Plentyoffish.com. The success stories are all dogs. Is everyone real on the internet a dog? Fuck.
09:00
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| Joyce's Barnacle, 1904 |
11:03
Sports reporter with no personality: "Well, somebody will be doing something!"
11:21
In fairness I have to say, he keeps saying. In fairness, in fairness, I have to say.
13:52
New survey from porn-tastic Sweden rates the Irish as the ugliest nation in Europe. Ha ha.
13:54
Big chubby uglies is the problem, apparently, according to reports, from the point of view of the women, or, perhaps more accurately, the point of view of the men looking at the women 13:55
Them Swedish wimmin can suck my short fat warty knob heh heh.
13:56
COSMETIC GUEST: Surgery against foodstuff. Eat yourself into a surgery with gastric banding. Breast dogs are very popular. Implants.
13:57
Breast augmentation.
13:58
Apart from the fact that there are no Irish bikini models.
14:07
Italian guy texts says Yes, Italian men do flirt a lot, but at least they're not pissed.
14:23
BLOKERADIO: The foreign women think Irish men are handsome. The Irish men think local women are stuck up their own fat arses. Some ugly bastard from Cavan texted in to say “If I was chocolate I'd eat myself”.
14:33
The thing is, the lads are handsome. A bold statement quantifiable by the representative big screen hunks such as Brosnan, Farrell and Neeson. There are no big silver screen beauties from Ireland. Not since the virginal Maureen O'Hara, who was beaten in a fight by John Wayne in The Quiet Man. She's good looking, for sure, but sexy, not.
17:17Via text:
I just saw Charlie Haughey being buried on my mobile phone. Live!
Via reply:
Should they not have checked he was dead first?
18:03
Nice day. I come home from town after buying a photography magazine. Notice some of the local sex-industry workers (known to me by constantly repeated distance-sightings only, I hasten to add) walking around. Not too unusual on a Friday afternoon, if a little early. Riding my bike around the corner to The Hill when I could hardly fail to notice two glamour-puss girls step out of a shabby cab. Not our typical Friday afternoon fare, these young ladies would appear to be foreign and/or are very talented in the extreme. I cycle past them thinking, "That's one lucky cab driver." Impressed although not overly curious by design, I poke my bike through the junction and open the garage gate to park her up.
There I am, locking my bike in the basement when the honeys walk right past the gate. Snap, click, I trot up the ramp to street level, see if I can sneak a better peek. I'm about to grant them 8/10 (blonde) and 9/10 (brunette) (nobody EVER gets a ten) when they stop at the front door to Church Hill House, scrutinising yon doorbells. (All have anonymous blank labels.) 'My God,' I think, 'They're coming into my building!' I push out my chest, suck in my gut, smile and make like I'm eager to help.
Closing the gates with some authority, I turn to the sweethearts smiling sweetly and lay it on smooth.
"Hallo, can I help you?" By jaysis, if they don't have hardly a word of English between them. The smoky looking brunette is in a short leopard print coat and the mirror-ball blonde is in an if-your-mop-is-fucked-by-Bigbird white fluffy jacket. I'm gathering that they want to get in to see a friend.
Normally security conscious and quite frankly, paranoid, I roll out the red carpet for once, only too glad to be of assistance. Hold open the door, in fact, as they brush past me. I remain in the lobby to dig out my post, maybe keep an eye on things, starting to wonder what I'm doing yet trying to act cool while one of them climbs the stairs heading straight to number five.
I suddenly become suspicious at last. What can I do?
The blonde squeezes in on the post-pile and blurts out something about looking for letters for number five. I'm nearly overcome by unclassy perfume and jewelry in the confined space of the lobby as she jostles me and starts rooting through the pile. Out-gunned and outshone, I humbly beat a retreat.
On the landing upstairs the other one is standing at the, by now, barricaded door of apartment five. Don't have a word of English but she has as proud a little butt as I've ever seen. I start to feel a little light-headed as they gabble together in their language, whatever it is, but whatever it is they seem agitated about something.
I get to the Green Zone and keep my ears peeled for passing hotties in the hall whilst excitedly folding my laundry. I fantasise that they'll come to me for help for some reason. I try to think of excuses to go downstairs again. Nothing plausible comes to mind so I have no choice but wait for the flies to come to the honey.
After five or ten minutes, I hear the front door slam shut downstairs and leg it out to the balcony. My lovelies are leaving. Looking down to my left, strolling toward the quays, they look pretty damn amazing in my bins.
I find the whole thing peculiar. I'm all flushed and flustered by uncommon pulchritude. These girls are the best looking girls I've ever seen, sober, in daylight hours, who are real, in my building, who look cheap.
18:45
Glancing down and to my right, more girls gathering, cheap, sure, not so glam, local talent selling banal sex with no flair. Again curiously, it's starting to look like a convention. About eight hookers assemble on any step, kerb or stook they can find on the corner. 'Molly', who subconciously scratches her crotch a lot, appears to be one of the 'senior' hookers and is watching the road expectantly.
I recently saw 'Molly' being interviewed on an investigative TV news program about drug addicts in Dublin. Her face was blurred out and you couldn't recognise her on telly, unless you knew the silhouette of her sticky-out-ears. Of course, I recognised her instantly. Halfcast, she has a North of England urban accent. I could see my district in the background of a number of interviews for that show (fame at last).
All our assembled proletarians bar none are puffing on cigarettes. Some of the girls are hanging their heads low. Some are poking phones. Nobody is high yet. It has all the appearance of a witches' coven. Below to my left, a cab screeches to a halt on the quays and the glamour girls are gone again.
I go to make tea and log on. The afternoon attains an odd momentum. Next thing I know, a minute or two later, a commotion erupts outside. One of the younger and fresher looking girls (pale, lost looking, nice enough face, she looks out of place) is having the head beaten off her by a swarthy fella in a white baseball cap and dirty yellow sleeveless tee. He's telling her, "You'll fuck any punter that comes down that street, you hear me!" and generally acting the pimp with slaps. She defiantly gives him back chat. Molly looks on smoking and shaking her head.
I respect the Kid for standing up for her work rights. Terms and conditions. Draw the line. Molly tuts. She's the shop steward of the self-destruction workers’ union. Pimp-features drags the girl around by the hair and shoves her down the Hill.
She doesn't scream but gives him lip. He boots her in the backside. I reach for my phone but I realise it's all going to be over in a minute and the Gardai will take half an hour to drive the half a click or so from the nearest chipper to here.
I don't know about her, but I find the horrible little man with leathery skin to be repulsive and quite the lowest of the low. The other girls are looking on, puffing anxiously. Molly is unmoved.
20:14
Frisk him: Charles Haughey has been laid to rest at St Fintan’s cemetery in Sutton in Dublin. The Taoiseach, Bertie Ahern, delivered the graveside oration.
