Boring Swiss bastards
Posted on Friday, June 23, 2006Did you see that game tonight between Switzerland and Ukraine? Did you ever see anything so boring in your whole life? I ended up temporarily losing the power to my legs and involuntarily developed a South African accent. A stress accent. Christ Almighty! I fervently hoped they’d all lose. Die, boring Swiss bastards, I shouted at the TV. Die, boring Russian bastards! By full time, I couldn’t take any more so I brought a bottle of Wild Turkey and a magnum Colt .44 out in the garden and fired wildly at the neighbours and their domestic critters. Naked. You have no idea how hard it is to get Wild Turkey in Limerick. Boring? Did I say boring? The Swiss scored no goals in the shoot-out. None! Not a sausage! No goals. Fuck off boring Swiss bastards.
And what about that fiasco last night between Portugal and Holland? What the fuck was that all about? Do you know something, I thought I knew a little bit about petulance, I really did. Being the father of one ex-teenager and one budding teenager, not to mention being a completely immature twat myself, I thought I knew some little bit about sulking, but what do you make of Van Basten? Eh? There you are, desperately trying to retrieve a game. You have ten minutes left and you need to make a substitution. On your bench, you have your country’s top goal-scorer. You’ve had a little argument with him during the week, but this is more important than your ego. This is a matter of national pride, so obviously you’re going to bring him on, right? No. Instead, you bring on a fucking fool who does nothing, your team loses and you’re out of the World Cup. Way to go, Marco! Mick McCarthy would be proud of you.
Sorry for neglecting you, guys, over the past few days. It’s just that I had nothing to say. I was bored and pissed off, and I couldn’t be arsed sitting in front of a fucking computer. Anyway, I had a kitchen to finish, and since you ask, yes, it went really well, and we all got pissed, but you knew that already. I can’t even blame the World Cup, cos the truth is I haven’t been able to dredge up much interest in it so far, though you’d have to agree that Argentina / Mexico game was a classic and that goal was straight out of a computer game. How perfect could a strike be? Occasionally the beautiful game surfaces in spite of all the diving, all the cynicism and all the gamesmanship. That man Rodriguez should never have to work a day in his life again after scoring a goal like that. If he does, there’s no justice in the world, but we already knew that: just ask any child in any Nike sweat-shop in South-East Asia. Ask the Iraqis if there’s justice in the world.
Wrinkly Joe was on to me today, and he’s booked tickets for the Midlands music festival in Athboy. This looks fucking great and I can’t wait to go. I mean, who wouldn’t want to go to a gig that includes Jackson Browne, Loudon Wainwright, Lambchop, the sublime Emmylou Harris, Van Morrison and Guy Clark for fucksake? Not to mention Albert Lee and Hayseed Dixie, the most ridiculous band to come out of the States in years. OK, it has a downside, and we’ll have to give Nanci Griffith a wide berth. We’ll also have to bring the Magnum .44 in case we get a clear shot at Charlie Landsborough, but you know, all in all it’s shaping up to be a pretty good weekend. It comes at a good time, as I’ll be just back from Scrotia, where Jimbo bought an apartment recently, the jammy bastard. So will Jimbo. I’m going to stay with him and piss off the final week of his holiday. He’s a miserable fuck and doesn’t like the line-up of the second night in the Athboy festival, so he’s only going for the one night, and then he’s going home. Well fuck him. I’m going to stay there with Wrinkly Joe, we’re going to hang around and we’re going to pretend it’s Lisdoonvarna all over again.
I went to Lisdoonvarna one year in John’s VW with Hyperzenchef: just the three of us. Naturally, we got completely drunk and stoned, we had a great time and I got drunker and stoneder than them so I fucked off back to the car before them. (Which is where we were sleeping, for some insane reason). I woke up, as you do, at about six in the morning in the back seat of the Beetle, with a great need to vomit, but I was trapped. And there’s Hyperzenchef stretching himself. Let’s see now, says HZC, opening the glove box and producing a tin of spam and a can of Fanta. Breakfast! And then he takes the top off the Spam can, pushes its shining, gristly jelly-covered core up from the bottom and bites a chunk out of it like a bar of chocolate. Lovely!
Aaaaaarrrrrggggghhhhh!!!!
I see on the national news that they’ve elected a new mayor of Limerick. Who gives a fuck? A bunch of useless half-educated toss-pots vote for one of themselves to head the worst elected assembly in Ireland and they think this is news. Why? I’m off out the back to shoot at the neighbours some more, just like a true Casey.
Stumble it!
