Walking into the supermarket I am accosted by an elderly lady.

“Buy some sardines!”, she says.

“What?”

“Buy a tin of sardines!”

“Why?”

“We’re collecting them!”

“You’re collecting tins of sardines?”

“Yes. Buy some sardines!”

“Who are you collecting them for?”

“Albanians!”

“I see”.

She then went to another person and urged them to buy sardines too. I did not buy sardines but it certainly has to be the most unusual request ever made to me outside a supermarket.

“Twenty”, said Dirty Dave, “I have a theory”.

“What’s that? The longer you go without washing the more self-cleansing your body becomes?”

“No. It’s to do with the good weather we’ve been having.”

“I see.”

“You have to admit that for us to get such a prolonged period of pleasant, sunny weather is unusual in the extreme. Normally a day of sunshine and blue skies is followed by an Old Testament week or two of rain and floods and other kinds of water from the sky, like cloud piss.”

“This is true.”

“This time though it hasn’t happened and I think that Mother Nature, the old slut, is too busy being crap elsewhere and has forgotten completely about us.”

“You what?”

“She’s too wrapped up in killing as many Burmese as she can or causing earthquakes in China and without her malign influence we’re simply enjoying pleasant days and relatively balmy evenings. And you know what?”

“What?”

“I would happily swap a natural disaster a week on the other side of the world for a rain free week in Ireland. I mean, it’s terrible and all and sad and all that kind of stuff, but I’m at an age now where I really don’t give a shit. I know I probably should but I just don’t.”

“So, if someone came to you now and said ‘Ireland will have a glorious 5 month summer, hot days, warm nights, no rain, plenty of sunshine - but for this to happen there has to be cyclones, tornados, hurricanes, tsunamis and other tropical depressions which will bring death, disease and hardship to some of the poorest places on planet’, you would be ok with that?”

“Damn right, I would. I am just one man. What could I do anyway? Throw a few quid at that old cunt John O’Shea and that’s about it. Beyond that why should I care? There’s enough going on in my life for me to worry about without having to think about starving orphans elsewhere. I was a starving orphan myself once”.

“When your parents die and you’re in your late forties and you have no food in the house for a brief period that doesn’t make you a starving orphan”.

“Whatever. My point is bring on the tempests and typhoons. I’m gonna get the fucking barbecue out”.

“Sounds like a plan”.

Despite my carefree nature I am a man who likes routine. I do not like things that interrupt my routine. This is called change and generally change is bad. Unless you find a big bag of coins.

My morning routine goes a bit like this:

- Alarm goes off. Alarm is put on snooze.

- Alarm goes off 10 minutes later. Alarm is put on snooze. Become aware I need to urinate.

- Alarm goes off 10 minutes later. Alarm is put on snooze. Need to empty bladder now becoming urgent.

- Alarm goes off 10 minutes later. Alarm is put on snooze. Bladder issues now most acute.

- Alarm goes off 10 minutes later. Alarm is put on snooze. Urination now absolutely necessary so am unable to drift back to sleep.

- Try and hold on as long as possible but I must rise. Sit on edge of bit for some time holding my head in my hands.

- Gently pad to bathroom, relieve myself while hocking up overnight phlegm build-up and scratching whatever bits need to be scratched.

- Go to kitchen. Make coffee. Turn on radio while making coffee. Get angry at radio. Turn radio off.

- Open back door. Let Bastarface in, rub dog’s head. Sometimes Throatripper comes in, more often cat is out disemboweling things.

- Pour coffee into cup, make delicious Pop Tarts, sit down at computer. Eat. Drink.

And then the day goes from there. When I was much younger I used to set the time on my alarm clock 10 or 15 minutes ahead so that when the alarm went off I’d think ‘Oh, it’s time to get up. Oh no it’s not. I have 10 or 15 more minutes than I thought!’

Those 10 or 15 minutes were the best 10 or 15 minutes of the day.

One for the road has a post about Golliwogs.

Far be it for me to perpetrate racial prejudice but if every country or type of people had a racist doll made about them wouldn’t that even things up?

Like ‘Little Nadia - the Romanian doll’ who steals from you when you’re not looking, is permanently pregnant despite being hideously ugly and gets picked up at the end of the day by her father/husband in a 08 reg van.

Or ‘Paddy Ayslum’ - the Irish doll that’s in America illegally but thinks it should be treated differently to other illegal immigrants because of John F Kennedy or the famine or something.

There was much joy in Ron’s last night as in walked Dirty Dave, looking a bit more dirty and dishevelled than normal, but very much alive.

Stinking Pete, I don’t mind telling you, cried like a little baby, weeping tears of pus and various other body juices at the return of his great friend. There was some back-slapping and even Ron himself bought Dave a pint, so considerate is he to the needs of his customers.

“Where have you been?”, blubbed Pete. “We were so worried about you, weren’t we lads?!”

There were some coughs and the odd muttered ’sure, sure’ as people found their feet incredibly interesting for some reason.

“Well, I was utterly distraught on Friday when I realised I would never find true love. And it hurt me like I can’t even begin explain. Which of us does not seek companionship, someone to hold late at night when you’ve woken from a bad dream in which your eyeball falls out and then when you put it into a bowl to keep it safe you forget there’s water in the bowl and your eyeball, which is somehow made up of coloured rice, melts and becomes nothing but murky water? Who doesn’t long to feel the caress of a beautiful woman on their leathery balls?”

“Elton John!”, said Pete.

“Well, apart from Elton John”.

“Senator David Norris!”, said Pete.

“Yeah, well apart from Elton John and Senator David Norris. And don’t. We could be here all day. Now, I realise I have issues with personal hygeine but my boquet should not be an impediment to happiness. Lord knows I’ve tried. Lifeboy soap, Swarfiga, you name it, I’ve scrubbed myself with it but I am simply a redolent invididual and that is it. I mean, if Simon Weston can get his hole now and again there’s no reason why I shouldn’t be able to”.

“Have you tried Club M?”

“Not recently but that’s not the point. The point is that the sadness I felt, the aching chasm of despair that was opened up in me when I saw just how lonely my life was going to be until my dying day, led me to believe that I’d be better off dead. So I turned my phone off and considered it. Would it hurt? What was the quickest, most efficient way of doing it? Where would I do it? Should I leave a note? What should it say? And I won’t lie to you, I gave it all careful consideration. In the end I decided that I would take an overdose of sleeping pills with a bottle of cognac so I could go peacefully in my bed.”

“So what happened?”, asked an enthralled Pete.

“After writing my note explaining my reasons and saying my goodbyes I turned my phone back on to listen to the messages, to hear my friends voices one last time. Pete, I couldn’t understand a word you were saying on the messages you left”.

“Sorry, Dave. I was fucked out of my head on booze and crack cocaine that I bought from some lad outside the Central Bank. You know when I get worried I need to take hard drugs”.

“Yeah. I know. You mad cunt. Jimmy, I know you’re not a man of many words so I understand why you didn’t leave a message. Or you Splodge. Or you Ron. Or you Lucky.”

“I’m a not know you a missing. Spend all of a the weekend in Dundrum a shopping centre with Elisa to look for a the baby clothes. Little Lucky a coming.”

“Yeah, whatever. But there was one man who reached out to me. One man who brought me back from the brink. Whose message was so full of passion for life that I realised that I couldn’t go through with it. And for that I’ll always be grateful … Twenty”.

“What did you say, Twenty? What the fuck did you say?”, said Jimmy.

“It’s nothing, really”, I said, slightly embarrassed at having my private messages made public.

“Come on, tell us!”, said Ron.

“Yeah, tell us!”, said Pete.

“Nah … I … erm …”

“It’s ok, Twenty”, said Dave softly. “Tell them”.

“I just said … basically … well, it was … erm … basically I just told him that I’d already written about half my second book with him in it and if he killed himself I’d have to start all over again and if that happened I’d find a way to bring him back to life and I’d kill him again in the most painful way I could possibly imagine”.

“I love you, Twenty”, said Dave.

“How are you going to vote on the Lisbon treaty, Jimmy?”, asked Splodge.

“I haven’t really given it too much thought, I have to say. I’m vehemently opposed to doing anything that Fianna Fail or Fine Gael or the PDs or Labour think is a good idea but voting no would be siding with Sinn Fein, and those cocksmokers can go fuck themselves. So, having now considered all my options I shall abstain from voting altogether”.

“And you, Ron?”, he asked.

“I think, bar the influx of Romanian thieves that plague this city like flea ridden rats, the EEC, or whatever the fuck they call it these days, has been good for Ireland. People talk about us losing sovereignty but sovereignty is a hugely overrated concept and frankly the cunts that might make more decisions from Brussels can’t be any worse than the cunts we elect over here. So for that reason I think I’ll vote yes if I can be arsed actually closing up my bar to go and vote. Which I probably won’t. So it doesn’t really matter.”

“Twenty”, said Splodge again, “what’s your take on this whole situation?”

“I’m with Jimmy in that anything the political parties want, I don’t. However, there’s some talk that our neutrality might be affected if we say yes so I’m leaning towards the yes vote because I think we need to be less neutral. We’ve turned into a nation of affected, manscara wearing metrosexuals. Where is the spirit of the great Celtic warriors? Where are our ginger beards and heavy clubs with which to batter people about the head? Ireland needs to get into a bit of a war to toughen us up. Our youngsters, bar the odd Limerick rapper, are all a bunch of fucking pussies. Some shooting and bayoneting and scimitar action would sort them and future generations out. We could start small, invade the Isle of Man for a bit of practice. Then get right in there and war about the place like proper men. So yes for me, if I can drag myself away from writing my second book that the publishers are keen to have finished sooner rather than later playing my Playstation. Which I probably won’t be able to do so it’s all academic anyway.”

“Pete?”

“I’m voting ‘penis’”

“What?”

“I’m going to draw a great big penis on the ballot paper. If I can be bothered going all that way when I could just stay at home and draw penises on my sketch pad.”

“What about you, Splodge?”

“I’m voting no”.

“How come?”

“Well, I don’t give a fuck about us losing our neutrality, about lack of sovereignty, loss of vetoes, whether or not we have a expenses fiddling, fancy lunch eating commissioner, changes in civil rights or anything else. The reason I’m voting no is because Lisbon is in Portugal and Cristiano Ronaldo comes from Portugal and Cristiano Ronaldo is the biggest cunt on earth so I’m not voting yes to the biggest cunt on earth unless the vote is to torture him to death in front his mother, the cunt”.

“Can’t fucking argue with that”, said Ron.

—–

VOTE NO TO LISBON. VOTE NO TO RONALDO.

—–

If I could rejig the English language I’d remake some of the past tenses of verbs to make them more hilarious and funky sounding.

For example:

“Where did you get that lovely jumper?”

“Oh, my Granny knat it for me”

or

“Poor old Joey fell to his death after falling out of the window. He managed to grab one of those poles that stick out of buildings in Harold Lloyd films but although he clang on for ages he couldn’t hold on.”

It would make English a much better language, in my opinion. What past tenses would you change?

“Have you heard from Dave?”, I asked Stinking Pete in Ron’s last night.

“No, I haven’t. And I’m getting a bit worried now. I tried to call him but his answering machine message is now the theme song from M*A*S*H. What do you think it means?”

“I suspect he’s probably going to kill himself because he’ll never find true love”.

“Really? Oh no! We have to do something”.

“Yes, I agree. We definitely need to do something to take our minds of it. How much money would I have to give you to let me kick you in the balls as hard as I could?”

“What?”

“It’s a very simple question.”

“How .. what … Jesus, Dave could be hanging from his neck like negro in the deep south”.

“Alabama?”

“Well, I was thinking Dingle but that probably makes more sense. Anyway, that’s not the point.”

“You’re right. €50.”

“No. I’m not playing this game.”

“€200″.

“No, look, we’ve got to do something to find him.”

“€500″.

“Seriously Twenty, you need to grow up. Our friend could be lying dead or sitting in a bath with his wrists slit or stiff as a board with an iPod on and a Damien Rice album on repeat. There are more important things in this life than you kicking me in the balls. For once I wish you’d see that. We’re not your playthings, we’re real people with real feelings and emotions and sometimes you take advantage of that. I should probably have said something about this years ago, I’d have saved Dave and I all manner of torture and practical jokes and pranks but I’m saying it now. Better now than never”, said Pete shaking with emotion.

“€1000?”

” ….cash?”

“Yeah”.

“Ok. Do you want to do it now?”

“Nah. I just wanted to know how much it would take to boot you right in the bollocks. Now that I know I’ll store that info and use it at a later stage.”

“I could really do with the money though. Any chance of an advance?”

“Here’s €20″.

“Thanks. What about Dave?”

“Ah fuck him, he’ll turn up”.

Head hurts. No sign of Dirty Dave. Rang him last night, phone was off. His message said something about moving to Bridgend and opening up a Bebo site.

Fucked if I know.

*bring bring*

“Hello?”

“Twenty, it’s me, Dave. Dirty Dave.”

“What’s up, Dave?”

“I’m in love!!”

“Oh fuck, have you been watching Fast Times at Ridgemount High again? I thought we told you about that. If Phoebe Cates’s lawyers get wind of this-”

“No, with a real person this time”.

“Really?”

“Who is she?”

“She’s gorgeous. She’s got lovely long brown hair and a great figure and a sexy way about her. Oh yes”.

“But who is she?”

“I don’t know but I saw her on Nassau Street about an hour ago and I’m following her around town until we get to know each other better”.

“That’s not so much following as stalking, Dave. You know what the cops said about that”.

“But-”

“Let her go, Dave”.

“But-”

“Let her go”.

“Ok”.

“Turn and walk the other way”.

“I am”, he said mournfully.

“Will I ever find true love, Twenty? Be honest now”.

“No. Not a fucking chance. But I’ll buy you a pint or two this evening”.

“A pint of love?”

“Who do you think you are? Marc Almond?”

“Goodbye, Twenty. Goodbye, pal”.

*click*