Strange times in the world of Irish blogging. One of my favourites, National Disgrace, seems to have hung up his keyboard in order to do something more constructive with his days.

Shame really. I liked Disgrace. He was a genuinely funny cunt, and from reading his stuff, I got the impression that we were both pretty much in the same boat (or at least both floating down the same polluted river of hate and resignation on some kind of poorly constructed raft) with regards the state of our personal lives over the past year or so.

He also said that himself and Fake Empire (who also seems to have fallen of the face of teh intarwebz) cheered loudly when my name was read out during the nominations of the Blog Awards last year too, which pleased me no end. At least it wasn’t just me Rosie and Rua then.

I once threatened to give up this lark too, but comments from Disgrace (among many others) persuaded me not to.

You see, this blogging thing is a bit of a pain in the hole. There is a certain amount of pressure to keep posting every day. And there’s a certain amount of pressure to make sure it isn’t shit, both on your part and on the p- WILL YOU SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH YOU POLISH FUCKING TRAMP!!!!* -art of your readers.

I cut down the amount of posts I made, and in doing so, watched my readership drop off somewhat. It’s to be expected. I don’t mind. However, I also stopped reading other blogs that I actually liked, and stopped commenting in general on other sites.

Apathy was the word of the day for many days in a row.

I recently clicked the link to Sinead Gleeson’s site only to find out that she’d given up blogging for good about 6 weeks ago.

I visited Twenty’s site for the first time in ages and saw that he had a whole new layout.

Rosie’s page had changed beyond all recognition, and she now seems to have a finger in more pies than some kind of gormless waiter.

Speaking of which, I haven’t read Manuel’s site in aaaaages. And that was one of my favourites too.

There’s others too - basically everyone in my links is someone that I used to read at least one a week. And for some reason I just didn’t anymore.

Then, the other day, something happenned. A CD fell through my letterbox. Addressed to One For The Road.

‘Hmmm,’ I thought. ‘Could this be the missing CD that Nay forgot to send me for winning her competition last month?’

Alas, no. Although I have every faith that it will arrive eventually, cos she’s cool like that. I mean, she did send me the CD case. And a red lolipop. Om nom nom nom.

It was the summer edition of the Sounds Of The Red Scrapbook, all the way from Rome. I never even asked for it, because I hadn’t read the site - another one of my favourites - in fucking donkeys.

It got me thinking. While it is totally anal and nerdy, there’s a real sense of community involved in blogging. Much more so than on Facebook or Bebo or any of those other pointless excercises in ’social networking’.

I mean, it’s one thing looking at pictures of people you already know and leaving banal, tedious messages on their ‘wall’ for other people you both know to read.

It’s another thing totally for someone that you’ve never met, and probably never will meet, and who you are only aware of because you like the way that they string letters and words together in a style that interests and amuses you, to get up at the crack of dawn in another country, carefully choose a load of tracks for the summer, burn a shitload of CDs, and post them all accross the planet for your aural pleasure.

Without even having to. Thanks Red.

So I’ve decided to stop treating this blog as a pain in the hole, and to treat it with the respect that it, and anyone who reads it deserves.

After my impending birthday weekend of drunken debauchery, I’m going to try harder. I promise.

*sorry about that. But I’m getting seriously pissed off with that fucking loudmouth bint and her squaking cabbage child roaring outside my window every fucking day. And as for the husband…if I hear any more 330Bpm europop blaring in my window as he cleans out the inside of his heap of shite 93 D Toyota Corolla again, I think I may just kill him.

And those mouthy fucking Dubs can shut their hole too. How about fucking WALKING closer to the person you want to talk to instead of standing in front of someone elses open window and roaring athem from 30 yards away you subhuman fucking jarbrained scumbucket. How about instead of letting you skanger kids run wild in a fucking carpark every evening you actually take them 20 yards accross the road to the fucking park?

Eh? Seems like I’m back already. Good job I got all the gayness out of the way first. I feel like a new man.

]]> http://oneftroad.wordpress.com/2008/07/24/i-have-seen-the-light/feed/ oftroad http://oneftroad.wordpress.com/2008/07/23/one-more-nail-in-the-coffin/ http://oneftroad.wordpress.com/2008/07/23/one-more-nail-in-the-coffin/#comments Wed, 23 Jul 2008 17:40:14 +0000 oftroad http://oneftroad.wordpress.com/?p=510

31.

Fucking hell.

Thats the worst one yet.

The new Batman fillum is out later on this week, featuring Keith Ledger (RIP in peace Keith) as the Joker in what is apparently the greatest performance by any actor in any role since the history of time even including Colin Farrell in SWAT and we all remember how good that was because he was nominated for an IFTA so it must have been deadly.

However, instead of The Dark Knight being the best film in the world of all time which it undoubtedly is even though no-one has seen it yet but it must be because the main guy is brown bread like that fella out of the Crow a few years ago which was really shite in hindsight but everyone at the time said it was mega brilliant just because he was a goth and his dad was Jackie Chan, this is what the script could have been like.

Michael Bay, director of such classics as ‘Formulaic Hollywood Blockbuster 2′ and ‘MegaRobots From Space With Hot Chicks Washing Cars’, would possibly have written something like this.

The Clarence hotel is going to look equal parts shit and ridiculous.

Just like U2.

Anyone who thinks otherwise is a braindead cunt.

Like U2 fans.

Why one egomaniac’s desire to let the world know that he owns a hotel should result in a blight on an otherwise fantastic Victorian city skyline is beyond me.

Today I think I officially grew up a little bit. Two weeks shy of my 31st (eek!) birthday, I have decided to ditch my trusty backpack for once and for all.

I must admit that I felt a twinge of sadness as I chucked it into it’s final resting place in the corner of a wheelie bin around the back of my appartment. We’d been through a lot, that bag and I.

I bought it in Austria about 3 years ago with my then girlfriend on our whistle stop tour of Europe. It was well cool. It even had a little rubber slot on the front pocket for your headphones to come through.
It had accompanied me on every single weekend away since, both home and abroad, it had come on my daily trips to and from every job I’ve had in the time that I’ve had it.

It’s carried ridiculous amounts of cans both two and from parties. It’s carried more than it’s fair share of milk and sliced pans, toilet rolls and butter on my infrequent and reluctant forays down to the local Dunnes of a Saturday morning.

It’s been like a sleeping bag for my walkman, discman, minidisc player and my MP3 players. I knew it inside out.

It’s been to festivals in various countries, it’s been stuffed with jackets and used as a pillow, and as a cushion on long train journeys.

But today I ended it all.

I felt like a bit of a prat with a backpack at my age. I’m not a skateboarder. Never will be. Nor a snowboarder as that spell in Austria showed. Also, it’s fucking akward. Every time you put something in it, no matter how small, you have to take the bastard off. This usually results in your earphones being ripped form your lugs and on a couple of occasions, being trod upon on some shop floor or other. And you can never find anything like your keys or phone within in it’s dark and cavernous interior.

It’s also fucking manky.

At gigs, you really notice how cumbersome it is. You can’t squeeze past anyone. You get in people’s way. You are ‘the cunt with the rucksack’.

Pubs don’t like them either. Bouncers are suspicious from the get go, barman eye you up to make sure you’re not pilfering their precious Hoegarden glasses, and airport and transit police think you’re a terrorist.

So today, I’d decided that enough was enough. I’m no longer the cunt with the rucksack. I’m now the beardy ponce with the manbag.

It’s not a manbag. It’s a satchel really. Made of canvas with big leather and metal straps and buckles and that. Like someone in the army might have. If they were gay.

So we’ll see how it goes.

Chapter 31 of my life starts here.

I wonder if it’s big enough to hold my testicles…

You have to stick with this one, it’s very hard to understand. They’re from Dundaaaaaaaaaaaaaalk you see.

But it’s worth it for the totally justified put down at the end.