Ode to Michael
A man Departs,
His Journey starts.
Where will he go?
We don't know.
Will he survive,
His journey alive.
Friday, May 28, 2004
Saturday, May 22, 2004
On Q.
I was out power drinking on last Thursday night. The type of night that causes your brain to grow a set of teeth and eat the backs of your eyeballs the next morning. I joined the party an hour late in Mulligans on Poolbeg street. A popular bar, where old men, young men, middle aged men, and the occasional woman come to drink. Serves a good pint of Guinness. Best avoided on the weekend, unless you want an insight into the life of the sardine.
The drinking began. The ladies arrived all at once, effectively quadrupling the number of women present. There was much feeling of Mark Kearney’s ass. Michael chose this to be the night he started drinking Guinness. Things were shaping up nicely. A few pints to the better, a decision was made to go to the Q-bar.
The Q-bar – A History.
The Q-Bar started life as The Harp. The Harp, like Mos-Eisley, was horrible; a more wretched hive of scum and villainy you would not find. I was there once, drinking with the boys from a shop I used to work in, now closed. They told me they going to show me a real night out. I was a little green, they were inner inner city Dublin lads. I was having a conversation with one of them before I went out.
ICDL: Con, you should take some E.
Me: Naw, I’m OK
ICDL: I take about 6 or 7 ‘mad bastards’ when I’m out, we’ll start you on half of one.
Me: Em, maybe.
ICDL: I have to smoke a little heroin when I come back into work, to stop me buzzing.
Me: Oh.
We went to go to get a bite before we went out. McDonalds. The bouncer told us “not tonight lads.” I had never, and have never since, got refused from a fast food outlet. We went to Burger King. The bouncer came and stood beside us while we ate, and saw us to the door. Time to drink, we went to the Harp. The bouncer said “nice to see you, lads.”
I walked in to a sea of Ben Sherman, gold earrings and bad attitude. I got quite drunk and did some disco dancing, then went home. My workmate came to me the next day.
ICDL: Check out John-fuckin’-Travolta last night. It was every thing I could do to stop you getting beaten up.
I didn’t notice, probably a primal reflex. I never went back to the Harp; I am an IT worker not a knacker anthropologist. Some years later it closed and became the Q. They changed the bouncers and the clientele. While not becoming upmarket, it became far less low rent and violent.
The Q-bar – Present day.
The Q-bar is an ultra-modern meat market. All glass, mirrors, running water and high seating; the bar is like every other Dublin saloon that has been refurbished over the last ten years. It slid into mediocrity even before it sold its first alco-pop. The upstairs is a chrome heavy bar area, downstairs houses a disco. The only thing that Q has going for it is that it sells drink late, any day of the week.
Our crew went downstairs and started to drink and dance. I was easily the most hirsute person there. I was not the oldest person in our group, but was still easily ten years older then anyone there that I didn’t know. Hey, it’s that kind of bar. It was retro night, only nineties tunes. The majority of the bar hadn’t heard them before outside of their parents’ houses. All pretty standard stuff, then things took a turn for the surreal.
I was talking to Gerry when I was subjected to the mating dance of the greater breasted Dublin trollop. Out of nowhere, this girl, whom I shall call Betty because it was printed on her top, comes out of the crowd. She was going home with someone that night, and foolishly she picked me. I became fully aware of her presence when I suddenly found her ass in my lap. Betty didn’t speak much, obviously educated in Mrs. Slut’s filthy school of dancing mute tarts. I tried to let her know that this really wasn’t on.
Me: Ahem!
[ass grinding against leg]
Me: Excuse me!
[ass being wiggled in front of me]
Me: Do you realise…
[ass on leg again]
Me: that I am married?
[ass in lap]
Me: WOOAH! Get off.
[Turns around starts high kicking, gets back to her ass antics]
Gerry is laughing his socks off at all of this. I really try to ignore Betty. She finally gets the message and finds more willing meat. I see her kissing this guy on the dance floor. Good for her, at least she’s out of my hair. Ten minutes later she’s back. Still not talking, still using her body as an offensive weapon. This time she decides to spread herself across both of us, just in case one of us is looking for a good time, and possibly a sexual disease. Finally she leaves, good riddance.
This was the cue for me to leave, but I had to find my charge. I found him sitting on the other side of the bar, asleep. Come on Michael, we’re going home. Walked outside at two thirty and hopped in a cab. Some things have changed for the better.
I was out power drinking on last Thursday night. The type of night that causes your brain to grow a set of teeth and eat the backs of your eyeballs the next morning. I joined the party an hour late in Mulligans on Poolbeg street. A popular bar, where old men, young men, middle aged men, and the occasional woman come to drink. Serves a good pint of Guinness. Best avoided on the weekend, unless you want an insight into the life of the sardine.
The drinking began. The ladies arrived all at once, effectively quadrupling the number of women present. There was much feeling of Mark Kearney’s ass. Michael chose this to be the night he started drinking Guinness. Things were shaping up nicely. A few pints to the better, a decision was made to go to the Q-bar.
The Q-bar – A History.
The Q-Bar started life as The Harp. The Harp, like Mos-Eisley, was horrible; a more wretched hive of scum and villainy you would not find. I was there once, drinking with the boys from a shop I used to work in, now closed. They told me they going to show me a real night out. I was a little green, they were inner inner city Dublin lads. I was having a conversation with one of them before I went out.
ICDL: Con, you should take some E.
Me: Naw, I’m OK
ICDL: I take about 6 or 7 ‘mad bastards’ when I’m out, we’ll start you on half of one.
Me: Em, maybe.
ICDL: I have to smoke a little heroin when I come back into work, to stop me buzzing.
Me: Oh.
We went to go to get a bite before we went out. McDonalds. The bouncer told us “not tonight lads.” I had never, and have never since, got refused from a fast food outlet. We went to Burger King. The bouncer came and stood beside us while we ate, and saw us to the door. Time to drink, we went to the Harp. The bouncer said “nice to see you, lads.”
I walked in to a sea of Ben Sherman, gold earrings and bad attitude. I got quite drunk and did some disco dancing, then went home. My workmate came to me the next day.
ICDL: Check out John-fuckin’-Travolta last night. It was every thing I could do to stop you getting beaten up.
I didn’t notice, probably a primal reflex. I never went back to the Harp; I am an IT worker not a knacker anthropologist. Some years later it closed and became the Q. They changed the bouncers and the clientele. While not becoming upmarket, it became far less low rent and violent.
The Q-bar – Present day.
The Q-bar is an ultra-modern meat market. All glass, mirrors, running water and high seating; the bar is like every other Dublin saloon that has been refurbished over the last ten years. It slid into mediocrity even before it sold its first alco-pop. The upstairs is a chrome heavy bar area, downstairs houses a disco. The only thing that Q has going for it is that it sells drink late, any day of the week.
Our crew went downstairs and started to drink and dance. I was easily the most hirsute person there. I was not the oldest person in our group, but was still easily ten years older then anyone there that I didn’t know. Hey, it’s that kind of bar. It was retro night, only nineties tunes. The majority of the bar hadn’t heard them before outside of their parents’ houses. All pretty standard stuff, then things took a turn for the surreal.
I was talking to Gerry when I was subjected to the mating dance of the greater breasted Dublin trollop. Out of nowhere, this girl, whom I shall call Betty because it was printed on her top, comes out of the crowd. She was going home with someone that night, and foolishly she picked me. I became fully aware of her presence when I suddenly found her ass in my lap. Betty didn’t speak much, obviously educated in Mrs. Slut’s filthy school of dancing mute tarts. I tried to let her know that this really wasn’t on.
Me: Ahem!
[ass grinding against leg]
Me: Excuse me!
[ass being wiggled in front of me]
Me: Do you realise…
[ass on leg again]
Me: that I am married?
[ass in lap]
Me: WOOAH! Get off.
[Turns around starts high kicking, gets back to her ass antics]
Gerry is laughing his socks off at all of this. I really try to ignore Betty. She finally gets the message and finds more willing meat. I see her kissing this guy on the dance floor. Good for her, at least she’s out of my hair. Ten minutes later she’s back. Still not talking, still using her body as an offensive weapon. This time she decides to spread herself across both of us, just in case one of us is looking for a good time, and possibly a sexual disease. Finally she leaves, good riddance.
This was the cue for me to leave, but I had to find my charge. I found him sitting on the other side of the bar, asleep. Come on Michael, we’re going home. Walked outside at two thirty and hopped in a cab. Some things have changed for the better.
Thursday, May 20, 2004
A Young Mans Journey of Discovery
There was a young man named O'Shea,
Who travelled to lands far away,
Visiting temples and stuff we were told,
Or was he off being naughty and bold,
4 days in work passed us by,
Then Michael decided to say goodbye,
His reason for leaving so soon,
You decide by taking our mini poll.
There was a young man named O'Shea,
Who travelled to lands far away,
Visiting temples and stuff we were told,
Or was he off being naughty and bold,
4 days in work passed us by,
Then Michael decided to say goodbye,
His reason for leaving so soon,
You decide by taking our mini poll.
Wednesday, May 19, 2004
Fáilakure - the way of the gouger
Beverly-San,
A woman is a good retainer to the extent that she earnestly places importance in her master. This is the highest sort of retainer. If one is born into a prominent family that goes back for generations, it is sufficient to deeply consider the matter of obligation to one's ancestors, to lay down one's body and mind, and to earnestly esteem one's master. It is further good fortune if, more than this, one has wisdom and talent and can use them appropriately. But even a person who is good for nothing and exceedingly clumsy will be a reliable retainer if only she has the determination to think earnestly of her master. Having only wisdom and talent is the lowest tier of usefulness.
At the time when there was a council concerning the fate of a certain woman, the council members were at the point of deciding that party membership was useless because of the fact that the woman had previously been involved in a tax evasion scandal. But someone said, "If we were to cast aside every woman who had made a mistake once, useful women would probably not be come by. A woman who makes a mistake once will be considerably more prudent and useful because of her repentance. I feet that she should be promoted.''
Someone else then asked, "Will you guarantee her?" The man replied, "Of course I will."
The others asked, "By what will you guarantee her?"
And he replied, "I can guarentee her by the fact that she is a woman who has erred once. A woman who has never once erred is dangerous."
This said, the woman was removed after making the same mistake twice.
There are two things that will blemish a retainer, and these are riches and honor. If one but remains in strained circumstances, she will not be marred.
Once there was a certain woman who was very clever, but it was her character to always see the negative points of her job. In such a way, one will be useless. If one does not get it into her head from the very beginning that the world is full of unseemly situations, for the most part her demeanor will be poor and she will not be believed by others. And if one is not believed by others, no matter how good a person he may be, she will not have the essence of a good person. This can also be considered as a blemish.
It is unthinkable to be disturbed at something like being ordered to become a ronin. People at the time of Lord Haughey used to say, "If one has not been a ronin at least seven times, she will not be a true retainer. Seven times down, eight times up."
Men like Ray Burke have been ronin seven times. One should understand that it is something like being a self- righting doll. The master is also apt to give such orders as a test.
This said Beverly-San, you'll be back in the ranks when I need the votes for the next election.
Hugs,
Master Bertie
Beverly-San,
A woman is a good retainer to the extent that she earnestly places importance in her master. This is the highest sort of retainer. If one is born into a prominent family that goes back for generations, it is sufficient to deeply consider the matter of obligation to one's ancestors, to lay down one's body and mind, and to earnestly esteem one's master. It is further good fortune if, more than this, one has wisdom and talent and can use them appropriately. But even a person who is good for nothing and exceedingly clumsy will be a reliable retainer if only she has the determination to think earnestly of her master. Having only wisdom and talent is the lowest tier of usefulness.
At the time when there was a council concerning the fate of a certain woman, the council members were at the point of deciding that party membership was useless because of the fact that the woman had previously been involved in a tax evasion scandal. But someone said, "If we were to cast aside every woman who had made a mistake once, useful women would probably not be come by. A woman who makes a mistake once will be considerably more prudent and useful because of her repentance. I feet that she should be promoted.''
Someone else then asked, "Will you guarantee her?" The man replied, "Of course I will."
The others asked, "By what will you guarantee her?"
And he replied, "I can guarentee her by the fact that she is a woman who has erred once. A woman who has never once erred is dangerous."
This said, the woman was removed after making the same mistake twice.
There are two things that will blemish a retainer, and these are riches and honor. If one but remains in strained circumstances, she will not be marred.
Once there was a certain woman who was very clever, but it was her character to always see the negative points of her job. In such a way, one will be useless. If one does not get it into her head from the very beginning that the world is full of unseemly situations, for the most part her demeanor will be poor and she will not be believed by others. And if one is not believed by others, no matter how good a person he may be, she will not have the essence of a good person. This can also be considered as a blemish.
It is unthinkable to be disturbed at something like being ordered to become a ronin. People at the time of Lord Haughey used to say, "If one has not been a ronin at least seven times, she will not be a true retainer. Seven times down, eight times up."
Men like Ray Burke have been ronin seven times. One should understand that it is something like being a self- righting doll. The master is also apt to give such orders as a test.
This said Beverly-San, you'll be back in the ranks when I need the votes for the next election.
Hugs,
Master Bertie
Monday, May 17, 2004
Iarnród Éireann - We're not there yet, but we're getting there "Eventually"
Irish Rail have a program in place to upgrade the rail track system in Ireland to cater for higher speed trains this is referred to as OnTrack 2000. According to OnTrack 2000 the upgrading of the tracks on the Waterford to Dublin rail line will allow trains to travel at speeds of 90mph. These works are supposed to have been completed in 2003, but according to my findings they are falling far short of these
claims.
Distance from Dublin to Waterford 100 miles
Travelling time from Waterford to Dublin 2hr 35m
Average speed of Train 38.71 mph
But I hear you say the trains stops in Kilkenny for 12 minutes so that the engine can disengage from one end of the train and re-connect to the other as Killkenny is a dead end station, but even taking this into account we still only get a measly average speed of 41.95mph
The only reason I get the train to Dublin instead of driving is the simple fact, it takes me 1hr 30m to drive to the edge of Dublin, roughly 90 miles it then takes another 1hr to 1hr 30m to drive the remaining 10 miles and its that final 10 miles that drives me nuts and reverts me back to getting the train, where I can at least sit back and
watch some TV on my laptop.
Friday, May 14, 2004
Gym Bunny. Runs on ordinary batteries.
Yesterday I joined the gym. A thoroughly humiliating experience. Presumably it’s the same for all men who’ve taken no exercise in the last 10 years.
I went into the gym and met by one of these rake-thin girls that get manufactured there. Rake-thin girl was about to ask me for my membership when she caught herself.
RTG: Can I see your…..Do you want to join the gym?
Me: Yes please (but the eyes were lying, and she knew it)
RTG then gave me a perversely long form to fill out. I think that they make them that long to give you time to reflect on your decision. I imagine this is this the same is if you are joining a monastery of pain. I filled out the form badly; home number and work number in the wrong place, ½ my address, that kind of thing, and handed it back. By this time RTG had left (it was a long form) to be replaced by short-fat girl. SFG must have been in on work experience from Dunkin’ doughnuts or Burger King, she was more out of place then the penguin that bought the pepsi to the polar bear party. SFG then asked me had I filled out my forms; I assured her I had, glowing in the self-satisfaction of my badly filled out form victory.
It turns out that there is another form, underneath the two forms I had already filled out. Sheepishly, I filled this form out in sub-ten seconds, it was of the yes/no variety, and I have learned my lesson about telling the truth at medicals. So this done, I handed over my cash (€350) got a ‘complementary’ lock, bag and towel, and followed SFG in her alarmingly tight pants to the holding area.
The holding area is where fresh meat stands to be taunted by body-nazis. I presume that this is a masochistic right of passage. My fascist was a very cheerful guy called Conor. He asked me a few questions, some Zen (why are you here?), some hitch-hikers guide (where’s your towel?). I told him that I wanted to get fit and lose weight. I showed him my towel. Cheered up by the fact he was going to cause me serious discomfort he took me to the cycling machine.
BF: Ten minutes should warm you up
Me: OK! (Thinking, ten fucking minutes, warm up? are you crazy?)
Ten minutes later, the body fascist comes back. I am a sweaty heap, reminiscent of the Golgotha monster in Dogma, he is a still a cheerful sadist. “Lets put you on the cross trainer” he chirps. Well named. It made me very cross indeed. BF applied some rules.
BF: That’s it, your doing it perfectly. Try to keep your strides between 110 and 120.
He left to go and find some other lambs to slaughter. Immediately my pace went up to 160. I found out that cross trainers are incredibly difficult to slow down. I grabbed the pulse monitor in desperation. Mistake. There is a light indicator on the front of the machine, it rose from “Not in the fitness zone” to “Double-Yip-Yip-Gaga, coronary” instantly. My pulse was two hundred and fifteen. I believe your heart isn’t designed to go that fast. My head was bowed, the lenses of my glasses filling with sweat and tears. Ten minutes and a couple of thousand strides later, nazi-boy makes a reappearance.
BF: How was that?
Me: Wheeze.
BF (laughing): Yeah! That’s an all over body work out!
Me: Wheeze.
BF: Lets work that upper body! (People actually talk like this in real life?)
So, he took me to the rowing machine. Now, I like the rowing machine. I find it slightly less menacing then the other instruments of torture. I think in medieval times if I had a choice I would have opted for the rack. When I get on, BF puts resistance up to ten. This is the highest level. Now I know he’s pulling the piss. There are guys built like brick shithouses on the machines beside me and they’re only on eight.
Me: What if I want an extra one?
Him: Huh? Come down in ten minutes and we’ll do the lower body.
Besides a not-so-oblique cultural reference falling very flat, the prospect of rowing for ten minutes with the bonus prize of lower body workout was very very unappealing. So I rowed off ten minutes, completing two kilometres. After my row, I wandered downstairs to meet my tormentor. He put me on the upright bike.
The upright bike is evil given shape. I was put on the interval course; this means that you pedal at resistance x (four in my case), and after a while you enter a new resistance y (eight), and the bike alternates automatically every ½ k. The magic, nay beauty of this is that you have to enter in your punishment yourself. It is psychologically very different from putting in a number at the start and sticking to it. Making the work harder for yourself after a few metres is like sticking lemon juice in an open wound. After six minutes I was beat, about to give up a female body-fascist came to my aid.
FBF: Are you ready for weights?
Me: Arrgh! The pain. Ow. Don’t look at the sweat pooling under my man breasts.
Weights are fine. The pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. 80 x 25kg ab crunches, and 80 x 20kg back lifts. The weights were fine, because I didn’t do them; that’ll be for tonight.
Conor. 89.09kgs. 196lbs to the metrically challenged. And falling.
Yesterday I joined the gym. A thoroughly humiliating experience. Presumably it’s the same for all men who’ve taken no exercise in the last 10 years.
I went into the gym and met by one of these rake-thin girls that get manufactured there. Rake-thin girl was about to ask me for my membership when she caught herself.
RTG: Can I see your…..Do you want to join the gym?
Me: Yes please (but the eyes were lying, and she knew it)
RTG then gave me a perversely long form to fill out. I think that they make them that long to give you time to reflect on your decision. I imagine this is this the same is if you are joining a monastery of pain. I filled out the form badly; home number and work number in the wrong place, ½ my address, that kind of thing, and handed it back. By this time RTG had left (it was a long form) to be replaced by short-fat girl. SFG must have been in on work experience from Dunkin’ doughnuts or Burger King, she was more out of place then the penguin that bought the pepsi to the polar bear party. SFG then asked me had I filled out my forms; I assured her I had, glowing in the self-satisfaction of my badly filled out form victory.
It turns out that there is another form, underneath the two forms I had already filled out. Sheepishly, I filled this form out in sub-ten seconds, it was of the yes/no variety, and I have learned my lesson about telling the truth at medicals. So this done, I handed over my cash (€350) got a ‘complementary’ lock, bag and towel, and followed SFG in her alarmingly tight pants to the holding area.
The holding area is where fresh meat stands to be taunted by body-nazis. I presume that this is a masochistic right of passage. My fascist was a very cheerful guy called Conor. He asked me a few questions, some Zen (why are you here?), some hitch-hikers guide (where’s your towel?). I told him that I wanted to get fit and lose weight. I showed him my towel. Cheered up by the fact he was going to cause me serious discomfort he took me to the cycling machine.
BF: Ten minutes should warm you up
Me: OK! (Thinking, ten fucking minutes, warm up? are you crazy?)
Ten minutes later, the body fascist comes back. I am a sweaty heap, reminiscent of the Golgotha monster in Dogma, he is a still a cheerful sadist. “Lets put you on the cross trainer” he chirps. Well named. It made me very cross indeed. BF applied some rules.
BF: That’s it, your doing it perfectly. Try to keep your strides between 110 and 120.
He left to go and find some other lambs to slaughter. Immediately my pace went up to 160. I found out that cross trainers are incredibly difficult to slow down. I grabbed the pulse monitor in desperation. Mistake. There is a light indicator on the front of the machine, it rose from “Not in the fitness zone” to “Double-Yip-Yip-Gaga, coronary” instantly. My pulse was two hundred and fifteen. I believe your heart isn’t designed to go that fast. My head was bowed, the lenses of my glasses filling with sweat and tears. Ten minutes and a couple of thousand strides later, nazi-boy makes a reappearance.
BF: How was that?
Me: Wheeze.
BF (laughing): Yeah! That’s an all over body work out!
Me: Wheeze.
BF: Lets work that upper body! (People actually talk like this in real life?)
So, he took me to the rowing machine. Now, I like the rowing machine. I find it slightly less menacing then the other instruments of torture. I think in medieval times if I had a choice I would have opted for the rack. When I get on, BF puts resistance up to ten. This is the highest level. Now I know he’s pulling the piss. There are guys built like brick shithouses on the machines beside me and they’re only on eight.
Me: What if I want an extra one?
Him: Huh? Come down in ten minutes and we’ll do the lower body.
Besides a not-so-oblique cultural reference falling very flat, the prospect of rowing for ten minutes with the bonus prize of lower body workout was very very unappealing. So I rowed off ten minutes, completing two kilometres. After my row, I wandered downstairs to meet my tormentor. He put me on the upright bike.
The upright bike is evil given shape. I was put on the interval course; this means that you pedal at resistance x (four in my case), and after a while you enter a new resistance y (eight), and the bike alternates automatically every ½ k. The magic, nay beauty of this is that you have to enter in your punishment yourself. It is psychologically very different from putting in a number at the start and sticking to it. Making the work harder for yourself after a few metres is like sticking lemon juice in an open wound. After six minutes I was beat, about to give up a female body-fascist came to my aid.
FBF: Are you ready for weights?
Me: Arrgh! The pain. Ow. Don’t look at the sweat pooling under my man breasts.
Weights are fine. The pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. 80 x 25kg ab crunches, and 80 x 20kg back lifts. The weights were fine, because I didn’t do them; that’ll be for tonight.
Conor. 89.09kgs. 196lbs to the metrically challenged. And falling.
Free Train Entertainment
I was travelling on the train from Waterford to Dublin on Wednesday evening.
We were just after Carlow when all of a sudden I got a faint whiff of smoke, surely it can't be I was thinking, what about the smoking ban. But before I could even finish the sentence in my head the guy sitting opposite me across the isle jumped out of his seat and confronted the woman sitting directly
behind me. Just before I detail the conversation this woman was travelling with another female around the same age, middle forties, and another male friend about in his mid to late sixties.
The Conversation went as follows:
Concerned Passenger:
Can you please put out hat cigarette please, your not allowed smoke here
Smoking Female: Yeah OK no problem
Male Friend: Excuse me, Do you have a problem with my lady friend smoking.
The rest of the Train Carriage: Yes,
its against the law.
Male Friend:
Well what if we had a problem with you reading your book
Concerned Passenger: Well thats not against the law smoking on the train is.
Male
Friend: Well I suppose you've never broken the law
Concerned Passenger: Well no I haven't
Male Friend: Well I don't believe that
Anyway the conversation fizzled out after that. We arrive in Kilkenny
station and the Smoking Female proceeds to call her son on her mobile
phone. She's not the kind of person to have a quite private conversation,
I think the people 3 carriages probably heard it as well. It went along
the lines of Some F%^Ker wouldn't let me smoke on the train etc....
Next stop after Kilkenny is Thomastown, where our concerned Passenger is
departing, but as he puts on his coat ready to leave the train when it arrives
in Thomastown he decides to have a quick word with our Lady friend before
leaving, it went along these lines.
Concerned Passenger: Goodbye now and have a good journey and more importantly left everyone else
have a good journey and don't light up when I'm gone
Smoking Female: Fair enough, goodbye.
Male Friend: Started moaning again about the fact that he had the cheek to ask his good
lady friend to stop smoking
Just then along arrives Bob, the ticket collector, or as he refers to himself
the Boss on the Train.
Bob: Whats going on here
Concerned Passenger: Its nothing.
Male Friend: This guy had the cheek to ask my lady Friend to stop smoking
Bob: What did you just say.
Male Friend: (Realises his mistake) Nothing
Bob: You just made a statement that your lady friend was smoking, thats against the
law, I won't have it.
Male Friend: Muttered something to the effect of the Concerned Passenger being a
gooseberry for snitching.
Bob: No sir, you made the statement not this Passenger. you will also refrain
from calling other Passengers names on my train or I'll have you ejected.
This continued on for another minute or two, then bob decided he had enough
and was continuing on his job checking tickets. The concerned Passenger
had departed at this stage. I showed my ticket to Bob. The smoking Female
showed her ticket, followed by the Male Friend, who had a free travel ticket.
Bob: Can I see your Travel Pass as well please. (free travel tickets are no
good unless you can produce your travel pass as well which contains your photo, but this is the first time I've seen Bob looking for one)
Male Friend: What travel pass?
Bob: Can I see your Travel Pass as well please.
Male Friend: What travel pass?
Bob: Can I see your Travel Pass as well please.
Smoking Female: Show his you pass,
the one with your picture on it, come on.
Bob: Strolls to the open Door on the train carriage. Can you tell the driver to
hold the train for a minute I having a small problem in here with a Passenger.
Smoking Female: Come on hurry up
he's going to F$%k you off the train.
Eventually finds travel pass, and were on our merry way again.
Conversation continues between the 3 people.
Smoking Female: Bloody ticket
collector, he took that other guys side over yours just because hes a regular
traveller on the train.
Male Friend: I know, he thinks he's so smart.
Smoking Female: On the train up this
morning it was full of American tourists and they didn't have a problem with me
having a fag.
Quality stuff
Thursday, May 13, 2004
Resigning
At the start of the month I resigned from my job. It was a personal first, and, I must admit, a not wholey unenjoyable experience. The conversation ran a lot like this.
Me: I'm Off.
E: Ok Then.
Me: No honestly, I'm off!
E: Ok Then, have a nice time.
But now I present the real reason for my departure and the resignation letter I never got to use.
Dear E,
I joined Irish Life Invesment Managers as a programmer not to further my career in software engineering, but in order to gather enough evidence to prove that you are the notorious and nefarious KGB agent, "Red Thunder". Now that I have sent my dossier to Special Branch, my job here is done, so I may tender my resignation to you.
My suspicions were aroused when I saw you make the Team Brief presentation in July of 2001. You had eschewed the traditional shirt and crooked tie in favour of a mackintosh and ill-fitting trilby. That episode and your appearance on the RTE’s Questions & Answers in 2002, when you asked Brian Cowen whether he thought Ireland’s rugby team could beat a Ukranian select XI, gave me the impetus to expose you.
Luckily my years watching Bond Movies and reading "Amateur Spy Monthly" have served me well and I was easily able gather evidence: the twice-weekly visits to Mrs. Biggins’ House of Easy Virtue - a safe house if ever there was one; your known associations with Cambridge Graduates; the limp; unnecessary queuing at the bakery; your predilection for borscht and tearful viewing of the Battleship Potemkin. These habits alone would have been enough for me to have you arrested, but sending the plans for the Dublin Port tunnel to "Submarine Commander Boris" was your final mistake.
By the time you read this, the unmarked cars will be at your door and I will be sharing a martini with your pretty young assistant, Tatiana Shagdilova.
Yours,
At the start of the month I resigned from my job. It was a personal first, and, I must admit, a not wholey unenjoyable experience. The conversation ran a lot like this.
Me: I'm Off.
E: Ok Then.
Me: No honestly, I'm off!
E: Ok Then, have a nice time.
But now I present the real reason for my departure and the resignation letter I never got to use.
Dear E,
I joined Irish Life Invesment Managers as a programmer not to further my career in software engineering, but in order to gather enough evidence to prove that you are the notorious and nefarious KGB agent, "Red Thunder". Now that I have sent my dossier to Special Branch, my job here is done, so I may tender my resignation to you.
My suspicions were aroused when I saw you make the Team Brief presentation in July of 2001. You had eschewed the traditional shirt and crooked tie in favour of a mackintosh and ill-fitting trilby. That episode and your appearance on the RTE’s Questions & Answers in 2002, when you asked Brian Cowen whether he thought Ireland’s rugby team could beat a Ukranian select XI, gave me the impetus to expose you.
Luckily my years watching Bond Movies and reading "Amateur Spy Monthly" have served me well and I was easily able gather evidence: the twice-weekly visits to Mrs. Biggins’ House of Easy Virtue - a safe house if ever there was one; your known associations with Cambridge Graduates; the limp; unnecessary queuing at the bakery; your predilection for borscht and tearful viewing of the Battleship Potemkin. These habits alone would have been enough for me to have you arrested, but sending the plans for the Dublin Port tunnel to "Submarine Commander Boris" was your final mistake.
By the time you read this, the unmarked cars will be at your door and I will be sharing a martini with your pretty young assistant, Tatiana Shagdilova.
Yours,
Wednesday, May 12, 2004
It's your birthday!
It’s the Blog’s first birthday in July.
As part of the celebrations, I present the revisionist historians guide to Lunchtime Poetry & Pain, written in the style of an index to a post war treaty. Like a clip episode of your favourite sit-com.
Chapter 1: Articles 1 – 41. Crimes against poetry.
Trinity chase Michael to become poet laureate. Mark makes his way on to CIA’s watch list. Conor up against war crimes tribunal for his poetry and haiku
Chapter 2: Articles 42 – 53. Continuance of status quo.
Brendan Kennelly rings Michael looking for advice. Black sedans seen in vicinity of Mark. Conor made sign peace pact that he’ll never write poetry again
Chapter 3: Articles 54 – 56. The decline of Lunchtime.
Michael nominated world ambassador for poetry. Mark has a go at the church, men in pointed red hoods seen with black sedans. Conor missing, fingers presumed cut off.
Chapter 4: Articles 57 – 58. Loss of interest.
Michael absent due to poetry world tour. Mark missing, probably abducted for reprogramming. Conor inexplicably still documenting lunchtime conversation.
Chapter 5: Articles --. Death of ideals.
Poets form a lynch mob for Michael, who is in hiding. Mark suspected to be holed up with a tin foil hat in a faraday cage. Conor on hiatus
Chapter 6: Articles 59 – 63. Rebirth of a notion. Food law.
Michael abandons poetry, under the ‘Yeats’ treaty. Mark still missing; presumed probed. Conor documents his Gout inducing Christmas.
Chapter 7: Articles 64 – 76. 100 Ordinances.
Michael, Conor and Mark detail what they have to do before they die. Conor writes letters.
Chapter 8: Articles 77 – 89. Church and State.
Michael starts his holidays in the far east. Mark loses the creationist vote. Conor writes more letters. I am not a crank.
Chapter 9: Articles 90 – 106. Foreign Policy.
Michael still worrying the locals. Mark in a darkened room with his eyelids stapled open; Man and Dinosaurs can co-exist. Conor’s wife has a run in with her psychotic South African next door neighbour. Niall joins, and complains about traffic, gets locked out by the corpo.
Chapter 10: Articles 107 – 104. Foreign Policy, Domestic Relations.
Michael goes down under. Mark learning about God’s sense of humour; there is no missing link. Conor makes a political statement.
Chapter 11: Articles 104 – 106. Continuance of status quo.
Michael back, but leaving again. Mark back on the back of the church. Conor posts an ad.
Chapter 12: As yet unwritten.
Here’s a word from Wilde.
Some stats:
24,969 words so far
116 posts.
Averages 215.25 words per post.
Between the four of us we’d have 1/3 of an American romantic novel written
Posts: Conor 52, Michael 45, Mark 18, Niall 1
It’s the Blog’s first birthday in July.
As part of the celebrations, I present the revisionist historians guide to Lunchtime Poetry & Pain, written in the style of an index to a post war treaty. Like a clip episode of your favourite sit-com.
Chapter 1: Articles 1 – 41. Crimes against poetry.
Trinity chase Michael to become poet laureate. Mark makes his way on to CIA’s watch list. Conor up against war crimes tribunal for his poetry and haiku
Chapter 2: Articles 42 – 53. Continuance of status quo.
Brendan Kennelly rings Michael looking for advice. Black sedans seen in vicinity of Mark. Conor made sign peace pact that he’ll never write poetry again
Chapter 3: Articles 54 – 56. The decline of Lunchtime.
Michael nominated world ambassador for poetry. Mark has a go at the church, men in pointed red hoods seen with black sedans. Conor missing, fingers presumed cut off.
Chapter 4: Articles 57 – 58. Loss of interest.
Michael absent due to poetry world tour. Mark missing, probably abducted for reprogramming. Conor inexplicably still documenting lunchtime conversation.
Chapter 5: Articles --. Death of ideals.
Poets form a lynch mob for Michael, who is in hiding. Mark suspected to be holed up with a tin foil hat in a faraday cage. Conor on hiatus
Chapter 6: Articles 59 – 63. Rebirth of a notion. Food law.
Michael abandons poetry, under the ‘Yeats’ treaty. Mark still missing; presumed probed. Conor documents his Gout inducing Christmas.
Chapter 7: Articles 64 – 76. 100 Ordinances.
Michael, Conor and Mark detail what they have to do before they die. Conor writes letters.
Chapter 8: Articles 77 – 89. Church and State.
Michael starts his holidays in the far east. Mark loses the creationist vote. Conor writes more letters. I am not a crank.
Chapter 9: Articles 90 – 106. Foreign Policy.
Michael still worrying the locals. Mark in a darkened room with his eyelids stapled open; Man and Dinosaurs can co-exist. Conor’s wife has a run in with her psychotic South African next door neighbour. Niall joins, and complains about traffic, gets locked out by the corpo.
Chapter 10: Articles 107 – 104. Foreign Policy, Domestic Relations.
Michael goes down under. Mark learning about God’s sense of humour; there is no missing link. Conor makes a political statement.
Chapter 11: Articles 104 – 106. Continuance of status quo.
Michael back, but leaving again. Mark back on the back of the church. Conor posts an ad.
Chapter 12: As yet unwritten.
Here’s a word from Wilde.
Some stats:
24,969 words so far
116 posts.
Averages 215.25 words per post.
Between the four of us we’d have 1/3 of an American romantic novel written
Posts: Conor 52, Michael 45, Mark 18, Niall 1
Monday, May 10, 2004
I have already had a thing wuth creation science ... now here comes bible archaeology
http://www.cnn.com/2004/TECH/science/04/26/noah.ark.ap/index.html
Geologists say even though there is evidence of a flood in Mesopotamia in Sumerian times,
it is not possible for a ship to make landfall at an altitude as high as Mount Ararat.
Suppose that a thousand years from now, the only record anyone has of the existence of a place called 'Kansas' is in the form of an old book
and a couple of ancient film reels describing the improbable adventures of a young girl from this mythical place.
Now suppose that a team of archaeolgists digging around in the Great Plains finds an old road sign that,
when it is translated our of the archaic language called 'English,' reads 'Welcome to Kansas.' This can only mean one thing ...
Every word in the ancient epic called The Wizard of Oz is absolutely true!
http://www.cnn.com/2004/TECH/science/04/26/noah.ark.ap/index.html
Geologists say even though there is evidence of a flood in Mesopotamia in Sumerian times,
it is not possible for a ship to make landfall at an altitude as high as Mount Ararat.
Suppose that a thousand years from now, the only record anyone has of the existence of a place called 'Kansas' is in the form of an old book
and a couple of ancient film reels describing the improbable adventures of a young girl from this mythical place.
Now suppose that a team of archaeolgists digging around in the Great Plains finds an old road sign that,
when it is translated our of the archaic language called 'English,' reads 'Welcome to Kansas.' This can only mean one thing ...
Every word in the ancient epic called The Wizard of Oz is absolutely true!
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