Food & Drink Music

Lovesick, broke and driftin’

The Wrinkly Romeos are playing the Kilkenny Rhythm & Roots festival over the weekend, which ought to be pretty good. The festival, I mean, not the Wrinkly Romeos. Their drummer is in hospital, for whatever ridiculous wrinkly reason, and in his place they have a guy with an electronic kit. Great. There you are, trying to play stuff with some small bit of credibility (“Here’s one I got from Robert Johnson . . .”) and the drummer turns up with decks, or the next worst thing. I mean, come on! What has he got parked outside the door? A nineteen-year-old Fiesta with a spoiler and a dustbin exhaust?

As I write here, I’m listening to a selection of [tag]music[/tag] as the mood takes me. Earlier today, I was wandering around a sun-drenched Limerick, enjoying the Riverfest. I find that the best way to do these things is to strap the bike to the back of the motor, park someplace out of town and just scoot around on the old bike, listening to songs and meeting whatever stiffs you happen to know. I happened to know about forty of the fuckers competing in the barbecue competition, but do you think one of them would give me a sausage? Would they fuck! As I mentioned to you recently, I found the IPod, and there was a few bands I meant to give a good listen to, so there was a bit of a backlog. I’m very taken by Jenny Lewis’s new collaboration with the Watson Twins. I like this very much, and why wouldn’t I, given Jenny’s provenance with Rilo Kiley? The Eels’ Souljacker is another album I should have taken to much earlier. What a motherfucker of an album. All decent people should rush out right now and buy a copy. That’s how it goes, though, isn’t it? There’s just so much shit coming at you from every direction, it’s hard to stay on top of it all.

At the moment, in honour of the Wrinklies, I’m listening to Hank Williams III singing Whiskey, Weed and Women. I got drunk the day my Pa went to prison, and when my Mama died, I just didn’t care ’bout livin’. Good man, Hank! Woo hoo!! You tell ’em. Carrying on a family tradition, as Hank II once said. But what a barrel of laughs ol’ Hank the First was, and yet, somehow, in the middle of his drug-crazed alcohol-maddened lunacy of a life, this sozzled junkie managed to create rock’n’roll. How the fuck did he do that?

I have to tell you a story that has little to do with Hank Williams or anything else. I just thought it was good. A few weeks back, I was doing the school run with the Bullet, and you know the way all kids think that everything was invented yesterday? Well, I’d been listening to all sorts of mad shit, so I just threw on a track from, of all things, Led Zeppelin III. It’s called Bron-Y-Aur Stomp. You might know it. Anyhow, the reason I put it on was because it reminded me of something else, so I said, Bullet, what does that sound like to your good self? And Bullet, bless him, said exactly what I hoped he would. It’s kinda like the White Stripes.

Giving me the opportunity to say: Isn’t it spooky the way Led Zeppelin knew what the White Stripes were going to sound like?

None of this is any use to the Wrinkly Romeos, who are possibly dying on stage as we speak. Wrinkly Joe is just in from the Antipodes, probably jet-lagged. Definitely jet-lagged, in fact, considering that the first text I got from him was to say that Billy the Fish had scored the winner for Scunthorpe in the ninetieth minute. That was after the Blackpool keeper had pulled off two brilliant saves to deny the Irish lads, Cliff Byrne and Andy Keogh. There’s a picture of Wrinkly Joe and myself with Cliff Byrne in the pub after a game, and I’ll tell you this : that boy can put away some amount of beer. What a great attribute in a professional footballer. The prerequisite, in fact.

Still nothing to do with the Romeos, Kilkenny or country music. Christ, how’s a boy to get focussed? How can a poor man stand such times and live?

Food & Drink

Talking of AA meetings

I hate the word “workaholic”. I think it represents all that is stupid and illiterate in modern society. “Alcoholic” I can understand, but where did “workaholic” come from – “workahol”? Or “chocaholic” – chocahol, perhaps?

What about fuckahol?

But Alcoholics Anonymous is something else again. It’s the anonymous bit that I love: you have all these WORLD FAMOUS actors, musicians, athletes and electricians, and they’re all members of Alcoholics Anonymous. I mean, come on. There’s George Best, over there in the corner, looking diffident and self-effacing. Hi. I’m George, and I’m an alcoholic. They’re all going “That’s George fucking Best and look!! He’s a piss-artist too, just like me”. Not that it would come as much surprise to anybody. Anonymous? Ah come on.

PS I know he’s dead.

Food & Drink

Hints and wrinkles

I’m getting worried about Wrinkly Paddy. He seems to be hitting the sauce very hard at the moment, and he’s becoming abusive to anyone straying inside his field of vision which, admittedly, has shrunk to about two metric feet. I heard that he’s been wandering around housing estates knocking on doors, screaming at the people who come out, “I know where you fuckin live!!!” He’s completely fluent in the Garda dialect by now, and could easily pass for a Member, but what’s even more worrying is the fact that myself and The Bullet have to stay in his house on Sunday night. You see, Wrinkly Joe – the only man who can talk him down from a homicidal seizure – is still in Australia. When I say “talk him down”, I really mean the only one of us who has a stun gun, but let’s not split hairs. I brought a bottle of Mace back from Prague last month when I was over there with the Rockhopper recruiting a team of assassins and Hoors for a special project. So if necessary, I’ll either mace him or hoor him. Joe has a problem in Oz (as we call it down here). He can’t find a pub showing the game on Sunday. What? In Australia? Yeah, mate. In Australia, It seems all the pubs are showing the fucking Celtic match instead. What?? Ah, come on! WTF?

So, here’s to Wrinkly Joe. I hope he’s reading this in the Antipodes. Joe, if you’re listening, we’ll be texting you, mate. No worries!! G’day!

As for Wrinkly Paddy, well, I don’t know. I have this second-hand humane killer that I bought the last time I holidayed in Ballyhaunis, but it just doesn’t seem right. I know him such a long time that, if ever I killed him, it probably shouldn’t be done humanely.

Food & Drink popular culture Sport

This is it, boys, this is war

In the morning, we hit the road for Dublin, me and the kid and about eight million other Limerick people as well. Better make sure the old red shirt isn’t too smelly. I forgot to wash it after the Sale match, and it seems to have become a bit of an eco-system in its own right, but I’ll hang it out on the window-cill overnight, which should get rid of the worst of it. I can always pick away the encrusted bits, or better still, get the Manchurian Skobe-Hound to chew them off. Talking of which, I’m not sure what to do about Satan’s Terrier while we’re away. There’s a policeman living not too far from me. Maybe I could force the dog through his letter-box or, better still, set fire to it and fling it at his bedroom window. If I got to work right now, I could probably make up a replica Roman ballista out of old inner tubes and a stolen park bench and with that I’d be able to fire a hail of burning dogs at the cop’s house. Take that, you guard fucker! Stand up, you’re too comfortable!

Beelzebub’s Micro-Mastiff is not what you’d call a classic rugby fan. However, as a favour to a friend in Bruff RFC, I once sprayed him white and taped his legs to his chest. The dog, I mean – not my friend. When they slipped him into the scrum, he ate the bollocks off the Kilfeakle hooker before they realised he wasn’t the ball.

Tomorrow promises to be good, but it’s a pity it won’t be in Thomond Park. If it was in Thomond Park, we could array an army of killer pensioners with umbrellas all around the pitch. Have one of them, ya Frog Fucker! Poke. Poke. Ya Catalan bastard. Poke. Give us back the 42 Counties!!

We’ll probably get on the move early, cos I want to get rid of the car at Wrinkly Paddy’s house, and get back into town as quick as I can for a drink. I know I’m bringing a young lad with me, but he can’t be sheltered from reality all his life. Sooner or later, he’ll have to observe his father crawling around the floor of a pub and starting fights with strangers. God knows, he’ll be helping me home long enough when he grows up. We’ll catch up with the Wrinkly Romeos in Mulligans, have a good few scoops and watch the Leinster game. I’m hoping to get the young fella langers as early as possible so he won’t be annoying me with questions later. He’s still only fourteen, so he’ll be easy enough to carry onto the Dort.

We were thinking of going to the Tent in Lansdowne, but Wrinkly Paddy just sent an emergency txt, tht thrs nly Mrphs n plstc gls, wch is fkall gd 2 me. That’s ok. We convened in Mulligans last time as well, and it was fine. It was exactly the same as it’s been for the last 40 years: surly bar staff, high prices and filthy accommodation. Pity Regans is gone. At least Mrs Regan would appear out of a secret door in the wall with a plate of sambos. There ye are lads. Thanks MzzRegan. And no charge, unlike Tommy Fukken Cusack of Mulligans, who’d charge you for breathing if he could, the mean little baldy Cavan bastard. It’s a pity poor old John McGahern passed away before he had a chance to write about miserable grasping little baldy Cavan publicans in Dublin. Thank God we’re in Limerick. No Cavan fuckers here, I’m tellin ya.

Anyhow, myself and the offspring have tickets on the goal line at the North end. Row 1. Never been there before, so I’m not sure what the view will be like. I’m hoping it will be busy for one half and boring for the other, and I hope those things will happen in the desired order. Ideally, I’d have liked seats between the 22s but what the hell. At least there I’ll be able to have my umbrella ready, given half a chance. Go back to Canet Plage, ya phuqqer!! Remember Georgi Markov!! Poke!! Maybe I shouldn’t fling the Skobe-Hound at the policeman. Maybe I should secrete him beneath my authentic Munster serape, and set him loose among the Perpignan pack at a crucial psychological moment in the game. This might well unnerve them, as it’s unlikely they’ve seen a dog with red eyes before. A proper Munster dog.

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.

Food & Drink

Might as well make a start

I think I’ll go out tonight and have a few pints. Between the scrofula, the beri-beri and the scurvy, I’ve been stuck in the bed all week and the fucking leeches have my skin destroyed. I’ll nip in to some fine establishment and have maybe three pints with an option on a fourth. Jimbo might be interested, and maybe the Balinese Pro-Consul. I’m hoping Joe-the-Racist goes into town as is his wont on a Wednesday, especially as I want to catch him about finishing my kitchen. He’s only a racist in the sense that he hates everybody, which of course includes people of ethnicity other than his own. I suppose we should really call him Joe-the-Misanthropist, but he hates that.

What do you make of this new Guinness Piss-Strength they’ve piloted in Limerick? It’s 2.8% alcohol, as opposed to the usual 4.7%, but it’s the same price. Also, Guinness are totally adamant that this has nothing to do with drinking and driving. Nothing.

Dum dum dum dee dum dee dee dee dum dum . . .

OK. Let me get this straight now. You walk into a bar and pay the same money to get half as drunk. That’s the first scenario. Same money, half as drunk. Right, I’ve got that. Good.

Or. You walk into a bar, have twice as many pints and drive home. With the same liquor in your belly.

OK, Mr Guinness, which is it?
Scenario One: Same Money But Half As Drunk.
Scenario Two: Twice The Pints And Still No Taxi.

It has to be number one, doesn’t it? No vast multinational corporation could possibly be that hypocritical.