Wednesday, December 26, 2007

Nollaig shona duit.

For next year. For this, happy St Stephen's Day.

I hope you had an enjoyable dinner on the big day, and i want to say, thank you very much to all here who contribute to making this mirror of literacy reflect successfully since August 1, Lughansa, end of summer.

And now, just passed the threshold of midwinter, darkening days lightening up and the first wave of fight and craic gone, recorded in epic battles between our verbal protagonists doing it for positions taken and took; played out in the arena of ID and ego with the intensity all committed campaigners find leads to eloquent voices, the early hard work is done and humanity has a chance of routing through here in 2008 to drive up parity between bloggers; now at an all time high; the elevated address of one way traffic hacking detached no longer, but slipping fast in a two way communication we alone have, each singular one of us within i, You it, us and them; one and Dr Strange love in the cleera wave coming home to us, cuchulainn's ice-kept Answerer culling the crud, copping on to sorrow in the acoustic proof between faltering syllables singing happy christmas, love and peace in the new year ahead of us, please be to God.

And if anyone's on a downer, talk here, say owt yer wunt, get it off your chest and reverse the vibe by writing out the sorrow for happiness to come.

I had a low key quiet day, waking in the attic to brilliant sunshine, feeling at peace. Yesterday I got a puncture at 4pm, just i was on the way to the supermarket to buy food, which scuppered my plans for cycling to my sisters the following day; but luckily, with help from a friend, i managed to secure a repair kit and managed to be on the road by 2.30pm.

By this time it had clouded over, an undecided squall coming in, the threaten and retreat of a light nasty wind taunting beneath a pearl grey sky of low cloud dispensing random spits and pulses of rain; proof of which was left in at least two of the distinct geometrical rain symbols i witnessed as i slogged, unfit under the chaos, en route yo my sisters house for dinner, seven miles distant via a curving path along the shoreline of Dublin Bay.

As i rounded the immediate corner from the seven bedroom townhouse whose attic is mine, i was struck by an almost perfectly formed four by eight patch of rain water, as though someone had taken great care to create it. Of course it was but a chance fall from heaven, and as i cycled into the city, i noticed another rectangle, its wing-brushed perimeter of sheer random art Creation left in almost impossible odds; eerie in a spiritually comforting way.

And at Christchurch, a wet patch in the perfect shape of Jesus's face..ha ha, naah, but another distinct rectangular deposit of water, the surrounding pavement, wind-dry, a fluke displaying the order of rhyme and reason for here being here.

And all the way on out from the city up to Sutton along the coastal cycle path, a sustained downpour hovered on the brink, and burst into a 40 minute storm the minute i went indoors.

I took my place at the table and began stuffing my gob wondering at the coincidence of these two symbols and one event, gifting faith in poetry if nothing else, and when i left a few hours later, the stars were out again, me in my imagination a fili doing psychic battle with the elemental material concern above, which the gods could tip anytime on my noggin.

Then, i weft off and met the friend whose compassion saved my Christmas with a rubber and glue innertube fix yesterday, and who came round for a few hours this evening for food and boring company, and after seeing them safely home and saying au revoir, am now ready to snooze...

But in the meantime, what have you been up to this day? Any tears and tantrums, superb prezzies, crap gifts, rubbish jokes, granda arrested for telling the kids the truth about father christmas, what's on telly, inside your mind, God or no god, deal it here..

grá agus síocháin.

Sunday, December 16, 2007


I met her three weeks ago in Delaney's in town. It was Friday night. She was with her sister. I'd just pulled a nice little number with Grebo. We'd had it away with five large off some old dear we'd done a bit of tarmacing for. It was a close thing though. We had to take her down the bank and loiter around outside. She was as good as gold mind, came up with the dough no problem. The son in law collared us just as she'd handed it over, but he knew there was no chance of getting it back. I'll give him his due. He did try, a bit anyway, just enough so he'd be able to tell the daughter he did his best. He said he was going to go to the cops, but I just laughed at him.

"What for dickhead? Tarmacing against the law now is it?"

"You know what for," he says, "ripping pensioners off is."

I told him to fuck off before he got a smack, but he obviously felt he had to put up a show for the mother in law. He tried to get his hand in my pocket. I swear to god. Absolutely no respect at all. I had every right to deck him there and then, but I don't really like confrontation so I left it.

"Proud of yourself are you? Two grown men preying on the elderly."

Well, that did it. I'm a tolerant man. I don't go round hitting people unprovoked, so I gave him a tap. Just a light slap really, nothing serious.

"Look, fuck off, before you get hurt. I could have you for slander. We did a bit of work and got paid, so go home and stop giving it the John Wayne."

I felt sorry for the old dear though, having to watch the fella embarrass himself like that, but he knew the score.

"Come on dear," she said, "lets go home."

To tell you the truth, I don't think she was all there. Probably going a bit senile. She wasn't bothered about the dough. At least she didn't say anything if she was, and that's what's important isn't it. It's not like he was shelling out. He was only thinking of himself anyway. At least we did a bit of graft for it. He was probably after tapping her for a few grand himself. Conning himself that he'd pay her back and then just hang on till she snuffs it. Selfish git.

We had a right laugh about it on the drive home, him going to the missus with a thick lip.

"They won't be going down the bingo tonight," I said.

Grebo went a bit quiet then, as if he was thinking that we might have been a bit harsh on them. He's only a kid really, still listening to his Mam. She goes the church a lot. Very religious Grebo's old dear. Likes to think that her hearts in the right place. That's alright, don't get me wrong, I'm not knocking her for it, but she shouldn't try and tell her lad what he can and can't do. To be honest I don't think she knows too much about what he gets up to. She must know a bit, but I imagine she probably just ignores it, blocks it out and says a few prayers for him. But as I say, he's only a kid and still a bit soft with his emotions. I told him:

"Grebo lad, you've got two and a half grand in your arse pocket. What's more important, that or some old dear whose only going to leave it to the grandkids. She can't have long left anyway lad. It's not like we robbed her."

She knew what she was doing, which she did. We didn't point a gun to her head. Grebo's a sensible lad though and he could see the logic in what I was saying.

Anyway, we go out into town to celebrate. Get a bit of beak, a few pills and go splashing around for some beaver. We started off in Yates's on the Aussie whites. A few lines in the bog and then we're ready to move on about 11.30pm. As we're leaving I bump into Toby and tell him about the job next week.

Grebo's lined up another widow in some posh little village in Cheshire. A nice little touch by the looks of it. She's tucked away in a secluded bungalow. The husband's only been dead a couple of months and her heads in bits. Perfect. Say what you want about Grebo, but he's got a fantastic nose on him for sniffing out the cash. He's got youth on his side see. That's why he's so useful. The old dears take one look at his mug and get all misty eyed, like they're remembering their sons or dead husbands.

We've got a polished little double act going. Good cop bad cop routine. Grebo softens them up, gets them to spill the beans about the savings and what not and then I come in as the heavy hitter after they've signed up. Grebo tells them he's just the guy who does the work, hooks them as it were. He keeps the price a bit vague, but we never lie to them. Never tell them that they're getting it cheap. He gets them to sign a piece of paper. Standard issue document we knocked up off the computer.

It doesn't mean anything. It's not a contract or anything like that, just something that they sign. It gets them in a right flap though. For some reason people think that if they put their name on a bit of paper then it's serious, like they've sold their soul to the devil. As soon as we've done the work I go along suited and booted. They see me pull up in the Merc. A big bloke, shaven head, a bit mean looking and then just hand over the moolah no problem.

You get the odd one who tries to get away without paying, but if the worst comes to the worst I just get on the blower to Toby. Not many people say no to him. He's a nice bloke, don't get me wrong. Do anything for anyone, but he does have an air about him. I suppose it's the bent nose that does it, but as I say, he'd give you the shirt off his back. Ruthless in business, but then, you've got to be in our line of work otherwise you'd have every two bit wide boy trying it on.

Anyway, I told Toby about the job and we gets down Delaney's for the back bar disco. We move in on Janice and her sister, buy them both a drink, give them a few lines and bingo, we're on for going back to the sisters for afters. Some birds love the bad lads. I don't know what it is, but a lot of women, and all ages mind you, they want someone who's a bit naughty and when they see me coming they know what to expect. I don't arse about, giving them all the bullshit that your straight goers go for. I'm just myself with them. I never lie to them and never say I'm going to do something and not do it. I'm no saint, by any stretch of the imagination, but then again I'm no wimp either and girls like Janice, well, that's what they go for.

The sister wasn't my type though. Stuck up. Thinks her shit doesn't stink. Perfect for Grebo mind. A good-looking lad like him gets the pick of the women. We toyed with the idea of getting them all ladled up on the sniff and trying for some group action going, but Grebo didn't want to blow it with the sister. Anyway, it was getting late and we couldn't have been sure of finding any spares, not at that time of night. All the half decent ones have been pulled late on and it's only the boots left. I've got quit high standards, even if I say so myself, and Janice looked as it she'd do a good turn, so we decided to play safe and keep it decent.

Janice told me she had a couple of kids once we were in the taxi. I don't usually go for the single mums, but at that time of night after a few beers and Persians it's not really too much of a sticking point. Not that I minded. I love kids. I've got a few of my own, so I know the score on that front, but ideally you don't want to be having too much to do with other fella's sprogs and anyway, to tell the truth, I only thought it would be a one night job. Grebo was chewing the face of the sister all the way back, having a right old time. Janice was doing a bit of talking, telling me what a wanker the ex was. Usual sort of stuff really.

Sunday, December 02, 2007

Feels like i'm fighting tyson, yeah he heeh, wo ho whay.

Only in the sink of doings that is doorty dub can one such as i remain unmolested by the armies of sickos and psycho scum, scuzzed out of the firing line like a drop deed D4 doc of possession, oudle dye diddle doh wo whah so say what mister mammon will you be gluttonous in the fray of feast and...argh, can you tell love of bells and whistles when the jolliy dublin mob of begrudgers and die-hard transvestites toggling along without toga or wrap; yo lo ray me so far laah, wharra yers onaboot in the moment of whispering; doubt it was, was it deceitful, fruitful barren and without incident listless lover laden with mischief we'll ne'er be a mountain of laughing ladies if this state remained, elsewhere, elusive elucidate and remain stalwart overboard manly it is, sink nea never no more...?