Happy Birthday Cheeta !

Having spent many a rainy morning as a kid staring at the tube and laughing at Tarzan and Cheeta's antics, i take great comfort in the knowledge, that Cheeta, lives merrily in sunny cali-for-ny-A.
Happy Birthday Cheeta, who turned 75 last week.

Oh how delightful to meet you, my name is Carlos Tevez

George Clinton and the P-Funk All Stars.

Another Jose Antonio ?

The new season grows ever closer and my mind is starting to wonder how will my beloved Arsenal fair over the 9 months it takes for the English Premiership to run its course?

As per usual i am hopeful and i urge myself to believe we will lay down a genuine challenge for the trophy, but i live with this terrible fear that once again the strength and consistency the Arsenal were always renowned for, will be absent for a third season in a row.

I know Arsene Wenger is a man with a rare and indeed at times beyond human craftiness for spotting talent.

Each year there are but a few if any signings for a Gooner to get animated about, but this year Arsene has spent more than his usual limit on a 24 year old Croat/Brazilian called Eduardo da Silva. He seems to be The Quintessential Goal Mouth Poacher in the style of an Ian Wright with an uncanny ability to be in the right place at the right time.

Will he be the goal scorer that Arsenal so badly need? Someone that put the ball in the net with close to a goal a game average, someone that can survive the grueling months of a football season injury free with a fervour for success and a dedication to the fans who dedicate themselves to the Arsenal cause.

Or will he be another Jose Antonio ?

It's good to rant

As I make my way across this great blogosphere, I notice that most personal blogs seem to be great rants against the state of this modern world and our frustrating lives that are sometimes unfulfilled.

This is a good thing, it's like an exhaust vent for all our rage, a cathartic process that expels all the bile, but it surprises me when I come across a blog by someone I know and the web personality that they portray is completely at odds with the person you know.

That leaves me wondering, which is the real them? And should I be sleeping with an axe in my bed in case they come after me (because they're all psychopaths under that sheen of normalcy). All that anger isn't healthy, and no amount of writing about it on the web will assuage that raging beast that resides within their minds. Only the spilling of blood will suffice, I reckon.

Disappointment is a dish best not served at all

W#nk, sh@t, twat, arse biscuit, p#ss flaps, meat curtains . . . . . . .

My mate Con - we're going to see George Clinton on July 4.

Me - great, thanks, see you there.

Work - can you do a shift on Thursday evening, July 5?

Me - no probs, I have nothing on.

Con - whoops, I gave you wrong date, it's July 5.

Me - w#nk, sh@t, twat, arse, p*ss flaps, meat curtains ....... No Ampfiddler or P-Funk All Stars for me

OUR LEADER

This man truly takes things to new dizzying heights.
http://www.channel4.com/bigbrother/news/newsstory.jsp?id=9621&housemateId=621

Burnt-out

How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable,
Seem to me all the uses of this world!

When I was younger, I had no idea what the whinging Danish prince was on about. Now, I have a sense of what ailed him.

Wanna Play ?

Have fun

His Name Is Legion (excerpt)

Legions, lesions. I dont know, but they seep guilt when I am alone, and when in the company of others they shoot venomous bile at everyone around , the only cure is to trick them into submission with humour, although it has a side effect, when I return home I burst into tears…………

Something smells a little fishy

I was struck by the story this week of the dead body discovered in the freezer of a fishmonger's. The gardaí say the dead man could have been there for five years. Yes, FIVE frickin' years. Now, I'm sorry, but I got to say this, but how is it that a body can lay in a freezer for such a period undiscovered? Got to be a massive bloody freezer. Maybe it leads to Narnia and he was offed by the White Witch. Wonder if they found any Turkish Delight?

Royal bashing

Bogball text that amused me, as I am a Dub (even though I feel like razing the city to the ground most of the time - go Genghis Khan on its ass. Luckily enough for Dublin, I don't have a nomadic Mongol army at my beck and call):

Pierce Brosnan, Hector, Brian Smyth, Dylan Moran, Peter 'The Man With the Hat' McDermott, Tommy Tiernan, The Book of Kells, Peter Darby, The Hill of Tara, The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse (aka Lyons, O'Mally, Harnan and Foley), Paddy 'Hands' O'Brien, Bru na Boinne, Joe Cassells, Newgrange, Mochie Regan, Tommy 'Neanderthal' Dowd, Turlough O'Carolan, The Red Collier, The Tara Brooch, Paddy Reynolds - both of them, Trim Castle, Ollie Murphy, John McDermott, Fintan Ginnity, Bernard Flynn, Noel Dempsey, Jinksy Beggy, Shane 'Horgs' Horgan, Liam 'the Ego' Hayes, Brendan Cummins, Graham Geraghty, All the losing dockets in Fairyhouse, Sir Francis Beaufort, the River Boyne, the witchdoctor Sean Boylan, the traffic in Ashbourne, Lord Mountcharles, 'Clever' Trevor Giles, John 'Brutal' Bruton, 'Repetitive Column' O'Rourke, Meathies from Dunboyne and Ashbourne with Dublin accents, and Colm Coyle - your girls took one hell of a beating!

Sooner or later everyone conforms.

Alexei Lalas, former US dope smoking, guitar playin, hemp weaving, World Cup 1994 playin centre back who was in the middle of planning to storm congress and the behead all inside, has been got to.

His short hair and lack of a beard and shoelace headband now plainly states that he is under the full control of "the man". The two photos above prove my point beyond any resonable doubt.

Alexei is now a puppet of the MLS regime. Sooner or later everyone conforms.

Monsieur Sebastien Tellier C'est Bon

Well went to see the above mentioned musical mentalist last night, not that familar with his work but we were treated to a mix of rock and roll, melodic chugging builders of tracks, think basslines, (while backed by very competant musicians), poetry, piano melodies, haunting solo vocal arangements and unsually also his comedy stylings. Apart from the excellent live skills of his band he also drank red wine which he deemed 7-Up, and whiskey which he deemed apple juice, he introduced his keyboard player as Simon the paedophile and when someone shouted Sarkozy from the crowd he self flaggellated himself with a sweat soaked towel, he insulted his mother but telling us how short and fat she was, and also informed us as to how when naked he was a beautiful person. If all this was not enough to make this an unforgettable night, we were treated to his own version of what was a fusion of jazz ballett and modern dance in slow motion and topped off by kissing and licking his microphone and the hand of Simon. We left with smiled on our faces searching for superlatives to describe the night - however the sentence we settled upon was "that was really enjoyable".

Down with Bertie, long live King Keano

Well, five more years of the Bertie Show. It's a sad state of affairs when he looks like the only viable statesman in this nation of ours. My choice would be Roy Keane. What, I hear you cry. Well, it's obvious this democracy lark isn't working, proportional representation is a load of arse. I say we revert to a monarchy, creating a new dynasty with Roy as our new High King. We need a strong man, it obviously works for North Korea and Zimbabwe. A crazed lunatic at the helm (although i'm sure Keano is perfectly is perfectly sane) would be preferable to good old, salt-of-the-earth Bertie. If hyperinflation and starvation ensues, at least we know who the buck stops with - and then we can lynch 'im and put in another strongman to put us on the right course to oblivion. Also, if we had Keano as our king, Keano the Lesser could be the court jester. Happy days.

Burn it all (in my opinion a fine piece of dialogue)

Remember this, Ronald?
Remember who it belonged to? - Mm-hmm.
What did you do to that little girl?
It's not fair, Shadow.
What did you do to that little girl?
I burned her.
You burned her.
What do you do to old ladies, Ronald?
Burn them.
And what about the world, Ronald?
What would you like to do with the whole world?
Burn it all.
See ya next year, Ronald.

Liar liar

What an ultra maroon!

J.K.

John Hughes, heed our call

For a while now I've been feeling that something has been missing from my life, a gaping hole where something warm and fulfilling should be. Couldn't put my finger on it for the longest time, until it came to me in a flash. John Hughes . . . . . where has he gone, why has he left us? The man hasn't directed a film since 1991, why is that? Has the creative well run dry?

He is still writing screenplays, it seems, but, by God, they are rubbish. What could have happened? Weird Science, Ferris Bueller . . . . how those films enriched my teenage years, providing me with much mirth and quotable dialogue when my underdeveloped conversational skills were lacking. I hope that he is not all washed up, that he can provide those that have grown up with him another masterpiece. Perhaps a vehicle for the greatest living comedian, Will Ferrell. Now that would be something - Hughes, heed this call. I command thee! Otherwise the world will be an emptier place.

The Amazingly True Coincidence of Chris Isaak (or Blue Hotel)

On a recent sojourn to the wonderful and limitless city of London to see our heroes of North London, my good friend Ovak and I were taking in some of the sights and sounds of St James' Park behind 10 Downing St. Among such topics that were discussed was the blatent sharing of yellow or pink womens undergarments. (I was proved wrong on the return to the park entrance - they turned out to indeed be yellow) and of course modes of transport that would allow us not to expend any more energy that was needed in the growing heat.

So we lay on the grass recharging our bodies and sipping bottles of water. Eventually we decided to move on and see where our ramblings would take us, before we left Ovak went into the nearby cafe to replenish our water supplies, I waited outside and observed the local people coming and going in the sunshine. As I leaned against the wall I saw a gentleman who bore a striking resemblance to the popular music provider - Chris Isaak. It was obvious to me that it was not the afore mentioned Isaak but a man who shared a few of his facial characteristics.

So our journey took us further through London (passed the yellow undergarments) as we laughed and joked about accosting Isaak and through verbal wordplay tricking him into revealing his identity.

Ovak : "hello Chris"
Chris Isaak : "I am not Chris Isaak"
Ovak : "ahhhha, we never said anything about Isaak - so we must now assume that you are said Isaak"

These humourous imaginary exchanges went on for a while until we shifted gear into reflexive racism or the "here's your mate" line which is used for all quasi non normal approaching individuals.

Our day in London came to a close and we headed for Healthrow Airport with sadness at departing a great city that had provided us with a great weekend. The flight was uneventful and we disembarked and fumbled in our pockets for our documents as we approached passport control. As I managed to locate my passport I slowed almost to a standstill to re-zip my bag and throw it back on my back, I looked ahead and chuckled to myself as another Chris Issak lookalike sat on a bench to my left. Then the staggering realisation of what was happening became apparent. This was not a Chris Isaak lookalike, this was indeed the real Isaak, I caught his gaze and cracked a small smile, he half nodded in acknowledgement, I tapped Ovak on the shoulder and pointed, his face dropped with a look of utter suprise and disbelief. We scuttled forward towards passport checkpoint looking over our shoulders with complete disbelief, here was the very man we had joked about less than 3 hours previously.

To quote a great thinker of our time and to try and somehow explain this inexplicable event I shall finish with this : A lot of people don't realize what's really going on. They view life as a bunch of unconnected incidents and things. They don't realize that there's this, like, lattice of coincidence that lays on top of everything. Give you an example; show you what I mean: suppose you're thinkin' about a plate o' shrimp. Suddenly someone'll say, like, plate, or shrimp, or plate o' shrimp out of the blue, no explanation. No point in lookin' for one, either. It's all part of a cosmic unconciousness.

It's the Ladybug's picnic, mutha phuqua!

Brings back memories, mutha phuqua!

J.K.