A break for the border

¡Hola!

So- a tardy update, as per; you know how I like to keep you all waiting.
Just beginning my second week as a journo and so far- he says tenuously- so good (read: blagging it fairly successfully). I have written my first feature, spoken to my first TD, got ignored by several others and had my first few news articles shaved bald by the editor. It’s exciting stuff. Actually, it’s not. I would be hard pressed to explain convincingly to anyone the content of any of the half dozen or so articles I’ve written thus far, but the work itself is grand, and there’s a certain agreeable smugness that accompanies the knowledge that you are writing for a living. Grande kudos to Sarah for showing up on my first day, though. She’d been to England with Sunny for the weekend where she managed to fall through a gate, void her own passport by getting Sir Alex Ferguson to sign it and pass out in a disabled toilet in the airport. After a couple of hours, Sunny expressed his concern to the staff and they set off looking for her. He then took advantage of their distracted state, rock n roll legend that he is, by having a sneaky cigarillo in the terminal building.

So now that I’ve got a ‘proper’ job, I’ve started the quest for a place to stay that isn’t 1000 miles away from where I go to do it. Yesterday I looked at one place that, while nice, and handy for the Dart, was 1000 miles away from anything else- not much good to me. There was another one, just round the corner from Church Lane Towers in rathmines, which again was very nice, but is 1001 miles away from work. Dublin, for those of you who haven’t been, was designed by an insane person.

Been out to see Ladytron on Saturday. They were marvellous, though as Ultan pointed out, probably only €12 worth of fun, rather than the €20 we paid. Oh well. Peter provided further diversions by suggesting to some Italians that they inject some heroin into their eyes and/or shove it up their hole, almost getting into a to do with some pissed up randomer, pinching Clare’s bike and cycling round Christchurch on it hands free & legless, and for a finale smashing a wineglass into a million tiny shards upon arrival back at Clare’s gaff. He’s a wrong ‘un, that Peter.

Mo’s taken up cooking again. The man’s not satisfied with any meal that costs less that €100, takes at least 8 hours to prepare and requires the use of every item of kitchenware 2-3 times in it’s composition. Even then he’s usually dissatisfied with the result, though everyone else enjoys it most thoroughly. When not cooking for the human residents, he’s been doing his bit to fatten up the ant population that have moved in as well. Unprecedented revelation though it is, it turns out that not everything you read on the internet is gospel truth- so while ants do seem to be vaguely attracted to his cocktail of molasses and yeast, reports of their subsequent agonising deaths seem to have been porky pies. In the meantime, as though things weren’t bad enough, there are now splodges of what appears to be scat deployed around strategic points in the kitchen.

Had a bout of ill-advised mid-week drinking as well, to celebrate Gus’s new redundancy. Not a cause for celebration, you say? Au contraire- he’s pulled down a years salary as severance and has been giggling like a loon about it ever since. Good shits and giggles (Sample Dialogue; Clare to Mo: “Do you use talc so you don’t have to dry properly getting out of the shower?” Mo’s peerless deadpan: “No, I use talc on my feet so I don’t kill people when I stand next to them”) all round, though, as I say, inadvisable when you are left with about 4 hours sleep.

So that’s about all for now, peeps.

Aido ‘Buyback sellout’ Potato

PS WHERE ARE THE SUGGESTIONS FOR BAD SONG LYRICS, PEOPLE?