A Baby Is Born!

Ado

A Thought for the Week Ahead(4)

If you could just stop worrying about world annihilation, you would realise that the girl across the road fancies you, the sun is shining and you are due an increase in wages. Barring this you should skip work for two to three weeks, get into trouble, look kinda cool in the process and get that girl! Go, you legend!

Bobby Peru

Global Warming Warning

Ado

It was the eve of budget day...

Ado

Bertie Welcomes Home New Cardinal

Ado

The Untouchables

Ado

A thought for the Week Ahead (3)

Due to planetary allignment you will be strongly drawn to do the opposite of what you should. This will lead you to selling your old TV going out with the proceeds and waking up next to 'HIM' again. The same goes for boys and girls. Don't fret as you will have some change left over to get him a taxi, buy some paracetamol and a packet of hobnobs. N.B. stay in next week end and listen to music.

Bobby Peru

Wobbly bits

I was going to write about sex, but I’m still researching….
What I mean is, I still have to interview the Reformed Libertine who would certainly be a source of knowledge both factual and anecdotic

In the meantime I got the first pressie for my birthday! A lovely wobbly silicone cake mould. A round one with ridges and a hole in the middle.

So it was that I fought with the cat for the possession of the two-steps ladder and climbed to the dizzy heights of my cookery book shelf to take down the venerable Artusi: the Bible of Italian cooking. Boldly I went where I never dared before: Blancmange And retreated straight away to the safety of panna cotta from a modern practical cooking collection. Cholesterly challenged but easy to do, it necessitated one key ingredient: leaf gelatin. 2 sheets. This mysterious ingredient comes in a 25g bag of 10 sheets. In Ireland, that is. Apparently in Italy (where the recipe originated) it comes in single 25g sheets. The result was a very sorrowful looking liquid mix of cream, milk and sugar. I checked again in the morning, just in case by some strange anomaly of physics it had solidified out in the shed overnight. It hadn’t.
Ado and The Chef dug deep in their culinary expertise (one having been a bohemian salad chef in Paris, the other having earned a proper C.E.R.T. qualification) and instructed me to rescue my mixture by adding 2 tubs of Philadelphia and one further sheet of gelatin thus transforming the disaster into a cheese cake. Foreboding an ill outcome, I got cheep cream cheese from Lidl As I was stirring it into the warmed up creamy mess to be rescued, I managed to have a long conversation holding my mobile phone between shoulder and ear. Miraculously the phone didn’t join the cheese in the bowl. Problem was, I was distracted from proper stirring and half of the tiny sheet of gelatin stuck to the bottom of the pot and there it remained. A further night chilling in the shed did nothing for the physical quality of my disaster. It was still at the liquid state. Maybe going sour as well. Or maybe it was the cheap cheese. We’ll never know.
Attempt number 2 was a budino, as wobbly as the mould but edible. Regrettably it is still lurking in the fridge. I wonder why…

Pinzimonio

A Thought for the Week Ahead (2)

A glorious confluence in Mars will prompt you to buy a chocolate bar of the same name. This houever will be left in the car on a sunny day and will turn to liquid. This you will decide to scoop up with chips, leading to a lifelong weired food craving which will haunt you to the grave.

Bobby Peru

FAI (1)

Ado

A Thought for the Week Ahead (1)

The effect of Pluto can be felt this week but not half as much as the effect of Pernoid. This will leave you waking up in strange houses with different socks to the ones you went out in. Don't underestimate the importance of tea in your life.

Bobby Peru

Irish Government Give Themselves a pay increase

Ado

NOTICE

Please note that we haven't gone away.... we are just resting.... too busy enjoing ourselves somewhere else... back soon!

Waterford Grass

Pinzimonio

tea?

Ado

Danish Pastries

I got a couple of calls in work last winter from a bloke involved in the Viking Warship project. I thought the man was deranged and the whole thing a windup. Somebody unbalanced had to be involved but it was not a windup. A full-scale reconstruction of a Viking warship (the Sea Stallion of Glendalough, to give it its proper title) landed in the courtyard. And with it came the Viking crew. And with all the fuss men popped up with mobile phones flapping around looking important and efficient and marketing types all fur coats and no knickers.
I do have to point out that I have proof that, on the other hand, modern day Vikings do wear them (knickers, that is).
I was standing in a strategic position with Catwoman and YoungArtist observing the festivities doing a grumpy-old-men-from-the-Muppet-Show impression. The square was filling up nicely with people when suddenly out of the corner of my bad eye I saw naked flesh! Naked fit Danish male flesh! We had appreciated the self same man, with his clothes on, wielding an axe giving wood carving demonstrations earlier in the day. Before modesty and manners made me tear my gaze away, I pointed him out to my surveillance partners who felt compelled to check I wasn’t seeing things. They saw and coyly but reluctantly looked away. If laughing is good for your health, we are assured of a flu free winter.

So it was that a wet week end passed, and a wet Tuesday followed a wet Monday. The day didn’t look up to much. The promised delayed Irish summer wasn’t coming and I couldn’t account for the absence of money in my purse. Then I spotted the two wood working Danes packing up their wears and giving their ship the last goodbye cuddles. I thought I’d be nice and offer the use of the staff kitchen. They came in. The sight of two 6ft+ fit young Vikings made a welcome change from the usual middle-aged pot bellied Celts frequenting the place. The local barbarians had left a sink-full of dirty crockery and nothing clean in sight. I felt compelled to supply my emergency mugs from the depths of my food locker. My main problem at this point was communication: all I could dribble out (keeping my teeth firmly clenched to avoid my tongue falling out and tripping me up) was something like ‘here you go, this one is clean the other needs a rinse’. I could not look them in the eye after seeing something only the partner or the washing machine should. But I felt very girly, teenagery, almost in good form (for a Tuesday). I even handed out biscuits and club milks from the communal stash. The Celts in attendance were puzzled by my erratic behaviour. I couldn’t blame them.

Pinzimonio

national pride

Ado

Pretty Mean Tiger. Or, life as seen by a premenstrual woman

It’s night-time. Panther is making some sort of a noise. It’s a breathing noise. Not snoring, breathing. The poke-in-the-ribs-and-turn-bouncing-on-the-bed technique doesn’t stop him breathing. The thought of smothering him crosses my mind but love and a vestige of rationality hold my hand.

The assorted contents of my stomach, which landed there in a random order only a few hours ago, are struggling to find their way out. Cheese and crackers, crinkle cut beetroot, custard, leftover pasta, chocolate biscuits and a dinner are NOT the cause of my insomnia. My man breathing is. Definitely.

I get up looking and feeling like a rat unwillingly pulled out of her hole by the tail. My personal space is ballooning to 10meter radius and growing, which is incompatible with a bus journey. There are too many people on this Earth and too many of them decided to get the 8am 121 from Drimnagh.. And they smell. Oh, the smell of humanity! Feet, Lynx, last night’s party and take-away, damp clothes and wet dog.

My heightened senses are bringing the irritability levels to an all-month high. The phone buzzes like a trapped bluebottle, a colleague clicking a pen is practising a new form of torture on me, the public are a herd of morons out to annoy me personally, the fellas drilling a hole outside my office are toying with death.

The end of the working day saves those unsuspecting men from an untimely departure from this life. I switch on the homing device and drag my heavy feet all the way back. I’m greeted by the smell of cooking potatoes. Full-blown paranoia ensues: WHY is he cooking dinner? WHAT is he up to?

The fact that after all these years he has learnt to tame the monthly tiger with a feed of starch doesn’t cross my mind. At all. It’s a conspiracy. Really.

Pinzimonio

Dipping toes in Waterford

pinzimonio

historical

Ado

holiday notice

PLEASE NOTE THAT BISON WILL BE ON HOLIDAY UNTIL JUNE 20TH... WE ARE NOT GONE... JUST HAVING A BREAK!

feeling proud, if not a little smug

I’m feeling proud, if not a little smug. I would prefer to feel a little smug, a small soft bovine creature from the wastes the Peruvian uplands. The reason I’m feeling this way is by exercising my right to vote. My right to vote for a selection of pasty faced men in ill fitting suits and over made up women, power dressed out of their minds. It was a long and tortuous route to my polling station in the uplands of Co Waterford. All transport leaves Dublin exactly on or before 5p.m. This can be detrimental to the working traveller. Did the previous government frown upon the movement of tax payers, preferring to trap them in one area by default? The choices were limited. I could either, Skip off work early, find some transport, get up early and find some transport back OR go home sit on my big lazy hole and mutter things like
‘Shor the same fellas always get in’
‘I’ll still have to get up and go to work no matter who runs the place’
‘There’s no difference between any of the parties these days (except the PDs who are evil, (GET BEHIND ME HARNEY!). Its not the first time she’s heard that sentence (saucy bitch) Just imagine Mary Harney, a tub of Hagen Das and a bottle of coke each…………….Ahhhh bliss.’
Where was I? Oh ya I was on my way to change the Government, rock the system or more realistically vote for some crazy bog man with a jaunty haircut. Some people have no rights to vote was my mantra as I trudged for the last train, trying to forget that I was going to be up at 5am to catch a train back to big old smelly fun dangerous handy interesting expensive Dublin. Did you notice how Enda’s hair looked green in his posters? Was he trying to capture the punk vote? I expect this didn’t work as all the Punks are anarchists. Maybe that’s what Kenny is up to. Pretend to be all normal and crazy in a very politician way and just when he wins……Whip out a sledge hammer and really smash the system. Leave the Dail in splinters.
I eventually got to my polling station miles from everywhere and realised there was no candidate in mid-Waterford promising to make the streets around my Dublin apartment safer or link up the Luas lines(which is a real no-brainer) or make a transport system that means I can actually get home to vote. I think a vote for sheep farmers was about as close as I could get. Maybe they will equip new Luas lines with wool stuffed seats? Democracy is about as good as it gets, but not as good as Mary harney, a packet of rancheros and two cold cans of fizzy orange…………….Ahhhhh Mary Baaaaaaaa!

Bobby Peru

Foraging

Foraging. That’s what we ladies are programmed for. I’ve worked it out.
Some time ago I was watching a programme presented by an excellent anthropologist whose name escapes me. I know him as the one with the cuddly face, curly hair, black-framed glasses and soft moustache under his Jewish nose (the rest of him is Jewish so, I suppose, his nose is as well). He was pointing out the different attitude of children in front of videogames: the boys (the hunters) attacked aggressively; the girls (the gatherers) observed collecting information. (Could this, by the way, explain why women read instruction manuals and men don’t?)
And then it struck me: women, the foragers stalking the modern jungle. From bush to boutique, from digging for roots to routing for bargains. Men seem to be content chasing something that moves, like a ball, or even just sit looking at other men chasing a ball and dreaming of their hunting days.

So it was that one sunny Saturday my faithful foraging companions- The Chef and Catwoman- and I went loitering deep into the jungle with intent.
We met in a clearing near Trinity Collage nice and early to beat the gathering crowds. First indispensable stop was a watering hole. The Chef’s expert eye spotted in the undergrowth berries in a little coffee shop window. And under the berries was pastry and over them was jelly. We entered. The small turquoise room had an old fashioned, sober, continental air about it. After a swimming pool size cappuccino we headed for the biggest tree in the forest: Brown Thomas. We had a good scout around and there we found dresses with matching bags (oh, temptation!) and price tags matching a month’s wages (oh inflation!). As we left, the posh side of the jungle was starting to fill up with primates of all shapes and sizes. After a couple of scrawny looking shrub-like shops we landed the perfect going-to-posh-wedding frock for Catwoman who nonetheless declined dipping into that feminine logic which makes us, the fairer sex, so interesting.
Lunch in Wagamama was scrumptious. The Chef, condemned to a perpetual diet by indulgence earlier in life, only looking on from behind a bowl of boiled rice.
We then developed the theory that a belly full to capacity gives a clear advantage in fitting a frock that would withstand wedding libations. It was then that shoppers’ luck struck.: my perfect dress, perfect fit perfect half price discount.. In my moment of delight, I started making all those girly high pitched noises and hand gestures that go beyond the confines of language and culture: the gatherer found and extraordinarily juicy fruit. And she communicated as much.
A couple of fruitless spots later we paused for a lemonade and a thought.. Result: the lemonade in Munchies is too sweet and Catwoman was to retrace her steps back to her perfect dress discarded in the morning. The Chef, with heroic restraint, only picked up what she originally was looking for (a top to go with a shirt, for the record). This didn’t stop her shearing in our primeval girly giggles at the prospect of looking for accessories.
A forager’s work is never done.

Pinzimonio

Personality problem

Ado

a whole new planet

Ado

The Times They Have Changes

As Bob Dylan tours Europe we can see that a lot has changed since his 1961 debut at the Gaslight club, for instance he no longer yodels. Dylan at he time had friendly competition with the likes of Jimi Hendrix, The Beatles and The rolling Stones, now 65 years old he has to compete with Youtube and Justin Timberlake. He recently released Modern times, which got him a Grammy and his first number one since 1976’s Desire.

As his tour starts, fans don’t know what to expect with Dylan's constant changing and nit-picking of the songs and his faded voice but Dylan still has it, according to Regina hackett of the Seattle PI Dylan “still spares no mystique”. Being a young fan and having a ticket for his April show I often wonder if he is powerful ‘live’ or a disappointment, I know he wont be as animated as AC DC but listening to his last record I know I wont be let down. As Dylan said himself “Time will tell who has fell and who’s been left behind”.

Snag (Guest, From Paris)

something in the water

Ado

Let the game begin

Ado

The Banks of Ireland

Ado

The French Election for a New King

A few trotskyistes including a postman, a moustached campaigner who’s up on charges for sabotaging GM crops, a would be Napoleon who travels with lots of police officers, a Mammy who loves people but we still don’t know what her plan is, a green woman who has the personality of a paper bag, an evil bastard and a would be evil bastard, a hunting shooting person that hasn’t been seen yet and a central, in the middle, very cantered, if you don’t like the left or right will I do last minute mover...
Yes, you’ve guessed it! It’s the French Election for a new King

You thought Kings didn’t exist here? Well the President is just like a king with a lot of power. Doesn’t Chirac remind you of a king? Lots of dignity and completely barking.

One thing French people do seem to appreciate is the idea of revolution so we get to listen to lots of communists talking about power to the people, which is amusing if it weren’t for the number of actual votes going to the extreme right.

Chirac became President because the whole of France was shocked by how many votes the extreme right got last time. He was the lesser of two evils. It was funny to see the fuss made over the FIRST PRIMETIME BLACK NEWSREADER when you think the UK have good old Trevor for years and the very BBC Moira.
Ah, but there’s no positive discrimination here as it’s against the idea and constitution of the Republic. Every man is equal: Liberté, Egalité et Fraternité so to change the constitution would be just impossible. That’s why CVs with photos and Arab or African names often get thrown in the bin. Not by all companies, but by enough to make people unhappy.
It’s not fair. And when things are not fair…
Positive Discrimination has its pitfalls and was a huge upheaval but now we don’t even think about it. Where are the representatives of the minorities? Apart from some famous Rap or Pop people who are young people in the suburbs (Banlieu in French has a whole other meaning) connected to here. Who represents them? There are record numbers of young people registering to vote this time so maybe…

Then maybe we wouldn’t have to hear the old blah blah of them foreigners taking our jobs and living off the State and generally to blame for everything that’s wrong. Send them home or only pick the “good ones”. Well we could start blaming the elected leaders who are not doing their job properly and thank immigrants for doing the dirty jobs we don’t want to do anymore, for trying to give their children a better life and for bringing new life and culture.

By the way, I love France and all its contradictions. French people have a lot going for them and they know they have to change things but the choices of leaders are not exactly inspiring.
I’m sure there are young people out there waiting in the wings because young people here are very motivated and intelligent whatever their background. Stop with the clichés and things will change. “Le Roi est Mort, Vive le Roi!! (ou Reine, Royal you know).

Eirose (Guest, from Paris)

When Ian Met Bertie

Ado

Into the Grove

Or should I say out of.

The fish tank at the dart board end of the bar is already gone, and soon will be followed by the darts and the stools and the tables and the bar itself and the walls and the roof and all the locals, none of whom would be in a position to return as the landlord of one of the 18 apartments with underground car park.
Old photographs of old parties are being redistributed to the people in them. We got the one of me with a strange hair do and Panther reluctantly wearing a shiny wig.
The place is strangely busy. A bit like a lot of long lost cousins are turning up to see their dying relative for one last time.

The usual double act are defiantly playing music into the wee small hours (the worst thing that can happen is already going to happen anyway) and the locals are singing. The fellah who’s the image of Liam Brady and sings as well as his double played with the ball; Mona Lisa’s virtues are melodiously declared and some others’ with more uncertain voice but with the same passion; young Stevo, being a bit more special than your usual karaoke chancer, is helped along to his party piece Alice. Always encouraged, never derided
And the ManU fan the size of a pint glass who, had he been born an insect, would be a daddylonglegs, dances between the tables. Overdressed and overfed grandmothers wobble along to the 60s and 70s, some with the grace of the swans on the canal bank outside, some finding the lighter step of their younger days.


The brave brothers who briefly rescued this little public sitting room from the bulldozers now serve pints with a bitter (not embittered) smile.

Pinzimonio

Problematic Policy

Ado

Telephone to God

Ado

Ulster says...

Ado

A Day in the Life of a Eunuch

The first morning noises wake him. Then again he could have been awake a while guarding what he is under the illusion to be his territory from the incursions of the black tom. On the other hand the black trespasser seems quite at ease asleep on the eunuch’s armchair.
After breakfast has been served to him, the eunuch walks out on a matter-of-fact morning patrol: down the garden, up the wall, round the bleeding bushes, up on the shed with the surfing board, good sniff at the crisp air, fuck the morning dew, it’s too cold out here. And the magpies are back. Chased by the territorial birds, he gallops to his flap. Back inside, the daily yogic stretches are performed on the coir mat in the kitchen, perfect for exercising all the toes while clawing at it. Ritual cleansing is the next absorbing activity for the eunuch to be carried out preferably in the sunny spot on the table.
Forget all the commonplace: cats in general (and the eunuch in particular) think they are Buddhists.
They practise meditation daily, for long periods and with fervour. Just sitting, contemplating the world around them in a state of perfect relaxation and sharp awareness is not a goal but a way of life. The periods of ‘sitting’ may last for hours with intervals of pure rest. Mere humans cannot fathom the difference between these two states.

But when dusk descends upon earth, the wild thing awakens.
The meek eunuch stretches and stands taller. He paces silently across the kitchen to his private entrance. He looks out into the world like a paratrooper ready to jump into enemy territory. He carefully noses his way through the flap and sits on the step. Already the dignity of his ancestors oozes from each and every stripe. No longer a meditating moggie, he’s a feral predator. A few more watchful steps. Another rekki. All being clear a quick trot will bring him to the border of his realm and beyond the neighbour’s shed. After that he is swallowed into the mysterious world of twilight.

Upon his return to the comforts of civilisation- the length of his absence depending on atmospheric conditions- he quickly peels off his tiger skin. The beast is thus transformed back into the bewildered looking tabby suffering from intestinal problems and, possibly, piles.

Pinzimonio

Ireland v Wales

Ado

Horoscope

ARIES: Spare the rod and spoil the child, as the saying goes. I’m not talking canes here. You must make sure that your children get a dose of at least two Rod The Mob Stewart songs per day. This will ensure that they talk in raspy voices and dress in pink leopards-skin leotards. This will leave you free to think you are sane. You are not.
TAURUS: After years of being a shrinking violet, you realise that the Gods made a typo and you ere supposed to be THE SHRINKING VIOLENT the smallest, angriest, super hero. You immediately become enraged and shrink to a size of 50cm. This allows you to fight crime in all the most inaccessible areas. You will obviously be owed back pay. It may arrive, it may not.
GEMINI: Your already significant powers of seduction reach new heights as you tempt an endless array of fabulous lovers to your lair. Be wary of blond haired vixens with ‘love’ and ‘hate’ tattooed on their knuckles. Beware also of any guy who knows all the words of ‘Like a Virgin’. Lucky revolutionary leader: Che Guevara.
CANCER: This month you are more chancer than cancer. You will try to persuade your place of employment that you need time off because the Government want to experiment on you and your family. As luck would have it you actually decide to sign up for top-secret government experiments. These make you super-intelligent. You go on to win Countdown, The Weakest Link and Blankety Blank. Well done, you have achieved much.
LEO: It is essential that you focus all your feline intuition on your health in the coming months. There is a possibility you will lose an appendage on Tuesday. Stem the flow of blood with a tunicae or any handy napkin. This could lead to your own self-help book and a spot on the Pat Kenny Show, if you play your cards right.
VIRGO: All the planning and patience over the last few years is destined to come to fruition within the next two months. I know it means so much to you but, my dear Virgo, my dear, dear big headed, tiny minded Virgo, please do try to stay within the public nudity laws. Godspeed and may your spirit always be this free.
LIBRA: You cheeky monkey you! OO be do I wanna be like yoooooho. Fantastic cheekbones will drop from the sky and make you a smash on the Milan catwalk. Don’t do Dior shure he’s sooo last season. Home life will stabilise once your family stop wrestling bulls. Be polite to ladies and don’t chew with your stomach full.
SCORPIO: Scorpio, Scorpio wherefore art thou Scorpio. You are lost in a fog of conflicting emotions and needs. The path through these times involves a long time friend, a strong pair of hands, 4 kiss-me-quick hats and an Austin Allegro. Don’t ride the clutch too much. Lucky concept: time or space… well, it’s one of those big ones anyway.
SAGITTARIOUS: please try to keep in mind that yesterday does not exist, neither does tomorrow for that matter. Only the now. This only exists because some electricity is bouncing around in the synapses of your brain. Taking these gigantic philosophical thoughts into consideration leaves you with more time to think about puppies and guns.
CAPRICORN: This month you will be flooded with ideas for finally making those millions. Bouncy hats, shoes that tell the time, odd socks, reusable food, an Irish rail system. When they let you out, you should peruse one of these dreams: Lucky parable: the one about the farmer and the seeds
AQUARIUS: Your inspiration and guide this month will come from the sea. Not for the might of the ocean, the gods of the depths. You shall invent beef fingers made with real sea cow. As sea cows are an endangered species you will only be able to sell them on the black market to millionaires. You will also start a campaign to bring back the old captain Birds Eye. The new one is so unconvincing with his smooth moves and designer stubble, gorgeous ladies draped on either arm… (We apologise, as your regular psychic has had to be taken away for shock therapy. We will be replacing him with a panda). THE JOY OF BAMBOO by A. Panda…we apologise the panda has just been shot, made into panda fingers and sold to a millionaire.
PISCES: On a Tuesday at 3 o’clock you will find 4 men vying for your affections. If you are female, enjoy the attention and be careful not to become too complacent in your suspicion of their motives. If on the other hand you are a male, shave the moustache and stop wearing that studded leather cap and lycra jumpsuit to work.

Bobby Peru

Sniff Sniff hooray!

I like my food. . From unemployed size 8 living on Koka noodles to well fed Public Servant, my waistline is the widening proof of it

Foraging for food is something I do from time to time, mostly when I leave my lunch in the fridge at home or I just can’t fit the three minutes’ sandwich preparation time into my tight morning schedule My latest discovery is a little spot in North King Street, selling bowls of soup and stews for a more than acceptable price. They have a little train suspended from the ceiling an’ all!! Nothing pretentious about it, Just good food to eat. Alas, still no rightful heir to the Market Café (closed down by the impending poshness of Smithfield). Even featuring as a location in Irish productions such as Intermission and Adam And Paul couldn’t save it. I will mourn the loss of Martin’s egg and chips for a long long time to come. Instead of the deep fryer smell titillating your cholesterol, a synthetic smell wafts from a Subway. Good fortune has it that the Chinese community are colonising the old tile shop at the corner, and I’ll have to have a closer sniff around the promising food hall upstairs.
On the other side of town Café Sofia is resisting the American invasion, waving the Bulgarian flag and dishing up traditional Irish fare.
It is good to see places like these, weathering the storm of culinary colonisation in the forest of pseudo-aristocratic eateries and American junk.
A Polish bakery in D7, my favourite north African patisserie at Harold’s Cross Bridge, far eastern un-Irishised food on Parnell street. All good, all diverse, all enriching, fighting off the pretence of tastes dictated by overly fussy self appointed food connoisseurs and the standardised mush of Ronald’s French fries.

Pinzimonio

global warming

Ado

descent

One Small Step...

God Save Us

Big Sofas, Small Change

4.30 on Sunday. A bit late to go window-shopping for sofas, but it suited me.
I went to this place I had meant to visit since I spotted one of their sofas in a posh magazine in the doctor’s waiting room. The surrounding area wasn’t inviting at all. Newly demolished building at the corner, a couple of warehouses and a yard to let, a slightly rundown side street between the Tenters and Black Pits (wool workers and communal graves for plague victims don’t sound nice on postal addresses). I was delighted to find the sofa-place was accompanied by other 2 furniture shops. At long last I had found it! The Mecca for sofaly challanged people! I entered. There were couches everywhere, the odd armchair and a young woman from whom I enquired whether they were still open. She rushed upstairs. As it turned out she also switched on the soft lights and mellow sofa music. Having looked around for a short while, I tried one (uncomfortable) couch. It’s useless wandering around a sea of settees when there is a shop assistant and no other living creature in the shop, I thought. I descended to the ground floor, gave my best smiley hallo. The assistant jumped up like a vixen with big blue eyes out of her computerised den in the corner.
The nice black overcoat my mammy bought me didn’t hide my real financial condition: more I-wish-I-could-buy than I-am-going-to-buy. The vixen instinctively knew. No point me smiling at her and trying to elicit information about their less puffy range, the size and prices. She spoke at me condescendingly thinking ‘no commission out of this one’, as stiff and uncomfortable as her sofas.
Feeling despondent, I quickly checked the place next-door, as deserted and friendly as the one I was coming out of, but nicer furniture. Panther was supposed to meet me in Lidel for a shop. So up I went to the proletarian Thomas Street and the value supermarket. As usual I had no change to put in the trolley. No security man to let me in from the exit to go and annoy somebody at the till, no husband in sight to extort money from. A young couple (inner-city accents, tracksuit bottoms and a baby on the way) were just leaving and I casually asked did they have change of 2 euro. They told me I only needed 20cent, put it in the trolley for me and refused to take any of my coppers. Reconciled with humanity, I pushed my little trolley through the East-Euro-Afro clientele, the vixen and her empty sofas only a hollow memory.

Pinzimonio

Eh?

Moriarty

Of wind and Buses

I go to yoga classes on Monday evenings to fluff up my aura and prepare myself for the long, inconsequential week of work ahead.
A couple of weeks ago, in the middle of a storm (high winds and a bit of horizontal rain for good measure), I made my way home by bus. Excellent. First bus decided to keep going along the quays instead of crossing over as it is supposed to do. So I had to cross O’Connell bridge in hurricane (not quite, really) force winds to reach the wind tunnel where my choice of busses is conveniently located. By this time the aura I had worked so hard to create was already well battered.
The place was littered with double-deckers parked in everybody’s line of vision, mountains of rubbish bags huddled around the bus stops and people blown up and down the street. I parked myself, my windswept aura, my bag and yoga mat between two stops on the look out for 3 buses. As one eventually approached I ran towards it against the breeze. With my left arm stretched out in a desperate plea for the driver to stop and holding the bag and yoga mat and the last rags of my aura in the other, I made a dash for the stop. According to my calculations, the bus should have slowed down and I should have reached the stop. Not so. The wind that was holding me, my bag, yoga mat and aura back, propelled the bus forward at an unanticipated speed. Past the stop and past me. The last ribbon of my aura was ripped from my hand by a hungry gust and I just wanted to cry. 20 minutes later another bus was casually blown my way and I got home.

The next day I rang the bus company to make a point. Not really a complaint as, I suppose, most drivers are actually customer friendly. I was connected to Customer relations and found myself talking to what I could only describe as the incarnation of a double-decker. The gentleman on the other end of the phone put his point across with the same diplomacy of a bus approaching jaywalkers (I am louder and bigger than you, so piss off). Not that his explanation didn’t make any sense, but a few sympathetic noises wouldn’t have gone amiss. (That’s what they thought me on those otherwise useless customer service courses!) At the end of the conversation we agreed that he would talk to the garage manager to encourage his drivers to slow down at that particular stop to help unfortunate passengers reduced to bus-stop-hopping by circumstances beyond the bus company’s control. The instant I put the receiver down I knew the bus made flesh had a mystical side, and thought he was hearing confessions thus keeping to a strict vow of secrecy.

The moral of the story? There isn’t one, really.

Pinzimonio

tribunal

Irish Bacon

untitled

I'm sitting at the computer trying to come up with the
wittiest most wonderful engaging prose ever put to
screen. It's not happening. I thought I might write
somthing saucey about voulptouous women in tight
clothing. this made me go out, get drunk and fall
about with some wonderful voluptous women in tight
clothing. I always like to wear tight clothing when i
fall about with voluptous women. All that behaviour
got me to thinking about going in to work with a
raging hangover and a dickie tummy as I was going into
work with a raging hangover and a dickie tummy. Now I
find the best way to endure a hard day's work in this
situation is to hide in a darkened corner and avoid
work at all costs. This can be achieved by hiding
under your desk and fiddling with the leads to your
computer. Once you have had a good fiddle, you should
fuck up the macine enough to require a boring man to
come round and have a good fiddle with your equipment.
this can last up to three hours. Afterwards (when
you're all fiddled out) you should make him a cup of
tea and he can have a fag. Then you start to think.
'Is there any way I can increase the number of
voluptous women entering the I.T. sector? Then you
take it further. If I started a company called
voluptous ladies who will offer you IT
solutions.......I would get nowhere because the name
is too long and wont fit on the van.. BUT if I call it
'I.T.Art' Now we are talking. I make such good sense
somtimes. This is not one of them.

Bobby Peru

Christmas entretainment

It was the night before Christmas Eve and even the mice were drinking.
We were having our seasonal tipple with old friends in one of panther’s favourite watering holes. A local pub, sparsely decorated, lit by stark bright white lights on one end and dimmer on the other (unexplored) end. A few fairy lights hung behind the bar, between the bottles and a few GAA photographs, a line of Christmas drunks were draped across the long bar.
We settled for the comfy seats by the Ladies’ toilets. Of a no longer identifiable colour, they still held the onion-ringish odour of their previous occupants. From that position my female companion and I had a good view of the talent. An unhealthy number of blokes were joining the line at the bar stools. Builders’ Christmas party: faces that only their mother would love and jeans hanging low holding unshapely arses. The boys didn’t fare any better. The few women, who hurried through to the dimmer area waiting for the music to start, looked like they’d eat you without salt and wash you down with a pint of lager. The music started. The karaoke inevitably followed.
Two fellas at the bar started poking at each other and, as inevitable as the karaoke, a cock fight broke out. The two roosters were quickly separated by others of the same species. Not that they would have been in any fit state to cause any damage other than by falling over, but an ‘oul fight is good entertainment. The local Tina singing “simply the Best” provided the sound track.
At this very moment, out of the mist of time a Christmassy whiff came in the door followed by three elderly representatives of the local old folks support group smiling and singing Christmas carols. They brought with them a bit of uncertain warmth out of the frosty night. Dressed in luminous vests and Santa hats they gingerly offered their collection buckets before being swallowed again back into the dream from whence they came. We contributed to their worthy cause and while the hand was in the pocket another round was bought.

welcome to the blog net!!!!

ciao cugina

visto che figata!!?