Tag Archives: Entertainment

The Daily Rant: On Weekends.

Aren’t Weekends great? Don’t you wish you could take Weekends out for dinner, ply them full of wine and then take them home and have your wicked way with them? Weekends are so cool and full of awesome that if an election was held today to find the Supreme Ruler of the Known Universe, Weekends would win by a landslide.

Weekends are when you let your hair and treat yourself to whatever (or whoever) it is that floats your boat. But think about this, people: in order for you to enjoy your weekend, there are those who earn their living so you can trip the light fantastic. So, at the risk of sounding like a party pooper, please respect hard-working bartenders, waiting staff, cinema workers and the bloke who sources your drugs. Without them, your Weekends just wouldn’t be the same.

I’m off to work now. Don’t get too drunk, you hear me?

100 Words, 100 Days: Day 97. On Repetition.

You go to a pub on Saturday night. The music is crap, the singers are atrocious (it’s Karaoke – what did you expect?), the beer is overpriced and the staff are cranky. So much for your night out, yes?

Next Saturday you resolve to do something different – but you don’t. You do the same thing as you did the week before, and the week before that, and the week before that.

Insanity is defined by psychologists and psychiatrists as repeating the same actions over and over again and expecting different results each time. But will you change your habits? Can you?

 

A Portrait of the Artist as a Ticket Tout

So I’m standing outside Croke Park with 50 bleedin’ tickets to the Dublin match, That’s 50 bleedin’ tickets at 40 quid a pop. Work that one out with your fucking calculators. I can’t. I never did my Leaving Cert. The only time I can add numbers is when I’m working out the odds on my three horse accumulator. This is before every poxy one of them falls, goes lame, gets brought down, or just plain won’t bloody jump. The pox-bottles! Anyway, because I’m losing my bollix on the horses, I decide it’s high time to think of an easier way to make money. So, with the Dublin match around the corner, I borrow from Peter, Paul, and the rest of the fucking Apostles, and soon I have enough spondoolicks to bulk buy a shit-load of match tickets from ticketmaster.ie.

You see, I know what them Dubs are like. As often as not, they turn up at the pubs around Croker with nary a ticket between them. Stupid muppets. Don’t they know the match is sold out? And that’s where I come in. Once they’ve had a skinful of cider they’d sell their mother for a Hill ticket. (That’s Hill 16, for those of you who don’t know. The real Dubs will only have a ticket for the Hill. No, you eejit. A real Dublin supporter would have bought his poxy ticket three weeks ago.) I’m like the bleedin’ Messiah to these cretins. I have in my possesion 30 Hill tickets, 10 Canal End and 10 Cusack Stand tickets. Come to mama, you pissheads. 70 quid a ticket, no questions asked.

Only…there’s no one biting. Not a sausage. I’m up to me armpits in match tickets. Not just any match tickets — Dublin match tickets. The only show in town. But no one gives a flying fuck, do they? And I’m not the only one suffering. That arsehole selling the flags, scarves and funny hats has enough left over to send off to the Ukraine and clothe the kids. Now that would be a funny sight. A pile of Eastern European sprogs decked out in Dublin colours, begging on the streets for zlotys or whatever the fuck it is they call currency over there. What about me? What am I going to clothe my kids in? If I don’t dump these tickets, my missus will rip off my head and shit down my neck.

Which brings me to another topic altogether. If the oul ball-and-chain fucks me out, I can always get onto the Internet and hook up with a Russian bride. I wonder if they take Dublin tickets as collateral. I might have better luck next week. U2 are in town and tickets are like gold dust. But Bono? No one gives a fuck about him either. Okay, it’s Russia for me. With Love.

There’s my DART. I’m off to the boozer.

(c) James McShane 2009