Externalised

The External World from David OReilly on Vimeo.

I realise that people don't tend to watch 17 minute videos on the Internet. You can shoot your load much quicker than that. But, should you have the time and inclination, this award-winning film by Irish animator David O'Reilly is well-worth a look. There's also a good interview with him here (and check out the link to his King's Speech pisstake acceptance speech). It may not be to everyone's liking, but it'll certainly stay with you: the "punch in the brain" that he refers to. It's frustrating that an artist like David has to live in Berlin to be able to do what he wants, but hardly surprising. Whenever I encounter people who can't see the value of art and of novel ideas in society I want to point out that even the purveyors of utilitarian entertainments like Fair City must have harboured loftier creative notions, once.

Stella, I love you!

Lacking in words, as I am recently, I thought I would abort all the half-formed, moth-eaten posts I have been labouring on and post, instead, a picture of me staring at my new bonsai tree.

Her name is Stella and I have decided that I love her. I will caress her while my fiancée is not looking and gradually, gradually, I will have coherent things to say again.

Fibreglass Links

Buckfast and cider on Sunday makes Andrew want to cry on Monday.

Right, after that awful, whinging last post about how shit everything on the internet is, I thought I might as well link to a few of the things out there in the last few days that I do really like:

Meadow is a newish blogger some of you may not have read. if she was a footballer people would be saying she's "bang in form right now" and suchlike. We need more bloggers who take the time to properly tell a story, whether fictional or true. I particularly like her three-parter, 'Sam'.

It being Easter and all, here's your own personal Lego Jesus.

Colm is offering to send anyone who wants one a postcard with a specially composed short story, just for you. He's a talented bastard, is Colm, so inundate the fucker with requests.

David Mitchell, he of Peep Show and QI fame, writes a blog for the Guardian that is always highly readable, and often pretty bloody funny too.

Slaminsky's postcard.

Fuck you, bunny.

Sugar Baby

"Your breakfast is ready." She's been up for over an hour now.

"I didn't ask you to make me breakfast."

I am that much of an asshole in the morning. I groan and roll over, without a note of thanks. She tries to rouse me a couple more times before I gradually start to sit up, the implication that I'm doing her some kind of favour in undertaking this strenuous task writ large all over my face. I grunt a little and frown at her. She brings breakfast to me.

POP TARTS!!!

Everything changes now. Pop Tarts are the kind of breakfast that should always be followed by exclamation marks. We never had them for breakfast in my home when they first came out about sixteen or seventeen years ago, being far too sensible (or "poor", as I understood it) to spend that kind of money on breakfast. They are awesome. I recline back in the bed and start munching, crumbs going all over my chest and onto her sheets. "These are awesome," I say, continuing my morning policy of saying exactly what comes into my head. "I had a conversation with my second year class yesterday about how awesome they are. They're awesome."

I leap up and head to the bathroom for my morning tinkle and beauty regime. My hair needs a little fixing - last night's attempt at a white man 'fro has left a few odd kinks in it. I come back and give her a long, slow kiss. Unfathomably, she lets me do this. "Ready to rock now?" I ask chirpily, putting on my shoes swiftly in the full knowledge that she's been ready to leave for about fifteen minutes now. But even she is shocked by the speed of this transformation.

I decide to sing her one of the few songs I know all the lyrics to as we walk along. I imagine she's pleased, though her face betrays nothing right now. We get to her bus-stop and I do my annoying clingy thing. My morning lethargy has made me miss my first lecture of the day and may very well see her slightly late to work.

She gives me a hug and grins. "I need to find a way of getting sugar into you before you wake up."

Rock 'n' Rhiannon

Well, you may have enjoyed her adventures in America, you may have suffered through her misadventures in love, you may enjoy her carefully constructed observations on all kinds of things in life. But the Google chat I've just had with everyone's favourite Welshie, Annie Rhiannon , as she lolled around Rosie's flat watching daytime TV exposes her as the true ditz that she is. And reveals far more about my secret rock n' roll past than you ever wished to know.


annie.rhiannon: have you ever played bass in a band?

me: No
that's an odd question!

annie.rhiannon: yeah I know

because I told my friend that I have a crush on a guy because who used to play bass in a band and she said...
"Oh for GOODNESS sake Annie, EVERY boy once played bass in a band, it is the easiest instrument in the world, even I have once played bass in a band. Go on, ask the next boy you see if he ever played bass in a band."

me: ha
if I'd ever been in a band i would've played bass
or maybe tried to sing, but that would have had most unfortunate results

annie.rhiannon: I actually once played bass in a band myself

me: really?

annie.rhiannon: come to think of it
yes, i blogged about it so it must be true

me: heh, what were you called?

annie.rhiannon: http://annierhiannon.blogspot.com/search?q=bass

"dynamite", embarrassingly I don;t remember the name of the other band

me: nice post
i had one with my sister when i was seven
i was fucking brilliant at playing the tennis racquet

annie.rhiannon: hee

me: our song was called 'Wet and Hot', because it had been a sunny day, but rained a bit

annie.rhiannon: haha that is hilarious you have to blog about it
I'm actually "lolling"

me: we couldn't understand why our mum didn't like us singing about being wet and hot

my brother was supposed to be the drummer

but he was three, and less interested in getting on top of the Pops than we were

annie.rhiannon: haha

me: My mum got very embarrassed when i ran running into my sister ( who was trying to take a pee at the time) and shouted "Wet and Hot just got into the top ten!!"
if it had gone straight in at number one that would've been unrealistic

annie.rhiannon: haha
now i am lolling my pants

me: it kinda ended there, i think

we tried to lay it down in the studio but i felt that the bass was really taking away from my vocals

annie.rhiannon: "Wet and Hot"
hahaha

me: If i blog about it i'll probably just be really lazy and cut and paste this
with your consent, obviously

annie.rhiannon: of course

but are you going to put my HAHAHAHAs in?
probably not a good idea

me: Not as articulate as you'd like to come across?

annie.rhiannon: not exactly

me: Just cos you're all good and proper at blogging...

I'm never gonna win an award, join me in my quest for mediocrity

yeah, the HAHAHAs are going in

i'm blowing you out of the water, Rhiannon

annie.rhiannon: hee, I look forward to it

I'm hitting "refresh" impatiently

Tried it once and then liked it, and tried it again

January 2007.

A spectacular personality clash with a new boss (and by that I mean that I am great and she was an atrocious cuntgoblin) leads to me being laid off from a TEFL job in a horrible school in Dublin. Dumb luck means that I get a new job very quickly that pays double what I was getting before. This also means teaching in a secondary school. Dealing with teenagers every day. Being accountable for my actions. Not being hung over in class any more (or at least not openly talking about it). Moving out of my theoretical 'lad-flat' in Ranelagh and moving home. Driving to work.

These days I cruise around the place like Lewis Hamilton after popping his cherry, but back then I was only learning, and had to drive to work in 'Little Red', my mother's Nissan Micra. I'd drive the ten miles of nasty, meandering, narrow roads every morning, then park up the road from the school and try to find the balance between nervous nausea and too-much-fucking-nicotine-nausea. About two and a half cigarettes at that time of day, I found. I won't name the part of the world I was in, but they were strange, resentful little inbred mountain children I was teaching, for the most part. Sometimes it was fine, but for the most part I returned home with my white knuckles gripping the steering long after I'd parked at home, unable to get out of the car for another five minutes, inhaling and exhaling loudly to myself. Then, ashen-faced, I'd sneak around the back of the house for my last smoke of the day.

I've now spent too long setting the scene.

Point is, the music that soundtracked this time in my life. Little Red, being from the nineties, had a tape deck rather than a CD player. I can rarely stand the crap tunes and witterings of daytime radio, and the place I taught was so remote that you even lost reception from the mainstream stations once you'd reached the point of no return in your journey. So cassettes were really my only option. Unfortunately, most of my tapes had perished when my sixteen year-old misadventures with Bacardi and Coke on a school night had taught me that yes, that feeling in my stomach was the impending return of that evening's spaghetti bolognaise and yes, next time a toilet would be a better receptacle for it than a my tape collection, which included a prized copy of Now 29. My mother's collection in her car consisted largely of Sting and, shudder, Phil Collin, so that was about as useful as a cock-flavoured lollipop.
Fortunately a couple of decent tapes of mine had survived the eruption, including REM's Out of Time. So, I cruelly overplayed this album morning and afternoon, and it became the soundtrack to nervousness, fear of the roads, and fear of the kids. Music often takes me back to a certain periods of my life, and this provides a particularly strong example. I hadn't been able to listen to it since.

I'm a sophisticated fellow who now has such gems on CD, too. I've no stereo of any kind in my car at the moment, but it dawned on me the other day when I was about to undertake a longish drive that I could now play music off my new laptop. Out of Time needed to be reclaimed, to have new associations with better things. So I played it for a stint of my journey and now, just like that, instead of nerves and nicotine it sings to me of the Naas road and new beginnings.

Not easy

A Softer World is one site I don't visit nearly often enough.

I write about sport when I've nothing to whine about

Bock has, inevitably, put up a cracking post already on the Munster vs. All Blacks match last night. As someone who's lived in Leinster the last 16 years, with a Roscommon grandfather and a Belfast mother, I can pretty much claim allegiance to whatever province I feel like. But as a born Corkonian, who once uttered such gibberish as "He's some langer, like" without a trace of irony, it's always been with Munster that my heart has lain. (Fuck me, that was a cumbersome sentence.)

As anyone who saw the match can attest, Munster came bloody close to emulating the team of 30 years ago. And that would have been great because, let's face it, our constant harping on about a rugby match thirty years ago doesn't really speak volumes for our sporting pedigree as a nation. Munster's crowd lifted them to a scintillating display in the first half, and one of grim determination in the second - epitomising the word 'dogged'. Granted, if the All Blacks' out-half Stephen Donald hadn't been performing such a convincing impression of David Blunkett breaking in a new pair of ballet shoes then the margin might have been somewhat greater than the eventual 18-16 to the All Blacks, but this still takes nothing away from the herculean efforts of the Munster men, many of whom were pretty much dead on their feet by the end of the game. Rugby seems to be one of those sports where the concept of a 'glorious defeat' is still alive and well.

I'll finish with a video of munster's Kiwi contingent performing their own haka before the all Blacks did theirs, a couple of minutes that simultaneously summed up their patriotic pride and their passion for their adopted province. Spine-tingling.

Wearing the badge of the chosen whites

Because it's great, and because I'm hazy and lazy today, here's a picture I've stolen from Michelle, who got it from http://www.patrickmoberg.com/

Serendipitous Mash-Ups

Something truly momentous happened today. One of those historic moments where in years to come you will look back and remember exactly where you were when you heard about it.
For as I was driving along with The Brother this evening, sans car radio, he began to sing 'Sloop John B' in the style of Johnny Cash, just as I repeatedly sang the "I'm a reasonable man, get off my case" refrain from Radiohead's 'Packt Like Sardines in a Crush Tin Box'.

And it sounded only fucking glorious.

Comfort

Well, I could stay all sad, but i just found this.

The Week

dEUS at Tripod on Monday night were ridiculously good, playing with such power and skill that I felt both sickened and highly relieved that bands like The Red Hot Chili Peppers sell out stadiums at massively inflated prices, whilst groups as good as this one have to toil away in pub-sized venues, charging 25 euro a head.

Still, the tiny venue definitely enhanced my enjoyment of the gig and it was great to be able to go right up to the front without being trampled on or suffocated. My only gripe was that they threw in Instant Street as their second song, before the crowd were really warmed up enough to enjoy it properly. The crowd seemed to be of a similar demographic to me, with most people a little too world-weary or self-conscious to throw themselves fully into jumping around or singing along. My neck hurt viciously the next day and it took me a while to realise that this was a result of some very enthusiastic head-nodding on my part. The band also had the decency to close their set on another of my all-time favourites. So thank you, dEUS, for the Roses.







Tuesday brought me to the Amnesty International Duke Special vs Divine Comedy gig, accompanied by bloggers of all shapes and sizes. I've always quite liked both of these artists, without being a huge fan of either. So the gig, with both performers only playing a piano and occasionally accompanied by a guitar, came as a reminder to me that in general I like my music fairly stripped down, without too many instruments clogging the mix. Darren and Darragh have both written comprehensive reviews of the concert that I can't really add much to, except to say that Neil Hannon covering Duke's 'No Cover Up' was one of the most emotional moments I've had at a concert in quite a long time.

Tuesday also brought the Budget to those of us in Ireland. I'm no expert, but I would imagine the 50 cent that has been tacked onto each pack of 20 cigarettes is largely going to have to go towards hiring extra customs officials and airport and harbour police to stop an increase in the amount of cigarettes being brought in by the case-load for sale on the black market. you can get 200 in Egypt for the price of 20 here now, y'know. It's easy for the government to pretend that they instigate these kinds of increases because they don't want people to smoke, but in fact it's far too valuable a source of revenue for them to wan t people to stop. Which means that a move like this is, in fact, calculated to take advantage of people's addictions. Likewise, the rise in petrol. We are addicted to driving in this country because our lousy public transport infrastructure gives us no other option. From where I work I can get back to Wicklow in about 35 minutes by car. Or, I can walk 15 minutes, take a Luas for another 15, walk another 10 and then get a bus that takes an hour and a half. I'll stand by my car for now.

Sighing, smoking, smiling slightly (Seasonal affection)

I sit on a bench in a bright, green space and contemplate the murk that has descended around my head in recent times, and the murk that seems to have surrounded many people - if the blogs I frequent are anything to go by.
There are too many things in this life that can cause confusion and unhappiness.

But, today, as I await the company of great people to enjoy great music with, the sun shines blindingly and endearingly, agreeing wholeheartedly with the trees and the people, agreeing with glass and grass, that this is no day for lying around like a tortured soul. Dublin must be one of the best cities in the world on days like this and I will sit and like it.

Am I that seasonally-affected?


Note: This was written yesterday. It is apocalyptically wet today and i feel like i'm right back in the quagmire.

Stepaside

I've taken recently to driving an alternative route home, one that skips the sluggishness and tedium of the M50 at rush-3hours and winds instead through the countryside, past hills and trees and lovely places like Powerscourt. I tried the same drive last week and stupidly took a wrong turn and ended up back on the motorway. But not this evening.

As I meandered along and the sun went to bed in the mountains a golden dog put its head out of the window of the car in front of me and looked to be enjoying the view every bit as much as I was. And I wished my own beautiful brown dog was with me, more than I've wished for anything in a while.

Snoop, Shaving, Bill Murray

Aided once again by the less-pervy-than-you-might-imagine Tony Fenton, last night threw an awful lot of bloggers together through the medium of hip-hop. I could link to them all but it takes fucking ages and shit and my throat really hurts today. The well-being of my throat is directly related to how much effort I put into blogging. Hence, feck all posts lately. Anyway, by the time I've finished writing this other people will probably have put their own takes on the evening up, with far more effect than I could manage. And they mostly had cameras. (There seems to have been a proliferation of shots of me looking pensive, which is interesting, given that my mind is rarely on anything loftier than Wham bars and why Chickatees taste so good when you eat then on a Saturday afternoon). Sadly, Snoop Dogg was truly muthafuckin' awful (muthafucka) so we went back to the pub and bonded over the more traditional medium of alcohol.



Fenton, Green Ink and Lottie all have lovely beards, and I was made to feel quite inferior for looking rather clean-cut. See, I have an excuse though: I had an interview on Monday for a grant that would cover my college fees for the year. I was inevitably interviewed by old people. Old people still tend to have very judgmental minds about hirsute faces, so I figured it best to reveal my baby-face, and smile a lot. I spent the entire interview convinced they could see right through me, that the blood on my collar would betray my face as one that is not accustomed to regular scrapings. But, word has reached me (officially confirmed by a call today at lunchtime) that I've been awarded the grant. You obviously can fool some of the people some of the time. So I'm calling it the 'five-grand shave'; at least until I can come up with something a little wittier.

Anyway, despite the general suckiness of Snoop a great night was had by all. I think.
Well, I had a great night and you're all rides, especially Darragh. The lovely Annie (the non-Welsh version has put her thoughts on the evening here. Given her continuous camera duels with the over-enthusiastic Fenton I expect a fairly epic post from everyone's favourite new blogger Green Of Eye, Little Miss will no doubt give us a slightly surreal take on the evening if she ever has the energy to be up late blogging again, and I expect the Bluebirds to be funny and to fully rip me to shreds for being an awful patronising bollocks for a while. Darren should be too busy masterminding our bloke-blogger (only) Bill Murray appreciation night to write anything.

No Broken Flowers allowed, apparently.

Bolton Brothers

My weekend was taken up largely with the unique form of group therapy that is watching your favourite football team live and roaring yourself hoarse with about 2,000 other eejits of the same allegiance. Doing this on the cheap means spending a hideous amount of time on a coach and a ferry, gaining only snatches of sleep over a 24 hour period. Worth it though.

As our coach reached Holyhead in Wales for the return journey my bro slumbered with his head against the window whilst I used my iPod to see if My Bloody Valentine could make even the back of a load of buses queueing up look beautiful. It seems they can.

I looked across the aisle to see another pair of brothers, somewhat younger than us and with their dad in tow. They must have been about 7 and 14, I'd say. The little one looked about to drop off and leaned towards his brother, who stopped him doing so. I thought this was a shame, but fully appreciated how awkward teenagers can be about physical contact and affection. However, it turned out the older one was just putting on a fleece so his lil' bro could rest his head against him more comfortably. The wee fella curled up, put his head on his brother's side and went straight to sleep. I looked at the older lad and he smiled.

Touched by this, I went to put a hand on my own dear sibling's shoulder. For some reason he suddenly woke up just as my hand was hovering above him. "Ted*, what the fuck?" he grunted, and turned his head back away from me. I looked back over at our miniature comrades. At that exact moment the gaggle of ladies down the back started to shriek with laughter at something. the little fella woke up with a start and thumped his brother in the stomach.

About 5 minutes later I had a bit of a coughing fit, as I seem to have been doing consistently over the past month or so. The Bro woke up, opened his bag and grabbed a bottle of water and handed it to me. He said "I like you" and went straight back to sleep. I gazed across the aisle and saw a small head on a much larger chest, with a big arm around him.

*Ted is an affectionate nickname we both use for each other.

Fibreglass Links

Right, it's the weekend and no-one's really reading, but here's a few things I've been liking this week anyway.

First off, a new blog I stumbled across and felt pleased about: Bowerbird.
Good writing, great images and a nice take on things. What more can i say? Get there.

Secondly, you all know about the Anti-Room at this stage but why do I feel like the only bloke who comments there? It may be written by young ladies but I don't think it's exclusively for them. Or maybe it is and I'm just secretly a giant lesbian. That would be nice.

Bigger and better bloggers than me have given a nod in their direction before but I really love this post at All The Lights are Broken.
EDIT: Oops, I just linked to the site itself there, I meant this post.


Ooh, dinner's ready. That'll do.

Stephen Lynch - The review

Surprisingly, it looks like I might be the first to get one of these up from last night. Darren, Lottie, Little Miss, Darragh and McG (that's right, I pretty much only speak to bloggers these days) must all be busy with 'work' or some such nonsense. or else they don't think that strangers off the internet want to hear about what we did last night. Which is clearly wrong.

Anyway, before Stephen lynch could be enjoyed by a packed-out and madupforit Olympia, there was to be a support-act. 'That's grand,' I thought 'I've seen some very good support acts at comedy shows. The one at Colin Murphy's show last year was arguably better than the man himself. Though, naturally I don't remember his name.' But, bewilderingly, the people behind the Bulmers comedy festival (that'll be the one and only time you hear that brand name mentioned on this blog) chose to give the slot to Ruth-Anne Cunningham. Have you heard of her? I just about had, but only because I read too many Sunday newspaper supplements. And then, inexplicably, re-read them months later, picking up new and entirely pointless tidbits of information, such as the very existence of Ms.Cunningham. She had claimed to be Ireland's most succesful songwriter, or some such preposterous bollocks. So she bounces onstage wearing a dress that looked a lot like the one who brought her brother to her debs wore and trills "Just so you know, I'm not a comedian" in a D4 accent that confuses me slightly, given that she's from Donaghmede. The boos start immediately, though she does get a certain amount of rather patronising cheering as she launches into her first number. It's a Stevie Wonder song apparently, though she manages to bland the shite out of it so badly that it makes Stevie look like Marilyn Manson in comparison. The blandality (that's a hybrid of 'bland' and 'banality' that I've just cunningly devised, in honour of Ruth-Anne) continues with several other monstrously dull songs that she 'co-wrote with this, like, amazing guy who wrote for Diana Ross.' Diana Ross, in fairness, had an extraordinary voice, whereas Ruth-Anne, bless her, is ordinary at best. The missus and I both agree that we know people who could do a better job. Fortunately, this fiasco only lasts about twenty minutes, with a huge roar of approval greeting the announcement of her last song.

We stumble, dazedly, over to the rest of our cohorts when she exits the stage. "Why?", I ask, head in hands. "Well she had lovely legs" offers Darren. No, Darren, they were only nice legs, she couldn't manage to be interesting enough to have lovely ones.

Lynch appears onstage to a hero's welcome, and goes on to fully justify this. His opening song 'Waiting (For My AIDS Test to Come Back)' sets the tone for the evening and it's a riot from then on in. Songs about Nazi girlfriends, anal sex, retarded children, little gay robots and cocaine smuggling follow. All go down an absolute storm, as do his brief musical prods at Anne Frank and Christopher Reeve. It's possible that the Olympia was just stuffed with horrible, tasteless bastards but I've always felt that sometimes the best way to approach a sensitive topic is to mercilessly rip into it. It's why I hate being called a 'Proddy bastard' in a certain tone of voice but hoot with laughter at it at other times. It's why an Indian mate of mine will refer to himself as a Paki and rolls around the place when I start my Apu from The Simpsons impressions. And it's why Lynch gets some of the biggest laughs of the night when he makes a Holocaust crack to his Jewish sidekick, culminating in a glorious reconciliation to the tune of Purple Rain - fulfilling a Prince fantasy that Lynch had spoken of earlier in the show.

Overall, a relentlessly funny hour and a half of comedy, for most of which Lynch was alone onstage. He is a truly brilliant performer, eager to please his audience but strong enough to deal with a number of tirelessly idiotic hecklers. These people obviously consider themselves to be more amusing than the main attraction, but surely the way to prove that would be to get onstage themselves, rather than paying 30 quid to sit in the auditorium and piss off the majority of the audience. Assholes. Anyone going to Lynch tonight is in for a treat, I imagine it'll be quite a different set as he didn't even use a lot of his material last night. Bit of 'Altar Boy' tonight if they're lucky. And I'll be working. Yay.

Update: My mistake at the top, Darragh actually got in there first with his cracking review. His has actual pictures and factual accuracy. It also includes a picture of Ms. Cunningham, so you can make your own mind up about the loveliness/niceness of her legs. Darragh, nice fella that he is, shows a lot more sympathy for her than I do. I suppose he's right, she'd go down an absolute storm at o2 Party in the Park.

Anyone for a yacht?

Sometimes things just come along at the most opportune moments. I'm back in college this year, and will have limited opportunities to make any real cash as I go along. I'll be OK, but money is definitely a bit of a concern.



So you can imagine my delight when I opened my email a few minutes ago and found this:





From Mrs Rebecca Williams
N�[38 Rue Des Martyrs Cocody
Abidjan, Cote d'Ivoire

ATTN:DEAREST ONE OF GOD
I am the above named person from Kuwait . I am married to Mr Benson Williams, who worked with Kuwait embassy in Ivory Coast for nine years before he died in the year 2004. We were married for eleven years without a child. He died after a brief illness that lasted for only four days.

Before his death we were both born again Christian. Since his death I decided not to remarry or get a child outside my matrimonial home which the Bible is against. When my late husband was alive he deposited the sum of $2. 5 Million (Two Million Five Hundred U.S. Dollars) in the bank here in Abidjan in suspense account.

Presently, the fund is still with the bank. Recently, my Doctor told me that i have serious sickness which is cancer problem. The one that disturbs me most is my stroke sickness. Having known my condition I decided to donate this fund to a church or individual that will utilize this money the way I am going to instruct herein. I want a church that will use this fund for orphanages, widows, propagating the word of God and to endeavour that the house of God is maintained.

The Bible made us to understand that blessed is the hand that giveth. I took this decision because I don抰 have any child that will inherit this money and my husband relatives are not Christians and I don抰 want my husband抯 efforts to be used by unbelievers. I don抰 want a situation where this money will be used in an ungodly way. This is why I am taking this decision. I am not afraid of death hence i know where I am going. I know that I am going to be in the bosom of the Lord. Exodus 14 VS 14 says that the Lord will fight my case and I shall hold my peace.

I don抰 need any telephone communication in this regard because of my health hence the presence of my husband抯 relatives is around me always I don't want them to know about this development. With God all things are possible. As soon as I receive your reply I shall give you the contact of the bank here in Abidjan . I want you and the church to always pray for me because the Lord is my shepherd. My happiness is that I lived a life of a worthy Christian. Whoever that wants to serve the Lord must serve him in spirit and Truth. Please always be prayerful all through your life.

Contact me on the above e-mail address for more information抯, any delay in your reply will give me room in sourcing another church or individual for this same purpose. Please assure me that you will act accordingly as I Stated herein. Hoping to receive your reply.
Remain blessed in the Lord. Yours in Christ, Mrs Rebecca Williams.


What a nice lady! Of course, I'm actually keeping the money for myself and not giving a penny of it to any church. But she doesn't need to know that...

I just have to email back with my bank details, etc and that juicy $2.5 million will come rolling in. That's over €1.5 million, y'know. Certainly puts an end to my worries for now. I've always had a soft spot for those Ivorians, the suckers.

Stephen Lynch - comedy genius

Its Monday, and that is a very crap thing. it's amde even more crappy by the fact I don't have an Electric Picnic hangover to gripe cheerfully about. I wish I could sit here going "Ooh, My Bloody Valentine were so loud my ears are still ringing", and "Sigur Ros will change your life after two bags of mushrooms and a litre and a half of Jameson and coke." But I can't.

But it ain't all bad. Tonight I'm going to see Stephen Lynch at the Olympia. Lynch deserves to be extremely famous but I wouldn't even have heard of him if it wasn't for the fact that Darren and Lottie have seen every single video ever posted on Youtube. Twice. I imagine after his Irish shows he may start to gain a little more recognition here.

Here's my favourite song of his. Don't watch if you're in any way easily offended.




Tonight should be absolutely hilarious. Tickets are sold out this evening but are still available for the Tuesday show here. Well recommended. I'd be going again but I have to work tomorrow night.

Which brings us back to crapness.