A month without alcohol

Frequent viewers of this site may notice have noticed that I’m inclined to the odd rhyme. Its rarely very serious and never any good. Naturally, not many people read my verses which is perfectly fine by me because I know the ones I think are funny and fuck everyone else, literary democracy etc.
Now, I have only just this afternoon worked out how the whole ‘tags’ system works and so I have only just this afternoon added poetry as a tag for this site-big mistake! All of a sudden my tag surfer is full of Haikus and impressionistic attempts at making puddles seem deep.
Its not that I’m giving out to people for writing poems. Its just that everybody wants to write poems but very few people want to read them because the overwhelming vast majority of them are woeful in the extreme.
I mean c’mon people, I know its a blog but lets excercise at least some quality control. I suppose I should have known better, anyone who uses the plain boring tag of ‘poetry’ clearly suffers from ‘creative imparement’.
No, I must say, I’m glad I used the tag ‘poetic injustices’ for all this time-at least I was different! I know it completely flouts the whole tag system which relies on people using the same words but I don’t care-if you were any good you’d have been published by now.
I will end with a few ideas for you less creative folk who all of a sudden want to change the tag poetry, and to prove to those of you who are even less creative that there are other options.

1. Fine Rhymes
2. Eloquently phrased and classically versed writings
3 Words’n’stuff that like, rhyme’n’shit
4. Living Poet(s)
5. Emotive verses
6. The agonising clarity of the inner eye
7. Sixteen year old girl who wants to be taken seriously
8. Sylllabic Assasination(sounds like an Art Rock band, misspelt for that edgy effect)
9. All the various derrivitives of the word poetry(poet, poetic, poem, poo)
10. Prose(if you want to be ironic)
11. Yeats(if you want to be iconic)

The list could go on all day. Incidently, I don’t actually like Yeats-he was a bit of a fairy. Also I’m aware that some of the above suggestions(ie all of the above suggestions) are completely impractical-if you wanna be practical stick to ‘poetry’. Of course poetry itself is completely impractical so………………….

For a long time I’ve complained(jokingly of course) that the problem with the internet is that its run by nerds hence: all the big websites are about either porn or computer games. This really didn’t bother me though as I quite enjoy both porn and computer games what does bother me however is the thought that this may be contageous. I haven’t pulled since this sites average readership exceeded 2! That was over a month ago! Now I’m averaging about 16 people a day and frankly-this has to stop!
This may have something to do with the truly nerdish devouring of books that I’ve been doing lately(13 in 9 months-sex me up Scotty)
I am also prepared to entertain the theory that women can smell unemployment
Mainly though I blame the internet. Sexual frustration is the worst kind of frustration because punching stuff doesn’t make it stop, I’ve been tearing beer mats apart like nobody’s business

I wrote the following piece on the 06 February 2007(Americans should note the way the date reads from smallest to biggest ie: logically). It’d work better in a book than in a blog but fuck it, I’m never gonna write a book.
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The following should be in an introduction but nobody ever reads them and anyone who does is probably a bit sad. So I’m forcing you to read this boring little piece about who I am and what I’m about not only to feed a gluttonous ego but also because it is vital to understand what I am about to do.
Who am I? A drunken Irish stereotype mixed with a drunken student stereotype and a precious dash of the bourgeoisie junkie stereotype. I also have a penchant for hair brained schemes, unnecessary verbal cruelty and really big words like ‘utterance’ and ‘incandescent’. Throw in my genius complex and its quite an impressive résumé for a man of just nineteen years.
Who I am not? First and foremost I am not English. Secondly, I am not British. I am an Irishman, a small geo-political difference which is important all the same so as to ensure one is not claimed for the pride(or shame) of the wrong team. I am not nor ever have been a particularily hard worker(unless of course the going gets tough and I‘m actually challenged, this results in a puff chested reaction not dissimilar from injecting nitrous oxide into a cars engine). And I am most certainly not by any stretch of your acid induced imagination; an athlete.
And therein lies the crux of what I’m about. Two and a half days into a three day bender and weighing in at an impressive thirteen and a half stone-I decided that I want to run in the Dublin Marathon. Not walk. Not finish. Run. I want to run from the starting line to the finish line and be faster than at least one person who isn’t clinically obese .
Its not much to ask but from where I’m standing its a long way to the finish line. I tried to kick off my training with a game of football the other day. I left my breakfast on the sideline after twenty minutes and spent the next day nearly bedridden. The race is nine months away, you could have a baby in that time so even starting at my pathetic level of fitness it should be possible to reach my goal. This is however scant consolation as the fact remains that a lot of hard work has to be put in between now and then.

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Ok, that was written on the 06 February. This next piece was written this morning, it is a dramatization of my first ‘real’ day of training-which was yesterday(the 26/07/07)

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Day 1-Reality, and the cruelest of truths
My back is aching, down low where you can’t stretch it out. The backs of my knees too, they feel so tense, like springs stretched that bit too far and about to curl up at any moment. The sweat pumps out of me, my whole body is slick and greasy, droplets of sweat run down my hair and into my eyes. It stings. I take a right turn, slowly, nearly arthritic. I restart the stopwatch-time to start running again.
The first step is painful, it always is, but the next step is worse. I feel the acid in my chest build and burn, I could throw up at any moment but I know I won’t. I think about quitting for the fourth or fifth time in the last half hour, this is too tough. Everything hurts. Everything. Even my pride hurts at this stage, how could I let myself get so unfit, I’m like an old man, a fat old man. Technically I’ve only been running for fourteen minutes. I stopped the watch every time I stopped running and its been a half hour at least since I left the house. Why is this so hard? I can run on a treadmill all for forty minutes without really pushing it but apparently that counts for nothing in the real world.
I get to the end of the road and turn left onto the last hill, the biggest hill. There are a group of pensioners walking in front of me. I pant past them. I could stop right here, start walking, stop the watch forget about the big race, I’ve left it far too late to start training. For whatever reason my legs keep moving.
The hill is too steep, this is agony, I really can’t take anymore. I quit, I’m gonna quit ,any minute now I’m gonna quit. My last legs last grasp at glory and I feel so sorry for myself . Everything hurts so bad. I’m only at the foot of the hill, I won’t make it to the top. I’m not strong enough.
Then it kicks in. My engine starts ticking over and a bit of my old toughness returns. I’ve gotten so soft over the last while that I’d forgotten what it really means to push yourself. That part of your brain that says no matter how bad you’re hurting you’ve got to keep going. Death before dishonour, I’ve invested far too much of my ego into this to quit on the very first day of training. I dig deep, as deep as ever before and still everything hurts. And still, my legs feel ready to fall off. And still, this is one big fucker of a hill. And still, I keep moving because all of a sudden I remember all the guys I’ve seen give up and all the times I kept going because this is what I was built for. Physically, mentally I thrive on PAIN. More, MORE, harder, steeper! Come on Hill! YOU CAN’T BREAK ME! YOU WON’T BREAK ME!!
A stitch shoots up my right side, it nearly knocks me over-too much, NOT ENOUGH! Dig, push, breath, fight, C’MON keep goin. Keep goin’every last inch! C’mon dig deeper. I see a bus stop, that’s the finish line, no that’s too easy-stop there and the hill will have won-you can’t let the hill win. I have to get over the hill, onto the other side. There’s a signpost, perfect, that’s the finish line-fuck you hill! FUCK YOU!
I pass the bus stop, my knees drop a little. C’mon YOU FUCKING PUSSY, if a blind man can learn to read you can reach the top of this hill. I straighten up and dig deep one last time just another few feet. I can’t think of a time when my body has hurt so bad, its worse than broken bones, blows to the head-its just everywhere, all over at the same time. Just as I approach the poll I visualise the finish line on race day with people cheering me on-one last piece of inspiration and I’m over the line. I collapse against a wall. Look at the watch and stop it bang on fifteen minutes-I was supposed to run for another five minutes. I can’t.
Before I started that day I arrogantly thought it would be easy-20 minutes, no stops, no problem. I was wrong. The gym is easy, this isn’t. I’ve just had a short sharp jab of reality. This is going to be a nightmare-marathons are really really unnecessarily long.

26/07/07

Sorry, this is genuinely evil

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Thit an báiste nuair a thit an páiste
Ní bhfaca an mháithir-gur buail mé an páiste

Ag laoi ar an tallamh, ag guí is a mhalairt
Láimh bris is cic eile-is liomsa Pikachu anois!

I wrote this on a six hour bus ride ‘goin’out wisht’. Its hopelessly cheesey and I can’t think of any justifiable way to fit it into a short story (because its completely dramatically useless). Still though, its had a remarkable effect on stirring the blood of drunk people, including my own. To that end it shall be posted:

………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

When your tears sting like whiskey,
when your rage can blind you,
when your soul follows the tide
and your sorrows are carried away by the wind.

When you’d rather face death than show fear,
when you still feel a hurt a hundred years old,
when hate can make you indestructable
and love can make you untouchable-

Then and only then,
with the old Gods as your witness,
with a fist held fast against your chest,
can you call yourself a Celt

………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

phwarr! feel the passion! you can understand why its only popular after a certain time of night, a very late time of night. It is however useful when trying to convince tourists that you are in fact a genuine ‘travelling warrior poet’ as I intend to over the course of the next month.
by the by, does anyone else think it could do without the middle two lines of the last verse?

Tá cúpla cairde liom ag rothaíocht timpeall an tír. Réitigh muid go rachaigh mé amach chuig Gailleamh chun buailleadh leo ó thaobh gurb í sin an pointe leath bhealach agus lá breithe ceann de na lads. Sin díreach an rud a tharla Dé hAoine seo chaite agus ní ceapaim go mbeidh Gailleamh mar an céanna riamh arís.
D’imigh mé amach roimh na laids eile chun buaile le m’aintín a chónaíonn i nGailleamh. Tá ailseacht aici agus bhíos ag iarraidh í a fheiceál mar is scríobhnuair í freisin. D’fhan mé léi agus cainnt muid ar feadh cúpla uair roimh a d’imigh mé amach chuig an phub.
D’imigh cúigear dúinn amach ó B.Á.C. chun buaileadh leo, tháinig seisear dúinn air ais ar an mbus-conas? Mar rinne muid praiseach ollmhór lofa dúinn féin agus bris ceann de na rothaí a láimh nuair a thosaigh sé troid le balla-muppet!
Bhí muid sa ‘living room’ an oíche sin, pub an deas caithfidh mé a rá. Bhí an ceol maith go leor, nach dhénadh sé aon difríocht dúinn, agus bhí tábla foozeball acu, a rinne an difríocht ar fad. Is aoibheann liom foozeball go háirithe nuair a bhfuileas comh ólta nach féidir liom ach súil amháin a oscailt. Tá sé mar peil, ach is féidir leat é a imirt sa phub-cluithe na déithe! Nach mbeidh sé suimiúl peil Gaeileach nó iománaíocht a aistriú isteach i foozeball? Sin post le hadhaigh na lads thíos i gclub conradh. D’imir muid cúpla cluithe agus bhí an buadh ag rua gach am, seachas an am deirneach. Is caillteor uafásach mé táis am.
Tháinig an leabhar nua Harry Potter amach an oíche sin freisin agus d’imigh mé féin agus cara liom síos chuig Easons don t-aitmeasféar agus an suim a fheiceál. Ceapaim gur chuir muid eagla ar chuid de na páistí, táim cinnte go raibh díomá ar gach mamó sa scuainne freisin. Is cuma, is fuadh liom páistí-tá sé go hiomlán tuilte acu!
Jagerbomb, butterball, liquid cocaine, rat poison, ionomarca Guinness agus nócha euro níos déanaí bhí muid ar ais sa ‘Student res’ i UCG ag gáire, ag caoinne, ag troid agus ag pleidhcíocht. Nílaim ró cinnte céard go díreach a tharla, ach tá cúpla rudaí ar eolas agam: bhí cúpla cannaí eile agam, bhíos ag caoinne do m’aintín tinn, bris amadán a láimh agus nuair a dhúisigh mé bhíos fós ólta chuig meáin lae. Freisin, bhí bróg agus fón duine de na lads sa seomra míchearrt ar an taobh iomláin eile don gcampus.
Bhíos cinnte go raibh fíor ’slagging’ tuilte agam, ach, níor tháinig sé. As na seisear dúinn a d’fhan i UCG bhí triúr acu nach cuimhin leo faic, tada, rud ar bith! Buíochas le Dia nach raibh mise ina measc-caithfidh duine eicint an scéal a insint nó ní fiú na saighdiúrí marbh!
Súil muid ar ais isteach sa cathair, chuig Eyre square agus thit muid chuig a talamh-marbh. D’imigh mé isteach chuig ceann de na siopaí chun óráiste a cheannach, seo ceann de na rudaí is greannmhar a rinne mé riamh dá le an scéal. Súil mé isteach ar aon nós agus pioc mé an óráiste ba mhó a bhí acu, ansin thug mé faoi dearadh go raibh scuainne timpeall an cúinne. Bhíos ró-tuairseach, breoite, brónach, laig is ocrasach don scuainne agus mar sin rinne mé rud iontach. Súil mé díreach chuig an tosaí-agus ní dúirt aon duine faic liom! Bhí sé go hiontach! Is dóigh gur chuir an cruth orm as dóibh nó rud eicint, níl a fhios cinnte agam. Daoine ag seasamh ansin ar feadh leath uair agus díreach siúileann tú suas-is aoibheann liom é!
Téann muid thíos chuig an pub, Cavistans ceapaim, siós ar Shoppe street ar aon nós in aice an krishna agus an péinteúr(liteartha míchearrt). Bhíos ag caint leis an krishna ar feadh tamaill, i gcónaí ceapaim gur daoine an deas iad nuair a nach bhfuil siad ag díol religiún.
Phionta i ndiadh bricfeásta-go hálainn. D’imigh an laid leis an láimh briste agus beirt eile chuig an bus. D’fhan mise agus na beirt rothaí fágtha ag an phub mar bhíomar ar fad ró-laig aon rud eile a dhénamh. Lean muid ar adhaigh ag ól, dhá phointe, trí phoinnte nó mar sin. Ar dearadh bheartaigh muid fanacht ar feadh oíche eile.
Deireann go leor daoine rudaí difriúl faoi cairdeachas agus céard go díreach é agus cá faightear é ach ag deireadh an lae, ag deireadh thíor thall, ní hionann cara agus duine a bhfuil tú inán píosa craic a bhaint as. Dáríre píre, sin an rud is tábhachtach-craic. Gan sin, níl ionntu ach daoine deasa. As spraoi a fásann an grá agus as grá a fásann gach rud. Bhí fíor craic ag na triúr againn an lá sin.
Bhí orainn áit a fáil le fanacht ach ní raibh aon airgead againn. Chonaic mé daoine ag campáil thíos in aice an farraige an lá roimhe agus síos linn chuig an trá. Spota iontach a bhí ann fiú má raibh eagla an domhain orainn roimh an junkie a thosaigh ag cainnt dúinn. Dúirt sé linn go raibh cónaí aige ar an trá le ocht bliann anuas, ní raibh aon fiacla tosaí aige agus bhí yinn-yang, crois agus sisiúr ar a adhaigh agus a muinéal-fear crua? Itheach sé Ciaran Whelan don bricfeásta agus é gan fiacla fiú! Bhí sé an deas áfach agus táimid ar fad fós beo, b’fhéidir nach raibh sé comh dona sin.
D’imigh muid ar ais isteach sa chaithir chun bia agus cannaí a cheannacht agus ansin ar ais chuig an campa chun ithe agus ansin ar ais chuig an caithir chun níos mó a ól. D’imigh muid chui pub gorm le ainm gaeilach, ‘ an neachtain rud eicint’ nílaim cinnte, arís, pub an deas. Chaith muid cúpla uair ag siúil suas agus síos shoppe street ag damhsa le gloinne plaistic Guinness. Bhí an craic nócha ach bhí an díoma orm le muintir na Gailimhe mar ní raibh aoinne ag damhsa seachas muidne. Bhíos ag cainnt le cúpla de na lads a bhí ag seinm na ’samba drums’. Dúirt mé leo go mbeidh siad ag seinm i mo theach má raibh siad ag teacht ar ais chuig Dún laoghaire i mblianna-bhí eagla orthu-bhí an cearrt acu.
Tar éis tamaill bheartaigh muid dul abhaile chun na cannaí a fháil ach fuar muid níos mó na cannaí. Tuairim is deich méadar ón campa bhí partaí mór ar bun, thíos ar an trá. Lean muid orainn ag ól thíos an sin agus bhí sár craic againn. Bhí gach duine ann ina a hippie cearrt agus bhí daoine ag damhsa leis an tine agus ag seinm ceol is ag cannadh-bhí sé ar nós fís ceoil nó rud eicint.
Bhí cúpla caraictéar cearrt ann freisin. Bhí an péintúir ó Cavistons(as Jamaica agus go hiomlán craiceálta), na lads lena ’samba drums’, beirt lads ó Gailleamh féin a raibh ag cainnt linn ar feadh tamaillín(togha fir na beirt acu), cailín ón fhrainc a raibh ag “fire dance”(phoinnte don duine a thugann focail Gaeilach ar sin dom), Laid ó Tír Chonnaill leis an geansaí is fearr riamh(nílaim ag magadh) agus na spáinneach uilig(dáríre bhí siad beagáinín neamhshóisialta ach fós-bhí siad ann). Bhí tuairim is céad daoine thíos ansin ag am amháin-bhí sé dochreidthe.
An deireadh seachtain, an deireadh seachtain ar fad

I’m just back from a massive bender, apparently I was in Galway-well thats what the ticket stub says anyway. I haven’t slept in two days and I tell you my ridiculous stories as soon as my eyes stop hurting. All my clothes smell like petrol and smoke aswell which is never a good sign. So for now, I must rest but tomorrow is the day after today!

Scríobh mé litir chuig an Irish Times ach ní cheapaim go mbeidh sé foilsíothe mar díreach chuir mé é isteach inniú, agus níl sé ró-mhaith. Seo chugaibh:

Madam,
Recently we’ve all been bombarded by pop stars telling us to reduce, reuse, recycle and generally ’stick it to the man’. Interestingly, none of them have proposed that we download music instead of buying CD’s-y’know to save on, like, plastic and stuff.
is mise le meas,
Rua MacTírean

HA!

Bhíos ag féachaint ar an suíomh inniú agus thug mé faoi dearra nach raibh aon rud suimiúl, cliste nó greannmhar scríofta agam le tamaill fada. Tá fíor brón orm ach níl aon laghas agam ar a galar leisciúlacht a bhfuil orm an samhradh seo. An rud ná go bhfuilim san áit is measa a dfhéadfainn a bheith-sa bhaile!
Dáríre, níl aon rud míchearrt i mo shaol faoi láithir, níl aon rud iontach ag tharla ach oiread-agus tá sé uafásach leadránach! Nílaim riamh sásta muna bhfuil baol bás, náire nó ‘commitment’ orm. Is aoibheann liom na laethanta sin nuair a bhfuil tú ag obair ón nóiméad a seasainn tú chuig an nóiméad a thitinn tú a laoi. Is maith liom a bheith gnóthach, is maith liom a bheith ag ól chuig a 3 a chloig agus ag éirigh chun obair ag a seacht. Is aoibheann liom an saol sin, a saghas saol a mothaíonn go bhfuil gach rud ré chun titim as a chéile ag aon nóiméad.
Sin a saghas saol a bhfuilim compórdach le, níl sin an saghas saol a bhfuil agam faoi láithir. Bhíos chun dul ar eachtraí éagsúil dáinséarach ach níor tharla aon cheann dóibh-níl a fhios agam cén fáth. B’fhéidir go bhfuil an crógacht craiceáilte a bhíos i gcónaí comh bróidiúl as imithe. B’fhéidir, díreach, nach raibh an tádh orm an uair seo.
Ach, ar aon tslí tá teach saor agam ar feadh míosa i dhá seachtain. Táim chun mála ullmhar raithneach, buidéal de Black Bush agus 24 cannaí don bainne blasta neamh(Dutch nó Prazsky, nílaim cinnte fós) a cheannach. Ansin, táim chun leabhair a scríobh. Táim chun fís ceol a dhénamh le mo dearthar, mar tá shingle nua déannta aige. Táim chun a bheith ar Paisean Faisean(scéal fada). Oh, agus táim chun cúpla croí a bhriseadh-seans mhaith mo cheann féin cúpla uair freisin!
Sin an phleann. Sin an phleann. Sin an phleann? Tar éis dhá mhí-SIN AN PHLEANN?! Bhí dhá mhí agam! Dhá mhí dífhostaithe! Gan faic eile le dhénamh agus sin an phleann? B’fhéidir gur chor dom téip a chuir isteach chuig “MTV’s Made”. ‘Táim ag iarraidh foghlaim conas DAMHSA!!! Dún do chlob maim, ní thuigeann sibh mé!!! Táim ag dul chuig Broadway!’

……………………nó, níl sé sin i bhfad níos fearr an bhfuil

Crazy

I may be lazy
but my da is crazy.
I just laze about
he puts dasies in’is mouth