A month without alcohol

Well, you can’t win’em all! At least we went down fighting and the dear knows its a sad day when you can’t say that about an Irish team. This world cup has been a disaster, we’ve choked. A weak six nations allowed a complacency to develop that wasn’t helped by the timing of the tournament and some bizzarre decisions by fast Eddie.
But hey, at least we haven’t lost our heart. In the 75th minute, 15 points down with the knowledge that we were definately going home, all you could hear was the Fields of Athenry. Thats pride, pure and simple. The crowd were wonderful and the players responded as best they could-they did us proud. Its better to go down with blood under your fingernails than to drop to your knees like a bitch-we fought to the last and nobody can take that away from us. How many nations can boast such support? Very few.
And it was fitting too that we went out to Argentina, a good tough team. Down and dirty, mean but honourable-the way rugby should be played. None of this pussy-footing you get in the six nations about ‘dump-tackles’ and forwards who can run and pass but have forgotten that its their job to sweat, spit, bite and grind their way to the line. Even protecting the scrum-half seems to be a lost art in the Northern Hemisphere-the most fundamental aspect of forward play. No, my hat goes off to Argentina. Theres no bullshit about them. The forwards protect the talent and the talent knows how to control a game. They have some of the attitude that we used to have, the attitude that dragged this team out of ‘the bad old days’. Muchos Respectos
I mean, there was talk of how many Argentinians came over to Paris without return tickets because they couldn’t afford them. It really smacks of Italia ‘90 when Aer Lingus had to fly people home for free. Again, much respect-you can’t buy passion.
Still though, it would’ve been nice to go to the quarter finals-we’d have murdered Scotland, though, I couldn’t say the same about New Zealand.

Time to whip out the rosary beads my predicament is as follows

Heart says yes
Head says no
Soul says believe
but all brains are athiests

I want to go on record and say that I believe in miracles now if you don’t mind the second half is about to start

Dáríre, tá sé i ngach áit(mo lámha, m’éadaí, sa carpéid-gach áit)……….eh b’fhéidir nach bhfuil sé sin an tslí is fearr le alt a tosnú, thosnóigh mé arís.
Níor fhéach mé ar suíomh porn le bliann anuas, seachas ólta i dteach mo chara agus níorbh fíor porn é sin(meatspin-eugh! Lofa ach greannmhar). Ach, go tobann, anois tá mo ríomhaire féin agam(i mo sheomra leapa) agus broadband agus deireadh seachtaine ceithre lá agus táim tinn sa leaba agus níl aoinne thart agus….bhuel……nílaim ag iarraidh an teach a fhágáil níos mó!
Cuireann sé gruaim ort má chathain tú ionomarca am ar an ríomhaire ar aon nós ach le porn tá sé níos measa. Cuireann sé cuma an brónach ar do saol má thógann tú nóiméad chun smaoineamh air. Smaoinigh, tá ocht miliún fir brónach gránna uaigneach cúthaileach ag féachaint ar an físeán céanna leatsa lena chuid lámha síos a bhríste agus allais ag briseadh ar a héadain-tá sé lofa!
Féach, táim óg agus tá mo gruaig fós agam-níl sé seo ag taisteál uaim! Táim níos fearr ná seo, ceapaim. Ní cabhraíonn sé go bhfuil cuid dó comh ait agus ‘pervy’(táis am, tá porn ‘pervy’ mar ábhar ach táim ag caint faoi ‘fíor-pervin’). Tá cuid dó comh ait, fiú, go bhfuil sé díreach greannmhar. Mar shampla; chonaic mé téip inniú a bhí an cailín ag scríobh ar an gclár dubh(lena chuid éadaí uirthi) fadas a bhí an múinteoir ag buail an bata sa cúinne-fuckin hillarious! Ba é an rud is neamh gnéasaí a bhfaca mé riamh! Cé a féachainn ar a leithid? Fuckin losers. Agus an aisteoireacht, an aisteoireacht, tá cuid acu nach gheobhach post ó Fair City(agus táim cinnte gurb as scéim FÁS a fuair siadsan a ceachtanna). Tá sé comh uafásach ó thaobh ‘production values’ de go méadaíonn sé do chuid gruaim faoi míle, tá sé díreach náireach.
. Scríobhfainn dán faoi ach táim cinnte go bhfuil sé sin déannta ag duine eichint eile cheanna féin. Táim chun mo chuid comhaid stair a ghlanadh anois agus saol nua a thosnú ar ríomhaire saonta soineanta. Táim ag glanadh mo lámha don eachtra seo(go meafrach agus go fisiciúl)

Thosaigh mé ar ais sa gcoláiste an Luain seo chaite, dhúisigh mé maidin Dé Máirt agus ba léir nár fhoghlaim mé aon ciall i rith a tsamhradh. Bhí sé leath uair tar éis a dó tráthnóna Dé Luain agus bhíos críochnaithe don lá, ach, bhí sé ró-luadh le dul abhaile, mar sin réitigh mé dul le hadhaigh phionta le mo chara. Buail muid sa Cornerstone.

Normal service will return as soon as I get my internet working properly in a safe secret place with no history files(probably DIT library) and have I got a story for you

My dad came up to me just now and said he was very concerned. He’s found the site, he’s read “Pravda Dé Deardaoin” and I think its safe to say that he’s not very happy. The references to drink and drugs are one thing but the grammer mistakes-they’re just unacceptable! Seriously though, he’s not happy. He’d have me become a Joycean philosopher, minus the filth of course. Because yes, Joyce is filthy, Beckett too, Wilde was aptly named and Behan needs no introduction. Not that I’d have the arrogance to compare myself to such greats, I’m merely stating that…. oh I don’t know what I’m saying. It might be a bit quiet around here for the next while. Well it might and it might not.
I’m faced with two options: 1) be a bitch and start writing about flowers 2) Continue as I have done, writing with as much honesty as I can about whats really going on in Dublins fair city, the rise and fall of the celtic tiger generation, the sweat and the lust, the rush and the loneliness after, the fact that I know 3 people who’ve died before the age of twenty, the growing ignorance and arrogance of all us micks, the way we’re forgetting who we are and how much fun it is. Because thats the truth. He’s gonna read this and he’ll probably take it up with me but fuck it, everyone knows honesty is a muggs game.
I have no real creativity. I don’t make any of this up, nor do I live all of it out, but I have seen it all. I’ve seen good men, smart men, destroy themselves. I know genius whores and beautiful idiots. I know people who won’t see twenty five and others who won’t remember 20 anything-thats the Dublin I know and its all I know. I could write about Kahlil Gibran or Socrates or any of their theories and concepts but why should I? Better still, why should you read what I think of them when you can read the greats yourself?
Ross O’Carroll Kelly writes about the pathetic shallowness of D4, Roddy Doyle writes about the ‘working man’ and the alienation felt amongst the Dubs the ’90s forgot. Thats because thats what they know, what they care about. Well I know artists, wasters, 17 year old alcoholics, Gaeilgores and a littany of other useless human beings. These are the people who now populate south Dublin, the Celtic Tiger generation. Big dreams, big potential, no work ethic and less common sense. I collect the stories and write down as many as I can (in the first person because its less annoying) under the pseudoname Rua MacTírean. Very few things on this site are made up, almost all of it happened somewhere, almost all of it was thought somewhere by someone. Some of its hillarious, some of its deppressing and some of it is just plain terrible. I know most of my regulars and I try to bore you as little as possible. I still haven’t decided what to do, I’m not even sure if I care. I apologise in advance if I choose to shut up shop and move somewhere else

Woo-hoo! Táim meascaithe ag ‘pian-stopaitheoraí’ (pain killers, and lots of’em). Níl siad fiú ag taisteál dáiríre wham wham bam bam táim ag dul a chodladh chodladh Ah shit the match! I’ll finish this later….

I’m really really really fuckin’pissed off today. My leg has finally givin’way and it looks like I can forget the marathon. I’m having trouble walking even and I can’t seem to do anything right. I can’t even type, I am yet to write a sentence without having to fix a half dozen typos after reading over it-the current sentence being the only exception to the rule but that came at the price of grammer, construction and sense-ya dig?

 Thought not. I’m goin to te doctor today, hopefully, then I’m getting drunk and doing something(or someone) I’ll no doubt regret for the rest of my natural life. Shit like this is why I quit rugby, when I get injured I keep going. In fact, I push myself harder. This leads to temporary discomforts becoming permanent disabilities. Shit like this is why I have two shoulders that dislocate at random, a neck that constantly cracks and pops, questionable knees and a ertain numbness from being kicked in the head a few times too many.

Its my own fault I suppose, the neck and shoulders especially. I used to play prop and I can nearly pinpoint the day my neck went. I was scrummaging against this big fucker and he was beating me, I must admit. In order to win the scrum I’d have to intimidate him, so, I started headbutting him on impact at the start of every scrum. I aimed for the joint in his shoulder between him and his hooker, within three scrums there were tears in his eyes and he had to be subbed off. His replaement was an even bigger fairy and I beat him easily. Two weeks later I had to have an X-ray on my neck because I kept fainting during warm ups. Apparrently I’m fucked for life, and for what? Winning a pre-season friendly in preparation for the dizzying heights of the East Coast League Division 2 Cup? I’m a fuckin’idiot

When I was in fourth year at school I dislocated my right shoulder for the first time. It was right smack bang at the start of the rugby season which, at the time suited me just fine. You see, that particular season was the first time the lazy fat bastards like me were thrown in with the jocks-and the motherfuckers expected us to train! Not only train but train hard! So I took the season off and rested up my shoulder. I didn’t go to the doctor because I reckoned “yes it hurts but no training means that it won’t get any worse” plus I never got around to it. Looking back on it I really wish I had gone to the doctor because its three years later and both my shoulders go at the slightest excertion. In fact, just a moment ago, I was leaning back in my chair stretching my arms out when all of a sudden I felt a tremendous pain rip through my shoulders as they nearly slipped out again-its poxy!

My leg, my new wound, comes from running on two much hard ground. Its my shin see, its either the muscle directly beside my shin bone or the shin bone itself has a small fracture-either way I’m fucked. I can run on it but only the way I always run, through the pain with blind stupidity resulting in permanent agony. Hopefully though, the doc will give me some magic stardust superpill to make me indestructable and finish the marathon by virtue of a stylish Rocky-esque montage. Thats the only plausible way I’m gonna be running the race………………what? Its perfectly plausible

I would just like to point out that these are just a few of the stupid things I’ve done to myself. These are the ones I can at least vaguely justify unlike; my broken arm, internal bleeding in my hip, permanent scar on my knuckle, permanent scar on my forehead, weakened ankle, broken toe etc…… I could go on all day

Has anyone else noticed the shocking amount of homeless people in town? Social exclusion; healthier than ever. Just saying that its an absolute disgrace for a country as wealthy as we are. I’ll leave it now because I’m too tired and drunk to form an argument that won’t be ripped to shreds but that doesn’t heal the shame and it doesn’t make the rain any less wet or the wind any less bitter for the however many people are sleeping on the streets tonight

Ní oireann an sort saol seo liom níos mó. Ionomarca alcól, ionaomarca suigh thart agus ionomarca teilifís-dénann sé leisciúl thú. Cuir ceist ar aoinne, ní hionann leisciúleacht agus a bheith laig.Cailltear cumhacht in adhaigh an nóiméad agus tú ag suí os comhair an teilifís, an diabhail sa cúinne. Nílaim ag caint faoin láidreacht fisiciúl amháin, ach tá sé sin dothinsthe. Táim ag caint faoin neart caillte i do chloigeann, ní thugann tú faoi dearadh é go dtí a dhénann tú iarracht é a chuir ag obair. Ní thugann tú faoi dearadh é go dtí a shuigheann tú síos chun scríobh agus ní thagann aon rud amach, nó, go dtí a bhfuil tú ag léamh agus ní thuigeann tú leath dena focail os do comhair, mar shampla.
Chuireann sé isteach ar d’anam freisin, do spiorad, do croí, do fíorcumhacht. An cumhacht taobh istigh ionat nach ligeann duit géalladh nuair a faigheann tú deacracht. Do firiúnachas. An dearcadh trodach ceilteadh ionat, cibé focail is mian leat a úsáid is cuma-tá an míniú céanna orthu uilig. An rud a bhfuilim a rá, is dóigh, ná go bhfuilim féin faighte an laig, leisciúl, bog agus rabhar. Is fada an lá ó mothaigh mé fíor cumhacht ionam féin, fíor mhuinín ionam féin agus cuirim an locht ar fad ar an teilifís agus an playstation. Goideann siad do am agus do aigne. Ligeann siad duit dul i bholach ón domhain, ní chuireann siad aon brú ort-tá sé díreach ró-éasca. Ní fhásann tú, sin an fadb, ní brúitear chun fás thú.
Ar aon nós, sin ionomarca fealsúineacht agus gruaim don seachtain seo(b’fhéidir don saol seo máis sin a caighdeán). Tosnóigh mé le cúpla líne as dán úr (nach gcríochnóigh mé riamh mar tá sé cac) a bhfuil ar an nóta céanna leis on píosa os cionn agus ansin tosnóigh mé ar mo chuid scéalta faoi Dún laoghaire.

Nílaim sásta, táim comh bog le páiste.
Tá siad mo mhagadh ar fud an paráiste
Níl cead agam cáca, le mo bhricfeásta,
sin a deir mháithear,
nach saol a bhfuil crua don buachaill mór Rua
is an diabhail a cruthaigh Rice Cakes, mar mallacht an slua

eugh……níorbh fiú é sin a scríobh. Ar thaitin an ‘ceadúineas filíocht’ libh? Paróiste/Paráiste-Iran/Iraq-David MacWilliams/an Bás. Rud céanna, dáríre

Anois ar adhaigh linn leis an ólacháin, an foil, an tragóid is eachtraí an laochfile cróga(sin mise dá le an scéal) thar na sé lá ab dáinséarach i mo shaol óg(dáiríre, níl sé sin fíor, bhíos i mBosnia ar feadh seachtain uair amháin-scanrúil). Ghlaoighfidh mé ‘Na Sé Scrúdaithe de Rua’ nó ‘Rua; agus na Sé Scrúdaithe’ ar an ceann seo…..ní hea, níos fearr ‘Rua; (laoch an gnáfear, grá na mban) agus Na Seasca Scrúidithe taobh istigh de na trí ballaí déag do Caisleán Laoire”. Ceapaim go bhfuil Scorsese chun an scannáin a stiúriú, nílaim cinnte fós.

Actually, táim beagáinín tuirseach anois. Inseóigh mé díobh faoin seachtain fada lá eicint eile………
now aint that a kick in the nuts!