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| Pablo's Picasso, 1973 |
10:10
The only boxer to knock champ Muhammad Ali to the canvas was Chuck Wepner in 1975. Sly Stallone saw the fight and was inspired to make 'Rocky'.
12:13
The children don't know how to assemble without seeming like an intimidating mob. The Me-shock has called the general election. Head Shot MacDog says he looks forward to taking over the world after the next election.
14:12
Five years ago to the day a man was murdered in a basement of a building on Benburberry:
He was one of the lads on the corner, with the leathery hands and wrinkled neck. His friends have not forgotten.
15:12
A 39-year-old man has been charged with an offence relating to the murder of a homeless man in Dublin over the weekend. The man was arrested this morning near Benburberry Street where the murder took place
I go on an excursion to Shitfield to shop for discount beers. Claude Van Damme is taking on three twerp drunkies. They're just roughing up their "mate". This Gentleman-type decides he should pick them off him and goes over. I'm cycling past four-suckers-plus-one thinking, "This better not be true."
I leave my ear down and pedal on to the soda store. It kicks off before I get halfway. Three of them on this little Polish guy, whatever. Rightous buzzcut, clean clothes, in over his head I'd say with these young offensives. Heroics have no purpose on these dirty streets.
It's a wide open space and everyone around is watching. One of them takes a swipe. Van Damme swerves and uppercuts him. Another one rushes in. Unceremoniously, he kicks him in the nuts. The third guy tenses up, thinks the better of it and doesn't move. I circle back to come closer because I don't want to see this wet spring evening turn into a bloodbath. My idea is to stand off by fifty metres and shout at Chuck Norris to "Get going, it's not worth it!"
It's amazing how inarticulate language is sometimes. Suffice it to say, Van Damme takes a step back, crunches his shoulders and curls his fists, howling from the pit of his stomach, "COME OOOOOOOOOOOOOONNNNN!"
'Now I'm psyched,' he thinks, although he's totally outnumbered. He's taking two of them at once. Guy's got some moves. He soaks up a lily-livered lunge-punch with no technique and floors the attacker with a fairly orthodox puck to the mouth.
The AIG-sponsered Manchester United jersey and the beer-sodden loon wearing it flop like a bag of greasy chips on to the Shitfield cobbles. Ninja boy gets to kicking the lard out of someone else. I guess he's got it under control. My do-nothing job is done here.
I leave them and continuing my primary mission, lock up to a lampost (No bike parking hardly anywhere in Dublin.) I look one last time to see the three gobshites are lining up one behind the other, threatening Chuck Norris vainly, humiliating him (not) with unconvincing caterwauls of “You're a pussy! You're a fucking pussy!"
Chuck 'Come On's!' them once more, they shirk a bit. It's a deadlock. They have the numbers and feel aggrieived aggression. He's stupid and tough and suffers from righteous aggression. In the shop I profile the swanky customers and buy a piece of fillet steak on sale. Felicity picks the best looking checkout girl for me to ring it in and I sashay out of the place. The rain has come through again and the plaza is cleared out.
It becomes clear from a long way off that something's still brewing. The action is now down on the Luas platform. Oddly, a Dub bearing a preening shitsu sheltered ornamentally under his arm in his half-closed tracksuit top is coming towards me. Decent face, Olympic uniform notwithstanding, and the dog is a giveaway. Beautiful fur and tiny, he'd get filth on his coat if he just sat down so he's being held aloft like a garland of roses.
"All in an afternoon's fun", I say. Butch has now got five moronic Dubs yabbering at him from a radius and he's ripping open a Marlboro pack. Living the dream. His zippo flickers and he's thinking, he could burst every single last one of these toss-pot brudders, older brudders and cuzzins all night long.
"He's some kind a Powlish guy," the weary dog-wearer says.
"He must be some kind of ninja." I cycle past the ruckus.
Coming along the M51, a lost cop car whirdle girdle's towards the scene. Scumbag sportswear lines the track as Rambo pins their heads down beneath oncoming trams, laughing maniacally and chewing on a Marlboro butt.
20:42
They're fecking chosing the days for their false choice election. It should be over 3 days.
21:05
Tee-ship says we can win if we remain coherable. Maximise the Fanny Failure vote as best I possibly can, says Bertie.
22:37
Teeship: Challenges. Unimployment. 10 years ago. Much has changed in the Oirish decade. Sustained growth. Peace. Emigration drained our brains. Today we work here and stay here. Not leave. Next steps forward. People decide the future. De Dail's Dissolved. De campaign dey deserve. Attack problems not people. Tretening the economy. End poverty which is connected to the national det.
