver Cromwell, knowing that he dispossessed my own ancestors. Now though, with a shake of the head and with comfort of distance, I am able to divorce myself of the age-old conflict to lament on the tragedy of Northern polictical history, for both sides. Still, being at its crucible of the historical drama, I couldn't help but feel my heart being pushed in one direction.

After the tour, the fear was not over. It followed me all the way up the Antrim coast, along every winding road, at every roundabout and intersection. For being driven by a Canadian - thats a real real trouser-soiling experience.

2005-05-30T14:30:00.000Z

STRANGE BRU

Hey folks, I'm back, ye all miss me?

Well Clara came back into town once more, despite strict instructions i left with the immigration authorities no to let her back into the country under any circumstances. My constant correspondence with the Special Branch, plying them with photos of her with the caption "known terrorist" seems to have gone unnoticed. So she slipped through the net somehow, and I met her and her mother in the Porterhouse once more. We visited the whiskey distillery in Dublin, where I warmed my cockles (yes I said "cockles") on some free Jamesons. It gave your a warmer glow per euro than the arse-rapers at the Guinness Brewery I tell you that much for free. Clara volunteered her mum to be an official Whiskey taster, a job she enjoyed with a relish that belied her previous "Oh I don't drink much at all!"
Come To Ireland, And Leave Your Liver: Bord Failte you can have that one for free.

The next day they coaxed me on a bit of a road trip. Bonnie (that's Clara's mom) decided to rent a car, and so began one of the most hair-raising adventures of my life. Clara wouln't ride shot-gun, as she was too terrified, and all I'll say is that my fringe has whitened considerably and I'm sure my underpants received a couple of fresh understains on the journey. One unexpected problem came from the layout of roads around Newgrange. If you choose to drive up the wrong end, so that Newgrange is conveniently right in front of you, you are told to drive for half an hour in towards Slane, where no doubt you'll get lost again like we did, and then get ushered like a tourist-cow into a little exhibit-pen, where you're milked for all your worth if you don't have your purse-strings tied up in a shipman's knot.

Yet Brú na Bóinne was passage-tomb-tastic. The five-thousand year old mysticism, mystery and majesty interrupted only by the whiney drawl of a Canadian accent. Well at least Clara has learned one valuable lesson. It was older than the Pyramids. It was an interestingly spooky experience: When the tour guide switched out the lights to emulate the winter solstice, the old lady next to me asked whether or not there was ghosts. What didn't help was that when total darkness was achieved, she grabbed my arm in a panic. I got a bit of a shock, which serves me right, as I was just supressing the urge to do owl impressions.
Bye the bye, I just got a text message from Clara: "totally smuggled and swiss army knife into the airport..."
I told them! But would they listen?

The Brú na Bóinne Visitors Centre sometimes likes to hide in the woods.
It can be coaxed out by biscuits, clucking sounds and American accents

When you arrive in the Boyne Valley, no need to remember to look at signs. This plonker delights in reminding you.

When visiting Knowth, be careful. This is NOT a passage-tomb. His name is Paddy and he just wants to be left alone.

2005-05-10T22:20:00.000Z

THE BARTENDER, THE BLACK, THE PARROT, THE HORSE, THE BUTTERFLY, THE TASMANIAN DEVIL AND THE STAGS

Ventured Dublinward again I met up with Sarah, a wee Clontarf cherub, and Jim O'Hara, a good mate and complete English wanker. He was over for an English stag do, which made him the bane of Dublin existence. Yet this was no ordinary Stag do. Oh no. The groom was almost 75 years of age, and his entourage wasn't much younger. The group probably had an average age that rivalled that of the Rolling Stones. Still, it must have been hard for them. Viagra took care of that.
To my surprise, Crapman and Awn-ya turned up, in a rare venture into the city centre. I refer to her as Awn-ya here, as I got into trouble for referring to her as the "Crapwife" in a recent Flog entry. Her sister Knoola called her to rat on me: "Did you see what Flash wrote on the Flog, he called you the Crapwife?!", but the Crapwife herself turned out not to be so crap, who explained to her the etymology of the term, being a compound noun derivitive of Crapman. Why Crapman is called Crapman is an etymological and historical quagmire you will thank me if I don't clarify.
A laugh was had, and the crap jokes spewed out. For James' benefit, Crapman wheeled out an old favourite of Hayman's. And by old favourite I mean he tells the gag every time you meet him (it starts off as if it's going to be a racist joke, but afterwards you realise it's not so don't worry!):
"A black man walks into a pub with a pub with a Parrot on head. The Barman says: 'Where did you get that?' and the Parrot says: 'In Africa, it's f*ckin full of 'em!'"
Anyway, suitably steamed we made our way home on the drinklink, where a red-faced blathered aged drunk decided to sit down next to Crapman. The look of mild panic on his face was hillarious, he looked like a small boy trying to comprehend why Santa may not exist. This look only intensified when I said:
"He seems like a lovely fella, do you want me to introduce you to him?!"
The fella chatted away to nothingness, hardly comprehensible, pausing every once and a while to emit a slurpy puffy laugh. Well, it was either a laugh or he was farting through his head. We only deciphered a couple of sentences through the nonsense:
"He says he can speak in morse code (slurpy puffy laughter), not f*ckin likely!"
"And what code are you speaking in buddy? " is what I wanted to say but didn't. It's probably safer not to penetrate his booze-cloud, I thought, a sudden snap into reality might've been too much for him, he was so heavily saturated it probably would've given him the bends.
The second time coherence almost surfaced was: "blahbubblebinggrizzlerangdibbler (think the Tazmanian Devil highly excited) ringblitherburpwillybummerwuzy, (slurpy puffy laughter) they said drink was involved..."
"Really?" I said, "Do you think?"

The following day I went down to Awn-ya's gaff in the afternoon, to watch Crapman pick up a bucketload's-worth of doggie poo from the back garden. Just the sort of social activity that all friends should enjoy together. Having watched that for 20 minutes I somehow tucked into a mammy-made meal and took myself into town to meet Butterfly and Courto. A swift chat, a brief lament for lost loves, a gentle hug and a friendly smile, and I was on the road again, back to the 'Nock once more, back into
Awnya's to test out her new bar, the same bar that I wrote of a few Flog-entries ago that me and crapman had nearly died whilst transporting there. After much intoxication we finally agreed to Christen it "The Black and Parrot." The "Afro-American and Parrot was suggested, but it was quickly discarded. I told a joke to christen the bar:
"A Horse walks into a bar, and the Barman says: 'Where did you get that?' The Horse says: 'What?' And the Barman says:
'Oh sorry, I though you were someone else...'

2005-05-06T14:33:00.000Z

PUBE GRUB

The Flog seems to have gone full circle, I find myself here again in sunny Brighton. There are some changes to the landscape; firstly the Western Pier had suffered a sad death since I last visited, a victim of an arson attack in recent times. Its blackened corpse still stood definantly against the blue horizon, a grisly charred skeleton that emitted a strange sort of beauty as the sun descended, painting the shadowy frame with its ruddy licks.
The other change to the landscape is that Clara was here; coincidently, I find myself visiting her here almost on the anniversary of my last visit, which also made it on the Flog. The weather was hungover and Clara was damn hot, or perhaps it was the other way around. To take advantage of the sunshine, Clara bought herself a frisbee, despite the fact that the beach was blacker than the Western Pier with people. Throwing it would have resulted in - at worst - a fight, or - at best - a nicked frisbee. Clara was giggling as she opened the packaging on the Frisbee.
"What is it?" says I. She pointed to the packaging which read "Not suitable for children under three due to small parts."
"That's got to be one heck of a three-year-old that tries to swallow a frisbee," says Clara. I tapped the label on the red plastic.
" Sorry, not Frisbee: 'Flying Disc'"
"Correction, Professional Flying Disc "
I was nominated by some mysterious non-verbal bitch-whipped method to carry around said 'Flying Disc' for the remainder of the day, never even getting to see its maiden flight. Probably a good thing though, I'm suspicious of any game which a dog could beat me at. A dog, I tell you. Evolution happened for a reason, damn it.

I met up with some old buddies there, all the old Blimey's crowd. I lived in Brighton for half a year about, spending more time that was healthy in a small pub on the Western Road that was then called Blimey O'Reilly's. Of course, with a name like that most Irish people would avert it like the plague, assuming it to be pornographically twee and oirish in the Tom-Cruise-and Nicole-Kidman-starring-in-Far-And-Away sort of a way. Yet, It's there where I warmed my barstool with many a Guinness-fart, and endured potato-farmer jokes and single-handedly financed its overhaul and metamorphosis into the hip, chilled-out The Jugger pub. From there, I gained my stout buddha-belly, from there I developed a taste for the world famous British Kebab, originating in India. Ah, it was good times.
So on my return to Brighton, I met Lyndsay and Simon, two of my highly traumatised ex-barpersons, along with Dave, one of the old regulars, and it was like slipping on an old glove. An old glove that was sweaty and smelt like booze.

Speaking of such tasty images, I savoured the tastes of Brighton with Clara and company. Well maybe savoured is too strong a word. One occasion had us plowing into some pub grub in the Bath and Arms in the lanes (I name them for shame), only to get to the bottom of the dish to find what could only be a soft curly pube sitting at the bottom. We all gasped, and Clara's Friend Rachel gagged.
The Naked Chef, how are you. Why do I immortalise in the Flog things that are more likely to scar me for life?

The Western Pier: One more payment and it's mine!

2005-04-29T15:31:00.000Z

SOMEWHERE, OVER THE BALLYHOOLEY ROAD...

Work-dos are strange things. Seeing persons out of their natural habitat, behaving like human beings instead of the mindless drones that the Anonymous Multinational has cultivated utterly resores your faith in humanity. It's a bit like seeing your teacher out and about around the town and not stowed away in the classroom cupboard as expected.
Anyway, it was clear that everyone needed to get out of their cupboards and relieve executive stress in their own unique way - and as public masturbation is still a taboo, it mostly manifested itself in excessive alcohol intake. In fact, it came close to public masturbation when Barry whipped out his baby Barry to exhibit his new piercings. I hesitate to immortalise that event on The Flog as my therapist advised me that "I need to forget". Still, the nightmares are becoming less frequent.

So we rolled from the house party to the Franciscan Well, and from there to the Brog (as usual). Several things of great interest happened I'm sure, but my toxicant-affected brain now confuses them with old episodes of Rainbow. Imagine my surprise to turn around to see George snogging Zippy, and Bungle telling Jeffrey that he hated his "f*ck*n guts" and that he "dressed like a homo."

At 3:00 AM I left the festivities and began the trek up to Ballyhooley Road. I decided to an alternate route, you know just to mix it up a bit. I then decided to try a short cut, so I veered off Wellington Road (I think) and tryied to see if I could find some sexy route down towards St.Lukes Cross. What I in fact did do was end up in some guy's back garden, just as he swung around the house on his way home from the club.
Startled, he looked at me.
"Er sorry mate, just looking for a short cut."
To my relief, he broke out in a braod smile and said, "no shortcut there boy, just a cliff!"
I realised I was wavering drunkenly by a sheer drop, and I could see my house in the distance, tiny and unattainable. Two or three more steps and I would've been halfway home, probably minus my life. I was looking for a short cut but that would've been takin the piss.
So there I was, to quote the Rainbow themesong: "Up above the steets and houses." I rolled home again eventually, and after survivng a indiana-jones-esque death-defying moment, I fell over a pair of boots in the hallway with an echoing, house-shaking thud. I hurried back back to my cupboard where I belong, putting a sign outside stating that I was not to allowed out under any circumstances without adult supervision.

2005-04-28T16:43:00.000Z

FLOGOFAILING

In the Anonymous Multinational and moments ago Mary, a disgruntled Flogophile, referred to me as a "disgrace" for not not updating the old Flog. She threw her nose up at me in contempt, and with a single venomous look in her eye she spat on my resolve and my boring un-relate-worthy life. I laughed it off, but inwardly I cried.
Flogging has been difficult this week, it's been busy and I've hardly had time for a fart or a heartbeat. I'm trying to do several things at once right now, (1) writing a bit of this medieval whip-cracking thesis, (2) eating a sandwich, (3) logging a call from a woman who thought she'd have her computer before the weekend and oh my God how is she going to do her work now that she's leaving and can't take her laptop with her and I hope that I realise how I've ruined her day but like oh my God what a sexy accent I have anyway. (4) Writing this bollocks, (5) continue an inner daydream where there is no such thing as computers, Federal Express and Americans (irrate ones). Crapman, the bollocks, has just sent me this cartoon:

I feel like i might cry again.

2005-04-20T13:00:00.002Z

THE CHRONICLES OF HERNIA

I put my stab-proof vest on last weekend, Crapman was in trouble in Limerick, and only his faithful sidekick could help. I arrived half-expecting to find him hovering above an easily-escapable death trap, possibly a vat of rats with pre-poisoned teeth or something less expensive, with a candle slowly burning through a rope. But no, it was worse than that. Crapman, and the Crapwife (Awn-Ya) was in the middle of a furniture-removal nightmare.

And so the tetris began; Crapman slotted furniture in the back of the van so tightly I was sure that some rows of furniture were sure to disappear. Sadly though, 1970's computer games have little basis in reality. Wouldn't it be great if you were being chased by some stab-happy Limrecians and all you'd have to do is eat some fruit and then you can chase after them and chomp them pac-man style? Or if you could single-handedly deflect an alien invasion, as they descended twards the earth in nice, orderly and predictable fashion? Or if you died you could get a continue as long as you had sufficient change in your pocket? imagining that last one, I see myself at the pearly gates, St. Peter looking disappovingly at my tissue, lint, and cents that I fished out of my pocket and plonked in his hand. "Quickly!" I say, "Give that to God, before the countdown runs out!"

Unfortunately though, life 'aint a video game, and no matter how tightly Crapman packed, nothing disappeared. Yet he still managed to get it all in. Tight and firm.
Man, I bet he's good in bed.
Well, maybe not that good: As myself and Awn-Ya made our way back to Dublin with a fish-tank on our laps. Minus the fish of course, we had carefully packed them in freezer bags, which must've scared the shit out of the fish as alongside the icons for meat and poultry, there was a little fish icon. The poor little guys probably thought they were destined to be breadcrumbed and grilled like so many of their mates. So, when we swung by a hole of a McDonalds in Roscrea, Fish somehow didn't seem the most savory item on the menu. And in the unsavoury little hole of a McDonalds in Roscrea, that was quite an achievement.

Four dead legs later, we arrived in Finglas, where Crapman heroically deconstructed our Tetrised load. Here Crapman was low-tech, as he had switched from Tetris to Jenga, loading up the storage facility to dangerous heights. It was only when we got back to the Nock did the real physical challenge begin. Awn-Ya had bought a whopping great big yoke that was supposed to be table. It was basically a big tree that was fashioned everso slightly to look like a little less like a tree. As beautiful as it was, this item of furniture had as much weight as it had beauty, and pulling it into the temporary crap-cave wasn't too fluid let's just say. Hernia time.
No problem for two super-hero types like us, however, and in fact we were in more mortal danger tucking into our celeboratory Abrakebabra's afterwards. So now, along with my biceps and my triceps, my stomach lining no longer liked me. I felt like I might be going to those pearly gates sooner than I thought.
Game over.
No continues.
(And no, I didn't go for the fish.)

Tetris: A bit like masturbating with sandpaper

2005-04-12T17:49:00.000Z

IN KILKENNY WITH KIM PENNY

(and Donna Wescott, but she doesn't rhyme)

Our planned trip to Kilkenny finally blossomed, after much stopping and starting, which was incidently a bit like the bus journey there. Donna, with a sudden hankering for peanuts, had a fumble in the overhead luggage compartment as the bus lurched around a particularly vicious corner, and nearly did a graceful twirl down the stairs and through the emergency exit, out into a pot-hole-frenzied boreen, rolling into a nearby field with some nonchalant cows who looked in desperate need for exactly that sort of excitement.
Luckily though me in my heroic manliness saved her from such a fate. And by heroic manliness I mean I got in the way.

They call Kilkenny the Marble City, which is ironic in a way as everyone in the town seems to have lost 'em. There was so many stag and hen parties out that night running amok that I felt like I was on Animal Farm, there were horny hens clucking in one corner and stags clashing antlers in the other. And there was me, Kim, Donz and Scary Mary and her extended family in the middle of the sweaty animal melange of Matt The Miller's. One bestial stag grabbed Donna's hair in a frenzy of give-us-a-kiss schoolboyishness, but all he got was a kick-in-the-balls. I was, for a brief time, caught in the middle of a hen party at the precise moment a male stripper started doing his thing, but I assure you it was just a unhappy coincidence. Ahem.

Kim, the birthday girl, left us a wee bit early, caught up being bauld in a herd of stags, which left me an Donz walk home together to the hostel. It was a pleasant night, not too cold, the air filled with kebab-tinted wafts the sound of football-chant melodies. Donz, a devout veggie was struck by the drunken munchies so bad, that she even considered crossing the threshold of Abrakebabra (Or Ab k ba ra, judging by the sign outside), and only turned back when she saw that queue: "Nah" she said, trying a Pizzeria: "Nah" she said when she saw the queue there. We settled for eating more peanuts, scoffing a packet on the stairs of our hostel, regardlessly scooping stray ones off the wholey unwholesome carpet. Here there was no bus jerking around corners, but our balance on those steps were less than steady. A bus-swerve moment seemed imminent, but heroically we survived, and the only thing we rolled into was our beds.
I awoke to find some girl bending right over me, hovering seductively above my pelvic region, fumbling at something. My early morning brain tried to process the scene in front of me, and I remembered my last act was polishing off those peanuts. Was she trying to steal our packet?
"Are you looking for my nuts?" I thought I heard myself say.

2005-04-06T19:53:00.000Z

MY SILKY MILKY IN CLONAKILTY

I awoke on Saturday morning and there was a stranger in my bedroom.
It was peering at me through a crack in the curtains, prodding me awake with piercing unfamiliar eyes. My bleary friday night consciousness tried to distinguish between my dreamworld and the environs of my bedroom, and as my wakeful focus kicked in I tried to put a name to my unexpected guest.
It was sunshine.
It's vague familiarity was clearer to me now, I remembered seeing it as a child, and I thought I had seen it between blinks last summer. I flicked up my blinds and welcomed it in; I would say it was an old friend but we never really understood each other. I don't know it well enough to care, and it gives me a ruddy scarlet rash.

It was the perfect day for a visit to Clonakilty though; The crazy inhabitants of 53 Ballyhooley road and I had this mad idea about getting out of the city for a while. As if the gargantuan skyscrapers of Cork were hemming us in, giving us concrete clautrophobia and we were being choked with the smoke of this sprawling metropolis. So we walked to Inchadoney from Clonakilty town to spend the day at the beach, little aware that it was a two hour round-trip on foot. Which was scarcely enough time for a paddle, a game of frisbee and a mini-picnic and a fart, but somehow Donna managed to fit the last one in. Or out, whichever way you look at it.

It meant that a visit to Hayman was right out; and I had to text him with the words "I'm stuck in Cork", words that could only be worsened by replacing the word "Cork" with "Beirut". I Jest though, I love this town, even if the word "cork" seems to be endowed with a certain phonetic harshness, a raspy spit of a placename that has probably filtered through to the fierce effrontery of Cork city culture.

When we returned to Ballyhooley though, I was in for a shock. My milky, silky Irish skin had been attacked. That morning visitor had pinched my nose, cheek and forehead with a rosy glow, not enough to be painful, but enough to be a source of wonderment as to how someone can get sunburnt in early April. And certainly enough to be embarrassing to the bejaysus.
Sunshine. What a prick. Next time he tries to get into my room I'm going to kick the shite out of him.

2005-03-30T20:05:00.000Z

BORED AT WORK

I get a lot of requests for mentions in my Blog. Just there Mary was sobbing gently to herself in the Anonymous Multi-national, cry "why, why oh why am I not on the Flog?"
"You have to do something interesting," says I, "to star in me Flog, for don't you know that's I'm a highly interesting guy with a highly interesting life."
"But how can I do something interesting?" she says,
"You have to do something," I said, blowing non-chalantly on my nails, "even if I have to make it up..."
Just then she hopped up on the table, and did a large backwards summersault and grabbed onto the rafters. Two ninjas took that as their cue to break in through the corregated ceiling.
"I will do the break of you aieeeee!" said one with a bad lip sych and dialogue that should be on engrish.com.
"I will also Mary-san" says the other, and there followed aflurry of complicated and highly cinematically-pleasing swooping moves, whic looked doubly cool when they purposefully went in slow-motion for a few seconds. When the cloud of violence dispersed, the two ninjas were to be seen in a heap on the ground, with contorted twisted bodies. Then the two ninjas were replaced by two more and Mary dealt with him in a way that's too exciting for me to even write. After them two more replaced them, and then two more and then two more after that. It went on right through my second break.
"I wanna be in the Flog too!" said Maedhbh, who hopped into a vat of hot oil and dealt with Mary-san in her own way. That was my favourite part, if I'm to be honest. Just then George Bush came in and shook her hand.
"On behalf of the people of the Unicef stake of Amigos, of which I am Presiment, I wish to thank you for ridding the planet of the evil alien terrorist bisexual Ninjas." Then when the spectacle was over, they filed carefully back to their desks, wiping away the oil and sweat from their crevices.

"What can I do that's interesting?"
I shook my head and tried to not make it obvious that I had been a million miles away.
"erm, uh..I can't possibly think..." says I.

2005-03-29T19:32:00.000Z

THE TELLYLESS MARTYR

Being a bloke, I have a perfect licence to expect the world to stop turning when I fall ill, and for Bertie Ahern to delare a national day of mourning. Don't worry though, I'm not going to be dramatic. No, I'll bravely endure the onslaught of the army of viral terrorists trying to crush my spirit in a 9-11 torrent of germs. I'll be silent and bravely withhold myself against the emaciating and and mildly uncomfortable phlegmatic cloud that surrounds me. I may stumble and fall, faint in a heroic heap, and with my last dying breath whimper the words " Let it never be said that Flash grumbled when he as sick," but you will never hear me utter a single hyperbolic word that defines men as big over-the-top moans. For, as I said, I'm not dramatic.

But you know what sucks about being sick? Apart from it hampering the normal hi-jinks of me as an intrepid Indiana Jones-type adventurer (how many holy grails can i uncover if I keep coughing my guts up, disturbing thousands of years of dust? How can I deftly replace ancient security systems with counterweights if I have to wipe me nose on me sleeve?) I was left in a house with no t.v. That's right. Tellyless when sick is a jip. I tried to pick up a book and take the opporunity to read some exciting medieval verse (man am I sexy) but my eyes puffed up like an arsehole in a windtunnel. My saving grace on Wednesday was that my flatmate Jax was also sick, so we made use of our limited resources and played hide-and-seek. I thoroughly kicked her ass, even when I hid in one of the bedrooms in the corner in the dark with a laundry basket over my head. Christ do we need a t.v...

When I went back to Dublin i saw a glistening gogglebox in the corner churning out colours at me, murmuring what I imagined to be pleasant "welcome-home" noises, but it was probably Ryan Tubridy giving a generic smarmy hello. It was fitting that when I flitted on the T.V for the first time in an age, I saw a newly re-vamped Doctor Who there, as it was Peter Davidson's daleks that were my earliest T.V memory. I remember they terrified me, and I failed to see the logistic problem of organising an invasion and not being able to ascend a flight of stairs. Even an aggressive speed-bump would make the most fearsome dalek thing twice. I realised with horror, that now would be the perfect time - in our wheelchair accessible society, we are screwed if the Daleks tried to invade us. Can't make it up the steps of the Houses of Parliament? No problem for the modern dalek, there are plenty of wheelchair ramps available. Plus they get more convenient parking than us. Still, if there is a fire in a building, they're fecked and will burn with all the other wheelchair users.
With all these strange thoughts running through my head, i realised that it was probably a good thing that I don't have a t.v after all, and I switched it off, and moaned about my illness for a while.

2005-03-18T16:07:00.000Z

BOOTY-FALL

The day after St. Patricks day is like the years during a nuclear winter. There's a dirty stillness in the air, and all about there is the pugency of death. Mutated sub-humans cling to the shadows, and peer out into the piercing sun with black resentful eyes. Only cockroaches have survived it; well cockroaches and those still pissed from the night before. I regarded the sullen yellow-faced post-revellers as I walked down Cork's Summerhil road. They all may as well have "regret" tatooed to the foreheads; "regret" but in smaller print beneath: "but sure wait til I meet the boys down the pub tonight and tell them all about the hi-jinks I was up to, sure wasn't only hillarious, especially that thing I did with the traffic cone. I may regret it now but I'll be feckin a legend later." Luckily most Corkmen's foreheads are large enough to contain this information. With complete glossary and explanatory notes. I should know, they're me kin.

Today though, I'm not suffering as this Patrick's day wasn't quite the embarassing spectacle my "Wept for St. Paddio" (See March 2004) was last year. I left the anonymous multi-national corporation (ie. work) at 10:30, and tried desperately to play catch up, to limited success. I found Donz on her lonesome in The Oval, doing some Claresque sleep-dancing but still somehow managed to stay more or less veritical for most of the night. I do say almost, because she did perform a graceful backwards dive into a crowd of burley men, who helped her to verticality with a courteous push. The whole effect was impressive and looked suspiciously pre-staged, I'm sure I've seen the same effect in Moulin Rouge. Nevertheless, fair play to her she saw out the full night in The Works, despite the fact that she seemed to be oblivious to everything except how much she hated the venue she was in.

When we finally climbed Summerhill and Ballyhooley Rds - two roads in cork that exhibit the x-files-worthy phenonenon of becoming steadily steeper as the the night progresses - I fell into bed... while Donz just fell. They should have ads on the telly giving stark warning about the dangers of removing your boots under the influence, something along the lines of having some fun-loving youth coming home from the pub, and in a carefree manner trying to flick off his shoe at the heel with the point of his other shoe, and then falling out a window and falling on top of a small child. That would get the message across.

Now, I sit here, in the anonymous multi-national corporation, shielded form the nuclear winter with layers of corregated steel and rays of artificial yellow light. There are morlocks all about me, all suffering from post-traumatic stress. And judging from the pained hobbling, there was a lot of unshoeing-related disasters to... erm... boot.

2005-03-10T13:34:00.000Z

BOOZED AND CONFUSED

When I met Clara again last weekend, she had already had a full day. That is to say she had got up, gone to the Jameson Distillery, had got drunk, had slept, and had a hangover. Bleary-eyed and confused, she looked vaguely bewildered in the hostel reception, and I saw a shadow of tired annoyance fall across her face, as I wasn't in the first direction she faced. That's it, just ninety degrees to your left, more, more, there I am! now that wasn't so hard was it? She sat down in a swoon after that monumental effort of finding me in a room in which a flea would get Deep Vein Thrombosis. Then Kim, another delightful Canadian (yes, another bloody one!) and an Aussie (yes, another one) - who looked a little bit too much like Joe Mangel from Neighbours for my liking - went out for a few beers. Well I went out for a few beers; since they had all been fecked courtesy of Jameson's, I went to the bar in Bruxelles and requested, with the highest level of mortification, "A pint of Carlsberg and three waters please," feeling the eyes of the big smelly butch goths drilling me with contempt. And when big smelly butch goths look down their noses at you, you know you've sunk to a new low.

So I let them go home to bed, and I caught up with Crapman in the Longstone, along with the Crapmum and Diarmuid. Having arrived without Clara, Crapman arms-foldingly and eyebrow-raisedly refused to believe that she existed. We then got very sozzled, and the conversation got very blue; I would say that it was frightfully inappropriate in the presence of the Crapmum, but she was spouting the worst of it.

Sunday saw my first ever trip on the LUAS! How very exciting for me. I even got to see someone being busted for not paying their fare. I welcomed the drama since I don't have a telly at the moment, it kicked The Bill's arse. As I pulled up towards Collins Barracks I saw two Canadians waving frantically at me; I reluctantly left my live version of CSI:Dublin and joined them for a wee walk through the Phoenix Park. Enjoying the intermittent non-commital Irish sunshine, we strolled towards and sat by the Wellington monument, or as Clara called it the "phallic monument". If this is her idea of phallic, I'm in for some stiff (ahem!) competition.

Now, Lent is doing me nut. I had resolved to give up Coke (that's the drink) for the 40 days, and I half-arsedly considered extending that to all fizzy drinks (excepting beer, naturally). I made the mistake of mentioning this to Clara, who now won't let me drink anything fizzy, not for any moral reaon you understand, just to confound me. "You're breaking your bond with God!" she cries in earnest whenever I reach for anything bubbly, ignoring completely the fact that she's an atheist. So, after some merry boozing in The Brazen head, I had to settle for a tacky St. Patrick's milkshake in McDonalds. I hope God is reading this. What am I saying? - He sees all and reads all.
Man, he must HATE the internet.

"Do you SLAG me on the internet?" I just remembered Clara asking me politely not to defame her character on the Flog.
Oops.

2005-02-17T20:49:00.000Z

AUSSIFIED PART 2

I left the tropical climes of the Rebel County to grapple with the Arctic Circle that lies within the M50. Dublin has suddenly become so frigid that you can't lick your lips for fear of them fusing together. Turning onto that wind tunnel that is O'Connell street, I felt my groin recoil in terror, and attempt to ingest itself within my body. Not only that, but I felt my nippular area elongate ansd stick out suggestively. In other words, Dublin weather turned me into a woman.
I wormed my way through the throngs of other cold-induced recent post-op transexuals to collect Clara from the Avalon house. We cheekily started having a vodka-flavoured diet cokes in the hostel foyer, and then - like a pair of knackers - took out innocent-looking beverages down towards the Mezz in Temple Bar. Waiting outside to finish our illicit cocktails, a homeless man approached us.
"Sorry mate" I said, giving him a sympathetic fob-off, "we're back-packers (a half-truth), ye know, we haven't a penny ourselves..."
It was then that Clara exclaimed in in loud and proud voice:
"Aw man, I gotta go to the bank!!"
I half expected her to continue with: "... thank you mr. homeless man for reminding me of all my worldly riches, I'm off now to spend all my money on booze! Sucka!"

So began our "Goodbye Kerry" weekend. Sniffety sniff, the expletive-spouting Aussie was departing Cork much to our collective despair. I had missed out on sharing the coach ride up with them, in which I gather there was an incident with one of our companions (who shall be very grateful if she remains nameless), a Pringles box and a full bladder. No more needs to be said there I think.
After The Mezz, we took ourselves onto Whelan's then, in which another onslaught of bevvies were consumed. Clara was so untidy towards the end she very admirably achieved the skill of dancing and sleeping at the same time, a strange sleepwalking boogie Intersparsed with a trip to the loo every five minutes or so. I should've just given her a Pringles box and been done with it.

To the Turk's Head the next night, for more of the same shenanigans, merriment tinged with a slight air of sadness, knowing that very shortly Kezza would be flying away. The fact that we ended in the night in that fine establishment Zaytoons was more than fitting. It has been the rounder of so many good nights.

The next morning, my Dad drove me into the airport. Half panicked, I said "Her flight leaves in half-an-hour", to which he responded that there was a lot of building going on there, and wasn't that a grand garden there, and they've dug a ditch there all along, and wasn't the traffic heavy for this time on a Sunday, and sure would you look at that, a big tree lying across the road well I'll have to go around the long way I s'pose. I responded to his carefully slow Sunday driving with quiet (very quiet) gratitude. He did finally say, "sure, it'd be a pity if you missed her all the same"
No shit Dad.
But all was well, we watched her wiggada wiggida (some sort of traditional Aussie dance) through departutes, moaned and shed some tears.
"F*ck off ya c*nt" I said, and I could see that she was touched.

When the lads all went back down to Cork, I took Clara to see the book of Kells.
"How old is it in relation to the pyramids?" she said, as all historical events must be referenced with the age of the pyramids for Clara. Which is strange, considering she doesn't actually know the age of the pyramids. She read a display which stated: "Peacocks were associated with Christ and the Resurrection, as it was believed that Peacock flesh did not decompose."
"Man," she said, "they musta been pretty dumb, I mean if I saw a dead peacock, I'd say 'hey look, it's decomposing'."
She had a point I guess, but thank God she was never in any of my medieval tutorials, I would've been stumped!
She found the Book of Kells pretty underwhelming actually; mind you they did have the book turned onto one of the few pages of the book without a single illustration. That's Trinity for you. F*ckin c*nts.

I dropped her home then, and feeling a bit peckish, I bought myself a small packet of pringles.
For some reason, they didn't have the same appeal they used to. I suddenly imagined I smelled piss, but that just might have been O'Connell street.

2005-02-15T20:38:00.000Z

A WEE STORY

A bloke has spent five years travelling all around the world making a documentary on native dances. At the end of this time, he has every single native dance of every indigenous culture in the world on video. He winds up in Australia, in Alice Springs, so he pops into a pub for a well-earned pint of the local "amber nectar". He gets talking to one of the local Aborigines and tells him about his project.

The Aborigine asks the bloke what he thought of the "Butcher Dance."

The bloke's a bit confused and says, "Butcher Dance? What's that?"

"What? You no see Butcher Dance?"

"No, I've never heard of it."

"Oh mate. You crazy. How you say you film every native dance if you no see Butcher Dance?"

"Umm. I got a Corroborree on film just the other week. Is that what you mean?"

"No no, not Corroborree. Butcher Dance much more important than Corroborree."

"Oh, well how can I see this Butcher Dance then?"

"Mate, Butcher Dance right out bush. Many days travel to go see Butcher Dance."

"Look, I've been everywhere from the forests of the Amazon to deepest darkest Africa, to the frozen wastes of the Arctic filming these dances. Nothing will prevent me from recording this one last dance."

"OK mate. You drive north along highway towards Darwin. After you drive 197 miles, you see dirt track veer off to left. Follow dirt track for 126 miles till you see big huge dead gum tree - biggest tree you ever see. Here you gotta leave the car, because much too rough for driving. You strike out due west into setting sun. You walk three days 'til you hit creek. You follow this creek to Northwest. After two days you find where creek flows out of rocky mountains. Much too difficult to cross mountains here though. You now head south for half day 'til you see pass through mountains. Pass very difficult and very dangerous. Take two, maybe three days to get through rocky pass. When through, head northwest for four days till reach big huge rock - 20 feet high and shaped like man's head. From rock, walk due west for two days and you find village. Here you see Butcher Dance."

So the guy grabs his camera crew and equipment and heads out. After a couple of hours he finds the dirt track. It's is in a shocking state and he's forced to crawl along at a snail's pace and so he doesn't reach the tree until dusk and he's forced to set up camp for the night.

He sets out bright and early the following morning. His spirits are high and he's excited about the prospect of capturing on film this mysterious dance which he had never heard mention of before.

True to the directions he has been given, he reaches the creek after three days and follows it for another two until they reach the rocky mountains. The merciless sun is starting to take its toll by this time and his spirits are starting to flag, but wearily he trudges on until he finds the pass through the hills - nothing will prevent him from completing his life's dream.

The mountains prove to be every bit as treacherous as their guide said and at times they almost despair of getting their bulky equipment through. But after three and a half days of back breaking effort they finally force their way clear and continue their long trek.

When they reach the huge rock, four days later, their water is running low and their feet are covered with blisters. Yet they steel themselves and head out on the last leg of their journey. Two days later they virtually stagger into the village, where the natives feed them and give them fresh water. They begin to feel like new men.

Once he's recovered enough, the bloke goes before the village chief and tells him that he has come to film their Butcher Dance.

"Oh mate. Very bad you come today. Butcher Dance last night. You too late. You miss dance."

"Well, when do you hold the next dance?"

"Not till next year."

"Well, I've come all this way. Couldn't you just hold an extra dance for me, tonight?"

"No, no, no! Butcher Dance very holy. Only hold once a year. If hold more, gods get very angry and destroy village! You want see Butcher Dance you come back next year."

The guy is devastated, but he has no other option but to head back to civilisation and back home.

The following year, he heads back to Australia and, determined not to miss out again, sets out a week earlier than last time. He is quite willing to spend a week in the village before the dance is performed in order to ensure he is present to witness it. However, right from the start things go wrong.

Heavy rains have turned the dirt track to mud and the car gets bogged every few miles, finally forcing them to abandon their vehicles and slog through the mud on foot almost half the distance to the tree. They reach the creek and the mountains without any further hitch, but halfway through the ascent of the mountain they are struck by a fierce storm that rages for several days, during which they are forced to cling forlornly to the mountainside until it subsides. It'd be sheer suicide to attempt to scale the treacherous paths in the face of such savage elements.

Then, before they have travelled a mile out from the mountains, one of the crew sprains his ankle really badly, which slows down the rest of their journey enormously, to the rock and then the village.

Eventually, having lost all sense of how long they have been travelling, they stagger into the village at about 12:00 noon.

"The Butcher Dance!" gasps the bloke. "Please don't tell me I'm too late!"

The chief recognises him and says: "No, white fella. Butcher Dance performed tonight. You come just in time."

Relieved beyond measure, the crew spends the rest of the afternoon setting up their equipment - preparing to capture the night's ritual on celluloid as dusk falls, the natives start to cover there bodies in white paint and adorn themselves in all manner of bird's feathers and animal skins. Once darkness has settled fully over the land, the natives form a circle around a huge roaring fire.

A deathly hush descends over performers and spectators alike, as a wizened old figure with elaborate swirling designs covering his entire body enters the circle and begins to chant. Some sort of witch doctor or medicine man, figures the bloke, and he whispers to the chief: "What's he doing?"

"Hush," whispers the chief. "You first white man ever to see most sacred of our rituals. Must remain silent. Holy man, he asks that the spirits of the dream world watch as we demonstrate our devotion to them through our dance and, if they like our dancing, will they be so gracious as to watch over us and protect us for another year."

The chanting of the Holy man reaches a stunning crescendo before he moves himself from the circle. From somewhere the rhythmic pounding of drums booms out across the land and the natives begin to sway to the stirring rhythm.

The bloke is becoming caught up in the fervour of the moment himself. This is it. He now realises beyond all doubt that his wait has not been in vain. He is about to witness the ultimate performance of rhythm and movement ever conceived by mankind.

The chief strides to his position in the circle and, in a big booming voice, starts to sing...

"You butch yer right arm in. You butch yer right arm out. You butch yer right arm in and you shake it all about..."

2005-01-30T15:24:00.000Z

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?

2005-01-25T20:24:00.000Z

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.

2005-01-14T15:58:00.000Z

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

2005-01-06T18:37:00.000Z

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.

2005-01-03T19:05:00.000Z

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.

2004-12-29T14:36:00.000Z

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.

2004-12-01T18:04:00.000Z

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.'

2004-11-16T18:52:00.000Z

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...

2004-11-12T21:17:00.000Z

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.

2004-10-21T11:28:00.000Z

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.

2004-10-04T16:20:00.000Z

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.

2004-09-30T19:31:00.000Z

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.

2004-09-29T13:07:00.000Z

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.

2004-09-27T15:19:00.000Z

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!”

2004-09-20T13:19:00.000Z

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.

2004-09-16T15:29:00.000Z

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.

2004-09-14T13:57:00.000Z

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

2004-08-17T21:40:00.000Z

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!

2004-08-16T21:37:00.000Z

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.

2004-08-14T16:02:00.000Z

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.

2004-08-13T16:54:00.000Z

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…

2004-08-12T14:34:00.000Z

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…

2004-08-08T14:02:00.000Z

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!

2004-08-06T05:35:00.000Z

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!

2004-07-26T13:54:00.000Z

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...

2004-07-17T10:33:00.000Z

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.

2004-06-28T19:01:00.000Z

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

2004-06-18T16:44:00.000Z

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

2004-06-10T12:04:00.000Z

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.

2004-06-03T18:00:00.000Z

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.

2004-05-24T15:38:00.000Z

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.

2004-05-08T11:57:00.000Z

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.

2004-05-05T19:47:00.000Z

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.

2004-04-28T10:58:00.000Z

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!"

2004-04-20T19:08:00.000Z

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.

2004-03-31T16:06:00.000Z

LOOK AWAY! SHE'S A TUCK-AWAY!
I've been livin' in oblivion this week, which, apart from the sexy bit of internal rhyming, totally sucks ass. I've been missing a lot of things; buses, jokes, points, thespacebar... I even missed telly and THAT's amazing cause my telly doesn't really go out very often. I missed the "Britain's Best Sitcom" finale, "only Fools and Horses" won apparently, with Blackadder (my favourite horse to win) in second place. My idea to sabotage the vote - similar to the "Nation Once Again"-best-song-of-all time conspiracy - by getting everyone to vote for "Leave It To Mrs. O'Brien" seemed to have fallen on deaf ears. For two reasons: thankfully no one remembers "Leave It To Mrs. O'Brien" and secondly, well, it was shit. Speaking of shit, another finale I missed was the last episode of "There's Something About Miriam", A Sky One debacle that I wanted the catch at the last moment, just to see the look on the guys' faces when they realise the sexpot they had been canoodling with was actually a square-jawed crying-game tuckaway merchant. I tried explaining to some people from work, one girl (Jo) and one gay guy (Jimmy), how disgusting the idea was but they didn't get it. Don't get me wrong, I mean I'm as open-minded as the next guy - the problem is, so is Miriam.
Jimmy may never understand, but it's every straight guys nightmare to be smooching a young lady only to find pole where there should be a hole.

The thoughts of it would drive you to drink. At least now, you can do it without being engulfed in a billowing whisp of smoke. I went don't to my local, Searsons (also the local of Gabe Byrne and Pierce Brosnan, thank you) to test out the ban. For the longest time, the absence of the faint aroma of tabacco meant that it didn't feel like a real pub. I think it was about pint number four that it began to feel like a real pub again. The Barman came over to me and said, "Here mate, would you put out that fag". I was about to protest that I wasn't even smoking, when I realised that it was because Jimmy was on fire.