I’m a Celebrity – don’t shoot me
Grandad February 14th, 2009
Life has become rather surreal since I started this site, and especially in the last few weeks.
I had a phone call this morning.
“Hello! Is that Grandad?”
“It is, indeed,” I replied.
“This is John from Limerick and I just wanted to apologise for this morning, but I ran out of time.”
“That’s no problem,” I said.
Now who the fuck was John from Limerick?
The only person I know of in Limerick is Bock, and he is merely a fig-leaf of my worst nightmares, so it wasn’t anything to do with him.
I know the only thing they do down in Limerick is shoot each other. It used to be known as ‘Stab City’ but since all this Celtic Tiger shit, they went upmarket and got themselves guns.
Maybe John had been asked by a Grandad to shoot someone, and had phoned the wrong Grandad? But as far as I am aware, I am the only real Grandad in Ireland.
I was pondering all the permutations and combinations of the various possibilities, when John interrupted my train of thought.
“Is there any chance you could do the live interview next Saturday?” he asked.
The penny dropped. It must be a radio station.
Then I remembered that next Saturday is the Irish Blog Awards, and I am travelling down to Cork on that day. I told him about that.
“No problem. We can do the interview at seven in the morning.”
Now I know they are a bit wanton in Limerick, but what kind of fucking looper listens to the radio at seven on a Saturday morning?
“Can you make that a bit later?” I said in my best ‘I’m a celebrity; don’t fuck with me’ kind of voice.
“No problem,” he said. “I’ll phone you a few minutes before nine. Next Saturday then…”
Now I didn’t realise they had radio stations in Limerick. I wasn’t even sure they had electricity down there, but apparently they have.
One thing is for certain though.
I’ll be wearing my Kevlar vest at nine on Saturday.
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