Thursday 28 June 2012


Wednesday 17th August

Wake in a cold sweat and state of total panic. Can't see a thing and there is something covering my face and I can't breathe! Jump out of bed and blindly circle the room, tripping over yesterday's clothes and several plugs. Christ the fucking pain! I frantically tear at whatever is over my head, repeatedly gagging on cotton fibres and what I hope is my own hair. Still running, I plough straight through the open door of the en suite, greeting the bath with my shins. What the..........

Woke again several hours later cold and alone, in an inch of water, with a pillow case over my head. I hobbled to the bed to survey the damage. Severely bruised shins, a third eye on my forehead, and stigmata like wounds to both feet. Hell hath no fury like an upturned plug in the dark. One painful shower, four humble Paracetamol later and I'm beginning to come round. The sun was just rising over the rooftops as I poured my first cup of coffee and pondered the whereabouts of the menacing letter. Somewhere on the other side of the Liffey, Bert is curled up in bed, safe, warm and sleeping like a baby. The prick.
I get to work early, determined to have a substantial discussion with Bert regarding our recent pursuits. Before I can utter a single word, Bert places a small present in my hand, haphazardly wrapped in an old sheet of brown paper.
The note attached read:

You'll not bend over
With this pressie.
Unless you want,
Ya great big Lezzie!

Intrigued, I tear off the wrapping, and stare at the simple but loaded gift nestled in my palm. Soap on a rope. Thanks Bert. I was worried before, but with soap on a rope on my side I am now fairly certain I can cope with my upcoming prison sentence. The real let down I quickly come to realise is that though it may prove useful in a shower situation, it is absolutely no good to me back in my cell. The soap itself is alright, but there isn't nearly enough rope to hang myself. About as useful in prison as a pair of slip on shoes. Intending to return the favour, I wonder if I can bring myself to buy a butt plug from Ann Summers. I could order it online but I suspect it would show up on my bank statement as www.yousickbitch.com. Facing my bank manager after that would just be plain old embarrassing.

Made a quick trip to Ann Summers on my lunch break and spent ten minutes perusing the most chilling array of products legally available to man. While the purpose of some of the merchandise was blatantly obvious, others were a complete mystery to me. Regrettably, I made my confusion evident, attracting the attention of a young sales clerk. He descended upon me before I got the chance to return the chocolate penis moulds and offending butt plug to their rightful places. In a bout of panic, I dropped the illicit paraphernalia, made a hasty retreat and set off in search of the nearest off licence. A wine stopper would have to do. Back at work, I offered Bert my heart felt gift with a similar note attached:

If an inmate rates
Your ugly mug,
Just make good use
Of this butt plug.

It's not Yeats but Bert enjoyed it. Headed home in a taxi as my stigmata was really starting to ache. Got back to find a note pinned to my door, from George, the building handyman, and all round pain in the ass.

“The apartment above yours will no longer be vacant as of tomorrow. So please keep your usual racket to a minimum. Tearing around your apartment at 3am will not be tolerated. George.”

Great, I'm going to have to come up with a plausible excuse for last night's antics, and I don't think “I had a pillow case over my head” is going to cut it.

Wednesday 27 June 2012


Tuesday 16th August

Woke to the cold touch of steel against my forehead. After a brief moment of panic and some desperate flailing I realised it was just my belt buckle. I managed the short shuffle to the bathroom where I instantly ejected last night's vodka and a hot dog I don't remember eating. I inadvertently caught a glimpse of my face in the mirror as I shuffled past. Rookie mistake. In addition to the usual ugliness that accompanies a hangover, I was also sporting the word “Levis” across my forehead. Excellent.

Ike called to the door to complain about “excessive noise”. Apparently I made quite the racket upon my return from the pub, and it woke him up, the poor dear. Also, he was very curious as to how half a hotdog ended up wedged in their letter box. I took a shot and blamed it on the kids upstairs. Turns out there are no kids upstairs. The temptation to blame Tina was overwhelming, and let’s face it, she's already in the shit house. I resisted, proud and relieved to discover that there was in fact a limit to how low I was willing to sink. I was beginning to think of my soul as a bottomless pit
Finally…rock bottom.

At work, Bert greeted me with black coffee and two Paracetamol. It has never cured my hangover in the past, and yet I remain pitiably optimistic. I began preparing the fish course for lunch, and as the pungent aromas assaulted my delicate senses, I made four speedy trips to the bathroom. One genuine trip and three false alarms. After ridding my stomach of all but the lining, I noticed a small white tablet lurking conspicuously in the bottom of the bowl. I took two more and waited for the painkillers to work their magic.

Two hours later and all was most certainly not well!
To the makers of Paracetamol and all those involved in the nefarious world of drugs, I would just like to say: I cannot believe it, four tablets in three hours and no improvement? This is not over! Somebody will be receiving a strongly worded letter from me tomorrow. Although I am quite busy tomorrow so perhaps just an e-mail. Ooh, internet connection's been down the last two days so maybe just a text. Can you text? I'll ask Bert.

I informed him of my situation and Bert was immediately on the case. He came back to me an hour later with a solution, if you could call it that. The plan was bigger and bolder than any we'd attempted in the past. I was a bit cagey about trying something that could ultimately land us in jail, but it was going ahead with or without me, and not wanting to miss out on the fun, I agreed. Bert brought me up to speed. Paracetamol HQ, on the outskirts of London, is run by one Joel Sanford. He lives in Kensington with his wife Madison and son John. Little Johnny attends Elmsford Elementary and his darling wife does sweet fluff all. Oh yes. A home addressed letter should do the trick I think.
Bert did the honours...


Dear Mr Sanford,

I am writing in regards to one of your products and my dissatisfaction upon trying it. I suffer from severe headaches as a result of frequent binge drinking, and after sampling your wares in an attempt to alleviate the symptoms, I found no such relief.

It is important to note that, as my suffering worsens, I often become quite angry.
And I can tell you right now Mr Sanford, your son wouldn't like me when I'm angry. How is little Johnny, by the way? Still attending Elmsford Elementary? That's neither here nor there, I suppose. Although be sure and pass on my kind regards when you see him. Just tell him the man with the sweets and the nice puppy sends his best. I'm afraid I didn't give a name. Kids can be such tattle tales you know.

I am writing this letter by candle light, as fluorescent lighting only assists in aggravating my headaches and fuelling my rage, and I am quite sure that you know all about the rage Mr Sanford…I've met your wife. Incidentally, there's a pain that could use some killing.

I'm sure my frequent references to your family must seem strange to you but this is merely a side effect of the headaches. I lose my train of thought and as a result, all sense of propriety. I wanted to inform you of my situation in person, but my psychiatrist insisted a letter would be far more appropriate and my parole officer agreed.

By the way, I had the pleasure of meeting your son's nanny recently and what a pleasure it was. She is delightfully proportioned, isn't she? But let me tell you Mr Sanford, as you may already know, that woman cannot handle her Rohypnol. The way she left personal belongings and house keys just lying about, was beyond careless.

Well Mr Sanford, I think I have taken up enough of your time for now. I feel confident that I have made my feelings quite clear. If not, I might see fit to ignore the advice of my psychiatrist and parole officer, and instead follow the advice of my friend and former bunk mate, Big Larry. Though not big on letter writing, he always has the best candy.
As strangers often do.

Yours painfully,
Dave (Newbie).

P.S. Give the nanny my best, if you can.

I will either get some serious relief or some serious prison time for this. I wonder if they will allow me to continue writing this from prison. Is a pen a shiv? I'm confident I could survive on the inside. After all, nothing says hard-nosed criminal like keeping a diary. Why did I have to ridicule Anne Frank? So much for outdoorsy.

Been lying awake for an hour, listening to the ominous peal of police sirens outside my window. Don't know what I'm waiting for. The letter hasn't even left the country yet, and if An Post has anything to do with it, it won't reach its destination for at least a week, if at all.
Please, just this once, let the postal service fuck up when it really matters.

Friday 15 June 2012


Monday 15th August, 2011

Woke up in the middle of a sneeze and three more followed. Took that to mean I was getting a cold, which could lead to the flu, which could lead to pneumonia, which could lead to death! So I called in sick, can't be too careful. Bert answered the phone on the second ring with one of his more colourful salutations;


 -Hello, this is Greenpeas. We nuke it, you puke it!
-I can't come in.
-Why so?
-I'm sick.
-Drinks later?
-OK.

As the day progressed, I realised I was behaving more and more like a sick person. Four sneezes does not constitute an illness and yet somehow I found myself wrapped in a duvet, with a cup of tea in one hand, dry toast in the other, and a cold wet flannel by my side. Even if I were sick, I fail to see how any of these supposed remedies would in any way aid my recovery, as the wet tea cancels out the dry toast, and the warm duvet totally negates the cold flannel. And then it hit me, I had been taking part in this charade for years. The countless colds and bouts of tonsillitis I'd spent shoving dry toast down a completely raw throat, drinking fizz-less fizzy drinks, and being simultaneously hot and cold and not knowing why, and yet I never questioned it. I contemplated this most shocking revelation as I stirred the chicken soup I made earlier.

After a lengthy shower I began to feel like myself again, despite the fact that only a mere hour before, I was very nearly on the brink of almost getting the sniffles, probably. Getting ready to meet Bert, I realised half my wardrobe was in the dryer, and woe betide the girl who did not air her clothes. In Ireland, if your mother is to be believed, excess moisture is the quickest route to death. I settled on an old pair of jeans about two sizes too big, held up by a fashionable black leather belt, complete with over-sized Levis buckle, and left the apartment looking like I wandered out of the 90's.

Bert was sitting at the bar when I arrived. He didn't immediately see me as he was deep in conversation with three American tourists. I perched on a stool out of sight, but within earshot, and so still privy to the fresh slew of bullshit he dispenses in Irish pubs across the country. I noticed his accent was particularly strong, a gimmick he adopts from time to time. He is also prone to saying “bejaysus” and singing rebel songs when his stories aren't having the desired effect. The three women were enthralled as he recounted the events of that fateful and fictional day many years ago, when he and Arthur, toiling away in the heart of Dingle, produced the first pint of Guinness e'er to pass the lips of an Irish man, (his words).

I decided it was time to put an end to his little game, or “Prank the Yank” as he calls it. Having never cared for the label “racist”, he has created many different versions of “Prank the Yank”, and though the titles vary, they are no less colourful. “Outwit the Brit”, “Out-speak the Greek”, “Out-think the Chink”, and the slightly less clever “Fuck the French”, to name but a few.

I fell into bed five hours later, and spent a full twenty minutes wrestling with the Levis anvil at my waist, before getting it half off and quitting. I sent the cursory drunken texts, waited for the room to stop spinning, and wondered why my mouth tasted of hot-dog.

Thursday 14 June 2012


Sunday 14th August, 2011
Fucking noisy birds! If they're not screaming next door, they're outside my bloody window! Went to the shop and bought marbles and spent an hour on the balcony perfecting my aim. Only managed to hit one but hopefully word will spread. I wish my Ike and Tina problem could be so easily remedied, but sadly I don't have the marbles.

I left for work half an hour early, with a Thermos this time. Sitting at the back of Bus Eireanns finest I overheard a conversation between two women, one holding a baby, the other admiring. Agnes and Betty, let’s call them.
 Agnes: Aw isn't she precious. What did ya call her?
Betty: Why-vonney.
Agnes: Ah sure that's lovely. How d'ya spell dat?
Betty: Y-V-O-N-N-E.
Black coffee through the nose is a painful thing.

I arrived at work to find the boss in the kitchen waiting for me, and Bert with an almost worried look on his face. He looks odd with no arch in his eyebrow. Boss screamed for almost fifteen minutes. She was ten minutes into the rant before I heard the word Viagra and the penny dropped. I listened carefully for the word fired but I don't think it came. Gradually the arch returned and Bert was himself again. He thinks we should wait a day or two before trying anything else. I said a week or two might be better, at which point the arch dropped again. I found a banana peel on the floor an hour later.
Too soon Bert. Too soon.

Called into the boss's office before home time, where I was informed; Newbie will be back at work tomorrow and we are to “leave him alone”. Bert decides to take this literally and suggests we lock him in the cold-room. I ask Bert to please not get me fired. He promises nothing.

I got home to find Tina sitting by my front door. She's making her domestic situation very difficult to ignore. Maybe she's here to tell me she tripped over the drum kit. I made us some coffee and we sat down to discuss her dilemma. She had two black eyes so I was trying very hard to look her in the forehead. I rather stupidly asked her what the problem was, and that’s when she said it; “I think my boyfriend is cheating on me.” In light of that ridiculous revelation I then had to figure out the most important question of all. Does Ike hit her because she's stupid, or is she stupid because Ike hits her? No polite way to ask that, so instead I asked the usual questions and offered the usual platitudes. In an attempt to assess the true level of her stupidity and in turn find a possible remedy for the situation, I told her that cheating was illegal and perhaps she should go to the police. She looked surprised but not disbelieving.
I'm beginning to see Ike's side of it.

I told her not to worry, it'll all look better in the morning, provided the swelling goes down. She returned to her little patch of wife beating heaven and I retired to bed with a clear conscience. After all there was nothing more I could do. It's not like she had anywhere else to go. Hmmm...I think I'll turn the spare room into a hat museum.

Monday 11 June 2012


Saturday 13th August, 2011
Bert called. Newbie's in hospital and junior is apparently still going strong. Bert reckons we should not panic, but rather view this as an opportunity to learn. Now we know, giving him seven Viagra was probably six Viagra too many. Bert's making him a hospital mix.

1.      I am a rock, by Simon and Garfunkel
2.      You raise me, up by Westlife.
3.      Beat it, by Michael Jackson.
4.      I touch myself, by Divinyls.
5.      Rocket, by Def Leppard.
6.      Can’t touch this, by MC Hammer.
7.      I'm so excited, by the Pointer Sisters.
8.      I'm still standing, by Elton John.

I arrived at St. James hospital to find Bert stealing the “wet floor” sign from the lobby. I really must find time to explain consequences to him. Accidentally called Dave “Newbie” in front of his distraught mother…I think she's starting to suspect something. I sat beside his bed for half an hour trying not to look at the carefully placed pillow on his lap, while Bert tried to work the words; hard on, tool, nuts, phallus and member, into every sentence. Conversation went something like this:

Dave's mam: I don't understand how this happened.
Bert: I know. This must be very hard on you. It's hard on all of us. But it's been the hardest on little Davy here.
Dave's mam: Of course and sure aren't ye both so good to visit him.
Bert: Ah it's no phallus.
Dave's mam: Excuse me?
Bert: I said it's no hassle.
Dave's mam: Well we both appreciate it. And I'm sure he'll be back at work on Monday.
Bert: Only if he feels up to it. We wouldn't want him stretching himself too thin. D'ya hear me Dave? Don't go nuts. Use whatever tools are at your disposal and you'll be back at work in no time, a full member of staff.
Dave's mam: Thank you. You're very good.
Bert: Penis.
Dave's mam: Pardon?
Bert: What?

Bert left for work and as penis euphemisms were exhausted I went home.
Over a light dinner, I edited the business plan I'd been working on for more than two years. It had been my plan from day one to run my own restaurant, and the document that lay before me was my ticket out. Unfortunately, with my business acumen such as it is (non-existent), I don't foresee entrepreneurial prosperity in my future. This is a serious problem as Bert's antics are growing increasingly outrageous and I have a sneaking suspicion that unemployment may be on the cards.

Retire to bed at a very early hour but sleep is impossible. Ike is playing the drums again. I can't help but notice every time he plays, Tina looks a little worse for wear. I knock on their door and suggest he play the drums elsewhere. The look of confusion on his face says it all. 
Goodbye Tina, you were a great, albeit noisy neighbour and I'll miss you.

Friday 12th August, 2011

I was woken up at some obscene hour by loud banging next door. My neighbour is either learning to play the drums or beating the hell out of his girlfriend. I'm not sure which would piss me off more, but either way, one of them had better quieten down. Awoken again an hour later by more of the same; this is either the drum solo to rival all others, or that girl is taking a serious hammering. Twenty minutes later and there is a decidedly different sort of banging coming from next door. Aw...Ike and Tina made up.

Late for work again! Definitely no time to stop for coffee, but I can't resist the urge to check my black coffee/white coffee theory. I order; tall skinny latte with an extra shot of skimmed milk. If history has taught us anything, it is this one simple rule: the whiter the better. Ordered, served and out the door within five minutes. Finally...racism I can get on board with. Seriously late now and the boss is not amused. Amid a lengthy lecture on the importance of time keeping and general job keeping, I notice Newbie is taking in the show from behind a stack of milk crates. Half-wit doesn't realise I can see him. Bloody crates are holier than the pope.

Brief sidebar with Bert        Plan: kill Newbie.       
Longer sidebar                      Revised plan: annoy Newbie.
Better.

Bert and I spent the better part of the morning devising a plan, discussing its various merits, and predicting the possible outcome that might result upon completion of the plan. Unemployment for example and in one of Bert's more extreme plans....death. We eventually reached a compromise and Bert left to “see a man about a dog”. Ten minutes before lunch service and the plan was set in motion. Dave joined us for coffee. Black coffee for me (no waiting), coffee with cream for Bert, and a generous mix of coffee and finely ground Viagra for Newbie.

I really shouldn't give him such a “hard” time. I mean he's not that much of a “dick”. He is after all a “member” of staff. Damn, out of penis euphemisms.

Plan went down beautifully. It was almost too easy...like a paedo in a playground, fish in a barrel, piss up in a brewery. Newbie Junior caused mayhem. The boss burst into the kitchen in a blind panic, but Bert advised her to see the silver lining; more productive now Newbie can carry an extra plate. Eyes are bloodshot from crying. Bert convinced him that drinking water would help lower the sails, and after forcing six pints of water down his neck we waited once more. Wasn't long...Newbie walked out of the bathroom looking like he was pitching a tent but got caught in the rain.

It was a particularly busy service and several of the wait staff complained about being a man down, to which Bert pointed out that if anything they were a man up. Newbie was sent home in what must have been the longest and most awkward taxi ride in history, a trip made considerably more awkward by his choice of the front seat.

Sunday 10 June 2012


Thursday 11th August, 2011


Late for work again. Greenpeas, my own patch of hell and place of work, is a small portioned, overpriced “Yaw” talking snob fest in the heart of Dublin. I recommend it to those of meagre appetite and ample means. A place to see and to be seen. Unless you're the staff, or as the customers affectionately call us “the help”. Having worked there for over two years, I have come to think of my fellow staff members as family, which is to say, I see them only when I have to, and pretend to like them when I do. The only exception is the head chef Bert. At fifty six, he has a shock of dark brown hair only recently greying at the temples, and large pale blue eyes. His sombre countenance often belies his true nature, and the subtle but permanent arch in his eyebrow is his only tell. He is an evil genius.

Despite being more than ten minutes late, I stopped for coffee. Brambles and Vines, bragging “the best cup of coffee this side of The Liffey” has recently opened on my doorstep, although considering they reside on the North side I'm not sure how much of a boast this is. In true Irish fashion, the service was leisurely, and though their lips moved at breakneck speed, all other movements were imperceptible. I stood in line for twenty minutes for coffee, black coffee. Possible racist establishment? I'll ask for white next time.

I took the 130 bus to work and was forced to stand for the entire journey as some git with a dog and a cane got on before me and took the last two seats. I made a not so subtle attempt at luring the dog away with the remains of my breakfast. The owner was understandably oblivious, the mutt was having none of it, and the other passengers didn't look too impressed either. No sense of humour.

It didn't get much funnier as the day went on, as I arrived at work thirty five minutes late. Nor did the mood improve an hour later when I sent the new guy (Dave) to the shops for “a long wait” and he was gone for two hours during lunch service. The final nail in the coffin came just before dinner service, when Newbie was sent to get 12lb's of mince. Though his return was prompt, his stupidity is now unquestionable. I sensed he did not fully understand the purpose of the restaurant as he arrived back carrying 12lb’s of Mints. Dave is no longer allowed to leave the restaurant during work hours. Very disappointing! Bert had planned an elbow grease expedition for him for tomorrow. We've decided to come up some with indoor games for him instead. Let it not be said that Bert and I are quitters. We will teach Newbie the ways of the kitchen, even if it kills him. I mean us, even if it kills us.

Thursday 7 June 2012


My sorry tale begins in Ireland’s fair capital, in the height of "summer". The month was July. The year...2011. The mood? Sombre. Thousands of years of rain may have dampened our brogues, our spirits and our Aran sweaters but it has not dampened our resolve. We seem determined to be staggered by this continuing precipitation...Can you believe this rain??

Nor has the recession improved conditions. Despite countless governmental cock ups Ireland cannot believe its bank balance. Due to a complete lack of foresight the Irish are now broke and wet. To stave off the wet weather and save money, some communities are umbrella pooling and others are renting out their hot presses to the damp and down on their luck. 

I am one of the more fortunate. I do not have to umbrella pool, or sublet my hot press. I do however have to country share with every other miserable git on this god forsaken island.                             And make no mistake...he has forsaken us.