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.