Are you reading Simon Cowell?

I wrote a song last year for Mrs McMuck and played it at our wedding. Unfortunately it wasn't captured in full on video and posted on YouTube, thus depriving me of the opportunity to earn millions of virtual Internet dollars.

But the guests at the wedding seemed to like it. And Mrs McMuck certainly did.

So if Simon Cowell is reading, fuck off.

For anyone else out there, here's how it went...

I traded a wish

For an old fashioned kiss

In the dim moonlight

Till sunrise in her eyes

I gave her a glance

Said that I couldn't dance

Yet she took my hand

I held tight, we took flight

++++++++++

Table for two

How about me and you go down

To the best place for the

Next phase of these crazy day

These crazy days

++++++++++

We said our farewells

But you'd long cast your spell

Waved your wand at me

Alakazam

So I held up a light

Saw your eyes shine so bright

In the dim moonlight

I saw sunrise in your eyes

++++++++++

Table for two

How about me and you go down

To the best place for the

Next phase of these crazy days

These crazy days

Out of the blue

How about me and you take off

Oh, we'll find a place

Where we can chase

These crazy days

These crazy days

JU-FUCKING-VENTUS

90 minutes away from playing Ju-fucking-ventus in the Europa League!

Flipping heck.

A poem about wantingness

GIVE IT TO ME

GIVE IT TO ME

GIVE IT TO ME

GIVE IT TO ME

GIVE IT TO ME

GIVE IT TO ME

GIVE IT TO ME

WAAAAAA

It's Definitely Time For Bed When...

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All in all

Grogans is a great pub for people-watching. Sitting outside last Tuesday, supping one of the finest pints of Guinness ever, Mrs McMuck quaffing Bulmers, all sorts walked by.

Business folk in business suits brushed shoulders with the last of those fucking Celtic Tigers - men and women of a certain age whose daddies' credit cards could still withstand another bruising encounter with the Brown Thomas chip n pin machine.

Then there was one skinny fella. Huge sunglasses with bright white rims. Hair like Buddy Holly. Drainpipe trousers and a shiny jacket. And he walked by twice in case we didn't notice him the first time.

Your Honour, I only kicked the shit out of him because he looked like a complete cunt.

Further drinks were had in the Market Bar (Guinness was still good) and the ultra-chic 'No Name' (Paulaner. Sinking into a couch no less).

As talks began over what to eat and where, the phone rang with the offer of tickets to go see the premier of 'Kick Ass'. Someone knew someone who knew someone who could get us in, so thoughts of food were parked and we went up to Cineworld.

Now to put on my Radge movie reviewer hat.

Let me see... an 11-year-old girl (it's okay, she's 13 in real life) chopping off a leg with a machette, stabbing and shooting bad guys, getting punched around by an evil drug baron, liberal spillages of blood and a ridiculously high kill count.

All in all a cerebral feast that left no room for desert.

Quite a long sentence

Myself and Mrs McMuck have engineered a fiendishly cunning plan, the outcome of said scheme being that we both have the same day off (Tuesday), whereuponwhence we shall venture into town and empty out our wallets, purses and pockets in some of the capital's finest Guinness and girly drink dispensaries for as long as our wallets, purses and pockets allow, or until Guinness-fatigue, or even worse, Guinness-ass kicks in, forcing a hasty retreat.

Super Keeper

I haven't blogged in a while as I haven't had the gnerf to do so. However today I feel the compunction to announce that I have introduced a significant amount of cheese into my daily diet.

And I had the ridiculously amazing honour of conceding a goal to Paul McGrath on Sunday.

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.