Hey there. Sorry for the brief interruption in service, but I’ve been busy assassinating leaders of small countries, framing pictures and partying on brown acid, mescaline and Latvian hookers. The really hard part of framing a picture is planting the evidence. Time-consuming.
This is not good. I haven’t expressed a single political opinion in about 67 hours, despite the fact that the world continues to get weirder and weirder. Scientists estimate that total world weirdness is now approaching levels last seen in the 13th century. The hole in the weirdness layer is letting through all kinds of strange shit from other galaxies resulting in Irish taxpayers funding the wages of Chelsea footballers, and the problem grows by the second, as worried boffins in trench-coats patrol the perimeter, smoking pipes and being arrested by the Office of Tobacco Control.
I could take no more, and so I decided to fling myself head first into a cauldron of weirdness, stirred and bubbled by the King Of Weirdness, Rich Hall, at Dolans of Limerick. I wasn’t planning to attend, ground down as I was by a surfeit of liquor from the night before — a kind of Hangover Supreme, like the dessert at Shane McGowan’s wedding. But my Number One Child wished to attend, and who am I to refuse the blandishments of a beloved daughter?
Will you drive?
Ok. Let’s go.
Rich Hall plays Mo in the Simpsons and that should do you. Oddly enough, they look a bit alike, Rich and Mo.
Here’s Rich Hall:
And here’s Mo:
Yeah. Definitely a family resemblance going on there.
Nevertheless, Rich is one funny guy.
I like him. I like his lugubrious delivery. I like his fuckin cursin, and his fuckin outrage at the state of the fuckin world.
I fuckin like him.
He tells a story about some bastard with a giant vacuum cleaner sucking up prairie dogs like bluebottles, humanely. He talks about Sarah Palin, the chief executive of a million square miles of snow shooting the head off a fuckin moose. He talks about American invasions of foreign lands.
They haven’t fought anyone in a uniform since 1960. West Ham have a tougher schedule than the US military.
He talks about drunken Londoners falling off the free bikes after the pub. He asks audience members their names and what they do for a living and he builds a nice little spiel around that. I’m hoping he’ll look up at me and ask my name. John Wilkes Booth, I’ll tell him.
He’s funny. I haven’t had a belly-laugh in a while now and he gave me one. Go and see him.
Of course, needless to mention, I couldn’t just go home after the gig. Drop me here, I said, just outside Foley’s fine blues emporium. And so it was that I caught these guys.
Not a bad night out at all, especially since I was going to turn in early.