Monday, October 03, 2005

48 Hours

Decided to leave Cork with a bang and I'm still suffering the consequences of forgetting what damage bangs can do. It started gently enough - going to see Jason Byrne in the Comedy Club - but it then turned into staying up the entire night talking shite (although I had the, er, sense to stop boozing 'round 3am). The problem then was it was now 9am, I still hadn't been home, I had to drive back to Dundalk and I didn't want to miss the Liverpool v Bigger Bunch of Cnuts than Man Yoo match.

Cue savage amounts of coffee and a fry-up in town, a bus back to my gaff, shit, shower 'n' shave and I'm on the road by 11. Amazingly, I got home relatively easy in one piece by just after three, and went straight out for the game. Really, why did I bother? Even if Man Yoo and Toffee fans would loathe to admit it, Liverpool are England's last bastion of football as it used to be and as most supporters prefer it. The Gooners push them close but Liverpool are the epitome of a family owned club supported by the sons of the city. Man Yoo have been slaves to the stock market for years (despite recent protestations) and the market has been good to them, even if it looks like it may hinder them now. And Chelsea? Well, what can I say that no one else hasn't?

So by now I'm up about 33 hours and heading home for dinner with the folks. I'm blessed - both my parents are excellent cooks. My mind is starting to wander though. I go to put on a new jumper but the tag is one of those little rope and cardboard things that's tied way too tight on the label. I struggle with it for about ten minutes (getting scissors doesn't occur to me) and wonder how they get the damn things on. I assume some sort of machine does it automatically but then I wonder what kind of freak invents a machine to tie bits of rope to people's clothes...

I want to go to bed but I feel guilty, my folks would understand, of course, but last weekend when I was doing my round of goodbyes they hardly saw me. So I stay up and watch the outstandingly crap Shaft (new version) on RTE. I head for the leaba at about midnight and... can't fucking sleep. Wtf. I try reading, then get up and watch more TV (a full episode of Sharpe on UK Gold, the battle scenes are so shit!) I eventually get to sleep at 5am and am up by 10 this morning. Today's my last day before I'm Connecticut bound and I've things to sort out. Not quite 48 hours, but about 42.

I'm flying business class tomorrow - Dublin to Boston. I like flying business class. I'm normally on my own and am flying on my own time. The suit beside me, therefore, will regard me with slight puzzlement in my "stressed" denims and Clash t-shirt (a nice big print of Paul Simonon smashing his bass in Madison Square Garden, I think it was). My mind is still acting up. I've taken two notions this morning - one to give up drink 'til Christmas (but I'll make an exception when I meet Dermo) and, two, to let my hair grow (I normally buzz myself a No. 2 every weekend). I'm going to look like a microphone.

Was any of that coherent? Feel free to wonder what, exactly, the point of all that was.

Quote Of The Weekend - "There was an empty seat next to me, Kilbane could've been sitting in it" - An unfortunately anonymous Toffee on MotD2.
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