The Day Before the Day After Two Days Preceding The Day Following Yesterday

Firstly (and no, I'm not gonna do this every bloody time) a big hollah to some Very Important People: Gina G (No, not the 1996 eurovision songstress- the other one), T F Wells Esq (aka The Skipper) and, of course, my main man Mike "No Runnin' in the" Hall. Cheers respectively for your support, wise words and whiskey-pushing.

Okay, enough of the oscar speech- I'll save it for when I'm being interviewed by the cyrogenically-preserved head of Michael Parkinson forty years from now. Till then, on with the show.

[Note: The below post was supposed to go out weeks and weeks ago for topicality; but the weather gods favour me, for the snow persists in certain areas still.]

In 2004, Roland Emmerich made The Day After Tomorrow: a movie about a global storm, which highlighted the dangers of climate change about as subtly as a fart in a spacesuit. The film depicted New York as an eerily frozen landscape, Tokyo decimated by giant hailstones, and Los Angeles ravaged by tornadoes.

I mention the above as, for the past few months, the weather in London too has been quite irregular: it has been icier than Nicole Kidman stuck in a fridge in the middle of the Antarctic. Perfect weather for heating up the topic of climate change. I've lost track of the amount of news reports I've seen recently where some talking-head-boffin is going on and on about the damage we're doing all doing to the planet and how the events in Emmerich's movie "could theoretically happen". Jaysis, talk about putting the mentalist in environmentalist.

Firstly, Emmerich is not a documentary-maker; this is the guy who made Independence Day and Godzilla for Christ's sake. And I don't see people scanning the horizon for giant lizards just yet.

Secondly, okay: maybe we are doing damage to the planet, and maybe that is bringing about global climactic changes. But in that case, what brought about the last five ice ages, I ask? The dinosaurs perhaps? After all, it's a well-known fact that Stegosaurs were notorious hairspray-users; tsk, all those nasty CFCs. And don't get me started on the Tyrannosaurs.. Does the following exchange sound familiar:

Mrs T-Rex: (looking into the bin) Ah for fecks* sake...Terry!
Mr T-Rex: (looking up from his newspaper) What?
Mrs T-Rex: Terry, get your prehistoric arse out here.
Mr T-Rex: (folds up The Cretaceous Times and huffily goes to his wife in the kitchen) What is it?
Mrs T-Rex: (wagging a claw at her husband) Now I'm telling you for the last time. Repeat after me: "the Triceratop horns go in the GREEN bin; decaying Compsognathus remains and smaller creatures go in the BLACK bin."
Mr T-Rex: (sheepishly murmuring) Triceratop horns, green bin... the rest of the stuff, black bin.
Mrs T-Rex: Good, now remember that for next time. Honestly, no respect for the environment...
*(Yes, these are Irish Dinosaurs; or DinO'Saurs, if you will)

Fair enough, the above exchange may not have technically happened. Er..ever. But I'm just getting sick of being chastised by all these scientists. It's the environmental equivalent of arriving late to a houseparty and being blamed for a pool of vomit already on the bathroom floor (incidentally, I should probably confess that I have vomited in various bathrooms in my time, but hey mea culpa, I've cleaned the mess). I'll do my best to be environmentally-friendly, but fuck if I'm gonna be blamed for previous generations...

It is widely acknowledged that there have been several ice ages in the earth's history: from the first, reputed to be about 2.4 billion years ago, to the most recent: the cutesy-sounding, but no less chilly, Little Ice Age (awww), which was believed to have occurred sometime around the 16th century. The main causes are still being disputed, by various academics, by renowned scientists. And of course, Roland Emmerich.

There are many competing theories surrounding the causes of 'ice age' periods. The 'snowball earth' theory for example, posits that the Earth's surface became nearly or entirely frozen over at least once during three periods between 650 and 750 million years ago; in other words, before humans first began walking upright. And therefore presumably before they began farming...

Although several people are credited with initially positing this theory (Mawson, Harland, Budyko, amongst others), it was Kirschivink (1992) who first used the term:

"Whatever the triggering mechanism, if the earth had normal obliquity during an equatorial glaciation we would expect thatareas of high latitude would be at least as cold, if not colder,than the equator...the earth would have resembled a highly reflective 'snowball'."

Kirschivink, Joseph (1992). "Late Proterozoic low-latitude global glaciation: the Snowball Earth". in J. W. Schopf; C. Klein. The Proterozoic Biosphere: A Multidisciplinary Study. Cambridge University Press.

Ruddiman (2003) however suggests that, rather than being triggered by human effects since the advent of the Industrial Era, the possible causes date back to early farmers some 8,000 years ago:

"Cyclic variations in CO2 andCH4 driven by Earth-orbital changes during the last 350,000 years predict decreases throughout the Holocene, but the CO2 trend began an anomalous increase 8,000 years ago, and the CH4 trend did so 5,000 years ago."
Ruddiman, William F. (2003). "The Anthropogenic Greenhouse Era Began Thousands of Years Ago". Climatic Change 61 (3): 261–293.

But perhaps the most persuasive argument is also the most hypothetical. As Spector (2008) radically postulates:

"If Mr T and the Fonz were ever to high five, it would bring about another ice age."

Spector, Ian (2008) "Chuck Norris Vs Mr. T: 400 Facts About the Baddest Dudes in the History of Ever"

So the message is therefore simple. Almost Biblical: be foolish to the environment and thou shalt be pitied.

But enough of the serious stuff; the cold snap has not been without its little merits. True, I have fallen on my arse more than a few times, but it's a small price to pay just for the comic joy in watching other people fall on theirs. Schadenfreude? Exakt, mein freund.

For instance, I was down in Portarlington over Christmas, slipped on some ice, and did one of those suspended-in-mid-air-for-about-four-seconds kinda falls, before landing unceremoniously on my arse. Fortunately, I miraculously managed to save the bottle of vodka I was carrying. Two kids on bikes were stopped a short distance down the road, and both burst into laughter upon seeing me fall. I picked myself up, swore at the footpath (as if it were somehow to blame) and continued on. The two kids, their laughter ceased, cycled up to me and asked was I all right- still, I notice, suppressing some giggles. I grumpily said I was fine, and trudged onward through the ice and slush. The two kids shrugged and started to cycle away. Without warning, both then slipped on the ice and fell face first to the ground. HAH! Karma, my young friends, is a cruel mistress.

The Portarlington Fall: artist's rendition

Another perk of the cold weather is that I've discovered a new form of gambling to play in the office. It's kind of like poker, but with snow. In fact, I'm going to christen the game... snow-ker.

The Game:
The premise of snowker is quite simple: you gamble on the zealousness (zealousy?) of co-workers who live as far away from work as you do. You basically take the chance that anyone living as far away from work as you do might actually make the extra-special effort to come in.

The Rules:
- no contact with anyone else in the competition (unless of course, a co-player is your friend, in which case they're likely to be so work-shy that they'd be taking the day off anyway).
- you can only play on the first day of snow (i.e. no testing the water by seeing who the office eager-beavers are).
- you cannot contact a colleague already in the office to check who else has made it in, then come in late yourself.

Any breach of the above rules will result in instant disqualification.

The Outcome:
It obviously looks better to senior management if you, and you alone, are the sole person from your postcode to make it into work on a particularly snowy day. Having said that, your colleagues will probably think you're a brown-nosing creep. The best outcome therefore is if everyone plays and no one comes into work. I am sure seasoned economists can apply game theory to this approach and compute the various permutations, but the main conclusion I've drawn from the game is: united we slack, divided we fall.

In summary, whether the snow brings you images of wintry holocausts, or endless rounds of snowker, try to make the most of it: it won't last forever. Hopefully.

Okay, I'm flatlining: time to call it day. Fifth blog in as many hours; time to unhook myself from this caffeine drip and get some....whatya call it, whatya call it (clicks fingers repeatedly)...oh that's it: sleep.

CB

Haiku-Man

A domestic spin on a superhero classic:

The other day,
I was doing the ironing
whilst watching Iron Man. Weird.

CB

Pondering of the Day....

...does anyone ever pronounce the middle initial in Samuel L Jackson?

Brilt: The Choice of a New Generation

During an impromptu drinks session last week in Camden, Andy and I somehow imagined the unlikely mixer combination of brandy and Lilt. This follows on from my recent discovery that whiskey and apple juice is a popular, if quirky, combination amongst many celebrities; and my memory of the Muff Diver: a cocktail I invented (admittedly out of severe necessity) in Northern France in 2001. This frankenstein of a creation consisted simply of equal measures vodka and milk- and believe me, those are two ingredients that should never be at the same party.

But back to brandy and Lilt, or 'brilt', as it became known by the end of the session. Thinking we were on to a winner with this drink, believing we were going to revolutionise the drinks market, Andy and I came up with a variety of possible slogans- a sample of which follow (feedback appreciated):

• Brandy and Lilt: The Batman and Robin of mixer drinks.
• Brilt: Carlsberg doesn't do brandy. Or Lilt. But if it did....
• Brandy and Lilt: Who knew?
• Brilt: You can't spell Brilliant without it.
• Brandy and Lilt, brandy and Lilt: It makes you randy and makes you tilt.
• Brilt: Come in vodka and Red Bull, your time is up.
• Brandy and Lilt: Liver shmiver.
• Brilt: Because neon-green urine is fun.
• Brandy and Lilt: How long has this been going on?
• Brandy and Lilt: Because you gotta die sometime.
• When Brandy Met Lilty..
• Brandy and Lilt: A Story of Forbidden Love
• Brandy and Lilt- Because vomiting can be sophisticated.
• Brilt: Now with added tropicality.
• Brandy and Lilt: It's like wife swap. With alcohol.
• Brandy and Lilt: Because Gin and Tonic is so last century.
• Brandy and Lilt- Because remember: they laughed at Cheese and Onion when it first came out.
• Brilt- Tropical and Full of Kick: like getting hit in the nads with a coconut.

So without further adieu, rush out and grab a pitcher of the new drink craze that's sweeping the nation.

Now: if there was only a pub that feckin well sold Lilt...

CB

Never Mind the Wuzzcocks

Back in 2006, I concocted this bizarre idea with a friend of mine (Hannah), imagining what it would be like to combine various animals together.

This was possibly a beer-fuelled idea, I'll admit. And in no small way inspired by my childhood favourite, The Wuzzles (1985).

Behold:

Aint Nothin' But a Houseparty

The humble houseparty. Or Trashicus Gafficus in Latin.

I was originally going to write this blog about my birthday, and turning twenty nine, and passing another milestone in my neverending taxi-ride toward death, chauffered by non other than Father Time himself. But then I had a birthday houseparty, and found that to be more fun to write about instead.

I had initially composed a paragraph or three on some of the party shenanigans, using false names to protect the innocent (and indeed, the guilty), but then I realised that such an exposé would guarantee zero attendance at any of my future shindigs. Hence I have prepared a simple chart outlining highlights of the night in question. All I can say, is that it involved one incident of bedwetting, several flashes of nudity, one incident of fellating a champagne bottle, one hour of drunken guitar-playing, multiple instances of people inappropriately eating the faces off each other, and one incident of getting drunk by osmosis (in which the man known simply as Don Gallfinger fell asleep in a puddle of beer and stayed intoxicated for approximately eight hours without actually drinking anything).

(Click on the picture for a closer gander)
NB: The unit of measurement used in this table is octanity, as popularised in the late seventies by Professor Alphonsus Cinnamondo (University College Cork), renowned for his in-depth studies on hilarity.

Suffice to say, it was a bloody good party.

And what made it so? What makes any houseparty so? Is it about the coordination? Is it about the planning?

No. In truth, the best houseparties are like piss-ups in a brewery.

They just happen.

CB out

PS I am keeping this blog pretty much in the spirit of the houseparty in question, in that it doesn't really have much of an ending...

Brendoodles

Here is a small selection of cartoons I did a couple of years back. To say that the humour is inspired by Gary Larson is a massive understatement.

Enjoy. Or not.
CB

"The nose, Harold! Punch it on the nose!"

Reservoir Frogs: Every Amphibian Has Its Day.

And you thought you were having a bad day...

Chick Magnet

"Wait- Myers, you fool! This isn't insect repellent!"

Fecks And The City 3: Feck Harder

So there I was, sashaying around my Central-Park-overlooking, penthouse apartment, swigging a Guinness bellini, pondering the eternal question: is an interpersonal relationship more complicated than a relationship with beer?

Uhh...Yup.

London Crawlin'

Am progressively trying to downsize my blogs (the most recent offender probably being the Six Nations piece, which the lads had crassly redubbed I've Got a Boner for Bono). So this one will be pretty short, and perhaps even a little sweet.

But first, some props to the peeps: to Aradhna, the best banana-bread-baker this side of Mr Kipling; to Lucie D, your alphabetical disco parties are second to none; and lastly, but (and I cannot stress enough) by no means leastly, to the enigmatic rapper known as Biggy-P, who taught me all I know about life, the universe and everything. Peace out.

So to business: this week I decided to flex my writing muscles and attempt a spot of songsmithery (albeit with a little help from joe strummer and mick jones). Behold, my humble ode to boozing across merry old Landaan:

London Crawlin' (Strummer, Jones, O'Brendan)

London crawlin to the multiple bars
Get the last tube, I will in me arse,
London crawlin to Islington,
Come outta The Alwyn, down that Heineken,
London crawlin down St Martins Lane,
The price of Mojitos is feckin insane,
London crawlin see we aint got much cash,
Who said minesweeping was a thing of the past...

CHORUS
The hangover’s coming, sunlight’s creepin in
Headache expected, pass the as-pirin;
The morning is wasted, tis early afternoon,
But London crawlin, I’ll be back in the pub soon

London crawlin out to the West End,
No trainers allowed, only shoes my friend,
London crawlin past the zombies of weed,
Beer’s the way forward, as is ale and mead,
London crawlin- and I don’t wanna shout,
But while we were drinking I saw you passing out,
London crawlin, now the pub’s are all closed,
Except that bar slash kebab shop on chalk farm road...

CHORUS X2
The hangover’s coming, sunlight’s creepin’ in
The morning is wasted, pass the aspirin;
Bodyclock’s knackered, it’s early afternoon,
But London’s for crawlin I’ll be back in the pub soon

Now get this:
London crawlin to the Boogaloo,
The Mixer, the Fullback, and the Church too,
London crawlin all over Clapham,
The first tube home, sounds more of a plan...

I never felt so much alive, ali-(hic), ali-(hic)...

Regaining My Religion

It is important to stress that this is not a blog about religion, per se; to cover such a topic would take more time than frankly I’m willing to spend, and even if I devoted weeks to non-stop typing, I’d merely touch the tip of the blogberg.

Instead, this is a blog about those everyday miracles that make us question our faith. My own relationship with faith has historically been patchy: from birth to the age of about fourteen, I was an unquestioning Catholic; from about fifteen to twenty, I was an atheist (I used to do daft things like wear black at Christmas); and from the age of twenty-one until the present day, I have been agnostic. Cue me wearing a T-Shirt, emblazoned with the slogan, I used to be agnostic... but now I’m not so sure. Boom boom.

My rationale behind taking the path of agnosticism is somewhat dubious: ultimately I just don’t want to be caught on Judgement Day with my spiritual pants down. So until then, I’ll just sit on the spiritual fence, and get spiritual splinters in my spiritual arse.

So, the story- a tale which I have only recently remembered, and dates back to when I had just turned fifteen and began flirting with atheism. The following story did happen exactly as told, and certainly delayed my departure on the Atheist Express, if only for a while. But it certainly means I won't be ruling out the chance of regaining my religion at some point in the future.

When I was fifteen, I had a maths teacher called Big Murph. We called him Big Murph, because his name was Murphy, and because he was stockier than most bears and taller than most giraffes.

Big Murph was infamous in our school for the creative punishments he would dole out to unruly pupils. One story maintains that he once made a pupil stand up on a desk, jump off and land on his knees; this I find hard to believe. Another story tells of him catching a pupil eating a Drumstick (a chewy, sickly-sweet, fruit-flavoured lollipop- not a fried chicken leg) in class, and making that pupil stand in the corner for thirty minutes with the drumstick on his head; this I find easy to believe. And if you’ve ever tried to extricate a sticky lollipop from your hair after thirty minutes, you’ll realise the sadism inherent in such a punishment.

Big Murph’s primary, and altogether more mainstream, punitive measure was the dreaded ten-to-twenty-page essay. What made this punishment particularly savage was the topic choice: Big Murph invariably only assigned topics that were either frustratingly broad (e.g. An Essay on the History of the Universe) or frustratingly narrow (e.g. An Essay on the Inside of a Golf Ball).

There were many tricks to successfully completing the ten-page essay. Obviously, you could write in unfeasibly large handwriting (this was however a bit of a tightrope, as too large meant that the teacher would know you were taking the piss, and too small meant there was little to be gained). Alternatively you could somehow introduce a cast of dozens of character into your essay, give each character a quadruple-barrelled name, and refer to each character by their full name every time.

Tricks aside however, the ten-page essay was no easy chore. I myself was the recipient of one once upon a time. I believe the main catalyst for my essay was a classmate called Greg, who spat on Big Murph’s jacket while it was hanging on the back of a chair during lunchtime. Big Murph found out, and the following happened: Greg was suspended indefinitely from school; all friends of Greg were given detention as punishment for not dobbing him in earlier; all pupils present in the classroom at the time of the spitting were given one strike (three strikes equalled detention), extra homework and a ten-page essay; and all pupils who shared the majority of classes with Greg were all given ten-page essays. So there you have it: punishment by association. All sentences were handed down on a Friday, given all involved two days to produce a ten-page essay on The Manufacture of Table-Tennis Bats.

However, the weekend came and went, as weekends usually do, and I found myself on Monday morning without a ten-page essay to my name. Shite. The wrath of Big Murph was inadvisable to toy with, so let’s just say I was more worried than a turkey at Yuletide. And so, I found myself doing something I didn’t do much in those days. I prayed. It was one of those grovelly, sorry-I’ve-been-lax-on-my-churchgoing-lately, kind of prayers. The message however, was clear: please save me from Big Murph.

And so, the clock struck ten forty-five and it was time for maths class. Big Murph was later than usual, and I could feel the tingle of spiritual fulfilment. Eventually, the vice principal appeared and said that ‘Mr Murphy was off sick, and would most likely be out for the rest of the week.’

Suddenly, my head was filled with legions of choirs, belting out Ha-llelujah, Ha-llelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hall-e-lujah. And the reason Big Murph was off sick? The vice principal explained all.

‘Mr Murphy is suffering a slight concussion after being hit in the head by a canoe over the weekend.’

Not a word of a lie.

Okay, some facts I omitted: in his spare time, Big Murph was a volunteer leader for a local sea-scout troop who, that preceding weekend, had been moving their canoes into storage for the Winter months; a cable then snapped, allowing a canoe to slide off the top of their trailer and strike Big Murph on the side of the head.

Still though, it makes you think.

Dear Lord, you truly do work in mysterious ways.

Amen.

Doctor Who Versus the Sugababes

Observation: I'm not a particular fan of Doctor Who, and I'm definitely not a fan of the Sugababes (well not musically, at any rate) but I can't help noticing the similarity: every so often, the Doctor will regenerate himself as a completely different person, albeit retaining the brand name of Doctor Who.

The Sugababes, every so often, will also...weeeell- you see where I'm going with this.

Watch out ladies: I'm on to you.

Fecks And The City 2: Meet the Feckers

Ah the lads.

I've always felt it was our sacred duty to keep each other grounded and never to rise above our stations. Lo and behold it didn't really come as a shock, in the wake of last weeks blog on Sex and the City (which for various reasons could have easily been retitled Rex and the City), it didn't come as much of a shock to receive THIS in my email inbox from the lads:





















Imitation may be the sincerest form of flattery, but Photoshop is truly the sincerest form of mockery.

Just call me Connie feckin Brendshaw,

CB

More Than Just a County

In response to the low-quantity-but-high-quality response to my haiku blog, I have kept this one a bit closer to home, adopting an Irish theme.

When you hear the word Limerick, many thoughts pop into your head. Third largest city in Ireland. The River Shannon. Terry Wogan. Extremely high sales of kitchen knives.

You may also think of a five-line witty poem in amphibrachic meter, popularised by Edward Lear in 19th Century England.

Or maybe you'll just think of all the knives. But anyway.

Driven by my haiku experience I went ahead and composed one such poem; striving for a theme, I just basically summarised my own being-confronted-by-hoodies-in-North-London story.

There once was a blogger named Brendan,
Who got himself lost outside Hendon;
At hoodies he yelped,

yet they seemed to have helped,
But the fuckin wrong way did send him.

I thank you. Incidentally, inspiration for today's blog topic comes from the one, the only Mr Eric 'almost-rhymes-with-petting-zoo' Pettigrew (who shall retain the nickname of Blogfather from now on cos let's face it, there are only so many nicknames I can come up with. And I'm clearly already struggling).

His contribution- a riposte to the Dirk Bloggler observation- is as follows:

There once was a man from Ghent,
Whose cock was so long it was bent;
To save himself trouble,
He put it in double,
And instead of coming...he WENT.

boom boom.

Till next time,
CB

Little Shop of Humour

Thought I'd finally experiment combining photos with me blog. But what topic to choose?

Shop names. ...bear with me here.

There is a wealth of brilliant shop names out there. In Dublin we have our share; from the tourists favourite, the 'Carry On'-inspired Knobs and Knockers on Nassau Street, to Lino Ritchie in Finglas, for all your textile needs.

However, all of this pales in comparison to some of the shop names in London. I was reminded of this as I walked around London (think it was Old Street) at the weekend and spotted a chicken takeaway shop, which was imaginatively called 'Fried Chicken Kebab Fish'. The fact that it was marketed as FCKF in the same lettering and style as KFC, presumably meant that it was going for the niche, dsylexic-fried-chicken-addict market.

There are too many more out there, but here are the top ones from my recent meanderings around foggy ol' Landaaan tahn..

East: The most non-committal name for a kebab shop ever:

West: Often imitated, and with good reason:

North: Straight-talking taxidermists in Islington:

South: Carlsberg don't do overblown bike-shop names, but if they did...

Any more decent contenders, let me know.

Cheers,
Brendan

Turning Japanese

Another week, another comment about the excessive length of my blog posts. What can I say, I'm the Dirk Diggler of blogging: it's just too darn long. Dirk Bloggler if you will.

But I'm nothing if not responsive to feedback; so bearing all this in mind, another blog haiku. Short and sweet:

Man walks into bar,
Turns out it's an iron bar.
The man, he says ouch.

There. In your FACE Yonejiro Noguchi. Yeah, you heard me.

The above haiku's meaning? As always, best left open to interpretation. But there are several possibilities... It could be a metaphor for man's unending and futile struggle against his own destiny. It could be socio-political comment on governmental reaction to the global credit crisis. Or it could just be a stupid thing that happened to some drunken gobshite.... You decide.

Till next time,
SayO'nara.

Blog Bloggler