Blogging...

Clearly there's something cathartic about writing this blog. For me that is, seeing as no-one actually seems to follow it. It's as if I have walked into the hills and dug a hole there into which I pour my secrets before carefully filling it in again, patting down the earth and seamlessly replacing the sod. Perhaps it's even quieter and more clandestine than that. I'm a small boy, sitting on a log in the wilderness, whittling a little wooden figurine of television's Jennifer Carpenter. Into this effigy's ear I whisper my meandering thoughts before burning it upon a small fire and catching the smoke in a bottle. I cork the bottle and seal it's top with wax, before burying it at the foot of an ancient oak tree, at the bottom of a valley that is to be permanently and irreversibly flooded by the destruction of a major dam, which has loomed for years above it - ominous, silent and cold...

Me Apples!

Oh oh oh... I had to do this. Someone sent me another link to the stupid ipad so I sent them back this.

Stupid ipad. Stupid Apple.
Marketing to the herd baby!

An Affront to Nature

Having just pumped 50 litres of diesel into my 1900cc, Turbocharged boomsmobile, I blazed away from the station, tossing a sixty euro note out of the window at the greasemonkey on the forecourt and started barrelling through the turns of the quiet country roads. I was vaguely aware that the potentially verdant hedgerows were a dull and listless grey-brown, drunk on dust and choking traffic fumes. A wiley hare scampered, just in time, from the path of my roaring whizz-machine as I two-wheeled it on a hairpin, suspension, tyres and joints complaining. Just then a sleepy-eyed and well-fed pigeon, fat on young barley and corn ears, reared up from the road ahead. He pounded the air with his stubby wings desperately vying for height. Go left! I thought. Go right! Get out of the damn way... In a feathery explosion, fatty the pigeon's quivering sphincter made a sticky kiss against my windscreen and his somersaulting little body tumbled and bounced into the road behind, mercilessly sacrificed to progress.

What an affront to nature we are - burning, howling death!

Harry's Wand

One of the girls at work suggested that when I'm reading Harry Potter to my daughter, I exchange the word wand for willy. Needless to say we're now reading James and the Giant Peach instead. Actually I was with a girl once whose bum looked like a giant peach. A giant, downy, creamy, pinkish peach... Oh dear!

Archie & Chums

I've decided that I should really endeavour to populate this blog with a little more conviction. What it lacks in quality should at least be compensated for in quantity. I guess it is the remit of the blogger to scream qwertyily (I hate myself for typing that) "LISTEN TO ME" before churning out whatever torrid diarrhea sloshes around the self-righteous little chamber that connects their nose to their eyes to their ears.

Without further ado then, here's the heraldic coat of arms of my good friend Archie Templar. He's much better at maintaining his public face than I and you can spit in it if you go here:

http://www.archietemplar.com

The High-Octane Midlands

I have to shake my shaggy head at the proportion of classless yahoos that cling like ass-worms to the notion that the makings of a man are a really big spoiler and blue downlights. Nowhere is this more true than in the primordial ooze of Ireland's midlands.

Well, it appears this phenomenon is to plumb new depths. Trying to steal an edge on a flagging property market, just look at what's selling in Carlow this month...

Would you leave your child alone with this man?

Choosing a therapist must be a tricky business. This amiable, trendy, child-psychopatherapist man struck me as just the right dose of happy-go-lucky potion when he first arrived into the studio. He was looking to have some promotional gift mugs designed to give to people who, presumably, he had gauged as prepossessing of some deep-seated mental deficiency or psychological darkness that would soon need the delicate probings of a penis envier with a couch. He was all talk of the developing id and the importance of helping a child to share, emotionally and I have to say that we were all quite taken. Little did we suspect the boiling Versuvius that slept restlessly beneath this sunny facade.

He arrived back into the studio about ten minutes ago, snarling and finger-pointing and smashing his mugs.
(That's him in the picture)

Never leave your child alone with this man!
Oh, and retrospectively, I stand by my typesetting.

Sometimes no amount of proofs can save you!...