Dublin, kippers, etc.

Last week I was reading an article in the Indo's Life magazine during a crazy morning in work. Ignoring customers and leaning-with-intent on the bar, I read about a young fella living in Berlin. He told us how the city was recession-null, how cheap coffee and fags were, and essentially how bloody fantastic it was to be him, living in Berlin.
Surely if one was reading the article, the chances of actually ich bin-ing ein Berliner were slim. Being reminded how crap Dublin is in comparison was a bit like being slapped with a kipper at 5 in the morning. It's not necessary; I'd rather eat the slimy beggar, vomiting as I go, and call it envy.

A Lazy Post...Rooting Round My Gmail

The other night I couldn't sleep. I got up at 4.30 a.m. and wrote to Donald Clarke. Yes, that lovely bespectacled chap off the Irish Times.

"Dear Mr. Clarke,

Bravo!

I am writing to convey my pleasure on reading your writing.

Every Friday morning on my coffee break, I root through the boring,
depressing parts of the Irish Times (where they tell you the world
is about to end...again) to ferret out your reviews on films
and all things cinematic.

I love going to the cinema, but maybe I like reading about them just as much. It's kind of like reading restaurant reviews and never eating out. A guilty pleasure, but one none the less.

I love your use of the English language, and find your sarcastic wit like a splash
of Old Spice on a new-shaven face. This morning, in fact, I was reading your review
of Marmaduke, and your comparison of the hypothetical progress of the
cartoon to primates and picking tics out of their rectums. Despite being caught halfway between toast and an unsavoury image, I laughed and laughed. It cheered me greatlyand I resolved to write to you to tell you.

I especially enjoy your reviews of crap films. Waiting for a Slating is something to savour :)

Keep it up!

Yours sincerely,

Sarah Gostrangely"

*******

Funnily enough, he hasn't replied. Maybe I should get one of those Gmail lock thingys.

Super Blog

A lot of you bloggeurs and bloggeuses out there will already be familiar with The Anti Room, but just in case, I'm pumping it full steam here.

A feministish-approach blog on all good things, including literature, art, music and sex (there's mickeys!) among other things, this collective blog features strongly on my interweb reading list. It also stops me from blogging myself, which I haven't been able to do with much credibility in ages, or from facebooking, which, as we all know, is the beginning of the end of civilisation.

All in all, a brilliant place to knock over to when a good think is required.

Rarely Done, But "Untitled", Like Van Go

Great. I've been compared to "The Terror Land", whatever that is...Rehrman on the last post seems to think so. Happy Days. It sounds too Saxon to be considered cute.


A night out with fellow Singaporeans and the ilk in a spectaculare display of diplomacy. Shake hands, drink wine. Actually drink wine was most of it to be honest....and meeting a mighty woman called Regina, who rocked seven shades of shit. A counsellor and a teacher from Bedok (former East Coast SG suburb-turned red light district) we chatted over mixed nuts and the openness of Irish teens.

I can't type tonight. Holy Moses I need to go to bed.

Sweary on a Wednesday

Muttering, cursing, shouting under her breath, the waitress storms off into the kitchen. Slamming a greasy docket onto the clipboard and yelling "CUNTS, just fucking CUNTS, why can't you be normal humans and not dither at 7.30 in the morning about whether you want your fucking poached egg done medium or medium-well? Who the hell orders an egg medium-well, anyway? God damn fucking cuntish fucking eggs".

On the floor, front of house, the same surly matron is dispensing extortionate shot glasses of "freshly squeezed" (from a factory in Ballymun) orange juice onto the shining tables with what she hoped was a professional veneer. As her back turns to retrieve more slops from the bucket of life, the poor people sitting on table nineteen shudder and pray for the foreign girls next time they come back here, if they come back at all. That young one has one God damn fucking hell of an attitude, like.

One For Sorrow

"...Two For Joy" is not just the name of a fantabulous book (thanks you Patty S), but is also quite a common phrase, regarding the sighting (or not) or magpies. Whatever baldy cunt made up this adage must have been a bitter pill. Rare is the time I see two, never mind three, of the thieving bastards on any given Sunday. If I'm lucky, I'll get a string of avian singletons five minutes apart, wishing me a lengthy and deplorable run of misery.

We should be shooting them and making mag-pies.

Ha.

Marry Your Cousins

An Incestuous Love Song...Dropping Well