Babkoner of Leek

About her freshwater kin, I’ll cast no aspersions,


Or she’d poison my IrnBru, it’s Nicola “our only hope” Sturgeon!

I decided to use my opening photo reference for good rather than… well not evil but mocking nonsense as is my norm. I kinda need to keep leaders of other countries sweet right now. You already know why.

So my monthly unblogged weekend has passed and thusly my blog gland drippeth (forsooth!) with what I can only assume is hilarious anecdotes, quippery and the very height of befuddlery that I have cobbled together to call my human life.

Life bit the first! Last Saturday I woke with a start to see that my car to the airport was waiting already outside my door. Due to an alarm-setting malfunction (lack of doing the thing) I slept through to the minute I was meant to leave for the airport to head to New York, but being the canny traveler I am I leave loads of time for such foolishness and made it to the airport after taking the retrospectively merciful move to take a quick shower. The overnight humidity these past weeks has my morning plums as ripe as a doonbuggy on a Lousiana corncob. Apologies, I’ve been talking to Americans for a few days. That’s how they all talk.


“I been bucking like a hoohaa on the 4th of July eatin’ mah backtack ‘n’ scrapple and doin’ the Charleston on a cottonpick.” – 21st President of the United States Chester A. Arthur (pictured)

After arriving at the airport and getting my newly refreshed plums pawed at by mayor of the gropetown, I was into the building and after demolishing some stale pastries I got onto my plane only to realise that the fools had bumped me like a late dinner reservation to the waft zone by the toilets. But in this case, the Bidness Class toilet! Victoire! Yes as a governmentally-acknowledged fancy boy, they planted me into a full reclining seat with all the modcons including champlane, air d’oeurves before my meal (just one more, keep it going Marky-boy, that’s my new nickname for myself BUT NO TIME FOR THAT NOW) and a really, nice… jet towel? For my neck. Oh no. I’m sorry.

My first two days in NYC, were both hot and chafy but heightened by the presence of one Ian Prince, a former Japan inmate (no really it was great(no really it was a prison of the body AND the mind (beanpaste as a dessert made to look like chocolate!? (these are just some words to have a quadruple bracket closing off my bloggy bucketlist)))).

We sauntered around like cocks of the walk, perusing the finery and giving our heart valves over to a strict and strenuous regimen of alcohol, pork and salted salt. The Americans really know how to destroy an organ legally and with utmost, albeit short-lived enjoyment. In this vein (and still in my veins) was a fresh and sugar soaked chocolate babka.


If that specifically New York confectionary sounds familiar. Congratulations/commiserations, we are kin.

It glistened in the afternoon sun, steamed with just-baked sweetness and bounced off the disgusting New York Union Square pavement as we dropped half of it and tasted even better when we picked it back up and continued eating. It was insane. Calories easily in the thousands. Shame in the millions. I want one! (tears off t-shirt Hulk-style to reveal a flabby wrinkled torso, babka flakes suspended in my man-breast-fluff).

I regret nothing.

We continued the food tour to include the birth of New York hipsterdom in Brooklyn. As they say in New York, you can’t spell Brooklyn without… all the letters. And some education. A pen. Or a mouth. It’s a nice spot. Brooklyn!

Inspired by this brush with trendiness I also engaged in several highly trendy behaviours.  One such move (I call things I do “moves” now, it’s trendier that way) I went to watch Ferris Bueller in a park in Manhattan, swigging Cava from a communal bottle and trendily mixing up Mia Sara with Mia Farrow. Easily done, but one of these didn’t stumble upon the creepy fact that her boyfiend (no typo, typno) Woody Allen was shtupping her young  (and I mean YOUNG!) adopted daughter.

Director Allen and his wife Previn pose at premiere of "To Rome with Love" in Los Angeles

How could he… resist? And of course his appeal is. Obvious. <leaves room>

Another trendy move (it’s already passé to call it that) was to go to a house party in Harlem. As we approached the house there was a lot of shouting and policey lights in the area we were heading to but we veered hard right before anybody did any crimes to this simple country lad. Instead we had a boozey cheese sandwich party, where we discussed theatre, publishing and the complexities of the nomad life. I’m also pretty sure I straight up weed on her floor. New York rules are that New York Rules! And pee goes eeeverywhere.

In other news… Brexit. I need to stop talking about it or I’m going to get both sad and angry for the umpteenth time since the turd-gobblers that constitute 52% of the voting UK public pulled back their dribble-soaked “Britain First” bedspreads and smeared their democratic contribution to the world across the walls of their padded voting booths. And I will stop talking about it after this one spindly point. 52% of people did a dumb thing, but this thing has been coming for a while. This place is way more f’d than people thought, me included (though perhaps I should have known better and assumed worse) and if there is any positive to come from this squirt-fight liquid dumbness it is as a warning to others. US, Ireland, anybody anywhere that cares about where they live (an admittedly long list) look at what’s happened and rid yourself of complacency. Real bad stuff can happen and on recent evidence, it bloody well will.

I can hear Meg sleeptalking upstairs. “I’m not an expert!!” Might be time to give her a break on discussing this blighted land.

Creme brul-hey-that guy’s on an airplane? Naw, you should go, this ain’t getting better.

Babkoner of Leek

Hoolahoner of Leek

He’s drained the last drop from the handsome cannister,


It’s Meg is leaving me for Jaime “One-Armed Bandit” Lannister

I did that to him. Hands (or hand) off my woman Lannister! I’m a real toughy.

In the past week I wasn’t home a great deal, but Meg wasn’t as put-out as she has been on other occasions. Our internet has been upgraded and her normal stream of social media accounts of dogs (Dean the Basset, Kip the Corgi et al) has been sped up ot the point that the most familiar version of her to me is just her forehead appearing over the laptop screen with eyes melting with compassion, an audio track of Benny Hill over the sound of dogs farting on their owners with her cooing and muttering how “they’re gonna be sleepy.”

Estimate about an 8% chance I am going to wake up sewn into a dog costume.

There has been a lot of moving about for me in the last while, requiring many trips to the dry cleaner. It may or may not surprise you but I am not a tidy one. Meg refers to it as “the hurricane”, my old Mater “the bomb” but the reality is I like to have things to hand in case I want to use them. All the things. This lack of strict rules on what goes where extends to my clothing. In my paradigm for example, food goes on clothing especially cooking oil or any kind meaty grease. It just feels right to me.


As the internet proves, the list of things that people think “feels right” is long indeed.

This constant need for new, unbuttered shirts has meant I have had to change dry cleaner to someone on my commute in to London. He’s a bit enthusiastic. I mean, I’ll judge him on how he deals with my stinkables but I’ll still harbour a hard to shift suspicion he sucks all my buttons before they go in the machine.

Who thinks like that? What a sicko.

Part of my travels (or… travails, eh?) led me this week to an area named after the proposition that the underworld was poorly built and is starting to list and recede into the ground. Helsinki (eh?), capital of the Finnish (how do they know when they’ve started? … no f you!)nation. It might be stretching it to call it the Paris of the Northly-East but it had lots of weird islands, an endless amount of inner-city coastline and safe, pretty streets.

After walking around for an hour to stomp off the grog of a three hour flight and a heavy (Warren) buffet, I attempted to purchase a single beer to bring back to my room to accompany me as I read about warcrimes in little own areas of the world (podcast prep is such sour sorrow), but it was 21:12 in the evening so by the ancient laws of Fingerland, I was s out of luck. It’s a similar rule in Ireland of course, (we get an extra 48 minutes to collect our necessary poisons for the night) but it’s a little known part of the Fiendish stereotype that they have a fearsome rep for the “raising of the wrist.” Indeed Findus (crispy pancakes) are famed for their general tough guy attitudes.


Ladies and Gentlemen, please stand for The President of Finland! Play the song… I dunno.      Maybe the Nokia ringtone?

There was a champion sniper back in the war known as the “White Death” who killed 505 Soviets in 100 days, who stayed off the radar by literally eating the snow to stop his breath being seen. I am now regretting my pancake joke. I even got to see a bit of the inland of the country (spoiler alert, a lot of trees and colder than a witches tit) but I was on the clock so I didn’t get a lot of exploring time. I did notice that their normal type of water is fizzy though, so that’s pretty ritzy.

Earlier in this same past week I was in Lille when a massive thunderstorm hit and it planted me underground in a tunnel for an hour and a half while I deeply contemplated breaking my already rather dented diet in an orgy of chunky KitKats and mini-tubs of Pringles.

We had been holed up in Lille station for a while before we were due to leave. Standing outside the magazine store, my eyes were innocently drawn to the single graphically-covered pornographic magazine (I mean well done to her but I don’t imagine her parents are putting it in the Christmas letter) as being out of place amongst the magazine covers of ugly men holdong large fish and buff people glistening like they’ve been “into the margarine.” As goes the phrase.

I wasn’t glaring at it like a weirdo, I just regarded the strangley French scene long enough for me to witness a typical continetal business type guy (so much heavily gelled blonde hair) march right up ot the sole bastion of smut on the rack and to flick through, nodding appreciatively.


Pictured: almost, everyone in their gross inside creepo minds. Especially you!

In other news Meg and I are both dieting. This has effected me in that I have become really emotional about the Ireland’s performance at Euro 2016. When Hoolahan scored I was watching on my phone and as a queue of miseable Londoners bought train tickets, I walked out in front of traffic screaming:

It has made me particularly excited about this coming weekend I fly out to New York city, for only the 4th time in my increasingly not young life. I shall be breaking my fast with a sandwich so hedonistic it makes Rick James dip his wick in holy water lest it get pecked off by ravens.

Meg on the other hand has just straight up lost her mind.

In real time, seconds ago:

“I want to get crunk with it. Crunk on it. Everybody crunk. If you break a biscuit into two it’s like you got two biscuits.”

I think when I go to New York, biscuit number two is in serious peril.

Hoolahoner of Leek

Bomboclodoner of Leek

Her film career I’m afraid is in the tank,


It’s Oscar award winner Hilary Swank

What…? What is it? Oh yeah, I’m an arsehole.

This past week livened up a bit with a flying trip to Frankenfurter, well known airport stopover and home to several banks that sound like they would crotch-punch your grandma if they caught her eating figs. All the lads, like Landesbank Hessen-Thuringen, DZ Bank and Hypothekenbank. Like a warm mug of cocoa being poured directly into your ears that last one.

I was there on “business-guy” time so wasn’t able to eat pre-apportioned processed pork though I did have some pork dim sum (dim sum dim)… wait a second. You crafty Germans sausaged me by the back door. GerMANS!!

After an very early morning and a deathly semi-sleep on the morning flight out of London I arrived into the city off the train (on time unsurprisingly). The first thing I noticed was that as with every city, if you come in by train you are going to be festooned by the druggiest alkiest so-and-sos the city has to offer. In Frankfurt, there was a whole lot of people who looked either very trendy or very stabby depending on the local house prices.

Apparently this year it’s the Moroccans who are ruling the 100 metres around Frankfurt with an iron (albeit minty) fist.

Man wearing red fez hat

This guy is their leader.

Incidentally, to find the above image I googled Fez Hat Man Stock Photo. I heartily endorse this google search for all the insane stock photos it turned up.

Honest to God, do yourself a favour and click the below.

Yizzer welcome.

This evening has taken a turn and I am currently watching PS I Love You. Hence my vindictive start to this particular post. The truth is that Hilary Swank is a pretty lady who is good at her job. The other one though…


Ladies and Gentlemen, I am pleased to announce Mr Gay Porno 2007 IS…

This rasscloth (I’m reading a Jamaican gangster book) chicken-f’er is the worst thing to happen to humanity since the Belgians looked southwards to the Congo and thought to themselves…”Maybe they’ll just work for free.”

Gerard Butler, AKA “the man of today” from those dreadful adverts for Hugo Boss stinkjuice (where they hope you’ll forget the best movie he’s been in since the horror unfolding in front of me was Dragons: Gift of the Night Fury) is currently Oirishing it up in front of me like Darby O’Pissing Gill.

Alright things are getting weird. In a scene where GerTurd Burglar is singing in Whelans (pronounced as Wheylans because they aren’t giving an inch) one of my college enemies is gurning like a chimp who’s put his winkle in a beehive over his shoulder.


Don’t look that up, it’s Jamaican and gross.

The coming week has me in Lille and Helsinki for 4/5 days which is good for the travel bucket list and my airmiles, but bad for sleep and my consumption of diet-friendly fare. In the BA 2nd division lounge they have bacon sandwiches and pastries beside some fruit. I would argue sarcastically.


Um could I get… a grape please. No that’s all.

The UK right now is disgusting. Not because the more <clears throat> conservative members of society are pushing for Brexit much like a chicken pushes little ovals of breakfast out of its chickeny rump. Worst part of that is people think those fart-spheres taste good. I even considered getting a picture of a breakfast for the above that was sans egg. But I thought that would mark me out (Mark Boyle me out) as a egg weirdo. Then I wrote all this.

Okay, I’m an egg weirdo.

Anyway my adopted home is disgusting because everything feels like a soupy goop of my own sweat and aerilaised slow-moving Thames stank water. Merciful fate it is then that I have spent this Monday out in Lille on a team building day for my not-a-normal-job.

After some meetings and the like we had a couple of glasses of wine with dinner (topped with an almond brandy dessert assault on our collective faculties) before retiring to the yard to shoot crossbows and blowdarts at clay geese. As we waited for our turn on the thoroughly frightening apparatus in a barn somewhere in the French countryside and darts slammed into inanimate migratory fowl, above us nervous pigeons flitted to and fro observing the carnage and energetically voiding their bowels on me.

After the merriment and a solid murdering had been meted out to all the animal replicas, we retired to the bar to watch the instructor stumble about the lawn as the sun set trying to find his last arrow lest his darling wife beat him around the neck with a belt for arriving home one arrow short.

As a stereotypical Frenchie he even did the owhoheehoheehoh laugh and frequently said “I am but a Frenchman,” pretty much the only English sentence he managed with much fluency. Eyes swimming with almond brandy made me think he could possibly have suffered to learn a few more sentences of crossbow etiquette 101 but there you go.


“Remember guys, APTAIYH. Always Put The Arrow In Your Hand.”

He then found a segway and is currently humming up and down the driveway, stopping off to scatter promotional dwarf pens on our table. Even though the patio was crowded with furniture, he slowly crept in on his erect mobility unit (EMU) scraping and banging off twenty tables and chairs to get to us to tell us we couldn’t have a ride on it. Then he rode back banging off every table and chair for a second time.

It was glorious.

In other news Meg remarked that her “main man” got a little wet today. Assuming she perhaps meant her boyfriend of 7 years that she has known for more than 10 and has recently agreed to marry since he gave her in indestructible pointy pebble he couldn’t afford I turned to her expectantly.

She meant a basset hound called Dean. He has a social media following bigger than Lady Gaga’s and in Meg’s own words is a “fine gentleman.”

If we get a dog, I’m gonna be living under a bridge in a week.


Bomboclodoner of Leek