Bitter

Dithered over this evening with Mrs McMuck to the rent-a-slum hovel where the brother and his very own Mrs McMuck (the US version) currently reside.

Horrible spot. Smells of pish in the hall and it's difficult to step anywhere without ending up heel-deep in rat-droppings.

Babies scream. Presumably because their junkie parents are too strung-out to open up the packet of Mega Meanies they bought for dinner.

The little ones' tormented wails are only drowned out by the dying groan of the ghetto's latest stab-victim.

These are worrying times for the McMucks. The parents (Mr and Mrs McMuck snr) can't sleep for the fear of the late-night knock on the door.

'Your son and daughter in-law were tragically washed away in a tide of raw sewage,' says the sombre voice on the other side of the threshold.

As the concerned older brother I regularly plead: 'Get away from this typhoid-infested, shit-carpeted, overcrowded and unsanitary shanty town.'

But the little gimp-blower only ever guffaws.

'You laugh so hard that your spit slaps me on the face. Pourquoi?' I query, throwing in the French to remind him of how we plucked the little turd-bucket from a Parisian orphanage and flew him to Dublin, where the signing of adoption papers confirmed him as a little McMuck.

'Cause the opening seven paragraphs of this blog are so full of shite. You've got issues. Sort them out,' he always retorts.

Then he strides from his spacious Monkstown kitchen and out onto one of their two balconies - usually the one that overlooks the sea (with utterly breathtaking views across to Howth) - and laps up the bitterness dripping from every resenting syllable of mine.

If only jealousy were a currency. Then I could afford to move into the apartment next door and piss through his keyhole every morning.

Sausage-fondler.

Scrambled Eggs

Three games, three defeats.

It's not going well for Eggs and Beans FC in the KickAbout.Com Wednesday night Astro Turf Soccer League in DCU.

Losses of 4-5, 2-9 and 7-9 have left the healthy breakfast options floundering at the foot of the table, with serious questions marks being raised about famous midfielder McMuck.

His magical shooting prowess once rendered the football invisible to goalkeepers until they turned around and found it nestling in the net behind them.

His legendary 'engine' once got him from box to box and back to box again.

And his oft-talked about touch could once kill a cannonball fired from ten yards.

But the only magical thing these days about McMuck's shooting prowess is the physics-defying trajectory of an alleged blem on goal.

Where the engine is housed is now flabbed by saggy man-boobs.

And the only thing McMuck's touch appears to kill these days is Egg and Beans FC's hope of ever registering a win.

Sigh.

Belch

I was reminded by Lady Fnurleg a drunken night ago of the absence of bloggery on McMuck and the Mystery of the Kuúgleflarg.

"Scribe thee a blog double-quick or you shall be removed from my blogroll," bellowed the sultry wench between slurps of warm ale.

And so it is writ.

Happy now?

Round the Bend

Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock

ALWAYS TURNING CORNERS

I need to sleep

The pesky air conditioning unit is doing nothing to cure my temporary insomnia. Off and the room is a furnace. On and it sounds like the room is about to lift off. We're in the wee hours of the morning and it's still 20-odd degrees outside. The beer from earlier on is starting to wear off and I don't want to be awake for that.

I'm thinking tired thoughts. It was a day for shorts but I wore jeans. For tuna melts but I had a club sandwich. Silly thoughts.

So I watch CNN, I drink a €3.50 bottle of water from the mini-bar and I read that Radge is straight.

It's a surprise, I have to admit.

Cash Blow For Clubs

I wrote an article the other day about a competition called the Setanta Sports Cup - a cross-border football competition sponsored and financed by the broadcaster. The participating clubs, north and south, were each due to get a €10,000 cheque at the draw. However said draw was postponed and no cheque was forthcoming. For obvious reasons. Setanta's collapse had left some of the poor clubs in a financial pickle, I wrote. Or something along those lines.

Then I remembered Radge and other former Townsend Street comrades.

That article hasn't sat well with me.

Gazza-umped!

Hello.

Lord Gaylord Limpalong here.

Banjaxed my ankle last week playing five-a-side. What's worse is the fact that I was the one who made the tackle. A bit of a wild one. Tried to wrap myself around someone, ended up standing on their boot, foot went one way and leg the other... kind of like a Gazza on Gary Charles effort (circa 1991).

There are so many parallels.

Old Wheelie

I Want To Ride My Bicycle

I Want To Ride My Bike

I Want To Ride My Bicycle

I Want To Ride It Where I Like

Well, around to the local Spar for lunch, then up to the Blanchardstown Centre to buy some pirate paraphernalia and then home.

First time in ages on old Wheelie. I may even be motivated to cycle into work. One day.

Moist

I wake up in a strange bed. Alone. Feel like I'd more than five beers the night before so the coffee is strong and sweet. Hits the back of the throat and rushes straight up to the brain.

Just like I'd hoped it would.

Already sweating. The sun is out and that bitch is staring right at me. Still in yesterday's clothes, which turned into last night's bed-clothes. The 'Barack And Roll' t-shirt quickly getting moist under the bitch's angry glare.

Onto the road - a fine new stretch of motorway. A/C rushing cool air at my face, my feet, my moist areas. Two hours and 41 minutes from Cork to Dublin, including a poxy 20-minute delay in Shabbeyleix. A new day-time record.

The FA Cup final watched, a shower had and it's down to the parents for a sausage and bacon sandwich. Then it's off to Tallaght with the old man.

Shamrock Rovers score against the run of play. Get fucking in there Twigg you beauty. Shamrock Rovers miss a penalty. It's okay. Drogheda United never score...

Drogheda United score. Jammy fuckin defensive shambles of a goal. Four minutes to go. I'm moist again. This time it's an angry kind of moist.

The rest of the evening is of lesser consequence. Home, TV, some burnt microwave popcorn.

Then I retire. This time to fall asleep in a familiar bed. Alone.

Superman

Went boozing with Superman the other night. Bruxelles and Keoghs. He was telling me of his crimefighting ways; bringing down evil villains with his super powers of crime prevention.

Superman has ditched the cape for some more inconspicuous detective garb. Can't well be setting up a drugs sting with your red y-fronts outside your pants now, can you?

He runs marathons now, does Superman. A few a year. And the Man of Steel is hoping to compete in an Iron Man contest next year.

Superman revealed his powers a long time ago when, in college, he was attacked from behind by two rapscoundrelous hoodlums. They were desperate to impress the girls, one suspects.

But Superman locked them both in headlocks with his arms of steely muscledom and from that point on the ladies would swoon for one man only. Superman.

Well girls, you wouldn't be so swoony if you saw this Superman confronted with his very own version of Kryptonite.

Five pints, two bottles and he was jelly.

Unfortunately much crime went unfought that night.

Confirmation

The cry of a screaming child; wailing for food, for a drink, for some kind of relief from her utter torment. It's ceaseless. It drills deep inside my head. For you see I've had my fill today. Pancakes, lasagne, a few bottles of beer. And then I come face-to-face with this tortured young soul.

So I reach out...

... and I throw her as far across the bouncy castle as I can manage. Fucking spoilt brat 8-year-old overweight whingy slappy kicky brain-terrorist.

Just because her bowl of ice-cream wasn't still spilling over the rim and her third can of Fanta was emtpy.

Fucking hell.

Photojournal

I spent the last few days in Seville doing a little bit of

and
and, of course,

 

Mmmmmmmmm, el Fnurlego

A Fair Cop

I was apprehended yesterday by a member of our fine law enforcement constabulary. My crime? I sped past the junction connecting Radge's old 32A haunt with the rest of the world as the traffic light flickered from orange to red.

"Do you know why I've pulled you over?"

"Erm, the orange... wet road surface... no time to slow up..."

"The light was red when you passed through it. It was green on my side so it was obviously red on yours."

"Erm."

"Do you need a fine?"

"What?"

"Do you need a fine?"

So how did I reply...

(a) "Well I have a stable job with a few nixers on the side so it wouldn't break the bank."

(b) "Do YOU need the fine? Have you stopped enough people for doing five km over the speed limit on the M50 to fill your quota for the month?"

(c) "No. And thank you constable for being sensitive to the pressures being put on Joe Everyman by the crippling global cash meltdown."

In the end it didn't really matter what I said, as he took off too quickly to hear me croak out a pathetically grovelling version of answer (c).

But to that Garda, wherever you are, I tip my imaginary hat.

Impressionable

I always used to laugh at commentators who would bleat on when a player makes a tit of himself on the pitch.

“(Drogba/Ballack/Ronaldo...) is a role model to millions of kids. They’ll all be doing that in the schoolyard tomorrow. Oh the shame. Young minds corrupted. The end is nigh. Farewell cruel world...”

And so on.

But on Monday night, during the five-a-side in Dunshauglin, it finally struck me that these preachers of all that is decent were right all along.

I took a tumble. No penalty.

So I flopped on the ground, rolled around, got up and chased poor Brendan halfway up the pitch, manhandling him and spitting fury at the back of his head.

Then when the game was over some poor unfortunate kid happened to be walking by as we headed towards the dressing rooms. He was carrying a disposable camera.

“Disgrace. Disgrace. F****** disgrace,” I shouted towards the frightened ten-year-old – arms flailing wildly from one side to another.

Thankfully I was dragged away by some teammates. But the damage had already been done. And now I have to issue an apology to Dunshauglin Community School, albeit one that is unlikely to help me escape a ban.

So the next time Drogba makes a complete dipweasel of himself and the commentator gets all high and mighty, remember – impressionable wannabe football superstars see, impressionable wannabe football superstars do.

Hardcore

Every Monday night I limp home, muscles stretched and shredded nearly beyond repair. The soon-to-be-wife wrenches her eyes away from the television momentarily to cast a sympathetic glance.

"That was a long game," she might say. "Sit down, I made you rice crispy buns."

It's really very precious. Most women, I'm led to believe, would be far less accomodating. Perhaps it's a trap. Once the papers are signed on August 1 the transformation will occur.

"Football?? The garden centre is open late tonight and then it's down to Woodies. You've got plenty of shovelling to do and the tulips have to be down by 10.32pm on the third quarter moon of the year or else they'll come up all purple and crooked."

Somehow, though, I don't think so. After all, she sat with me through two Champions League semi-finals last week - and that was after she accompanied me to Old Trafford for the Porto match in the previous round. That checked one item on her to-do list. Another is to visit the Nou Camp for a Barca game.

And she didn't dump me when I produced a Shamrock Rovers season ticket as a Valentine's Day present!

So this evening I dashed home from work, as I do every Monday, changed into more suitable attire and headed off to Dunshaughlin for a game of five-a-side.

As per usual I returned home with a littany of injuries to accompany the muscular strains that come with age. This time it was a strained ankle, a bruised hand that was rattled by the world's most powerful shot ever, a strange twinge in the groin and a dodgy left knee.

But I'll be back out on the pitch on Wednesday morning - this time in Tallaght with a group of lads in work. And so help me I'll be ready for next Monday's installment.

Cause I'm hardcore.

Musing

Dani Alves is incredibly easy to dislike

a new beginning?

In the end I wrote it like they wanted. A dripsy little piece of fluff. Tailored for the attention span of a head of lettuce. What am I talking about? Dunno. But I don't like it saying 'No posts match your query'.

Was out with someone for an hour or two last night. Probably a minute for every day since I last saw him. Roughly.

On that scale, I hope our next encounter lasts for mere seconds.