Grandad November 12th, 2010
Good morning.
Yup. Half four and I’m not long out of bed.
Back in the sixties, when I was a student, I first started experimenting with my biological clock. I came to the incontrovertible conclusion that I am a night-time person. My natural time for getting up was around three in the afternoon. Night-time was for the serious matters in life like carousing and drinking. Sleep was for wimps.
Now that I am released from the dictatorship of the alarm clock, I have let my biological clock have its way with me. Life has somewhat turned upside down and has reverted to the natural way of things.
My cycle is now dictated by my needs, and not by the needs of others. When I am tired, I go to bed. When I am rested, I get up. At first, I just found my self going to bed later and later. I wondered if it just carry on regressing but it didn’t. My natural bedtime seems to be around four in the morning. It hasn’t budged from that for quite a while now. It means I don’t wake up until midday at the earliest, and more often than not, a good deal later. If anyone wants me in the morning, they can go fuck themselves. It may be their morning, but it’s my night.
It does have one or two snags though.
If the postman is delivering something that won’t fit through the letterbox, he rings the bell. It’s all very well for him, but the inconsiderate fucker is waking me up at midnight.
The main problem though is dinner time.
Those bastards in the takeaway insist on closing their doors when it is only mid morning for me.
Rats.
Grandad November 11th, 2010
I see they are banging on about property tax again.
Eighty yoyos a month? A fucking month? That’s a thousand a year! They can go and kiss my sweet hairy arse.
Will someone give me one – just one – good reason why I should pay it? Everything that shower of wankers in the Gubmint have done to date has made things worse. They are patently being played for fools by that shower over in Brussels. So long as the Euro is stable, and the Germans can get their money back from the Irish banks, then the plain people in Ireland can go to hell. We are being played for fools, and ignorant bollix that he is, Biffo is lapping up every drop of shite they feed him.
I own my property. I have slaved for the best part of forty years to earn it. I don’t owe a red cent on a single blade of grass, and I intend to remain that way. I am certainly not going to fork out a thousand a year to finance some German gambler. I swear to God that any fucking gubmint inspector who tries to cross my threshold is going to receive the business end of a bill-hook. After all, the law states that I can use any force I feel reasonable if I feel threatened on my own land, and gubmint inspectors are a threat in my book.
Talking of books, I would suggest to our illustrious gubmint that they go read John B Keane’s book “The Field”.
And if they still don’t get the hint, they had better be prepared for all out war.
Grandad November 10th, 2010
I have just realised.
I did remember to forget to pay my television licence last month.
I’m delighted.
The old memory isn’t as bad as I thought.
Grandad November 9th, 2010
I have a feeling that this is going to be one of Those Weeks.
They come along every now and then with the sole purpose of proving that life can be a bitch.
I started yesterday full of good intentions. Everything went reasonably well for the first five minutes and then God flushed the toilet and my week really began.
There is nothing definable about Those weeks. It’s not as if everything goes wrong. It’s just that nothing seems to go right. Yesterday, my head was buzzing with ideas for The Book, so I sat with my laptop, and do you think any words would come? Not a fucking chance. I fell asleep instead, and woke later with a fucking headache. That’s when I knew it was one of Those Weeks.
Today, I decided to prove to myself that it was a normal week after all. As soon as I looked out the window, I realised that was a lost cause. It is grey. It is cold. It is windy and it is raining. In fact it is just the kind of weather I hate the most. It is the kind of day that is half tolerable if you can sleep through it, but after all the sleep I had yesterday there is fat chance of that today.
I just know I am not going to get anything done today. If i do try and do anything I will make a mess of it, so it’s better not to start.
There is only one thing for it.
Out with the bottle of whiskey.
Sláinte.
Grandad November 7th, 2010
As found on Irish roads -
60kmph limit on the main Dublin to Rosslare national route.
Compared to a limit in West Cork?
Fucking marvellous consistency?
And you wonder why I laugh at them?
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