My lawyer, Gonad the Ballbearian, isn’t a 300-pound Samoan, but you can’t have everything. He ran away from the circus to become a lawyer but ended up working in Limerick, which just goes to show that there’s no escaping the K Twins: Kismet and Karma.

I invited him out for a drink recently and, I must say, his bill was quite reasonable in the circumstances. I have it here in front of me.

To Services Rendered
Listening to unmitigated drivel — 234 euro
Offering opinion on Munster’s chances — free
Enduring self-pitying whine — 135 euro
Refresher — 828 euro
Helping with crossword — 153 euro
Accepting free pints — 432 euro
Refresher — 828 euro
Offering opinion on Munster’s chances — free
Listening to more shite — 324 euro
Supplementary refresher — 1647 euro
Counsel’s opinion — one pint
Special Refresher — 1233 euro
Offering opinion on Munster’s chances — free
Rugby opinion supplement — 1836 euro
Pints for counsel— 99 euro
Postage, photocopying, searches,
bollock-scratching, leering at secretary
and looking out window — 14,571 euro
CASH TOTAL — 22,320 euro and one pint

Not unreasonable, I thought, for an enjoyable half hour in the pub.

Music popular culture

T. Rex visits Southpark

This is going to be a quick one.

Only the sad old hippies amongst us will remember the early Tyrannosaurus Rex albums, and so I must address this question to the sad old hippies.

Don’t you think Marc Bolan sounds exactly like Cartman?

Food & Drink Music

Cider Ads

Tie. I. I. I. I’m. Is on my side.
Tie. I. I. I. I’m. Is on my side.

That’s the Rolling Stones. And, Mick, I’m sorry to tell you that tie I-I-I I’m is definitely not on your side. Mick, you’re pushing seventy. Get a grip. If you want a role model for being cool at your age, you need look no further than Leonard Cohen. Of course, how many of us can be Leonard Cohen? One of us, that’s how many, and the job is taken.

You could be Rod Argent, but nobody knows who the fuck he is, except the Bulmers advertising wonks. Time of the Season. Great song. It would be a great song even if it didn’t have “time” in its title. I tell you what – the Zombies were a great fucking band although admittedly nobody ever listened to them. But is this going to start a speculative rush? A new market in busted-flush sixties bands who wrote a song with the word “time” in its name somewhere.


Football. All day.

I know. What a load of shite. I know. It’s the blog equivalent of putting on Alice’s Restaurant and fucking off for a smoke, like Ronan Collins used to do, before they took the afternoon away from him and gave it to the Nicest Man in Ireland. It wouldn’t be hard to be the nicest man in Ireland with all the aggressive drunken skobes we have, but don’t get me started on that or we’re here for the night.

What did you think of the rugby? Do you think we deserve to have won the Triple Crown? I don’t. I think Horgan’s first try was dodgy. I think the ball touched the line and the flag should have gone up. In just the same way, I think Italy beat us, even though the score line didn’t reflect that fact. We were credited with two completely invalid tries in my opinion, and gli Azzurri deserved to take away at least one good win.

However, win or no win, surely the man of the season has to be Jerry Flannery. No? To come from nowhere, collect a Triple Crown (or at least a half-crown), and to be looking forward in two weeks’ time to meeting Perpignan in the quarter final of the European Cup. Now, that’s not to diminish Titans like the great Paul O’Connell or The Man Eddie Forgot: Anthony Foley, who might well have gifted Ireland with a Six-Nations trophy if only Eddie had the imagination to use him. Or, indeed, any of the other greats, including the Bull, who comes in for a lot of stick. Or Peter Stretcher, whom I myself have slagged. Anyway, who gives a fuck? That’s the Ireland thing over for another year, and now it’s down to the real business. Come on Munster!!! Although, to be honest, I greatly fear that Barry Murphy’s injury could be a fatal blow to our chances.

Great news about Scunthorpe United. In a shock result, the useless bums beat Chesterfield away to drag themselves up to eleventh in the league. They don’t deserve it, of course, being for the most part a useless shower of drunkards, goose-milkers and heron-stranglers, apart from young Andy Keogh. We should see Andy on an Ireland bench before long if there’s any justice in this world. If only Billy the Fish hadn’t broken his ankle they might even have had a chance of promotion again.

I must tell you about Scunthorpe some time. There isn’t time now to describe Scunthorpe with any degree of accuracy, except to to say this. Last time I went there with the Wrinkly Romeos, a female taxi-driver wouldn’t believe we were visitors. “You what??? Visiting Scunthorpe??? What???” I’m talking incomprehension here, my friend. It’s the only place I’ve ever gone to where people apologise for its existence. “Sorry about the town. Try to enjoy yourself . . .” But in fairness to them, they have the best Indian restaurant I have ever had the pleasure of eating in.

Talking of the Wrinkly Romeos, I hear they’re gigging at the Kilkenny rhythm ‘n’ roots festival. We’ll have to go to that. When I say I hear they’re gigging, what I really mean is that they phoned me and begged me to bring people. Well actually, they promised to return the negatives if I brought a friend. Let’s see now. A friend. Well, that could be a small problem.