1. Rock Star Me (first pet, current car): Pépé Passat, the iconic no armed drummer from the Mexican one hit wonder, Deff aza Post.

2. Gangsta Me (fave ice cream flava, fave type of shoe): Chocolate Chip Walking Boot (oh good grief!); he gonna boot a cap in yo ass!

3. Native American Me (fave colour, fave animal): Purple Chinchilla, smoked an enitre calumet and saw so far into space that he bumped into the back of his own head.

4. Soap Opera Star Me (middle name, city of birth): William Drogheda, had a bit part on the Thorn Birds, as the ranch.

5. Star Wars Character Me (first 3 letters of lastname- first 2 of first): Mcm-Ja, ethereal being (pronounced Mmmm-hic-Mmmm Jaah!). Takes the form of a smelly brown gas cloud. (See previous post)

6. Super Me (2nd Fave colour, Fave drink): The Black Margharita, who with his sidekick The Green Gringo keeps law and order in Mexican restaurants near you.

7. NASCAR Me (Both Grandfathers First Names): Willy Tom, ……. eh not too far off an actual NASCAR name. Nuff said.

8. Dancer Me (Name of fave scent/cologne/perfume, fave candy): Fahrenheit Space Dust, his dances are so modern 5 mins later they’re out of style. Famous for his heel slap.

9. Weatherman Me (5th Class Teacher’s last name, Major city beginning with same letter): Mathews Mendoza. Today there’ll be a slight air of disposition with frequent bouts of indifference leading to showers of who gives a fuck.

10. Spy Me (Fave season/holiday, flower): Banks Amorphophallus, keeping the world terrorflorist free since 1995. The ladies love him.

11. Cartoon Me (Fave fruit, fave item of clothing you’re wearing right now): Dragon Pants, dare you strike a match?

12. Hippie Me (What you ate for breakfast, fave tree): Hash Brown Birch, jah rastafariah.

13. Movie/Porn Star Me (First Pet, first street where you first lived): Pépé Marian Park. Has been out of work since 1963.

Thank fuck that’s over!
I’m sure who ever thought that one up designed it so that theirs was hilarious. I wouldn’t want to inflict this cruel exercise on anyone so I won’t tag anybody but if you really want to do it then please send a trackback!

So there we were in McFools, Mandonkey, Giblets and I. It was a quiet night (Gorf wasn’t out); the recession must really be taking hold. We got around to talking about clothes and how we wear them, or wear them out to be precise. Everybody wears their clothes out differently; different parts of garments wear out more quickly than others.

In Mandonkey’s case, the first thing to go is the right knee. He says it’s from persistent kneeling at work and true enough every single pair of jeans he has the right knee worn out. With Giblets it’s the fraying of the leg hem caused by the fact that he wears his jeans with his arse between his knees and legs trailing on the ground, not because he’s down with the latest street fashion, it’s because he has no arse on which to hang a pair of jeans.

Me, I have to admit, it’s the gooch that wears out first, both in jeans and kecks. It’s down to my vegetarian diet and astounding talent for flatulence that completely and quite quickly disintegrates that portion of my attire.

So…. what’s it with you? What wears out on you first?

I fail to see how four decidedly average musicians who write consistently average songs for mind numbingly average albums can whip hordes of ordinarily average people into a U2 hungry delirium, the likes of which causes some of them to want to queue for four days on a cold Dublin street for their latest fix of musical banality.

I don’t get it.

I don’t get that when asked if I like U2 and reply that I don’t (a mortal sin for an Irishman) that I’m made feel as if I’ve just taken a dump on the Pope, on Easter Sunday, in St Peter’s Square, during communion.

I really don’t get it.

This is the same government that told us not to be bothered by the technical language in the Lisbon Treaty, they were on top of it and understanding technical language, after all, was what they were elected to do for us.

This country is haemorrhaging jobs at an alarming rate and the only thing the government has done so far to alleviate the situation was to dream up a half baked scheme to curtail public spending by imposing a pension tax on public sector workers.

The ill-Health Service is a shambles, a shameful operation run by bean counters and penny pinchers under the misguided leadership of a clinically obese, cantankerous slob whose lack of compassion, understanding and overall sense of moral decency has cost good people their lives.

But, by far the worst scourge of late in this Fair Isle of ours is the overwhelming attitude of apathy, evident by a 67% voter turnout in the last general election, shared by, what looks like, the entire population and driven by what I think is Ireland’s historical and insatiable love of the harmless rogue. We saw it with Haughey, Bertie and we’re seeing it now with the current shower of feckless rogues.

But, Wake UP Ireland, these ‘harmless’ rogues are costing people their livelihoods and their lives and what’s more, they know it, they don’t care and they’re laughing at us.

It’s time for them to go.

Holemaster and Maxi are scheming.

Get involved or get bent, it’s your choice, but remember, it’s also your country!

Hi Jack,

Sorry for the delay (in some cases the
really long delay). We have at
last approved your blog, Is this it? Is this really what it’s all about?,
for addition to the Irish Blog Directory

Check out the site and see who’s blogging from
your area.

Regards,

Irish Blog Directory Admin.

Well, it’s not before bloody time! I suppose I’d better scribble a few things a bit more regularly to make use of my new found fame.  Later!

I have sent in my best man Capt. Mick McFool. I can now bring an exclusive communique from the front. I must warn you Capt Mc Fool does suffer a bit from Schizophrenia and sometimes believes he is in command of a crack military unit, whereas he’s just a nutter playing alone in his spare bedroom!

I have yet to hear back from Capt. McFool to verify the success of the raid but so far it looks like we have managed to rescue our Queen.

All hail Queen K8!!!

I was always the first to the seat, a compulsion of mine, where I have to be early for everything, but it’s got to be borderline OCD to be so early every day that the earlier train is still in the station and I won’t get on.

Bald Devil would arrive next, dapperly dressed, clean shaven (face and head) and with pleasantries exchanged, would proceed to surgically butcher, with his razor sharp wit and tongue everything, from that day’s news headline to the fact that I waited, while he sat opposite me, for Crossword Guy to arrive so that I could ask him the meaning of the word ‘surreptitious’. He still has never forgiven me for that. It’s not that I thought he was thick and wouldn’t know it, it’s just that Crossword Guy was my word guy and that’s all it was.

Approximately ten minutes after Bald Devil, Giblets would appear, stand in the doorway until he finished his cigarette and with all of the coordination of a man whose body looks as if it is being controlled by a committee where every member is trying to get their own way, he would climb into a seat, usually the one next to me, stinking of stale beer and cigarettes, would take a book from his inside pocket, open his page, remove his bookmark and promptly fall asleep, mouth open, drooling.

As the train was ready to leave, Emptyhead was always the last to join us, sweaty browed and slightly puffed breath he would put his jacket in the overhead bin, remove a newspaper, a pen and a bottle of water from his bag and sit down. The seat was complete.

That was then, today, Bald Devil is gone, taken up residence in another country, Giblets failed to appear, more than likely sleeping through whatever alcohol induced coma he managed to drink himself into last night and Emptyhead is in Australia for the foreseeable future.

It was a completely different train journey this morning than from what I remembered. The train trundled to a halt in each of the stations, passengers boarded and I didn’t recognise any of the faces. No ‘Always in Disguise Man’ in Laytown, no ‘Balbriggan Bollix’ and no ‘Skerries Girl’. For the entire journey I wondered about the ghosts of journeys past, then I realised, that, just like me, the rest of my once then world had moved on to newer, and I hope, better times. That’s just the way things are.

The best thing about the job is, no more public transport! No delayed trains wrecking me head anymore, (well for a while anyway) I’ll soon have a new annoyance to give out about though, other drivers! Jesus they’re bad. All that to come.

In the meantime there’s this. Someone’s just turned me on to it. The Drogheda Boxing Club, home to many reprobate (meself included) of a Saturday night during the late 80′s and early 90′s, the best gig venue in the North East. Classic bands such as Hothouse Flowers, Don Baker and Sisters (YES!!! THEEEE SISTERS) of Mercy have all graced the stage of the boxing club. Physically, the place was a kip of the highest order, girls had to go to the toilet in threes (one to go and the other two to hold the door of the cubicle up), guys pee’d into a Wavin pipe that went straight out into the Boyne River and by the end of each night the entire floor was coated one inch thick in a slimey substance that could only have been a cocktail of spilled beer, urine and vomit, but it was our club, the only club in Drogheda and surrounds that catered for your alternative sort.

I first fell in love there, first got drunk there and I smoked my first spliff there. I remember the night we booed a very drunk Mary Coughlan off the stage after her first few minutes. Her band came back on and played a blinder of a blues set and when she herself tried to sneak back unnoticed the boos began again and she left the stage with a ‘Well Fuck yiz then!’ 

The reason I’m sharing all this with you is that if you look at the site, scroll down through the photos section to ‘The Dreads’ gallery and click in, you will see an 18 year old JackMcMad (The one in the cap at the bridge and the obscured one behind the drums in the live pic from Sir Henry’s Cork) who is, at that time embarking on his first musical career. Also, if you keep going down to the playlist there are three songs for your listening entertainment. Sick of You and She’s on to You are taken from the first brilliantly named, 600 Thousand Million Records On My Head (and I can still stand up) EP and the song Crazy from the album Burn your Idols, with Emma Spiller on backing vocals.

This is stuff I haven’t heard in years and to be honest, not being even one bit biased at all at all, me, never, would probably do well commercially, today.

 Oh I nearly forgot, also on that site, in fact here, is a pic of Emptyhead from that era, sporting an absolutely fabulous Mullet!! He’s the one on the right

Sorry man, just had to point that one out. There are more of me amongst the throng but you’d never pick me out.