Archive for the ‘ Reflection ’ Category

Valentines day Massacre

This is a true story.

I woke up this morning, and for one reason or another, a rather traumatic childhood event replayed itself in my mind. I’m not sure why, but the time has come to finally record these thoughts… and perhaps lay them to rest finally, we’ll see

A little backstory to flesh this thing out…

In Ireland, school is divided into the following years, from the ages of roughly five to thirteen, you are in Primary school, which lays the basic foundations for… wait for it, Secondary school (imaginative bastards at the board of education eh?) which consists of five (optional six) years of schooling from the ages of thirteen to eighteen. Now when I was thirteen, I couldn’t get access to the local secondary school all of my friends had applied and successfully managed to get into due to a lack of space… So during the summer, at the last minute, (My parents kind of forgot I needed a school…) My father managed to enrol me in a secondary school just down the road from his workshop in the centre of Dublin city, it was in the most deprived economically disadvantaged area of Dublin at the time, anyway… To make a long story short, I was somewhat out of place. It was quite a shocking year for me in many ways, but that’s not the subject of this mornings blog, what is the subject however… Is a single day in that year, Valentines day, about halfway through the school term, here goes.

Every morning, at lunch time, the school would let us all out for lunch and I would make the short trip up the road to my fathers workshop, there he would give me too much money to go and buy my lunch at a local cafe that served some rather yummy food (now that I look back on it) So off I would go, armed with too much cash, walking up Brunswick Street, where I would pass the collection of  bums and broken folk that lined the street begging, one in particular… and I don’t know why, I struck up a sort of connection with, everyday for some time, I would either give him half of the money my father had given me, or I would buy him some food (soup, bread) depending on if he already had his large plastic bottle of cider that he was slowly killing himself with, but on this day in particular, Valentines day… He sat on his bum with his knees against his chest, at the corner of an old stone building they’ve been slowly demolishing in that oh so old part of Dublin for years now, but in 1995, this old building was still there., and so was this old man (probably in his fifties, but he looked a lot older due to his living arrangements and lifestyle). Anyway… I planned on walking passed him on this particular day as he seemed to not want any attention, at least that’s the vibe I got. How wrong I was… He called me over in that drunken mumble so favoured by the homeless alcoholic, and although we had never even had a conversation, much less exchanged names, he asked me to do a very personal thing for him. He asked me to read a Valentines Day card his estranged wife had given him.

Now you are asking yourself, why would a grown man ask a child to read something to him? Well the answer is obvious enough, this man was illiterate, he could neither read, nor write, I was too young to understand the significance of what he had asked me to do, but being the little bleeding heart that I’ve always been, I gladly obliged him, so I crouched down beside him, taking the cheap card into my hand, it had hearts on the front, I remember that much visually, though I don’t remember what the printed greeting said, something about love I imagine, but I do remember, quite vividly, what his wife had written for him inside, I read the words aloud to him, my voice was shaky from the sudden emotion that gripped me, even if… Again, I was too young and naive to fully understand or process what he was asking me to do for him.

To My Dear Husband

For all the years together

hard as some have been

lots of love

*Name omitted*

I remember looking at his face after I read the words aloud, through eyes half blinded by tears, he looked at the ground, tears of his own streaming down his filthy face, they formed a sort of dual carriageway down his cheeks, skin slightly brighter than the darkened unwashed features that were his constant mask, I didn’t know what to say, I handed him back his card and for the briefest of moments I contemplated placing  a hand upon his shoulder, something… Anything to break the terrible feeling of I don’t know what at the time, I was so very confused, but I was too frightened by what had just happened, and as I told him I had to go… My mind raced with thoughts, how could this man, Who obviously had a woman who he loved very much, be living in the gutter like this? Homeless people don’t have such things… they’re just, homeless… Right?. I was actually that naive, I couldn’t put it together at the time, but as I walked away… I stormed through a million thoughts, but looking back, with the perspective of the intervening years, this was obviously just some normal man, who had a normal home, a normal wife and life, probably a normal job at some point… And even though he couldn’t read or write (Illiteracy would have been very common in his day in Ireland,  shameful as that is to say,  but far less shame than this poor man would have felt I imagine) For whatever reason, he had trusted me with the task of reading the most intimate thoughts of someone he had now obviously lost, but someone who still cared for him deeply.

So onwards I went to get my lunch, somewhat disturbed, wiping any tears from my eyes before I entered the Cafe to get my Vegetable soup and bread roll that kept me warm on those cold February days. When I was returning to school at 1.30pm, the homeless man was nowhere to be seen, and I must admit… I was relieved, I didn’t know what I would do or say if I had to walk by him again. So back in that hell hole I went, classes until 3.30 and I was finally released again, though I wouldn’t get to go home until 5pm, having to wait for my father to finish in his workshop for the day, this happened quite a lot that solemn year, so I found myself wandering the streets around old Dublin on a near daily basis, having little else to do in the meantime. I decided to take the walk back up Brunswick Street and onto Manor Street, where my favourite cafe was located… why I do not know, probably to buy some sweets or some such, but as I turned the corner from Brunswick Street to Manor Street, I was struck with a scene I doubt I will ever forget.

A small crowd had gathered outside one of the pubs right beside my cafe, as a child of thirteen years, this is the equivalent of a naked flame to a moth, so eagerly I ran to see what the commotion was about, to this day, I wish I had not. The image is eternally roasted into my minds eye, it was my Sponsored Hobo. Pale as a ghost, laying prostrate across the pavement, his arms outstretched to the side, laying weakly limp. A deep crimson red poured from his wrists and formed little pools under his hands, his life was bleeding away in front of my eyes, the card I had given him earlier could be seen jutting out of his old coat pocket. I was stunned, a wretched feeling of  shock and for some reason… Guilt,  twisted my insides, like I had been the one to slash his poor wrists, the strange thing was, no one helped him, they just stared… Like they were waiting for him to die, he didn’t make a sound, either he had passed out (most likely) or he was fully at peace with the decision he had made, and awaited that sweet oblivion that will one day claim us all. I wanted to jump down beside him, hold him, tell him everything would be fine, but I was too frightened. What a wretched little cowardly boy I was. I beat myself with that thought secretly for a long time. As we all watched him slowly die, the medical services arrived, they didn’t seem to be in that big a hurry, and even though I willed them on in my minds eye, he was casually placed on a stretcher and dumped into the back of a waiting ambulance, what a nuisance he was, disturbing the peace of the street with his broken down ways, best cart him off… Out of sight, out of mind. As the crowd began to disperse.. I was left watching those two pools of blood… Lost in thought.

What if I had placed my hand upon his shoulder earlier that day?… what if I had said just a few kindly words, perhaps he would not have given up like he had, perhaps he would still be alive, but now, some wife… Some woman who loved him so, would never see her broken love again, he would probably be placed in some John Doe grave, having no identification save the Valentines card in his pocket, maybe her name could be traced I thought… If someone cared enough to do the tracing. I know now that all of these thoughts running through my head at the time, the guilt… most importantly, were not mine to bear, at least not then, I was just a child, too young to be dealing with such thoughts, but had them thrust upon me in the chaos of life. I’m not sure what to draw from these memories except perhaps closure… Finally, another tangled weave unknotted from my past.

There is a flip side to Valentines Day, to all the expressions of love and joy and hope, a dark mirrored image of broken hearts, broken lives and broken people, I think out of all of us, they need it the most, love that is.


I am Batman.

A Wonderful thing happened tonight.

I was standing at my window, observing the night sky as the darkness set in. My cat Wilbur was laying low in the grass, Lucy sat in front of him, panting in that retarded yet adorable way only a dog seems capable of pulling off. I could barely make them out, faint as they were in the dim white light of my laptops monitor behind me.. facing the window with me, watching the pair.

Lucy had made a fatal error in judgement, her tongue, dangling as it was from her mouth… Would soon trigger the instincts of Wilbur to attack and pounce… I probably could have called her in the time it took Kitty to attack, but why should I? Lucy needs to learn a lesson and I need some mild amusement at 11pm on a Saturday night, so just as I feared…Wilbur leaps onto Lucy’s face, leading with her barbed little paws, and it was at this moment that something amazing happened, maybe it was the yelp Lucy let out… But just at that moment, as my own instincts were triggered by the high pitched bark… An enormous shaft of light shot into the sky from a great distance, I’m not kidding… It shimmered along the low dense cloud cover as it searched the sky with great fervour, I was dumbfounded, gobsmacked even, my eyes followed the heavenly light. Left, right, left… Right! Why? Why was it doing this? Surely it was making a call… A plea for help, in one brief instant in time, I let myself be convinced that the light being shot up into the sky was in-fact for me, because they needed my help.. and who am I?

I am Batman, that’s who this silly light in the sky has convinced me I am, The Dark Knight, morally ambiguous anti-hero driven by childhood trauma, I may not have any actual superpowers, but I have some really fucking cool gadgets that you will most likely find in a toy store near you, along with a clearly phallic bat mobile that fucks any scumbag unlucky enough to be illuminated in its blinding headlights. I am an alpha male, I eat sleep and shit manliness, there is always a new attractive woman on the horizon who has everything in her life except for that one key ingredient… Me, but I will not stay with this woman, because she only signed on for one movie and I wouldn’t be very anti-hero with a wife and 2.4 children now would I?, so I must live as a perpetual bachelor with the occasional passionate but brief affair. I also pretend not to care about social issues by living the life of a playboy millionaire, but really.. deep down in my dark heart. I do, I fucking care… Like, a whole fucking bunch. So I must answer this light in the sky, I must wear fifty pounds of leather and endure the agony of relentlessly itchy balls an outfit like that would surely cause, I must wear eye shadow, because without it my helmet would look crap, you’d clearly see the skin around my eyes and it would clash with my expensive dark body armour and this would not do. But most importantly of all, I must wash the scum from the streets of Gotham with my reign of Vigilante Justice, I must help.. for i am needed.

All of this flashed before my minds eye as I stared into the distant probing light.

But as soon as I had convinced myself, I knew in that same instant that it was a sham. I’m just some schmuck dreaming his life away, and the light.. Wondrous as it was… Beamed from some fancy nightclub with shite music and fancy lighting in a town called Navan, not twenty miles from where I now sit. Awwwww, fuckin reality. Why must you insist on gatecrashing my dreams?

But dejection soon turned to amusement, Lucy and Wilbur lay together on the grass, the cat licking the dogs face, who in turn let out a prolonged groan of satisfaction into the night sky, all is well in my sleepy home, and I really need to see that new Batman movie.

Neil Young?

I remember the wonderful sunny day in Dublin City. I remember the amber whiskey flowing so smooth. I remember the fantastic concert as a swirl of noise and laughing faces. I remember that thirty minute guitar solo that bleed all over the large crowd. I remember my cousin Daniel asleep on the grass, with limbs out like some slumbering angel. I remember Philip having one of the most profound experiences of his life at the piss pots. I remember leaving. I remember an insane amount of ranting while standing in the middle of nowhere in darkness. I remember threatening to throw both myself and Vincent out of the emergency exit of the bus and under a speeding car. I remember meaning it. I remember Vincent laughing that he would gladly die if it meant I would die too. I remember him also meaning it. I remember the fifteen minute discussion on the best way to eat your own face. I remember the laughter that would not stop because I had temporarily lost my mind. I remember the middle aged woman and her husband beside us, masks of fear etched across their faces. I remember another couple laughing. Oh dear lord, what happened last night?


I don’t think I want to remember some of it.

If Trees could talk.

If Trees could Talk

I like fruit trees, I like trees in general, they’re pretty for one, especially in spring and summer, through even in fall and winter they have an amazing visual appeal, slowly leaves die, lose that ripe green colour they have mustered all through the seasons of life, fading into a palette of reds and yellows and oranges and finally brown. The final curtain descending on the growth of life for the year, saying goodbye as winter sets in, they become leafless, piles of dead plant matter scatter throughout the land, clogging drains and gathering in piles along the sides of roads for me to wade and kick my way through, because I love that sloshing leaf sound, reminding us all of death, Autumn is the Season of decay, yet I love it so. The trees themselves live on, enduring the cold, spindle branches playing with the light as you drive or walk beneath their canopies, I like that flicking of light through trees as you move under them, looking upwards, simple wholesome appreciation.

I’m looking out my window at the apple tree in the back garden, already, thanks to the voluminous amounts of sun we’ve received in the last few weeks here in Ireland, the little apple buds are starting to slowly swell and ripen into little balls of juicy soon to be edible goodness. I wonder what the tree would say, if I imbued this living thing devoid of consciousness a mind so that it could think, and lips so that it could speak, I think it would plead with me in an ever so honest way. It would say “Hey.. I give you this fruit year after year, season after season, and you kill me… Why do you do this? Bringer of air and food into your life; all I ask is that you respect me” I would feel a terrible guilt, for here in this imaginary conversation I must speak for all mankind when I reply that “I’m sorry, I do appreciate all that you and like you do for us tirelessly year after year, but I can no more stop killing you than you yourself could refuse to blossom into life each spring while you are able, for it is your nature, and you must obey your nature, like we must obey ours in killing you, for our pride will not allow us to conceive of the idea that you have just as much right to life as we do, your betters must take priority”, and there would be no help in this truth, only pain… And the tree would not speak again, for it would know that all the words in the world would not save it if it came to a choice between my and his existence. Man, for all his reason, is beyond a beast.

The Bastard Wind took my Plum Tree down last night too, curse the fucking air for moving at high speed, taking away the incredibly local source of favourite fruit!

Low and behold things are killing me.


My family is on the verge of fracture, it’s a sad state of affairs, this Blog will more than likely be depressing, so if you’re in a good mood and want to keep it that way I would suggest you come back when you’re already in a lousy dark mood, or just don’t read it at all, that way I won’t be responsible for bringing you down. See how fucking considerate I am?

Anyway, They’re divorcing apparently, I say apparently because they’ve been attempting to figure out just how to go about it for some time now, still living under the same roof, quite a bizarre living arrangement… An acrid taste of bitterness surrounds the pair of them the closer their proximity to each other, you can feel it, like waves of unspoken, unheard of anger and disappointment, they co-exist peacefully while everyday life is smooth, but as soon as a bump comes along the tensions resurface and my mother is telling my father and us (My brothers and I) that she’s on the phone to a lawyer to start the process, this invariably comes to nothing after a few days of heightened tension between mother lacks the strength to leave my father I think, too afraid… years of dependence on him has cemented a sort of warped symbiotic relationship in which she needs and resents him in equal measure.

The problem I have with the whole thing is that they just can’t seem to make a break, even though it’s painfully obvious that they’re both suffocating in the coffin that their marriage has become, I have to contend with the pair of them approaching me and in very subtle and deceptive ways, seeking my support against the other. Oh how I wish I wish upon a star they would leave me out of the whole tangled mess, being around this constant state of despairing flux without getting sucked into it requires a tremendous amount of energy. I can’t possibly take a side, either of which leaves me hurting and alienating the other… The only choice I have is to stay out of it, even if it means both of them resenting me for it short term. It would be easy to hate them both, but I found in the past that to hold onto anger is to ferment bitterness and that rots you from the inside out, they both made plenty of mistakes down the years, failing to look at themselves and their actions honestly, they only reserve those particular goggles of truth for the other in the marriage, but I can hardly turn around and say that to the pair of them, both unwilling to leave their drowning embrace of blame, I don’t know every facet of their ruinous marriage story they would say, and they would be right. Nothing to be done it seems, I must endure.

My oldest brother is another story, during his late teens he developed Schizophrenia, it completely devastated his life, gone was the brother I knew of old, outgoing… Happy…  At ease with himself, all replaced by irrational and terrifying fears that rule his life. Who… Without medication that makes him feel emotionally numb, becomes so anxious and convinced of an unseen pending doom that he literally just shuts down, all because some wiring in the brain is slightly off. I’m not sure we ever really recovered fully from that, that was the knockout punch that finished my staggering family off and we’ve been falling to the canvas ever since. I think for a long time I was convinced what happened to my brother would happen to me, that I would go crazy or was going crazy, I distanced myself from him in many ways because of it, he reminded me of one of my deepest fears. Many years ago when I used to visit him at the time he was first diagnosed in hospital it used to fill me with dread, not the going to see him part, but the hospital itself, it was so run down and monochrome and all the patients, from the young to the very old, all just seemed to stand and stare or stagger down lonely echoed halls in those flip floppy slippers in silence. I used to wonder why no one said anything, I didn’t know at the time they were all ultra heavily medicated or trapped inside their skulls unable to escape back to the world around them. The Atmosphere in psych hospitals is uniquely morbid, more so than a morgue, which I’ve also had the displeasure of being in, people in the morgue may be dead… yes, but there is a finality to it, an end, with madness there is no such luxury, only a life and a world that offers constant confusion, a horrible isolation of mind that no one should have to go through, people joke and laugh about being insane… But if you saw it take someone you loved, it starts to lose its appeal.

For all that my brother has to endure, he is the kindest soul I’ve ever known, there is no badness in him… None whatsoever, a purity of character reserved for those who must live life with the awful affliction of mental dispair, it breeds a remarkably unique empathy, at least it has in my brother, I really must try harder to be a better brother to him, at least I know the fear that kept me distant before, I have the luxury my brother does not have of choosing not to give in to despair. My father is planning on building a house and wants to put it in my name to comply with Meath planning permission, I told him to put it in my brothers name, that way he will always have a roof over his head, always have a home, the torch of responsibility for taking care of him will one day pass to me, but like that fabulously catchy song goes, he ain’t heavy, he’s my brother.

So yes, the sea of life is rough and I’m the night watchman on the Titanic, but you can’t let the dark times get to you, not as long as you can dream, Cheshire cat grin as you stare down the iceberg. It won’t always be like this. I must travel, I’ve put it off in one form or another for a few years now, my own impulsiveness the lead suspect in that particular case, but my feet are itchy and only the horizon can scratch them, so loose plans shall be made! (Yet again..)

Life really is a roller coaster, you wait in line for what seems like an eternity only to ripped off for a ride on rails that has you laughing at the ups, screaming at the downs and by the time you reach the end there’s a good chance you’re covered in vomit…

Shit… Ruined my ending.

Fuck it.

PS: To the Architects of the Lisbon treaty, go away, shoo, fuck off, you failed.

Me, My Balls and I



I’ve just had two women fondle my nut sack, but not in the fashion I’d have liked. For some time now I’ve had a small lump on my Scrotum which mildly concerned me, but not enough to spur me into action. Finally in the last week this lump started to grow at an alarming rate and became painful, I was forced with a choice, delude myself into thinking nothing was wrong, or go see the doctor about whatever horrible potential thing was happening to my man bits. As appealing as the first option was, I took a dose of courage and made an appointment for this morning; the doctor was young, female and attractive…good thing I hear you say?…How wrong you are! I got a bad case of stage fright, it was bloody cold in that room, that’s my excuse, so I felt I was a little misrepresented truth be told… But anyway, she asked me to pull down my pants… Not to my ankles mind you, that would spare me a shred of dignity, no-no…  just enough to expose my bum and frontal area for her viewing pleasure. I did as was told and sort of waddled into position for her inspection… After a good long minute of squinting and head tilting she finally ventured a guess “It looks like a..” she trailed off as she began to stare again, what the fuck am I supposed to think? Don’t leave me in terrifying suspense here Doctor, a diagnosis would be appreciated… “A cyst. We’re going to have drain it” she finally admits. Grand! I thought to myself, we can arrange some day to visit a surgery and have at it, plenty of time to mentally prepare myself for the coming horror, but oh no… She of course meant right now this instant and told me so very matter of factly. Before I could come up with fantabulously creative lie to escape she was out the door and into another room to prepare… Oh joy.

“Keith!… Could you follow me down the hall please.” She shouted up about a minute later… Meanwhile, I’m still standing there with my penis hanging out, debating if I should go to the trouble of pulling my pants back up to walk a few feet down a hallway or just go as was. I don’t know why but I had a little laugh to myself at the mental image of my waddling into the other room all jiggly like… What a heroic thing to do if you think about it, shame aside of course, but anyway I’m a coward so I pulled my pants up and met my destiny. Walking into the room I was told to pull my pants back down again straight away and to lay flat on the small operating table chair thingy they had… So doing as I was told I lay myself down. There was now a nurse, a much older woman… To assist the doctor, they stood either side of me and both of them began to have a little root around down below, discussing the best way to perform the procedure… It was nice, I have to admit, It was a pleasant prelude to a horrible experience, why not enjoy it? As long as I didn’t get an erection everything would be plain sailing. They decided to numb the area around the cyst (on my nutsack) with a local,  so I was informed that this would sting quite a bit. The older nurse clutched my hand in hers, which lay flat on my chest, I took this as a bad omen… I mean when do you ever see that? The only time I’ve ever seen someone clutching another persons hand like that was when something really painful and horrible was about to transpire, you clutch the hand of a dying man to bring him some small measure of comfort as that great black descends upon him.

I felt it, boy did I feel it, the needle piercing my poor scrotum, this was a new kind of sting, a high voltage sting, it’s been many a year since I have been introduced to a new frequency of stinginess but this was just intensely awful… I squeezed that old hags hand like a motherfucker. I was glad I didn’t shave my balls for this now, let the pair of them suffer like poor old foolish me, welcome to the jungle bitches!.. An eye for an eye! The pain finally reached a lovely crescendo and then vanished… Cool numbness made its introduction and I welcomed it with open arms, the needle was replaced with a small stainless steel blade… Very fine and precise, I didn’t look… I couldn’t, what man alive could lay and there and actually look at his brain being cut on like that? Not me, not today. I fixed eyes upon the ceiling and pulled the kind of grimace normally reserved for Someone attempting to shit out a football. The Old nurse didn’t seem to mind me squeezing her hand either, she finally asked if I was ok and if I needed anymore local as I looked to be in some distress… I informed her that the face I was pulling was a purely natural one considering the circumstances ( Two women, My balls and a blade ) and that she shouldn’t be alarmed as I couldn’t feel a thing now anyway… What the doctor did down there I can only guess at… It involved cutting and draining I imagine, not a pretty image… You’re probably retching or thinking about retching right now, that’s fine, I would be too, I did warn you at the start of this blog in large capital letters did I not?

It was a somewhat deflating end… I expected some gruelling ordeal but the actual incision and removal of god knows what down there turned out to be mostly pain free, so after applying a sort of bandage type deal down below I was told it was over with and that everything was fine, awkwardly pulling my pants back up I thanked the two ladies for their fine work and slowly shuffled out… Feeling 10 inches tall, there is just no pride to be salvaged from such an experience… None at all. I did the only thing I could think of doing at a moment like that. Place a hand reassuringly close to my now traumatised Balls as I began the journey home.

It’s been about two hours since the operation and the sensation is starting to return, as well as a bloody awful pain.. I had to write this fucking blog standing up. I have my laptop out  on the pool table and all I can do is wander around, sitting is sadly out of the option for the time being… I’m forced to waddle around like some kind of moron who has a bomb in his underwear, things are that delicate.

On a semi-final note, Thank you kindly for taking this journey with me… I hope it was as special for you as it was for me, I can gladly inform you that everything is still in working order down there, I actually feel as though I’ve forged a new stronger relationship with my balls now, the kind of Bond forged in the heat of certain shared death, that’s the golden shiny positive I’m taking from all of this… Shattered dreams production this was not.

Finally, to all you men out there, some advice… Fondle your nuts on a very regular basis and don’t wait if you find anything, go to your doctor damn you, they’ll lop whatever it is right offa you there and then.. If i can do it, you can too.


(Not correcting Typos..too legion in number..also Blog is intentionally ranty to give it that authentic feel)

I’m sitting here in bed on the laptop trying to recall the last few days, I really should clean everything off this bed too, there is so much piled on it that only I… In my infinitely skinny glory..can somehow mould myself between everything into something approaching comfort.

Anyway, I left here Friday at around 5pm, the plan was to wait in Enfield (A nearby weener town) for the Bus to Galway, which leaves every hour.. while I waited I was supposed to call a contact I had there for some tasty Orange bud grass for the lads down in Galway, which was of course badly needed as they had run out… But the God of timing combined with the fact that I was already stoned combined so that the bus arrive earlier than I had off I went.

Few hours of travel later.. Although actually… One person of interest on the bus, a Galway man.. Old man to be precise, big bushy fricken beard on him, old matted white and grey …Baldy head… Haggard creased wind beaten face… Sat right across from me. I’ve no idea why I found him so interesting or calming, he had a very calming face… Ithink it was the likeness to Santa, which brought back all of those soothing childhood memories of a man with a white beard who would crawl down my chimney to leave me presents because I’d been a good boy, which… Every time I think about now, is not really that soothing at all. Had the look of a fisherman, you could tell his face had a million arguments with the Atlantic gales and lost every damn one of em… It was an interesting face, I could have studied it all day, anyway kudos to old man for being the single interesting point on the journey.

Got off the bus, Daithi Collected me in his car.. Which again is an odd sight to see… I’ve spent years traipsing around with this man on foot without transport to get to places, usually in shitty awful weather… As well as insulting him fiercely from my window when I used to live in Dublin and he would stagger out of my house in the middle of the night, his little huddled self straining against Irish hate wind as it did its best to freeze my poor friend all the way to cold hard bone… Walking up that old The Lawns road to a chorus of my ranting about how warm my room used to be… To see him now, sitting behind the wheel of a large hunk of metal hurtling towards me… Was strange indeed, that said..he’s a good driver… So it’s one more car I get to be a passenger in.

Got to the house and settled. Phil was already well oiled having drank the entire day I think… So I only saw him for a few minutes before he was out the door to some college ordeal of debauchery. Spent night with Dave watching epic four hour movie on Tom Petty…Smoked whatever little crumbs I had brought with me, uneventful but enjoyable night in, relaxing sleep soon followed.

Woke up… Daithi gone.. Though I think I remember him coming in to say goodbye.. But my answering machine replied, you know those conversations you have with someone when you’ve just been woken up and you can speak and discuss things clear as day but in actual fact you’re still asleep? I’m fairly sure that’s what happened. Spent morning and early day pottering around by self… Phil was back home but completely obliterated… That man arose like Jesus himself at 5pm… Looking like he’d been crucified the night before for his many sins, that said… Phil is a hero, almost straight off the bat we got ourselves into a couple of bottles of vino and it was off to see a band neither of us had seen before. Dark Room Notes, a little Irish group of newbies hoping to make a name for themselves… We got to talking and drinking in the smoking section of the Roisin Dubh before the gig began, I can remember some ludicrous discussion about how infinitely incredible the human mind is and how little of its potential we use. I always get great conversations with Phil like that, the pair of us are little wonder babies… Wondering at everything and being genuinely humble about how amazing life is.. These conversations usually end with “Yeh… Man.. Jesus…… Fucking incredible.. Yah… It’s amazing!”

Armed with a renewed sense of amazement of my own existence (thank you Phil… Best thing you can say about a friend is that they help renew your vigour for too complex life) We heard the music start… False alarm though, it was generic Indie band 67234 playing as support act, they filled the room with a sound that comforted and massaged the earlobes, but little else.

We stood amidst a crowd of young folk about our own age, the gig area was quiet for a while but slowly began to fill as Dark Room started to play.. Drank copiously and listened to the wonderful go-beat-go sound this band produced. Been a while since i’ve been impressed by an unknown live band but they had me bopping around and trance like with their sound… Throwing Vodkas down my throat like a Bolshevik in heat (whatever the fuck that means). Just remembered a funny image, This old man… Must have been at least 65 years of age, up at the front of the stage dancing with these killer moves, he put every young person in that room to shame.. I think he was on E. He certainly chewed his face enough to suggest he was on something… But boy, dressed up in smart shirt and pants and grooving… Young at heart… Certainly younger than I.

After the gig was over things started to blur… I know we decided we should leave so we went to head in the direction of the door but somehow we managed to get sucked in towards the bar again, like some force of nature took us there… So we stood at the bar, growing increasingly hunched as time passed for God knows how long drinking and drinking and talking like men possessed about everything going on in our lives and our relationships and yes… Even our mothers, we cut ourselves open and let bleed all those things you store up and wait to say to a friend you know will listen and basked in the warm glow of friendship renewed and strengthened with the blood of old wounds.

Now the leaving of the Roison Dubh until the next morning I have no solid consistent memory of… Vague images, walking… Abuse at random strangers… Subway sandwich beef and cheese just fucking beef and cheese nothing else, please… Security man… English, Afghanistan, good night and good luck cold damp wet alleyway, phone calls… Never get a taxi home doomed to die here… No! Wait! Watch this get taxi… Vroooooom… GO. Home. Photos. Music… And man oh man I need to take a piss darkness.

That about sums it up in stream of consciousness.

Woke up next day in the afternoon and sat with Phil as we tried to remember something, Anything about the night before, he had phone calls… One in particular to a friend of his mothers logged at 2am in the morning… Which could have turned out to be a bad thing… A very bad thing if you know what Phil’s mother is like. Strange drunken call in the middle of the night to a fifty something year old woman about God knows what… So far no word though, so no damage done. Also spent morning watching “Future Weapons” what an insane show… Baldy head Military nut Mack showing the world the weapons of the future the US of Murder is going to use to give us Full Spectrum Dominance and Freedom, lots and lots of Freedom. Never seen a man so horny for weapons in my life, kind of whack job that sleeps with a giant hand cannon down at his crotch getting off to cold hard steel sensation and now I don’t even want to go down that road of thought any longer so moving on.

Decided to spend the afternoon and early evening watching a movie in the theatre… Great place to cure a heavy nights drinking as long as you pick the right movie, nice giant dark room where you get to sit around and munch too salty popcorn and rehydrate yourself with a drink so large you could beat someone to death with it, that’s my benchmark for all things over sized, if I can beat someone to death with it.. It’s big.

Good Movie (In Bruges)…very complex in subtle and humerus ways… The Ending is just fricken genius, dark comedy genius. I laughed about it on and off for two days every time I remembered it… Just no holds barred nothing is sacred humour that if you allow yourself to let go creates laughter enough to make you weep, Phil being the sport that he was put up with my random outbursts of laughter and mumbling about Midgets with exploded heads and Dum Dums.. I think that night we stayed in.. I made a home made second hand Joint that put Phil into a jittering Coma and coupled with the wine… Had me in noddy land a short while after.

St Paddies Morning was a beautiful mix of Sun and light cloud… Too lazy to head into the city to see the bullshit parade we actually had a plan to get a bus all the way to Dublin and back purely to collect drugs… Having a change of heart at the bus station we decided to buy alcohol from an off licence and drink it as we soaked up the atmosphere in town, leaving the acquirement of said narcotics in the hands of Daithi and Vinny… Which in hindsight did not work out so well except for the wonderful day that followed for the pair of us vagrants.

Galway was alive with special touristy bullshit catholic holiday energy, a really nice friendly vibe helped mainly by the large contingent of tourists with their amusing Giant green hats and green hair and painted faces.. A lot of Spaniards around strangely enough… With serious mysterious faces looking all lovely and dark… A beautiful Spanish lady in particular fucking me with her eyes later that evening in a pub, but being my stoic shy self I couldn’t go near her, I wouldn’t know what to do with some beautiful stranger in my hands for a night, sad eh? Anywho… Everyone was Irish for a day, no one exactly knew what that meant of course.. Except to ingest large quantities of alcohol… We bought some cheap Australian Merlot and spent a couple of hours either wandering to avoid the Police… Or sitting at the Docks drinking… It was all very paranoid, been a while since I have had to do that… Brought back a flush of youth, eventually we made a big trek out to the rocky sandy beach and sat and drank and wondered and talked and laughed as the sun started to decline in the sky…Bringing the frickin temperature with it, a move was in order.

It grew pretty cold pretty quickly so we made a beeline back to the city with the wind humping our backs, to a fish and chips place for some drunken food and that furnace of heat a nice big warm meal produces when stuck in the element of cold for protracted periods… Another trip to the off licence later we purchased some more Vodka and stuck it into sneaky bottles of water so as to get the Fuzz off our backs… Sitting around on Eyre Square we had another conversation/debate that will stay with me… I thought I was disagreeing with Phil at first and I’m pretty sure he felt the same but in a roundabout way we came to the same startling conclusion, that we were freezing our nuts off and we needed to find a pub… So the Kings head it was, more drinking… Watching, Talking… We made our way up each level of the bar until somehow we found ourselves in some strange little alcove of a place called the Ruby Lounge, a nice little crimson bar full of tourists and strangely effective dancing women who knew how to throw their curves around in the most pleasing of fashion… Eventually Phil got a powerful lust to get his hands on some E Pills, so broke as I was at that point… I followed him on a strange quest to a student apartment to acquire some, friends of his, a grubby little place (as student hovels often are)Filled with beer bottles majestically stacked against the wall in ever decreasing numbers until they reached a pretty little mountain peak at the ceiling, eventually leaving I was too tired of the prospect of spending the night at home wired to the moon on a drug I had never taken before, so it was back home to bed for an anti-climactic nights rest.

Next Morning ( I am realizing how long winded this blog has become, so cutting it short) it was goodbyes and sitting on a bench in Eyre Square with wonderful sun beating down on my head as I waited for a bus, broke and smokeless… Providence came in the form of an old man who sat down beside me, I inquired about a trade… My newspaper for one of his cancer sticks, one smiley nod later and I have sparked up an old man Ciggie with extra death length. Squinty eyes watched as legions of tourists with hangover heads trundled past like the walking dead. It was a fitting end to an excellent weekend… Many Thanks to Phil for playing the amazing Host, hope to get back soon, I really am falling in love with Galway.