At 14 years of age you tend to get yourself involved in all sorts of extra ciricular activities, rugby for example ,maybe hurling or perhaps even chess. When I was 14 though, my mum didn’t have a lot of money and apart from a weekly hand out from my brother I was broke, so my energies shifted towards activities that could make me a few quid.
Most people would have looked for a paper round or knocked on the neighbour’s doors for odd jobs, but I stumbled onto something far more lucrative. After procuring a magazine of a certain nature from a stash in my brother’s room and of course having a look at all of the “models” inside with great intent, I had grown a bit bored. I mentioned to a classmate about the July 82 copy of Mayfair I had in my possession (which by the way had a whole spread of the then Mrs Richard Branson) he couldn’t contain his hanker and I saw an opportunity.
Quickly a deal was struck, and a days rental was organised for 1 whole Irish pound. Within a week I had figured out who had older brothers and even dads that would have kept a possible wealth of Jazz publications and after a bit of gentle coaxing they would source and deliver to me for a fee of a fiver per item. Soon my locker was stuffed with copies of Razzle, Menonly, ClubInternational and other such Paul Raymond periodicals and my pockets were stuffed with dough. On a daily basis my enterprise grew and due to some peoples occasional reluctance to return the rented items, I even had to employ Ronnie, a total nutball but truly brilliant as my enforcer.
Alas one Friday afternoon I returned home from school to find my mother and Terence, our occasional lodger and family friend, sitting at the kitchen table. They looked as if they were scheming and they were, I was informed that is was about time I started making a few bob and Terence being a head chef had a position for me stoning olives and chopping mushrooms.
That very day I was on the back of his Lambretta on my way to my job that would become an obsession and lead me into my career today, 18 years later.
What if I hadn’t gone home straight from school that Friday? I could be sitting in Paul Raymond’s chair or doing a stretch in the Joy.
It ahs been an unbelieveably long time since my last post and incredibly I am stuck for something to say. So for want of a better idea, I will give you a quick rundown of what I have been doing fof the last 10 months.
1. I changed jobs quite successfully, doubling up on my work load but somehow halving my stress levels.
2. I have had two near death experiences and with one, I almost got my brother killed.
3. I have been to seven weddings, three of which where on foreign soil.
4. I have been involved in a woderful project known as Harolds Attic Radio with dear old Redleeroy and Aidano.
5. My long gone love affair with NYC has reborn.
6. I watched a close friends family life nearly crumble to pieces, but somehow manage to hold itself together.
7. I have taken a few photographs that have been published in a couple of different publications and amusingly one of them was of a certain flamboyant Irish senator.
8. I have showered while eating a cheeseburger.
And somehow despite my best interests my belly has grown a bit more than intended.
“Good evening, are you ready to order?”
“Yeah, I want the soup to start and you, what do you want, the soup aswell? She’ll have the soup.”
“Thats great and for your mains?”
“I want the steak.”
“How would you like that cooked sir?”
“Madam what would you like?”
“She’ll have the chicken.”
“And what would you like to drink.”
“Do you have Bud?”
“No sir, just wine. maybe you would like a glass of champagne to start?”
“Wha? No bleeding way. Half bottle of Rose and tap water.”
Happy Valentines Day to all the wait staff across the land.
That very morning, I awoke and the basslines from down the beach pounded through my skull like a culchie banging a drum in Croker. I arose and my long hair had absorbed the sand to give me the look of a young, sunburnt Rod Stewart.
The only thing to do was head for home and so, half an hour later in the middle of Wicklow, shoe less, penny less and wearing only a pair of tennis shorts, something triggered and I realised those trips hadn’t been duds.
Bob Dylan attends Jerry Garcia‘s funeral in Belvedere, California.
Croatia and Serbia steadily dismantle each other.
Dennis Nicolaas Maria Bergkamp begins his first season at Arsenal.
My old mucker REDLEEROY turns 19.
Jason Sherlock rises to the stature of hero in Croke Park
and I watch The Usual Suspects, my last movie in The Adelphi Cinema.
Am I a moron ? Am I living in a state of ignorance ? Do I wander the planet only seeing what i need to see ?
I sit here tonight watching BBC’s Sports Personality Of The Year wondering how this show turned from 50 “personalities” sitting in studio 4 in Shepherds Bush into a 20,000, megastar, full orchestra and Gary Linekar extravaganza, that the world and their monkey seem to be enthralled with?
As I sweat with astonishment at my cretinism, I get a jolt and i begin to think, how much have i missed. The rise of things such as SP 07, Boxing with it’s re-birth as a global sport watched and listened to, by hundreds of millions and even the phenomenon that is Peter Kaye. But it is not only what has emerged but what has dissapeared.
Top of the Pops is dead and the music industry is not too far behind. Internatonal football is in ruins both in Ireland and in England. Nothing but plastic bags can be bought for less than a euro, in fact all of a sudden everything costs a million euro. Houses are no longer homes but investments. And all of this has happened without me even realizing such levels of change were even on the cards.
I reckon I need to get in on this malarkey and start a Destruction and Creation company.
Strolling along merrily, minding my own business when in my peripheral vision pops up the most expensive, ridiculous and pointless object known to idiots. I stop, turn and barely acknowledge its shape let alone its function and before I can say “balls” I’m hailing a taxi to take me away from what feels like the scene of a crime, a grand lighter in pocket and possessing a painting/crash-helmet/chromed cowboy boots or some other such derangement, that all seemed to make sense but forever will have me puzzled…….
Fat Sam Allardyce is quite possibly the most repulsive and loathsome creature ever to walk the face of this earth, but in saying this Earth I refer to Newcastle which can be hardly described as such. It can only loosely come in under the banner EARTH as “THEY” all wander the dark cobbled streets screaming unintelligible condemnations upon imaginary soft southerners, led in their charge by a Fat Faced Bastardo who exists in a universe where purple skin and an addiction to Nicotinell is the mark of a true hero.
THEY must be brought to their end with their smug fat faces!
Rene in ‘Allo ‘Allo! is swamped with contraband filled sausages.
Frank Vitkovic goes postal in Melbourne killing 8 before diving from 11 storeys.
Prozac lands onto shelves just in time for Christmas.
The red scousers are getting into their stride with Johnny Aldridge banging them in.
Ronnie and Gorby decide to put their differences to bed
and Public Enemy blow my mind with “Rebel without a pause“.
It is now in its 7th or 15th season but I am a celebrity…. seems to rolling along with the same popularity as it did when it first began. Ant & Dec support the show with their quite likable banter and slightly unbelievable intros into the days drama. And its the days drama were my brain starts to hurt.
The same looking people fill our tellys every season with their tantrums and their blossoming romances, all in the hope to change the trajectory of the careers they believe are worthwhile to the rest of the world. But what strikes me most about the show’s drama, is how everything is absolutely the exact same as every season that has gone before, to the point that there is no longer words or rhythm . There is just a noise, a medium paced monotone, dull hum.
I have to admit though, that a dull monotone hum is a great accompaniment to staring at chicks showering outdoors.