Name ends in 'A', life ends in Hail of Bullets
Four people were arrested today in connection with the murder of Shea Barrett in Dublin09:00
2000 DIED: Ian Drury, English rock'n'roll singer, Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick (1979)
10:10
The heavier the brain compared to the weight of the spinal cord, the more intelligent the animal.
10:52
Rang the binman again in the corpo. New day, new crew. Very cooperative but I'm talking to the lower levels. The men on the ground.
10:56
The Gurk, I'm starting to like him in funny way. I like his interviewing style. A guest starts talking and at the end of every sentence he says, commandingly, "Go on." Does this for twelve minutes, calls a break. Repeats.
11:05
Traffic jam the end of my street. Flicking lights and all. Trucks, vans cars. Wingmirrors and horns.
11:11
Someone disinterested-sounding called May from the Corpo rang me back. Did I see any of the builders removing bags of rubbish from the skip? Would I be willing to go to court? I didn't actually see. So she dropped it like a black bag. Told me someone should be around to clean it up tomorrow.
After two weeks gathering dirt? Tomorrow?
15:30
Just dagnastied a vicious looking hi-viser in orange. Jesus, they all look the same, bright and shiny types, from behind when they're taking a piss, but turn around and they mostly look rough, stupid or mean. I take cover in the Green Zone and begin surreptitiously campaigning him.
"Use a toilet!" I dodge down in case he looks up. Peek. Cock to the wall. Not a stir.
Pop my head out on an otherwise dry day so make myself be better heard.
"Do you mind not doing that there?"
Still I'm hiding from him. Nothing. He goes on about his business like a mango brickhouse, unperturbed. Scumming up the pavement with his slick yellow waters. Stinking up the poisoned alley air.
“Ewwwwwwww!”
Suddenly, he zips and wheels.
Ugly face. Stocky and grey-bald. He has two lit cigarettes protruding from his mouth and darkout shades. His shoulders do not move yet his head, it starts rotating and gyrating like Terminator seeking a target to which to lock on.
Imagine Van Morrison as a futuristic cyborg serial killer having a stressful day. That's how mean he looks. Meaner than a Cavan man at a 24-hour fast during Lent.
I pray he's not the litter warden I've been calling for every day. I wouldn't like to see him pin a bag of rubbish to my front door and a fine docket with a hatchet driven through the spine of a rat. Wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. He certainly looks capable of it.
15:46
They're sitting in their 91 shitheap with 400,000 kilometers on it, engine running, listening to rebel songs from the Dublin City Ramblers on high. Must be out on a hit. Is that a spanner I see in your hand or just a cudgel? In the meantime the stench of urine is curling upwards and licking the walls, wafting around the rusting tin and clouding the city sky.
16:35
Just sorted out the rubbage, recycling and left it out on the street for collection, where thousands of cabs are jammed into running rats around the traffic. Bleedin' defrag is on 72%. Taking days. The janitor exploits working men by not doing his work. I wonder if labour unions are developed simply to protect lazy boys.
