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I’m settling this shit, as previously stated I am considering skipping the country. I am now doing that for real. I have family out in Perth in Oz that’ll put me up for a while, I’m sure.

And so I bid a fond farewell. I am leaving a collection of shit posts about shit topics, but I don’t really care. I’ll probably take it down after a fashion, but for now this site will stand as a testament to why I was pretty crap at English in the Leaving.

And my final video to you all will be a legend of a song … The Moz, and Fist Of The Gang To Die.


I was released from Loughan House today and got Tommy Cajones to pick me up. The first thing i did was down a four pack of Bulmers the good man had brought. After arriving back in Booterstown I hit my bed, and am after waking up.

I see that some people have attempted to take up arms in my name while I was gone. I’ll be frank here. You don’t know me. You know I got thrown in prison, and that I did it while being rather unjustly charged with assault, but do you know that the Court managed to, while I was in the clink – dig up seven other charges of assault upon which I am now going to be tried for in the future? I’ll bet you didn’t. I’ll be looking at six months, and to be fair, these were all my own doing. I hit those bouncers out of my aggression. I can’t defend myself and if they do go before court, I’ll plead guilty.

However, I plan on perhaps skipping the country before then. The question is, to where? The Steiners and Ryans have tendrils across the world, from America to Australia, to Peru and Germany. I can speak French, German, English, irish (loads of use there), but no Spanish … perhaps a sojourn in Berlin would be good.

How was prison? I’ll not say much, but it gave me time to reflect. I thank the inmates for not trying funny stuff with the soap, to my next-door-cellmate Screwball for being aq funny fucker and singing the Fields of Athenry backwards to piss off Munster fans and nearly causing a riot because of it (Leinster uber alles)  and of course the Irish judicial system for putting me there ab initio. Couldn’t have done it without you, boys.

And to conclude: Fuck you muthafuckaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaas!

Outstanding assault charges + testimony of a scumbag + Dave sending his deputy because he was sick – pleading self-defence + a prick of a judge = two weeks in jail.

Fuck you Irish judicial system. Starting tomorrow.  

Literally. One thing I have never been accused of is being a gentlemean, but if I feel a woman is being threatened, or indeed any friend of mine, regardless of gender, I’ll step in. One swift screw-jab to the temple is normally enough to at least incapacitate the perpetrator, if not outright TKO them.
So it was with some surprise that I encountered my first fight in several months when Cassie and I were at the Savoy a few nights past … we were out seeing Iron Man – great show, highly recommended – and afterwards we were planning to head to Eddie Rocket’s before getting a taxi back home.

So we expected no trouble, but passing the GPO three scumbags in white tracksuits appeared.
‘Areet bud? Having a good night?’ I responded coolly.
‘Yeah, fine so far.’
We walked on, but clearly the scummers thought to themselves here’s a guy with his girlfriend, easy pickings. What they didn’t know was that I had, like €20 in my pocket. Wasn’t even worth mugging.
‘Bud, ya got any change? I just need a few bob.’ Flanked by his homies, he ran ahead of us. I noted they were trying to block us in, and started looking for ways to run. I could throw Cassie over my shoulder and peg it if needs be.
‘Ah sorry, can’t help you.’ I saw a flash and to my horror realised the fucker was wielding a wee switchblade.  Shit.
‘I wasn’t asking bud. Now hand over that money a’ yours and your pretty little girlfriend won’t get cut up.’
While it was over in a flash, it happened in seconds, it seemed like a lot longer to me. I analysed the threat; three guys, one definitely armed, no Gardai in sight, the chance I’d get shived for twenty bob … fuck that. I’m not spilling blood for no reason. Not mine anyway. That fucker’s going down.
‘Reet man, decision time.’ He took a step towards Cassie. That step was all I needed. I burst towards him, threw my leading hand in to premptively parry a knife strike, and as I parried, I pivoted on my heel and brought my right hand up and literally smashed it into his jaw with the base of my palm. Continuing the strike, I brought my left hand back, smashed that palm into his face, then started in with elbow strikes to the face before finishing him off with a swift knee to the groin. Having dispatched him, I saw his mates try to leg it. As my instructor would say, don’t follow a fight; finish any already started. Looking down at the wheezing form on the ground, I kicked his shiv onto the road, stood over him, and spat on him.
‘Shitbag. Did you really fucking think I’d give you heathen scum money?’ Cassie was in pure shock, like nothing had registered since these guys first accosted us. I have to admit, I was running on pure adrenaline too, and later on I collapsed into bed without saying a word when it wore off. That was later though.
Deciding to finish the fight off, I drew back my knee and slammed it into the side of his head, sending him tumbling, probably unconscious to the ground. I grabbed Cassie’s arm, and with a quick glance to make sure he was on the ground, legged it to a taxi and didn’t say a word until the following morning.

Few days later a summons arrives for me in the post. Apparently the Alpha Scum caught my name and reported me for assault to the Gardai … next week I have to go to a sitting of the District Court. Dave’s representing me … should be interesting …

As today is a bank holiday, I’m off work, and as it is May, and therefore summer here, my father rings me up as always to prepare for non-arboreal gardening duties.
‘Yes Dad?’
‘It’s grass time.’

Now I would like to point out that as far as I know, my dad Ralf has never cut grass since my older brother Sean (now 29) learned how to use the mower without mutilating himself at age 12. It is a sacred duty; passed as soon as the next child comes of age (I have an older brother, younger brother, and two younger sisters), and sadly since my younger brother Paul broke his arm playing darts (a whole other story) the duty has reverted to me, something I thought had ended. So I arose at nine o’clock this morning, walked the few hundred yards down the Rock Road to my parents’ house, and took the old Castelgarden 150 out and got it running. Paul came out, took one look at the petrol bottle, and immediately used his one good arm to waft fumes into the air.
Sniffing petrol, another Damage Family tradition.
‘A ha ha … you have to be the grass bitch today!’
‘Don’t you have a Leaving Cert to study for?’
Anyway, when he was gone back in, and I had said my greetings to my parents and sisters, I adjourned to the shed and spent the following five minutes inhaling delightfully toxic fumes.
Man, I got seriously high. When I started cutting the grass, trees were totally talking to me and one of them even starting playing a jingle like an ice-cream van (my sister later told me it was in fact an ice-cream van and not a tree) … the mower turned into this giant beast of a machine that did the work itself, and a nice gentle setlist of classical music by Bach, Beethoven, and Strauss was playing throughout.

The lesson? When cutting grass, aim and get high.

I’m sorry, but the more I read the angrier I got. Usually I’d do a parody of it, but I’m tired and couldn’t be worth spending my time doing it when I could be watching paint dry.

Link again for your pleasure, be sure to peruse the archives.

Just for the sheer hell of it:

Misfits, Where Eagles Dare.

Alright, so I was reading a post over at Baino’s place where she was detailing how a laconic guy she used to ride horses as a young teenager with melted into some kind of mush when he realised he had the hots for her. Our teenage years are always awkward periods, but I have to say if I could live that period of my life all over again, I would. I wasted quite a bit of my life then, but I lived and learned. I still loved every minute of it.

You see, I was not always Reverend B-Smooth with the ladies. Fact is, I only started going out when I turned 16, at a time when most lads my age had already gotten fairly far with one or several lassies. Playing the numbers game, Cassie seven years ago was only my second serious girlfriend. Now, if I were to be lucky enough to get a second shot at the title, she would be my twenty-first girlfriend, and if I did the past nastification, she would be the sixty-seventh woman I’ve been with (yes, I’ve kept count). Of course, while she’s very pretty and all (and possibly reading this) I have no compulsion to sleep with her because she’s better as a friend than a jilted ex.

However, before I did go out, myself and Tommy Cajones, who grew up on the same road together, used to play with the children on the street. There was a group of about ten of us, and the girl who lived literally next door to me was called Amy. She and I did a lot of things together, and I’d often help her with homework and shit like that. When I was bored, she’d teach me different arts and crafts things (gifted in that department) and we got on as well as small boys and girls do, even during that time when you’re about 7 – 10 years old and the groups split into gender specific groups. Of course, when I was 12, and the testosterone in my body suddenly realised it had spent twelve years scratching its proverbial dates., shit changed. I started to see her in a different light. She was less the girl that had spent the past eight years happily playing with me, into some kind of attractive being. I was smitten.
Of course, I didn’t have the balls to say anything, and I’d get angry with jealousy whenever she’d talk about the boys who were interested in her, which was partly the reason I took up rugby, to let off steam (TC had been playing for four years at that stage for comparative purposes). I just tried to suppress it, and I succeeded for most of it, until I heard she was going out with some fucker called Risteoir. By a happy coincidence, Risteoir played rugby at Gonzaga too, and during training one day, I dumptackled him and broke his right leg out of sheer blind rage. Risteoir was out of rugby for several years after that.
Tommy realised that something had to be done at this stage, so he told me to man up and say something, or go out with him to the Wezz and have my pick of the women. I chose the latter, I’ve never looked back.

I spent three fruitless years chasing one girl I’d never have a chance with. I spent a night at the Wezz and scored three (not the whole way, just kissing and shit) in one night. I knew my vocation then.
What of Amy? She still lives beside me, but is at college in Galway a lot of time. I believe a drunken Tommy may have told her I had feelings for her, but at this stage I was nineteen and didn;t give a shit. After all, my philosophy then and now is why fish with a rod when you can use a stick of dynamite? I made my peace with Risteoir, who now lives in South Africa, but my early teenage were like something out of a Salvador Dali painting. Or Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas.

Still, at least I’ve never in my entire life worn white socks.

Cassie is all excited that I’m coming back to UCD, and her happy makes me happy, even though I’m not dipping the wick so to speak. She’s doubly excited because it means I can join her in the UCD ‘Ultimate Frisbee Club’. Now excuse me for having a pair of balls and a penis, but the only manly thing I can possibly think involve frisbee would be if it was me playing a match with a load of hot naked women. Like that cheerleader one out of Heroes. yeah, that’d do.

Now the rifle club they used to have. Or tae kwon do, or fishing, or knitting, or in fact anything but frisbee ….

Cassie won’t like this, but this details one of my more popular pasttimes of recent years. It’s called Breakfast Bounty, and the contest was this: when all of us, me, Dave, Tommy C, Jerky Joe, and Ed the Ram, were all single, a board would be set up in Ed and Joe’s apartment. The task was to go to a woman’s house, do the past nastification (or not, whatever) and afterwards when she was asleep or whatever, take the components of a fry for breakfast the following morning in Joe and Ed’s apartment. Now, if you bought them on the way up (easy enought to spot that to be fair) you were disqualified. It was held every Friday for a period of six weeks, and you scored as follows:
Sausage: One point per sausage
Bacon: One point per rasher
Tomato: One point each
Egg: Three points for an intact egg
Black or White Pudding: Two points per half roll
One bonus point each for hash browns.

And so Breakfast Bounty was played. Now I was running third to Tommy C and Ed going into the third week – as it was dependent on scoring it could be an unpredictable contest – when I met this lassie, Rachel from Sandymount, I remember because her old man used to teach me at primary school, who, when I was going into Abrekebabra, said she would cook me something in her house if I wanted food.
Paydirt, says I to myself.
So off we get a taxi to Sandymount, and when I reach what can only be described as a palatial estate, I collapse into a beanbag in her den, and switch on a giant plasma TV and start watching Johnathon Woss’ Film Weview. Twenty minutes later she sticks in her head and says it’s done. While she busies herselfmaking coffee to down the burgers with, I take a quick root in her fridge.
Fuck me, there was the beter part of seven pigs in there. A veritable treasure trove of sausages, bacon, pudding … enough to put me in the lead for the three remaining weeks without ever needing to go out.
So eventually I get the grub into me, and I head up to her room and we get down and dirty (Customer Satisfaction Review: ”I’ve never felt so loved”) and after I’m certain she’s asleep, I sneak down to the fridge and start filling a plastic bag I grabbed from somewhere in the utility room, and just as I’m about to make off with my booty, the light turns on. A fat bastard in a suit is just staring slack-jawed at me. He starts pointing.
‘You brigand! Filthy fucking thief! Don’t you dare move.!’
I think about dropping the food and pulling a legger, but I’m actually in total shock from being caught. The fat bastard screams up the stairs.
‘We’re being robbed! Family emergency!’
Like a shot, mother, father, Rachel, and sister are down the stairs. The father, I noticed to my horror, was wielding some kind of rifle, whoch he had trained at my head.  
‘Don’t you dare move you little fucker … wait a second! I know you! Steiner! Why are you robbing my house? Your parents will ostracise you when they hear about this!’ Rachel pulled the gun out of her father’s hands.
‘Daddy, Brian’s a friend of mine. He’s staying the night.’ He continued to glare at me. The fat bastard, I guessed, was her brother Robert. A notorious loudmouthed fucker who punched Tommy C outside Club 92 once.
‘That doesn’t explain why this little toerag is stealing our food!’
‘Ah sir, I can explain. I work with the Simon Community, and I remembered I had to go to a soup kitchen this evening. I forgot to buy food earlier, and I was being picked up shortly, so I was hoping i could leave a note explaining why I took it.’ Rachel’s father looked a bit iffy … hopefully she’d pull through …
‘It’s true Daddy, he told me that he works with the homeless earlier this evening …’
Ah Safecracker Number 24 … not only good for opening with women, but in this case for getting out of a tight spot …
You leave here now, Steiner, and if I catch you here again, I will shoot you with that rifle. Clearly you’ve been filling my daughter’s head with your lies, but I don’t believe you for a second. Now get out of here, and since your thieving fingers were all over that food, take it with you.’
I didn’t have to be told twice. Legged it out of there.

Following morning I took the lead in Breakfast Bounty by 12 points, and we ate like kings. But I wasn’t near finished with trying to con women out of pork based products … stay tuned for my biggest score in the four times we played Breakfast Bount … the time I scored a lassie whose father ran a Donnybrook Fair …

With the thoughts from a militant mind, robbed fry, robbed fry, after robbed fry … 

Recently I’ve been having a cold, only it’s been accompanied by a high fever, something I always get when I have a cold, or even sick at all. Anyway, until it broke there a day ago, I was bed-ridden and hallucinating. I know I was hallucinating because I distinctly remember being awake when some of this shit happened. It was a weird vision, but anyway, here’s what I can remember of it.

(Brian lies in bed, sweating profusely.)
Voice: Yo, wake up dawg.
Brian: What? Who the – … who or what are you?
(Brian sees a stereotypical rapper standing over him. Bling, backwards hat, American football jersey, ridiculously oversized trousers etc.)
Rapper: Dawg, I’m your spirit guide.
Brian: Aw fuck, don’t tell me Joe spiked my drinks again.
Rapper: Nope, you’re just envisioning me because you’re delirious with fever (Squints) Oh yeah, word, dawg.
Brian: Well, since I’ve fuck all else to do, why are you here?
Rapper: Shit if I know man, it’s yo’ vision. Anyways, order yo’self up a big bucket of fried chicken, you muthafucka.
Brian: Why is my spirit guide a total stereotype?
(A table and chairs appear. A bucket of KFC is on the table; the spirit guide is eating chicken while Bob Geldof is singing I Don’t Like Mondays.)
Bob: You know I actually don’t like Mondays. Statistics show that people listen to me less on Monday.
Rapper: Bob, people don’t listen to you much anyways, man. Have some fried chicken.
(Bob sits down and takes a piece of chicken.)
Bob: Who’s this focker?
Brian: Brian Damage. Pleased to meet you too Bob.
Bob: Would you like to focking give a shit about my new campaign? It’s called iPhones for Orphans. I promise free iPhones for starving children in the poverty and disease ridden hovels of Dundalk if you just give me 10% of your lifetime savings.
Brian: Ah no, you’re okay.
(Cassie appears, dressed with a basket of fruit on her.)
Brian: Cassie, what are you doing here?
Cassie: Oh, I’m not Cassie, Brian. Just a vision of all the women you’ve been with down through the years.
Brian: We could be here a while so! High five anyone?
Bob: I must be off. I have to visit some people in Kerry who have to walk twenty miles every day to get water. Hi-ho Geldof, away!
(Bob puts on a cape and flies away.)
Rapper: Man, you try sharing a room with him. That dude’s one crazy muthafucka. Yo Brian, if you finished oglin’ yo’ exes and some fat muthafuckin’ women, we ready to move on?
Brian: Yeah, sure.
(Scene dissolves and Brian finds him placed beside Jerky Joe, dressed in a ghillie suit and holding a sniper rifle. Joe is the same way.
Joe: Brian, I’ve just received intel that the Politician Liberation Army is going to attack our position soon. we’ve got to hold them off until we can get an evac chopper. Understood?
Brian: Joe, I don’t know how to use these.
Joe: Just press the Right Trigger button.
Brian: This isn’t a fucking video game!! How do i use these?
Joe: Just look at the damn gun.
(Brian does and finds there is a Xbox 360 controller where the trigger should be.)
Brian: This is one seriously fucked up dream.
Joe: You’re telling me. We thought those democracy loving bastards were pinned down in Leinster House but they managed to fight their way out. Cost the 112th Stick Beating Battalion some damn good men.  Get ready brian, here they come.
(Brian looks through the scope and sees a load of people wearing cheap suits and wielding bits of paper charging towards them. Brian takes aim and presses the trigger button. A piece of paper flies out.)
Brian: Joe, where are the damn bullets?!
Joe: These rifles fire votes of no confidence. You didn’t seriously think bullets could kill politicians, did you?
(Brian shakes his head in disbelief and fires a vote of no confidence at a screaming politician. He drops to the ground, his face contorted in agony.)
Brian: Son of a bitch.
(Pothead Paul appears.)
Paul: Someone call me?
Joe: Paul, gab one of these rifles and get shooting. I’ve just heard that they’re planning to send in the Panzerharney to take us out so we’ll need all the help we can get. Brian, take that Panzerfaust there and hide in the bushes until it passes. Then fire in at the weak armour on the rear. Got that?
Brian: Fine. Cover me until then.
Joe: Hold them off! Oh shit!
(Enda Kenny leaps from the bushes brandishing a Manifesto for Change. Je grabs the butt end of his rifle and swings it into Kenny’s face, leaving him sprawling on the ground.)
Joe: God damn it, when will this fucking war ever end? We’ve been fighting these bastards for twelve years now!
(A tank rolls into the battlefield. The look of shock on Joe and Paul’s faces is palpable. They stand there frozen in shock as the tank turns its turret to face them.)
Brian: Here goes nothing.
(Fires the Panzerfaust which explodes on the tank, disabling it. Millions of euro in unmarked notes spill out.)
Joe: We’re rich! It’s like that film Three Kings!
(Scene dissolves again. Brian then finds himself sitting on a chair, under a spotlight in a black room.)
Brian: Christ, how many more cliches is this hallucination going to use?
Disembodied Voice: Brian Damage, you ahve disturbed the sound of silence. Now you must spend eternity listening to the entire Simon and Garfunkel back collection!!
Brian: That’s not a punishment. I like Simon and Garfunkel.
(Sound of Silence begins playing.)
Voice: Let’s here you say that when you hear this for the fifth sucessive time … now walk along this barren and desolate wasteland thinking about how much Simon and Garfunkel suffered!!!
Brian: Suffered how?
(No reply. The black room lights up and reveals a long road. The Rapper reappears.)
Rapper: Yo, that Simon and Garfunkel dude tried to pull some shit on you there?
Brian: Yeah. That’s him playing the music you hear.
Rapper: That crazy fool pulls that shit on everyone who comes here. He did it to Russell Crowe and Crowe threatened to poke his eyes out. That shut him up. Anyway Brian, it’s time to wake up.
Brian: What?
Rapper: (speaking in a women’s voice) Please wake up.
Brian: Dude, what’s wrong with you?
Rapper: Come on Brian, please wake up.

I woke up then, and saw that Cassie was sitting beside me.
‘Thank God, I thought you were going to stay that bad.’
‘But it’s about 7 in the morning, what are you doing here?’
“It’s nearly three. You’ve been screaming in your sleep all night. I rang your phone, but your mother told me you were sick with fever so I came up to see you. It’s about half two now.’
‘Shit … I better go have a shower. Thanks for coming. You want to head out?’
‘Brian, your hallucination may be over, but don’t be an idiot. Your fever’s nowhere near broken. Feel your forehead.’
I did. It was like a fucking hotplate.
‘Back to bed for you so. ‘
‘You won’t join me?’
She grinned.
‘More like your old self now, eh?  I’ll get you some 7-Up.’

Awesome to the max.  The only way I could sum up that weird shit is by showing two videos.

That for the aural representation of the dream.

This because it’s a kick ass song.