Feb 142008
 

I wouldn’t normally show you a photo of my leg.  Why the hell would I?  There’s only a very small and select group  of people familiar with either of my legs at this level of detail, and I’m no fetishist posting pics of my lower limb on the Interweb. 

God no.

Who do you think I am — Heather Mills?

But tonight was different for several reasons.  We had that gigantic fire which I hear is still going on, and we had the first (not to mention inaugural) meeting of the Limerick Bloggorati, in Jerry Flannery’s civil pub.

I was meeting Darwin, Sniffle, Maz, Stephen, Dan and Shane.

I was in a hurry.  I had to take pics of that fire but I was conscious of the drunken disgrace blogger meet-up, and so I took as many photos as seemed decent.  I hurried home nice and fast to drop off the serious camera, while keeping the small one secreted in the folds of my waistcoat just in case.

I rushed back out the door, for fear of being late, and that was when Mr Darwin sent me a text.

Now, my friends, let me offer you a small piece of advice.  If there’s any sort of a step up to your front door, and if it’s dark, and if you have placed any sort of wooden planter there on the ground, and if Mr Darwin texts you, please don’t try to read it and reply in the dark, as you walk along.  As, in fact, I did.

Because if you do, your leg will end up looking like this:

 

  27 Responses to “Limerick Blogger Meet-Up Marred By Horrible Accident”

Comments (26) Pingbacks (1)
  1.  

    Just knock up your other leg the same and then no one will give you a second look. When you show them your legs that is. Step it out Bock. Step it out now

  2.  

    Aww, Ya’ big pussy! Just the other day I walked outside and was accosted by a pack of rabid badgers and after fighting them off I had a gun battle with a bunch of gang bangers before coming face to face with an Islamofastist suicide bomber. After disarming her and stoning her to death I had to take out the snipers the Brits sent. Geez and all this before driving to work. Work is hell, by the way.

  3.  

    Ooyah.

    Never mind – it’ll heal to a lovely sexy scar and you can make up a brave story about how you got it. Planters need never come into it and we’ll never tell. We’ll keep it just between us and the world wide web.

  4.  

    Are they psychedelic socks or did you just singe them on a rad?

  5.  

    I bet you fitted right in in Flannery’s.

  6.  

    So how did the meeting go?

    I’ll bet after a few pints that leg was forgotten about..

    Good shots of the fire btw

  7.  

    Eoowww!!! Sore – right on the shin bone as well.

  8.  

    I knew I shouldn’t have left early – Go on tell the truth! Who kicked you?

  9.  

    What, you’re pretending this happened before the meet?

    Anyway, it looks like lipstick to me.

  10.  

    Are you sure you didn’t just have an altercation with a snack?

  11.  

    sake…….I have shaving cuts worse than that…….hehehehe

  12.  

    Ouch!
    (I bet you’re just looking for someone to kiss that better, what with it being Valentine’s Day an all!)

  13.  

    I still reckon it is the result of a failed tryout for the blogger’s dancing on ice telly thing. Someone scrope him down the shin while executing a triple axle rose.

  14.  

    “Irish Blogger Taken Out by Planted Text Message”

    Yikes! Looks like what happened to me when the snow blower caught it’s auger in an icy bank, flipped backwards and ran the engine mounting plate down my shine. It looked much like yours does.

    I knew there was a reason I don’t own any mobile devices. Wouldn’t mind owning one of those “serious” cameras though.

  15.  

    Nice leg!

    Similar to the dog scratches my golden gives me, actually

  16.  

    That’s what happens when you snort cocaine through your big toe. And like that piece of nostril no longer part of Neil Young’s hooter, well Bock, you’re going to be shinless soon. And don’t say we didn’t warn you, didn’t plead with you to put the guns and drugs away, didn’t implore you to stop with the Russian Roulette, Jesus Christ will you stop, Bock.

    And then there was a melee, a hugey melee, a fucking riot in stab city. Sirens and cops, chaos and mayhem, baton charges up and down Catherine Street, barricades ablaze, petrol bombs and plastic bullets…..

  17.  

    Bock showing a little leg.

    Phwoar!

  18.  

    I know where you got that scrape on your leg now. I’ve just worked it out – you were trying to swipe one of those swans and it attacked your leg didn’t it??? Admit it!

  19.  

    Cynthia says she’d kliss it better.

  20.  

    Have you put in a claim against Guinness, Bock?

    Fuckers have just announced they’re putting up the price of the pint. Only reason I can think of is insurance claims from potential drunkards going out and scraping their legs before descending into the likes of Flannery’s, devouring 1 or 2 gallons and swallowing an entire Swan flavoured Snack Box later. Then going home taking a photo of the scraped leg and blaming the lot on Uncle Arthur with legal eagles advised to pay the prick off as he’ll drink every cent of it anyway, and we can jack up the price.

    Sorry about the conspiracy theory. I just wanted to let off steam about the upcoming rise. Think I’ll go for a cheap one…at €3.90 !!

  21.  

    You pay that for a fecking pint????

    Jaysus! I pay $5 for cider or Guiness! Shite American beers are $2.50.

    No wonder I never came home from Ireland with any freaking money! :-)

  22.  

    Ha ha. And I’ll do it again. I’ll text you all. *laughs maniacally*

    But seriously, I notice you autofocused on the pot plant and a mysterious guitar; tell me more…

  23.  

    holy shit monkeys!! thats nasty lookin!! sorry I couldnt make it wednesday night, I was sick and stuff, anything to get in the way!! poo! hope ur leggy gets better soon :)

  24.  

    Ouch.
    That’s why I say no to texting.

  25.  

    Sorry I didn’t make it. My very lame (but not as lame as your leg) excuse is that I simply forgot.

    I can’t even offer the excuse of a head smashed off a wooden planter either.

  26.  

    Fústar: That’s the most pathetic excuse ever. And you missed a good night of drunkenness.

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