Seems drawing badass celestial bodies is a thing I do when I’m drinking. I see two problems here: one, my knowledge of astronomy is fairly limited and thus already running almost dry; two, I can’t guarantee Drunk Colm won’t eventually think rubbish puns about white dwarves are the way forward. So over to you: suggest something else I can doodle. Something that gets a bad press and needs an image overhaul. Something that will benefit from a good ol’ bitta tipsy PR. And please note that you will be paying for the necessary Art Juice. I’ll be right over here.
(Context for the upper half: a bar in Berlin, an ill-thought-out game of Guess Who. Bonus points: German tries to correct my spelling, realises I was right in the first place. WhuPOW.)
Somewhere in Cork, right now, there is a man with 2.6 gigabytes of Van Halen on his laptop. Did Van Halen even record 2.6 gigabytes of material? Who knows! This man has it anyway.
Writes L in Belfast:
If you could live in any century, what century would that be?
I was going to just throw a remark in about what a great song The Bewlay Brothers is, but of course I ended up listening to the rest of Hunky Dory. Huge album, like. Enormous. And what with the poncing around the flat and whatnot, I ended up leaving to go to Supervalu two minutes late, meaning I arrived one minute after they locked the doors. Damnit Bowie, always one step ahead.
Still, I’ve found half a bottle of Malibu stuck in the back of a cupboard so I’m not completely at sea. Coconut is a type of food.
I have had an idea. It’s a dangerous one but what the fuck. See, I have two 750ml bottles emptied out and ready to go for transporting booze to Electric Picnic. My original idea was to fill them with sweet dependable Buckfast… but here we go: what if I loaded one with Jaegermeister and the other with Red Bull, stuck some duct tape around them and lashed in two straws? What we have there is an improvised explosive, a jaegerpipebomb…
The consequences, of course, would be bleak and horrible and I would never forgive myself, but the fact is I’ve had the idea now, it’s out in the open. The choice is no longer mine. There’s a historical imperative in play… simply put, now that this has been posited, someone at some point in human history has to do or have done it. I am merely an agent of destiny.
In certain tipsy corners of the world there exists such a thing as a “hogbomb”. This is a cheap and somewhat less tasty alternative to a jaegerbomb, assumably served on a base of Red Hog rather than Red Bull. It is perhaps the case that you should avoid such things.
Surprisingly spry this morning. No doubt this will change when the last of the alcohol leaves my system. I shall keep you posted.
from banging my noggin against the Free Rice game. It’s one hundred levels of vocab-testing madness! And for a good cause.
Actually, I don’t know how many levels there are. I’ve never made it past 49 (which still makes me pretty smart and handsome if you ask me) and it gets damn punishing. I hope the skinny bastards know what I’m going through here just so they can have their leisurely brunch in the sun.
In other news I remain superlatively tired, having never gotten around to a proper night’s sleep since Batman Weekend. Or long before, for that matter. Still: no time. There’s celebratory Antics to hit tonight, podcasting tomorrow and whatever’s going on on Friday on Friday. I shall trust in jaegerbombs and ProPlus to get me through.
Always the hipster bridesmaid, I made it to the second SoundCheck on South William Street last night. Good times… the genius of it is that it starts at seven, so if you’re working in the morning you can drink cheap cocktails for four hours and still get the last bus home. (Also, one of said cocktails essentially amounts to Tequila Yop, which you will agree is an intriguing prospect.)
I was fully prepared for the music to go completely over my head, so much so that when the deliciously pneumatic opening beat of Closer kicked in it didn’t occur to me that it might actually be Nine Inch Nails. Kudos to the man who threw that on, you made my night. The guy I was with functions better than I as a musical barometer and the sets seemed to pass muster, though for my money they could do with a bit more liveliness if they want to hit proper funsies.
They were projecting An American Werewolf in London on the wall, and while there was no sound I did get to see it three times so I can confidently say it’s the best film ever made. Highlights include a progressively decaying best friend, dream sequences involving what appear to be zomb-Nazis and a puzzling scene wherein some Americans piss off an entire pub full of Welsh people by pointing at something out of shot.
Anyway, to summarise: B+, would attend again. And next time I’m going to take some French fancies instead of just staring at them all night.
It was inauspicious, thank you very much. Not only did I receive some unfavourably unceremonious career news, I also managed to embarrass myself in front of the world’s pre-eminent Discordians. I addressed this by sitting on a balcony and staring into the middle distance while poking a cat with a broom handle* and slugging emergency cocktails.
However. My day has officially been salvaged, because what cocktails they are. Roughly equal parts spiced rum (Morgan’s, natch) and fresh apple juice (the proper stuff, what you might see in organic markets – Fallon & Byrne is a good place to pick it up). What’s it like? Imagine a good lascivious helping of apple-upside-down-cake** wearing a low-cut dress and sweating it up on the dance floor of an jazz fusion dive in Havana. Yes, you do want to try it.
*We don’t want our neighbours to know she’s here, so we can’t let her jump up on the railing. This ruse does assume that our neighbours are deaf.
**Allegedly this is better known as “Eve’s pudding“.
Recent Comments