A cloudy day in metropolis...

Play.com delivered A Pocketful of Kryptonite^* yesterday.

Cool, what are you going to do with that?

What do you mean - what am I going to do with it? I'm going to listen to it.

Huh?

Its an album from the early 90s....

[blank expression]

...by the Spin Doctors?...

[blank expression]

...They sing 'Two Princes'?

Ahhh! Now that makes much more sense than a lump of rock with the potential to seriously damage Superman's health!

Indeed..... You know, if Play.com DID sell Kryptonite, I don't think they would sell it by the "pocketful". You'd probably have to buy it by the kilo. At least until the "pocketful" is adopted as a recognised SI unit of measure. I mean, not all pockets are the same size are they?

Good point.

^* I used to have a copy of this on cassette back in the day - and I'm not ashamed to admit a crippling addiction to its funky goodness. When browsing play.com before Christmas I saw a CD copy for just €7. At that price Little Miss Can't Be Wrong.

Chain Reaction

The fancy digital display^* on the bike read -3^o centigrade.

At such temperatures the visor is so cold, even the meekest of exhalations will cause it to fog up.

Unable to hold my breath for the entire 20 minute journey, the visor fogged up fairly quickly.

Eager to actually see where I was going, I flipped the visor up exposing my face to the sub zero temperatures and biting wind.

Which made my eyes water.

This water promptly froze.

Freezing my eyelashes to my face!

Ouch.

^* While this may be a common feature in cars, most motorbikes don't even have a fuel gauge. Actually, anything more than a speedo and an indicator light on the "dash" is positively hi-tech.

Wherever I lay my hat

(That's my hat-stand)

"Everything has its place - and everything in its place" is a commonly heard battle cry of the Irish Mammy.

Take Mammy Ambassador for example: When I was still a university student living in Ambassador Towers, every morning without fail she would sweep through the kitchen where I sat eating a bowl of cereal, scoop up the carton of milk and put it in the fridge. Despite my daily protestations that I wasn't quite finished with it as I planned to pour a cup of tea 2 minutes later (and that it would hardly turn that quickly), nothing ever changed.

Evidently the CPF's mother is also a keen proponent of this belief for she appears to have learned from the best.

The only problem is, from time to time objects find their way into the house on a short term basis. The drill you borrowed for example, or the Christmas present you agreed to hold on to because the intended recipient would find it were it stored in their house.

By their very nature these things don't warrant an agreed, definable long-term space. Instead, all you can do is try to find an unobtrusive spot^* to store them. Somewhere they will be fit neatly and tidily without inconveniencing anybody.

So, how come when I find a suitable spot for such guest items the CPF always seems to declare it the most unsuitable, inconvenient, ill thought out location possible and requests that I move it "out of the way" as soon as I can.

Yet, when the CPF places a something in the same spot on a short term basis it is perfectly acceptable?

^*It's always under the stairs isn't it?

The Friday Album Cover #27

Apologies for the lack of an album cover last week.

A hearty mix of an alcohol and boogying on Thursday night, coupled with the room spinning more than is normal for a Friday morning, meant there wasn't much movement inside the embassy this time last week.

Last one before 2009.



Happy Christmas & a similar new year.

Thanks for reading - all 4 of you..

I can assure you, I've enjoyed reading your blogs more than you've enjoyed reading mine.

Joe le Taxi

I took a taxi into town to meet some friends for a few drinks last Thursday.

(is it just me or does anybody else suffer from an overwhelming urge to snootily declare "Home James, and don't spare the horses" when entering a taxi?).

The driver seemed like a genial enough fellow. In his mid to late 50's, he had the accent and the slow, relaxed manner of a man with a strong rural background. The type of man who has his dinner in the middle of the day, pronounces the letter 'u' in the word film and whose car runs on a special breed of domesticated reptiles (pet-turtle).

On passing through a junction where a ruddy cheeked, fresh faced Templemore graduate stood on Operation Freeflow duty, more concerned with claping his hands and stamping his feet to stay warm than actually ensuring the traffic flowed smoothly, I innocently asked a question that resulted in 15 of the strangest minutes of my life.

"Do you think the guards make the traffic any better?"

"Ah they do yeah.... though a lot of the time its worse"

"Riiiggghhtt!"

"What do you think of Operation Freeflow yourself?"

"Well, I drive a motorbike during the day so I don't really notice"

For some reason, he took this as an invitation to chatter inanely about vintage cars. Except he didn't call them vintage cars - he called them veteranage cars. The first time I simply assumed I had mishead him but soon I was in no doubt. He was definitely saying veteranage.

For the next 15 minutes he crammed the word into the conversation more times than one would think possible. Certainly more than was strictly necessary. It was quite clear that we (or rather he) was talking about vintage cars - yet he still felt the need to qualify, just in case there was any doubt, that he was referring specifically to vintage cars. Or veteranage cars if you will.

He told me how he was a big fan of veteranage cars, how his family and friends were all veteranage car enthusiasts and how he loved spending his Sunday afternoons on veteranage car runs.

To underline his love of veteranage cars, he proudly informed me he is a member of the Irish Veteranage Motoring Association.

"You know", I thought "I think you'll find it's the Irish Vintage Motoring Association. I know that AND I'M NOT EVEN A MEMBER".

Finally, he told me about some American veteranage car dealers who, through the Irish Veteranage Motoring Association, were put in touch with a veteranage car loving friend of his. His friend, he assured me has an extensive collection of veteranage cars which he keeps in what, according to his description, resembles a small aeroplane hanger.

Well, when the veteranage car dealers saw his veteranage car loving friend's collection of veteranage cars they were so impressed they offered €10 million to buy them on the spot.

"€10 million" I said, trying to sound sufficiently impressed, "they must be pristine.

"No", he replied "they're his".

Mr cab driver don't like my kind of skin

From breakingnews.ie

Supermarket refuses Adolf Hitler cake request

The father of three-year-old Adolf Hitler Campbell called for more tolerance after a New Jersey supermarket refused to produce a birthday cake with the child’s full name written on it.

Heath Campbell and his wife, Deborah, are upset not only with the decision made by the ShopRite store, but also with angry internet postings in response to a newspaper article about the cake.

Heath Campbell, 35, said people should look forward, not back, and accept change.

“They need to accept a name. A name’s a name. The kid isn’t going to grow up and do what (Hitler) did,” he said.

After ShopRite refused the request for the cake as inappropriate, the Campbells got a cake decorated at a Wal-Mart in Pennsylvania, Mrs Campbell said.

About 12 people attended the birthday party on Sunday, according to Mr Campbell.

Mr Campbell said he named his son after Adolf Hitler because he liked the name and because “no one else in the world would have that name.”

He said his ancestors were German and that he had lived all his life in Hunterdon County, New Jersey.

The Campbells’ other two children also have unusual names: JoyceLynn Aryan Nation Campbell turns two in a few months and Honszlynn Hinler Jeannie Campbell will be one in April.

Mr Campbell said he named his son after Adolf Hitler because he liked the name and because “no one else in the world would have that name.”

It amazes me that there are still people like this in the world.

It astounds me that such people are allowed to breath (No typo here my friend - although stopping them breeding would be a good start).

It befuddles me that (presumably) a desk jockey for the state processed a birth cert bearing the proposed name for the child.



Hurrah for ShopRite though!

Red and yellow and....

"Something pink"....

... is what the CPF's nephew said when asked what he wanted for Christmas.

Despite additional interrogation by his parents, no further details were forthcoming.

Best of luck with that one then!