Boggers United

The above being a good name if the Irish Farmers Asscoiation ever want to set up a soccer team.

Anyway, I was in the Punch Bowl with Joe and Cassie the other night, initially trying to catch up on old times with her, but the arrival of Joe spiralled it into a general session. We got talking about technology – of all things, the least inspiring to most women – and joe got onto a sticky topic.
‘Brian writes a blog, you know.’ He announced proudly, as if he had discovered a conspiracy. Cassie gave me a small smile.
‘You didn’t mention you were a writer Brian. Are there hidden depths to you that don’t involve funny noises?’ I am fucking ashamed to say I blushed and felt a bit warm at this point.
‘Ah well, I just kind of trick about on it a bit. Nothing to serious.’ Joe snorted.
‘You lying bastard. The shit he comes out with, Cassie, you would not believe.’ Now I was livid.
‘Like what?’ Joe grinned that sly bastard grin that says ‘I will take you down’.
‘Ah like whining about how his ex Melissa dumped him in Brussels (Cassie’s expression was of sympathy), how he scores with random women from time to time (dismay), stuff we talk about when watching films or drinking (neutral), and last one he wrote was about that childrens’ show that my sister watches. Hannah Montana it was (expression of amusement).’ Cassie was laughing. Nerves abound.
‘Really Brian? Why?’
”Cos Brian had the hots for the one who plays the lead character before he found out that she was under 17.’
‘Fuck off, Lizzie McGuire. You watched that show religiously.’ Joe gave me the knowing smile again.
‘Ah but Brian, Hilary Duff is in her twenties, probably around the same age as us. This other girl is, what, about 15?’ Cassie laughed.
‘Brian always did have a taste for the younger women.’
‘He also compared her to you.’ Enough of this badmouthing.
‘That’s because a) she looks like you, and b) she’s as good looking as you. Fuck that shit, I didn’t know she was 15. I just thought she was hot.’ Cassie paused.
‘Now I must check that site. Give me the address.’ I did so and turned to Joe.
‘Get the drinks in you knob. Two Smithwicks and a West Coast Cooler for the lady. And you’re just jealous because you couldn’t write a blog. You’d just give up and play Call of Duty.‘ Joe relsihes a challenge.
‘I rule at everything Brian. Life is but a game without controllers. And I will just be an unholy raping machine at blogging too, gay and all as it is. That’s how much I kick your ass, I’m even going to kick it in something as gay as Dale Winton and Elton John having a bath together.’ The term ‘unholy raping machine’ refers not to deeply violating acts but rather handing out ass-whooping to Americans over Xbox Live.
‘Go ahead, I won’t stop you.’ I turned to Cassie and started on about other shit then.

I did not think the lazy unmotivated hoor capable of it, but lo and behold, Jerky Joe has set up a blog, of which I was informed of by text just there. Unholy Pwnage, it’s called, and no doubt he’ll just kick my ass like ‘I have a M16 with Red Dot Sight and Stopping power and you have a fucking cap gun’ whatever that means.
Well Joe, just remember that for some, life on the bloggosphere can be brief.

History Repeating

Other than a load of work dropped into my lap like a steaming heap of shit from the Keep Busy Fairy, my life’s going grand lately. After my acceptance into UCD, as previously stated, I got wasted and ended up in some lassie’s house, and only after pulling a vanisher on her the following morning and turning up at Jerky Joe’s for breakfast and in his case, online Ghost Recon Advanced Warfighter, Joe turned to me and said:
‘You know that lassie you scored last night looked like Kris Kristofferson, right?’
Come to think of it, she did have manly stubble and great underarm hair … anyway, this is notable for one reason.

That reason is that it’s equally as embarrassing as the fact I once got off with a girl several years younger than me. About seven years ago, when I was 17, myself and the boys were attending our final Wezz (a popular box social for us D4 cubs) and naturally, Tommy Cajones had swiped a bottle of Chateau Pompous port or something like that. So we were tanked up heading in.
From what my since dimmed memory recalls, I got talking to a girl called Cassie, who was very pretty with long brown hair, hazel eyes, and a smashing ass you could bounce punts (as they were) off. I mean it was just rock solid. So anyway we got to talking, and I got on the topic of rugby, and music, and stuff, and she agreed with most of it (seems she was immune to my rugby charms) and since she wasn’t engaging in some of the more sick shit the girls did in the Wezz – Ed the Ram ended up with some dude’s jizem in his mouth via a girl’s tongue, and I’m not going to dwell on that – she was a bit of a rarity. A cute rarity at that. So we exchanged mobile numbers and I agreed to meet her in the Savoy the next Friday.

The following Thursday rolled around and I, spruced up with my finest suit from Louis Copeland and wearing enough Hugo Boss to drown a household pet, I arrived at the Savoy to meet Cassie. We decided on a film and I bought all for her, and we settled in. About halfways through, I pulled the old Brian Damage Smooth Criminal Moves on her, and moved in to kiss her. That was pretty good (I remember tasting strawberries) and the rest of the date went fine. It kinda set a precedent; we kissed all the time, but never went further. I never thought to question it, I figured she was kinda prudish and it would have been retarded of me to drive her away.

We were going out for two months and age never crossed my mind. I was about to do my Leaving and she said she was in Loreto on the Green (secondary school) so I accepted it as her having done her Junior (agreed limit was two years younger) so we contined along oblivious till one day Dave The Future Lawyer (then known as Dave the Liar for the shit he told women, and now puts to good use with judges) came up to me with a big grin on his face.
‘Brian the Cradle-Robber, eh? Getting some young thing below our limit, eh?’ I looked at him oddly.
‘Cassie’s fifteen, Dave, I’m sure of it.’ Dave grinned wider. Joe ripped himself away from his PS2 with a concerned look on his face.
‘Cassandra is thirteen, Brian. You’re the talk of first year in Loreto-on-the-Green, boyo.’ I shook my head in disbelief.
‘No. Fucking. Way.’
‘Yes. Fucking. Way. Now break it off with her or endure eternal slagging.’

Not a chance was I going to end it with her before I made sure of her age. I met her in Eddie Rocket’s in Donnybrook.
‘Cassie, can I ask you something?’
‘Sure, Brian. What?’
‘Are you 13?’
‘Yeah, didn’t you know that? Oh my God, is that a big thing for you?’
Turned out it was. I explained what my problem was, and she agreed to break it off.
There was only one occasion I regretted breaking up with someone, and she was that occasion. My parting words to her were:
‘Maybe we’ll see each other when age doesn’t matter?’

We did. I saw her in UCD when I was tying up my return. Turns out she’s doing Medicine now. I invited her to dinner with me in Roly’s Thursday, and she accepted. I’m pretty stoked, because since she’s 20 and I’m 24, ain’t nothing stopping us now. The four years don’t really matter at our age. I doubt she’s as innocent anymore mind you, but it’s time to dust off the suit, get me some Hugo Boss, and time to blow on those tinders, cause BD’s gonna relight an old flame …

In what ranks as something of an omen, I saw a girl who looked like her on American Idol (a staple of the dudes and I because Simon Cowell’s a funny fucker) a week or so ago, and I grabbed the video off Youtube. Turns out it is a daughter of notorious hat wearing ‘cowboy’ Billy Ray Cyrus, and the song is infectiously catchy, and despite myself I find it entering my head.

Good God! It’s stuck! I need something to remove it!
 

Aah … soothing. Stay frosty, people.

Rock Out With Your Cock Out

I was accepted for UCD today, for a postgrad Arts course. awesome … that’s all I gotta say.

So I am doing as the above suggests and using my 3G phone to post this from some random chick’s house somewhere in Dublin. hell I can’t even remember getting back to her place.
It may be the alcohol. or the fact I’ve just made magic like Harry Potter, but I think that’s a damn good personal slogan …

One Minute To Lose Yourself

I got this meme from Jefferson Davis – not usually something I do, but it was an interesting sounding one, so why the fuck not?
Anyway, the basic point appears to be that I tell you about a minute of my life. I can’t remember if it has to be a specific minute, or right now (cos right now I’m in my jocks sipping an iced tea and watching The Mighty Boosh) so I’ll tell you about a specific moment, the time when my life was pivoting over what I was going to do with myself.
September 2007, I and a female friend of mine, Laura, are at a Starbucks in Dublin City Centre.
‘So Brian, are you going back to college this year?’

‘I don’t know. I seriously don’t know what I’m going to do with myself. I don’t want to go back to college, or get a job, and only scumbags can claim the dole … so I’m in a hex here.’

‘Have you thought about doing a Fas course?’

‘Thanks Laura, I’ll stick with my slowly dwindling trust fund.’

‘Brian, you have to do something. I’ve known you for seventeen years, and with the exception of the rugby, you’ve always rode the coattails of others. Time for you to man up. What about the army?’

*Brian laughs*

‘Okay, what about a job in Dave’s company? I’m sure he could rustle something up for you. And give college another shot. I’m doing a Masters in Psychology in UCD and they accept mature students all the time. You should try a course there.’

‘I did. Geology, remember?’

‘A useful course, Brian. Try an Arts course or something like politics or history. You always liked history.’

‘I’ll take your words into consideration mi amigo, but for now … I fart at thee …’

*Brian lets one rip*

Exit stage left. Since then I’ve gotten promoted in a steady job, I’ve reapplied to college to do an Arts degree, and while my love life is as turbulent as ever, I have high hopes that some impressionable young Women Studies can be persuaded to take extracurricular work from ‘Professor’ Brian Damage ….

This song, I think, best reflects how I grasped that oportunity I was given.

A Gallon Of Strawberry Quick

I could write a post on horoscopes and how totally believable … or I could let Weird Al do it, with Your Horoscope For Today.

Take it away Mr. Yankovic!

Phrases Of Certain Death

I was over at Ed The Ram’s yesterday, having a pizza, watching Apocalypse Now, and having a few bevvies with the boys before heading out to the Portie, when Dave the Lawyer said suddenly:
‘D’you ever notice how the guy who says ‘I got a girl back home … ‘ is always the next to get a shitload of bullets in his face?’
We all thought about this for a few seconds and decided he was right.
So then we began to try and find the best lines in a war film that are guaranteed to get you a one-way flight back to America with a folded flag beside you.
Among others, some of which were classics but have been obliterated by a sustained, eh, blitzkrieg of Jagerbomb-ing , were the following:
- ‘I’ll buy you a beer when we get back/I owe you a beer when we get back.’ Usually said before someone boards a helicopter which gets RPG’d out of the sky a few seconds later.
- ‘I got a girl back home.’ As above, usually said in the seconds before an ambush.
- ‘I’m too short for this shit, man!’ Said by someone who is ending their tour of duty soon, they are either cynical/disillusioned about war and bitch about it the whole film.
- ‘That was some terrific fighting! God damn it man, shake me by the hand!’ Said by an officer who gets shot with the dying breath of a wounded Viet Cong lying nearby.
- ‘All I want to do after this is go back and have a small farm in Montana , and raise some cattle there.’ If said by the main character of the film, he’ll probably survive. Otherwise – instant death!
- ‘God damn it, when is this fucking war going to end?’ As soon as those words left your mouth son. For you at least anyway.

And so on and so forth … any one else got any to add to that?

Blood In The Water

Ah so once again the Irish blogosphere provokes debate and deludes itself into thinking that the agonising hand-wringing and wailing of tears - over a simple railing against Grandad’s hatred of political correctness - actually matters.
Try saying that with a few pints on board.

Anyway, while most of you are digging trenches and preparing the Scuds to fire at each other over the Great Battleground that is the interweb (try paintballing, much better), you probably expect everyone to pitch in with ‘their two cents’ and take sides.
I’m not going to, because honestly, I’m not going to be narcissistic enough to suggest that my, or indeed anyone else’s opinions matter on the subject. Get on TV or in the papers and then you can make a difference. So I’m just keeping my lips shut and I’ll say what I like thank you very much.

Anyway, what I am concerned about is the whole Tibet thing. I have a b et on with Dave The Lawyer that Tibet gains autonomy by 2009 from China.
Who will win?? Oh, the tension!

And by the way, I’m not being ignorant not responding to your comments – other bloggers I know totally disregard theirs – but usually the post subsequent to the last one will contradict the previous one.
And I’m speaking like Yoda now. Fuck.

Scat Jazz Time

Apologies, I have been busy lately, appearing on podcasts and whatnot … not to mention the fact that work has stepped up a gear or two.

 So I’ll see your Commie, tax-paying asses next time.

That Flying Missile That Came From Over 30 Yards, Of Course It Was From Frank Lampard

Today is National Drinking Day – the day nominally devoted to remembering St. Patrick, Ireland’s patron saint (feast day this year 15th March, which will tell you what’s thought of the religious side) – and as usual I went in to see the parade, which was the usual combination of brass bands, dancing, and a festive looking green-and-orange Chinese Dragon. As per usual O’Connell, Westmoreland, and D’Olier Streets were infested with cream crackers, but I retreated to the safe distance of Boheny and Nesbitt’s before finally retiring to The Punch Bowl – via a diversion I’ll discuss shortly - and here I am typing on the internet coin box thing despite my house being two minutes walk down the Rock Road.
It’s safe to say I have got into the spirit of things and am rather shitfaced, but I paid for a damn hour and I’m getting that. Anyway, after I retired to Boheny and Nesbitt’s, Ed the Ram came in, seemingly just out of bed.
‘Ed, where were you? You look like you’ve been rolling about in the fucking dump?’
‘You mean Tallaght, yeah?’
Cue hearty laughter.
‘Seriously though, I was down in Sallynoggin having relations of the intimate variety with this bird I robbed off some guy in the queue for the Nightlink home last night. She didn’t seem to care. Her roommates did mind, but I’ve agreed to meet her here now.’
We ordered a few bevvos and watched the GAA club championships until Ed received a text.
‘She’s on her way.’
A few minutes later, this at-best-average looking lassie sauntered in and plonked herself down unceremoniously on a chair.
”Afternoon, Ed. Who’s your friend?’
Ed glanced nervously towards me.
‘Eh Bernie, this is Brian, he’s an old mate of mine.’
Bernie? Jesus, what an ugly name … belongs in the bad ole days when the priests ran the country.
‘Charmed to meet you, Bernie.’
‘I’m sure you are … ‘*burp*
An excellent specimen of the Irish woman, I’m sure you’ll agree. Anyway, after a few minutes, her roommate, an absolute knockout called Orla, came into the pub.
‘Hey, you’re Ed, y4eah? Who’s this guy with you?’
I stepped in.
‘Is mise Bundaigh. Seamus Ó Bundaigh. Nah, I’m Brian. Enchanteé.’
She giggled at that, and from there on we talked about everything from cars, to Irish-Americans and their hijacking of our national day, to what our respective definitions of a good looking woman was, to rugby, and for hours more, until eventually she got locked and I, being a gentleman, offered to bring her home.
We got an ignorant taxi driver who I paid a penny tip, and then well, I’ll use an analogy to describe what happened next.

Hopefully no-one needs a full description or it’d be longer than ninety minutes …

And, on an aside, I have 25 search results for ‘thus I refute thee’. What is it? Well, according to Joe, who I heard it off, it’s a reference to Halo 2, the Xbox game. Apparently you can carry a bomb in some versions of the game, and ‘thus I refute thee’ was a phrase wrote on the bomb. I just thought it sounded cool, like a phrase a Roman emperor would use.

Souhaitez-Vous Rester À Bruxelles ?

I returned from Brussels this morning – I said Gent, but Melissa booked it – and I had a great time. Among other things, I visited the Atomium, the Royal Belgian Military Museum, Autoworld (a vast collection of vintage cars), Heysel Stadium, the EU District, the Royal Palace at Laken, and I also visited Bruges and Antwerp, two beautiful cities. It was the perfect romantic getaway for me and my personal goddess. If I had gone here alone, I’d almost certainly be in a fantastic mood writing this. As it happens, I am alone. Melissa is in Brussels. She didn’t come back with me.

Some would say it was fate. Other, more Godly types would say it was lack of faith. Me?  She gave me no reason.

We were in Bruges when she suddenly grasped my hands, and staring deeply into my eyes with those searching eyes of hers, with the spark of intelligence burning like funeral pyres in them, spoke slowly and carefully, as if she had rehearsed this.
‘Brian, I need time to think. Time to find myself.’
What the fuck?
‘What do you mean? Are you not enjoying yourself?’
She sighed. The curtain of dark hair framed her pretty features as she lowered her gaze.
‘Brian, the last few weeks have been great. But you’re not the man I need in my life right now.’
A total blindsider …
‘I’m sorry Brian, I’ll move my stuff out tonight.’
I released her hands.
‘Where are you going?’
Again, she failed to meet my gaze.
‘I rented a small apartment in Anderlecht, on Rue Liverpool. Look, I haven’t been planning this behind your back … it’s just …’
Her eyes looked crystalline; they seemed to be about to gush as her voice wavered.
‘I need to be alone.’

And that’s how muggins here ended up staring, shellshocked, at the belfry in the Grote Markt of the historic and picturesque city of Bruges, with my mouth open like a fish you might see in a Tesco supermarket. Eventually some American tourists came along and asked if I needed help. I slowly shook my head, and started shuffling along towards the train station to catch the next train to Brussels. I stumbled out of the Gare du Midi an hour later. I caught a metro into St. Catherine and took up residence at a bar nearby. The barkeep came over to me.
‘Bonsoir, Monsieur. Que aimez-vous?’
I stared wearily at him.
‘Cinq whiskeys, s’il vous plait.’
He looked taken aback, and then grinned.
‘Il n’est pas tous pour vous?’
I didn’t smile back.
‘Oui, il sera tous pour moi.’
After many more Power’s, I stumbled drunkenly back to my hotel, asked for my room-key to a clearly worried clerk, and then flopped on my bed before passing out. I woke the following morning; she hadn’t returned. I packed my things and headed to the airport. I half-considered ringing some of the other slags I once had my way with so I could obliterate her memory, but found myself unable to do it. I still haven’t stopped considering it though.

Thus the mighty Brian Damage was felled by a slip of a woman; a girl who broke my heart in the land of waffles and chocolate. Time to get back on my feet – there’s no point whinging about a woman who spurned me. Still though, not until I’ve finished this bottle of JD’s finest at least …