Torsoner of Leek

He ain’t dead, he was just trying to fool ya,


It’s Puerto Rican sex-ghoul Raul “Man’s Name” Julia

The above is in honour of his sterling work in 1994 Jean Claude Van Damme vehicle (and deliciously cynical videogame tie-in) Street Fighter. Kylie Minogue drives a speedboat and does kungfu kicks. Where she shouts “KICK!”

And yet Schindler’s List won Best Picture that year. I ask you…

So hello from the near-present, I eschewed drearing you out with a new blog last week as I really only have 3 blogs worth of news per month. It’s some weirdly exact maths. One in the eye for the Americans there.

So my last two weeks have been reasonably pedestrian: work, sleep, wash my little butt-butt, repeat.

My June is sure to be more interesting than my May as it is ramjammed with work travel and opportunities to encounter general free-range madness. I will be hitting Frankfurt, Lille, Helsinki, New York, Brussels and a child on the train accidentally on purpose.


Tarquin needs to put in Tarquin’s earphones, or Tarquin is going to get a clip from my shoulder bag full of rocks. He’ll miss being able to count to 5.

Speaking of trains I socialised on Friday. With work humans. Meg had to sign a form as I’m so close to 30. Still claiming to be in my mid-20s largely for the angry reaction I get. Largely.

My workplace has become insanely diverse after our move into London. We have an Australian, Nepalese, Zimbabwean, Irish (not a clean people), American, Mexican, Serbian (via Norway) and a few English types (albeit one of Indonesian/Pakistani descent). It makes the conversations about upbringing and travel more interesting, but utterly impossible to agree on a setting for the thermostat. Apparently not many countries share the ethos of “Are you hungry? Eat an apple. Are you cold? Put on a fucking jumper. Mark.”

Anyway, after my court-appointed 2 hours of post-work Friday boozing I hopped onto my train home a few hours later than normal. Looking around me feeling pretty much like the Daddy (“you fools wouldn’t survive this crap between 1700 and 1800 hours,” I take pride in lame things) I realised I was in fierce need of a 3P (post-pub pee).

So I wandered over to the 2T( train terlet) and my hand went up to open the door, and for a second paused hovering over the “open” button. The reason is that I know from other occasions it’s possible that there might be someone inside, who didn’t realise you have to hit the lock button to stop toilet intruders. I have walked in on pee-er and poo-ers alike and as much as I may feel bad, I let them to stumble across the stinking booth and close the door themselves. They’ve earned at least that dignity.

So I bonked the open button and lo and behold there was someone inside, but as he was standing by the sink I figured things were relatively less awkward that they could have been.


Because things can always get more awkward.

And more awkward they am.

The chap inside, was a dignified sort. Tweed jacket. Silver hair. Face and torso soaked in thick brown vomit.

Eyebrows raised I hit the “Close Right Damn Now”  button and the door slowly started its inexorable grind across the floor track. I turned away from the mahogany slopshow to an elderly lady sitting on one of the fold down chairs. “He’s been in there since we left London.”

Giving here a rye smile I started to remark “I hope he’s going to lock the…”

I quickly broke off my sentence and smile. “The smell just hit me” I blurted and vanished into the next carriage. And then into the next one. One wasn’t enough.

Moving on, as a fatty-fat (the medical term) I have decided to start running again and have rediscovered all my bad running habits. These include excessive road-gobbing, using my index finger as a wiper across my forehead and then flicking the sweat on walls and emitting a loud “WOOO!!!” when a good song come on and I start beasting uphill.


Images of self in mind may not be as awesome as they appear.

My running started as a way of stopping myself going completely nuts during exams in Maynooth, but it’s turned into all that keeps me being a physical burden on the state. Discovering baked camembert seemed like a win at the time but, I dunno.

The downside of running and for that matter, all exercise is that it immediately robs you of pride in your physical appearance and dignity. Going for a cycle? Here’s a crash helmet and some tender bumps on your undercarriage. Trying to do push-ups? Hope your flabby belly needs some air (as that t-shirt is rolling up no matter your own views on the matter) and dogs will step on your face if you attempt to do it in fresh air.  And running will find the little bit of once-was-food in your system, however deep it might be buried in their and shake shake shake it loose. As Swifty has eluded to.

The practical result being that the last km of many of my runs is spent tensing my abdomen, feeling cold sweat collect on my overheated brow and wondering whether my underpants would catch it or would it just drop or streak down my leg.

I would like to tell you that my track record with these things was 100%. I really would.

In other news, Meg and I went into Weybridge to do our little errands on Saturday . Picking up my bike from the repair store I had decided to bring my bike lock along as I might need to stop in somewhere. Furious that I was wearing it over my shoulder and not in my rucksack, she came out with the following “Do you think you look like you think like you’re a Terminator!? No. Not that one. A Predator!?”

She was right. I did think that I looked like I thought I was a Predator. She’s perceptive.

Torsoner of Leek

Eurovisioner of Leek

His precious few marbles have finally gone son,


It’s Boris  “suspiciously Trump-like hairdo” Johnson.

Apparently the EU was Hitler’s idea. That’s not a joke about how bad this EU debate has become. That was Saturday morning’s fresh nonsense from the people who want Britain to be back “Bri’ish.”

This adopted home of mine (for the time being let it be known), old Blighty has gotten itself into a pickle. After decades of never telling these limies when the EU has paid for their breakfast of jellied eels and kippered figs, or more frequently their major infrastructure projects they have decided they would like to go back to the good old days of the Empire of one. Greater national autonomy? Quite right yon little tiddilywink. One in the eye for the Krauts and Frogs? Now you’re catching on young shaver me lad. An almost definite recession and policy being dictated by the worst parts of the British character including xenophobia, racism and wearing innappropriately thick clothing in warm weather as their swollen faces turn puce with indignation at the unco-operative nature of Johnny Foreigners weather? Bally hoo!

If I’m writing to you from a steamer ship back to Dublin in a few weeks time, you’ll know why.

We had a busy weekend with several visitors, Caoimhe (“Quaver” in Australian), fellow member of TraleeBoyz Colin and my aunt Shena, previously (and many might say hilariously) lampooned in a previous posting. God I’m witty.


For example, imagine if I put some text on this about how “one does not simply” do something. It’s stuff like that that makes me the unassailable comedy genius I am. Also… penis and… fart.

We had a potter about London town, showing off the burg to my aunt including everything from pretentious and over-priced drinks to some winos (winos at least) who were arguing over a puffer vest. Or whatever that garment is called. The unfashionable are basically seen as mentally disturbed in London anyway.

She prefers the quainter side of UK living, the little church roads, an ancient sect of Agatha Christie characters who have created an economy based solely on the doily and endless heaps of scones. Who wouldn’t frankly? She hasn’t so much been exposed to the relentless meat grinder that is the UK on a weekday.

Speaking of, I have successfully become a London commuter drone and my morning trip has become all the more tolerable as a result. I am a semi-formal ghost. Plodding along competitively at break-neck speed for no reason whatsoever and nearly getting my organs pulped by mammoth red buses and my legs broke by waif-like cyclists in migraine-inducing lycra.  I have hit an acceptable middle ground I feel, looking beaten down enough not to provoke concentrated ire for looking like a human lacking the standard self-loathing and moment-to-moment dread of the immediate future that is the smog-greased standard. But with the occasional jauntily-patterned shirt.

One of the powerwalking commuter-primes, sits across from me with irritating regularity. She has a friend who gets on at the next stop and then they yak their tiny snippity pencil lips for the next 28 minutes and they do all this in the Quiet Zone.

Does nothing mean anything anymore? Should we eat people now? Is that fine? I thought it wasn’t but apparently RULES MEAN NOTHING. Kill the Queen? I mean it’s Tuesday and I need to chop an aubergine for the pasta but if we can talk in the Quiet Zone why bloody not!? Let’s march her into Trafalgar square and drown her in the 2cm of water that I assume was weed out by one of those stone lions.


I get a little worked up sometimes.

This pair waffle on about their dreadful families in the most interminable way.

“We took another mini-break last week, the old low cost holiday destination of… Switzerland. Fnar fnar fnar”

<stab stomach, insert fist>

“Mmm yuss it was Kai’s 10th birthday last week (fucking Kai, could you credit it?) some of his little friends came around and we just ordered some of those £20 gift bags. Very reasonable”

Then she put on her rucksack and smacked me in the open eye with her buckle. Worse still, her husband wears a puffer top.

Christmas is coming up in a mere 7 months and in case you were wondering what I want, it’s an experimental surgery that will make me look like a 10 year old so I can spend a week at St Sqwiggins academy for wide-nostrilled squits ruining the lives of her dreadful progeny with devastating quips that will reverberate with them for decades, turning them into vapid adult pill-popping sex addicts who think nothing of volunteering for a suicide mission in a future war that I will start exclusively for this purpose.

Meg and I spent the week watching the semi-finals and finals of the Eurovision. It’s completely won me over since the first time I saw it in 1995, minutes after arriving into a rented French apartment for my first continental European holiday and wondering when Celine Dion revoked her Canadian citizenship to join this slopshow.

Later on in college I stayed up to watch it with a big old rake of booze and suddenly the barely comprehensible nonsense found it’s perfect audience in a chemically induced less-critical me. This time around (as if you weren’t planning your week around it) there was a nude Belarussian having a deep moment with a wolf, Westlife’s own Nicky Byrne (mistaken by Meg for former Man Utd midfielder, Nicky Butt) and a man who was clearly cuckolded by a musketeer.


“Good to see Porthos and Debbie getting along so well. They used to be so close in college. Wait! Where are you going? Debbie? …Porthos?”

How can you not get onboard with that? I even won a few queenbacks because Ukraine won the whole thing. I had correctly guessed that all the hubbub about Russia being the favourite after assembling a highly paid superteam of mega-experienced Euroveterans might wrankle with all those Eastern Europeans who are afraid Putin is twenty minutes away from bursting down their front door and dipping his shmekle in their gazpacho.

In other news, Meg was trying to make a sandwich and over her shoulder I could see that she had picked up the new mustard as opposed to the half-finished one. “The other one! Now shake it!”

4 minutes have passed and she has not stopped dancing.

Eurovisioner of Leek

Davy Joner of Leek

For two arms and two legs, he’s some kind of man.


It’s Hollywood rent-a-weirdo Bob “Phoebe’s Dad” Balaban

He was also a TV exec in Seinfeld and was a Movie Exec in the West Wing. I assume he gets all these roles  because of his raw Beta-Dog magnetism. Little known fact, he did all his scenes in Friends wearing costume above the belt only. Below the equator, he was as openly wafting his mandibles about like nature never intended. Little sultana-butt.

Another week has drawn to a close, with temperatures in the south of England hitting 27 degrees and me being forced to change out of denims as Meg couldn’t handle my sticky-thigh related crankiness. Squeak squeak crank crank. Fart.

Last week I visited Zurich for the day, a major step up from the surprisingly drab Geneva. Not that Geneva stank of turnips and was filled with rusty syringes, but just wasn’t that cubic zirconium level of luxuray that I, the discerning continental business traveller has become accustomed to. Zurich is seemingly the medieval banking capital of Switzerland and visually suggests there are legions of malformed subterranean catacomb-dwellers who emerge from the darkness once every hundred years to steal a child from the “normellos” and make it their King. Legend has it, one of them has returned to live amongst us.


His name? King Robert BallBag-Man. Shortened to…

There was an anecdote I was told about the place that was entirely broth-based where hundreds of years ago the top lad of Zurich sent a big pot of soup down the river to the top lad of Strasbourg as a savoury symbol of friendship. It arrived still hot, showing how close the two cities were in commerce despite their geographic distance. And their shared reverence for the bouillion cube.

Top ten soup story there.

Switzerland is my 8th country ticked off in my current job that I hadn’t been to before but hardly the strangest. Having eaten everything from whale skin to zebra to a crab that looked like he had a beard on his butt, Switzerland is one of the more pedestrian adventures I have had in “the service” but I did get to sit in a swishy (the secretly-preferred adjective of Switzerland) bank and then steal all the branded truffles they had out. For Meg.

She’s a real scumbag.

In wedding news, we are currently putting together something called a save-the-date. Or as my aunt Shena calls it “save our date.” We had spent weeks deciding on a format/font and imagery and in so doing exposing me for the first time to Pintrest. Or as my aunt Shena calls it “Pin Interest.” Our big thing we are looking forward to in wedding planning is the tasting session where we snarf our way through every single dish on the menu and every single wine before collapsing in sugary tears and choosing our menu for the day. Or as my aunt Shena calls it “Food Big.”

She was warned. Read the blog, or be in it. Dem’s the rules. Tell the people.

bob-balaban-04I asked and I asked but he just wouldn’t retweet me. Taste the pain Balaban. Balablam!

Apart from that both Meg and I have remarked as to how little we have practically had to do thus far for this wedding thing. Do a few emails, make a chicken sandwich. This thing is basically running itself. Right Meg? …Meg?

I am firmly on terra-Britannia for the rest of this month but next month’s travel will more than make up for it with Lille, Frankfurt and New York City all on my list. Our trip to New York last year exposed me to both the best sandwich and pizza of my life. Devastating for past-me and every other sandwich and pizza he ate. But screw that jerk! Am I right?

You seem a bit low affect. Not really feeling the level of ardour I’m trying to invoke? Past-me stands on the left in the escalator, farts on people on rush hour trains and puts the milk in first. Now you’re feeling it.

The best sandwich ever came from a countertop at a deli, behind which there was a wheelybin sized tub of pickles and no compunction against frying already smoked meat, cooked meat and probably human meat if the opportunity arose. Walky meat, squawky meat and… talky meat.

The pizza came from a place where there was a maze on the tablemat that you could do with a crayon. Well maybe YOU couldn’t do it. It was pretty tough. But the waiter’s said I was a very brave and handsome boy. So yeah. I pimpin’.

New York will also give me a chance to catch up with big-time Ian “dusting for finger” Prince. A man who when we lived nearby in Japan, rather than knocking on our door, would just stand in the car park shouting our names. The Japanese found his lack of subtlety, “difficult.” He’s attempting to crack the acting game there and as well as breaking into a lesbian web-series on Youtube (as “the hetero in the background”), is starring in a podcast called Law and Porter.

Plugitty plug Law and Porter … I take no responsibility if it makes your ears seal up like Bob Balabans (I apparently cannot stop myself) prom dates legs. I’m starting to listen tomorrow.


For reference, that was a Bob Bala-Burn. Look at this putz. She ain’t putting out Balaban!

The topic of podcasts returns me to the issue of my own foray into big audio podcast dynamite. We are now a full 7 episodes recorded into our ideal set of 10 before we start unleashing them on an unsuspecting world. Having done this many, I have now noticed a bit of a pattern. They generally start off quite professional and respectful of foreign cultures and so on, before I am left to listen to other people speak for a while, lose my mind at this (to others) simple act of humility and patience and start making dinkle jokes in the middle of a history lesson about something hilarious like a colonial genocide or slaughtered student dissidents.

Isn’t history a right old larf all the same?

In other news, Meg and I spent the weekend with fellow member of the ancient guild of TraleeBoyz (an honorrific taken from my first attempt to explain Tralee to Meg using Youtube and finding only videos of 11 year olds showing off their six-packs, flipping the bird to the camera to a soundtrack of DJ Tiesto) Niall. Piggybacking on his rented ride we found one of the crappest towns in Surrey (up yours Red Hill!) and then played crazy-golf at Mr Mulligans Pirate Golf. “A gold dubloon to the salty dog that can prize the jewel-encrusted putter from betwixt Davy Jones’ briny buttocks.”

You can keep your dubloon Cap’n. I’ll do it for a kiss. And a song.

“Leeet meee tell theeee of Davy Jones’ putter.. it laaaay two foot deep in Davy Jones’ shkutter,

he drove it in with oil and butter and thus starts the tale of Davy Jones’ putter..”

12 more verses now!

Davy Joner of Leek

Calypsoner of Leek

If I were to critique, it would be laden with pith,


It’s self-entitled turdcicle Jayden “hugged too much” Smith

Punch it! Punch it in the neck!

Luscious hellos to you on this almost universal bank holiday, recognising the sterling work done by labour parties and socialists all over the world to turn people off the idea of labour parties and socialists. Orwell called them “Sandal-wearing fruit juice drinkers,” and as much as I love me a Capri-Sun, man sandals are akin to murder in my book.

In fact I would go so far as to call myself an extremist, adhering to the Italian rule of no one should ever see skin below your knee unless you’re about to try and “liase” with them. Leather shoes, long socks all the way up the knee and a small firework in the belt buckle to fire as a distraction if your sock should ever roll down delivering to the viewer a forbidden taste of sweet milky man-calf. Disgusting.

If… somewhat ennervating <shivers>

I’ve just seen that it’s not Labor Day in the US. Trust it to Obama to let the pinkos back in the pantry.


This is just what Bin Laden wanted. Exactly like Benghazi + Obamacare.  But Trump will fix all that when… ugh I’m getting a headache. How do people do this on the reg!?

This week the new destination is Zurich. Back in Switzerland, I can find myself getting used to the good life of pre-breakfast chocolates and a staff of domestic help dedicated to stopping my underpanties riding up on me. The point of me being there is all workyworky so is more an exercise in sleep-deprivation than the jetsetting lifestyle of a professional instagrammer. Wait is “Instagrammar” my new album title? MC Baps O’Tittle feat. DaTonerOfLeek. Singles include “Wide Rump Bunch,” “Eat My Chicken” and “Who’s Got The Bikelock (To My Heart)?”

Warsaw, last week’s merry jaunt went rapidly with me not getting a chance to break out my sweet golf style and barely managing to quaff the endless bottles of apple juice that lie on every dinner table there. This weird detail is down to the fact that the Putin has banned the Russians from buying EU apples so the Poles are having to brush their bloody teeth with apples to get rid of them.


Russian apples are so much better anyway

As a kid I remember thinking how Poland would be a concrete slab, divoted by small arms fire and cracked like a kicked biscuit. In actual fact, Poland is very slightly run down in parts but in a mundanely charming way that reminds me increasingly of areas of Ireland. Though the old Soviet architecture, still makes me want to swear allegiance to the politburo out of fear for them taking away my last Russian apple.

It was going to be a gift to my grandchild before we boiled her for soup.

My first trip there in 2010 was my first holiday with the Megger and started a strong tradition of us ending up down holes in the ground. In Krakow there is an abandoned saltmine that they built a chapel in, using rock salt. The Pope was keen on it and went there on his school tours apparently. And not the current Pope, Pope Frank ‘n’ Beans, or the previous guy who looked like a withered panda with a propensity for systematically shielding sex abusers from prosecution. Exactly like that…

No, Pope Jonny-P (the deuce!), who defeated communism while kicking Parkinsons ass for 27 years on the bedoilied throne.


Damn you Parkinson…

This salt mine ended up being one of the weirdest experiences of the trip, beyond the leery welcomes of our receptionist who I think was struggling to decide who between Meg and Myself he fancied more (it was Meg). Obviously feeling that a poxy savoury chapel wasn’t quite killing it in the tourism draw stakes (bloody right too), they had done some sculptures (that is the prteferred verb, “I done a sculpture”) down there, including a bunch of warped nightmare munchkins for whom there was a soundtrack (a kind of calypso enema, only appropriate on a cruise ship in the 80’s where we’re about to go to an island where the natives eat our skin) and a nauseating light show.

This tableau of inanity was preceded with an awkwardly playful intro by the guide who was cleary a frigging oddball. “We must be very quiet, there is only a chance they may come…”

In another devastating turn she walked us into a high ceilinged cavern with a note of finality “Now we do it.” Then she pressed a button somewhere and the cavern lights dimmed. An air of anticipation settled on our group. There was an ambient noise coming from somewhere, was it… whatever was coming? Oh what could it be!? More skin-eating salt trolls? A mural of Popey McGee? Some delicious sausages?

The lights came up. Silence.

“Okay, we go on.”

Since then we have been keen to go back, but as much for the liberal view of day drinking rather than the sodium-heavy tourist attractions.

New low alert. My mother’s project “Raise A Good ‘Un” took another hit this week. I got a saddening reaction to my recent attempt to extract addresses from possible wedding attendees. As I asked for people’s addresses, I got the following response three independent times.

“Please don’t send me poop.”

I haven’t always been able to afford to lavish money on stamps, so this mail-heavy period of wedding correspondence has sprung much fear amongst those that know me well.


To those people, just because you get turds in the post, doesn’t mean I sent them.

Anyway I was probably trying to send them to your neighbour. They’re WAY more fun.

In other news Meg has developed the habit of the “tit-grab.” Apro-po of nothing she will grab my chest and squeeze it hard. When I protested recently, she was angered that I would deny her my “delicious titties.” The game used to be that I annoyed her, but… I don’t know anything anymore.

See you next week, I’m late for my calypso enema.

Calypsoner of Leek