1955 DIED: Heart-throb film star James Dean (24) dies in road crash while driving his Porsche, Lived Fast, Died Young, Rebel Without A Cause (Youtube)
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| James Dean aged 18 in photo booth pic |
The side of a hammer is called its cheek.
22:29
Little old lady gets knocked down by a bus on the main thoroughfare, out shopping. Her fault for being there. Due to design choices by street beauticians, it's not exactly clear where the road starts and the footpath ends on O'Connell street. So, there she is, sprawled under the wheels of the No 3. Kind people rush to comfort her, the ambulance is called and duly, it arrives in minutes. English lady, enjoying a weekend in Dublin. Suitcase in tow. While they're getting her onto a stretcher, someone robs her bag. Never one to miss an opportunity, everyone looking the other way, a Dub robs her personal effects. Now she's dead and her family wants her stuff back.
Any bullets left over from The War? Get the freedom fighters and terrorists to stop shooting for five minutes, and a dirty Dub will pop his head above the parapet, for sketch. Did they count the baseball bats when they decommissioned the IRA's weapons? Certified them beyond use? How much grim determination does it take to drive a nail into the head of a baseball bat and later, when you meet someone you've never met before, swing it above your head and beat him with it, hard.
The Decommissioning Body in Northern Ireland assaying weapons dumps, accounted for an inventory of 100,000 rounds of ammunition for AKs. One air-air missile. 250 rocket launchers. 200 tractor-loads of nitrogen fertilizer. 50 barrels of nails. 40,000 kitchen knives. After all the chip butties and cigarette butts, peanuts, glass soda bottles and limbs are stopped flying in explosions, riots and scraps, they can call full and final decommissioning on that. Belfast leads the way in lary shitholes. Baghdad is catching up fast. Dublin is on the periphery, as usual, fucking lousy.
Another body ditched on the sidelines of the shopping centre. The big, brown paper bag shitheap shopping centre, fetid with the stench of corruption and decomposing dodgy deals. Fella in a hood and anorak. Early twenties. Piss poor. Under-educated. Life not worth a shit. Blue tracksuit bottoms. Shot in the head and chest. White stripe. The usual deal.
This is no good.
This is no good.
Keeping it real is no good.
Real is not to keep.
Reality is what to escape from.
Fuck this.
http://www.myhome.ie
I'm outta here. Select: Dublin South.
Ailesbury Court, Ailesbury Road, Dublin 4. That'll do. Not having another winter of big dollops of dirty shite-bearing rain beating on the window and the zombie horde of scumbags beating on me head. The rain I can't stop. The scum I can avoid. No kerb crawlers. We're taking your reg number.
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| Teen dream |
Rifles, machine guns, handguns, explosives. I don't wanna die alone on a grass verge in the city. Let me die alone in the leafy suburbs. I don't want to father a drugs-addled foul-mouthed squat-faced over-weight but malnourished brat! I want a dreamy lithe boy-gentleman philosopher-progeny as my heir. Heir to my vast misfortune.
It's the only way to defeat crime - escape. Run as far and as fast as you can, get behind a gated community. Post armed guards in watchtowers and travel in convoy. Like, larger numbers are harder to attack, its in shensoo, the uwrt v wrr.
You mean Star Wars? Fucking lasers, let me be dead by a laser blast. Now you're talking! In Outer Space! At least I'll go out in flames, free floating. Or assassinated by a sniper's rifle or a poison umbrella.
Regrettably, I'm more likely to get whacked with a brick, kicked on the ground, smothered by bags of rubbish, eaten by rats. Kicked to death by a foul teenager in cheap shoes spitting clichéd invective in a staccato voice. It's the terminus trench of war poetry. Want to find the killers? Check their so-called would-be white fucking shoes for blood. Ha!
- Could you narrow it down?
Check it for MY blood.
Gardai are on their way to the Ashtown roundabout following a collision there. Any more traffic or travel news text us on AA Roadwatch. Gardai are on their way to remove a body from the Navan road. Freefone 1800 784784.
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| Scene of Dean's head wreck, 1954 |
Where's the money? WHERES THE MONEY? He's wearing white socks and shorts. Which would make him look ridiculous, except, he's swinging a big stick above his head, I don't know where the hell he got it, picked it off the corner I suppose, which gives him the aura of a genuine Player in this micro drama. He's foreign, poor boy. Has cornered a specimen of local bacterium with his hire car and is retrieving his cash/camera/documentation. The robbing fuck is too deranged to escape. He looks like oblivion found him days ago. After some minutes, the cops turn up. One of the pigs is a country boy from Kerry. Can't miss the accent. It always sounds like they has someplace better to be than here, like Kerry.
He hops out of the panda car and goes over to him swaggering, starts pointing and shouting at the stupid drunkie who is waiting there for them to pick him up, hands in his pockets, passively, knowing that getting hit with a stick by the Swiss army would hurt more than being shouted at by an ol' mucker.
"You said you wouldn't fuck around! You said it!" Now, me buck, I know you're upset because your team lost the football game the other day but PLEASE hit him. I'm here with my camera. Smack the fuck. Run him over in your car. Do a wheelspin on his head. Oh please.
