Ayatoner of Leek

If he was the one flying the planes, we’d have to get pre-flight beery,

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It’s scarey leery aero-capitalist Michael “FitzTrump”O’Leary

Micky O’Lah hasn’t been in the news lately but he might have been on our tube. He sat with a vigour that Meg and I felt three seats down the line. A vigour that suggested, “I am an entitled arsehole who has planes.” Then he charged us €20 for what he called “a mid-trip rump-massage.” Boom!

Oh yeah, a Ryanair joke, because in my head it’s 2006.

So this past week I was high on the transport hog and was spread across several countries. It didn’t do a lot for my normally youthful visage (at one point I was able to pinch the bags under my eyes and waggle them around like tiny grey face-scrotes) but it did allow me to renew my love affair with the tiny pellets of honeyed pastry called baklava. That stuff would make you spend a night with Jabba himself.

So Iran, Iran so far away… better not be gay. Because along with an exposed female noggin and going twenty minutes without delicious cakes it’s bally-well illegal in Iran.

Which is where I am as I write this.

“Why am I here?” you’re probably asking, especially those with an existentially curious bent. As with many of the strange and wonderful places I’ve been to over the past two years, this is a work venture. But of course.

gorgeous-fantasy-worldWhere I work, in your mind (probably)

I got the all clear for this trip only on the previous Tuesday as my Visa still hung in the ether until the crucial final step of getting it daubed into my increasingly ragged passport got sorted by some tremendous fellows in a non-descript house in Kensington. I decided to just rock up to the consulate, emailing people as I went, trying to sort it out with the only thing I knew for sure being they decidedly DID NOT process Visas the day I was there.

Incidentally, why are they called Visas? Why doesn’t Mastercard get any love? That’s not a 2006 joke. Just a bad one.

I was instructed to chill my gills in the waiting room under the withering glower power of the Ayatollah whose portrait makes him look a bit like Sean Connery but after he accepted he was bald and really started owning it.

God he’s magnificent. Connery. And maybe the Ayatollah too.

After some Irish charm (and a lot more effectively a phone call from the European Commission) they sent me on my way, utterly credentialed but now admittedly wondering how my irreverant (and irrelevant) humor would go down with the real-world cast of Argo.

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Not to be seen by anyone under 15. Or anyone. I’m glad he’s not allowed do movies now.

Just Affleck, John Goodman get’s a free pass on everything after The Big Lebowski.  And not Casey Affleck. He’s a dote.

Last Sunday afternoon I trundled off to Heathrow airport with the ringing endorsements of “be careful,””don’t do anything fucking stupid” and “I’m not going over there to dig you out of the shit” from my various family members.

I also studiously avoided any intoxicating beverages in the airport as I didn’t want there to be any reason for the Iranian Revolutionary guard (great bunch of lads) to decide my blood required some inspection and would be more conveniently located for this purpose outside my body.

The flight was a bit grim being as it was Iran Air. The Iranians can sure do a hell of a foil pouch of unseasoned chicken and rice, but their passengers would be mucho obliged if they soaked up some of the sloshy piddle that made the toilets a one and done occurrance.

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The rest of the flight was spent imagining the above scene and arranging my napkins into a rudimentary adult diaper.

I landed in Tehran Ayatollah Khomeni airport in the wee (so much wee) small hours of the morning, with a terrible desire to see someone holding my name mispelled on an A4 piece of white paper. There was no such someone.

After walking up and down a bit some harried looking chap started flaking it towards me and held out some crumpled text. I have always felt more of a Martin Cole if I’m honest and never have I been happier to be recognised as such. We wandered around the car park for twenty minutes, as he jabbed at the button in his hand listening for a beep that wasn’t forthcoming. Parking lines in Iran as well as traffic signals are really more suggestions than anything to be taken seriously. Which brings me to… Shambling to and fro around through the chaotic car salad, the thought occurred to me that maybe he’ll bring me somewhere that isn’t my hotel. Maybe I’ll be… Taken!?

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Even Liam Neeson couldn’t get into a decent car chase if he was stuck in what I was soon to learn was the “famous” Tehran all-day gridlock.

Apparently there isn’t a great black market for the out of shape, pasty brillo-pad body type that is now my category should I ever have to classify myself in some grim human brochure.

If you haven’t seen me lately, don’t worry I’m probably still in the back of some lads car on Axis of Evil boulevard. The traffic was easily the worst thing about Tehran, in fact it was the only substantive negative I encountered in my time there.

Food was delicious, people are sound out and most everyone was perfectly happy to ignore any stupidity or insensitvity I might have expressed. Assuming I acted like myself at any point over the two days.

A choice bit of Iranian trivia: to piss off the British, they renamed the street that fronts on to the British Embassy as….

Bobby Sands Street.

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Beeeeeoootiful

Top level mischief I hope you agree. Some more from the Islamic Republic next week.

In other news, Meg has been taken down with a bad case of sore chompers and can’t sleep lying down without her gum swelling up and throbbing like rude emergency dinghy. Downside is she is only able to eat about a half a cup of porridge before quietly weeping.

Other downside is as she is having to sleep on the couch to keep upright, I have started sleeping in a blanket fort like nature definitely never intended.

There are no upsides.

Ayatoner of Leek

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Belly Buttoner Of Leek

He’s doing it voluntarily he’s not getting paid,

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It’s Goggle-eyed robot maniac Randy “on Dennis’s couch” Quaid
So I almost welched on this weeks blog, but you know I had a long look in the mirror, took a gaze at the guy on the other side. Kissed him on the mouth. Took a nap.
After all my troubling tribulations  (one for the Star Trek fans there) I decided in the end, YOU the reader deserve a new dollop of creamy nonsense, dribbling over the edge of the bowl because you overfilled it you greedy galoot. You deserve it
You might have a bit of buyers remorse at this stage. That’d be fair.
The past week has been busy but fairly regulation. Meg and I are bighting the biker (I drafted this on my phone and autocorrect chose the image for me, highly appropriate) and finally decided to buy a car. Over the past two years Meg has been getting to work in a rickshaw pulled by a man who’s actual name is Richard Shaw.
No word of a lie, but read together as a sentence…
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“I never killed your daughter. The rebels turned themselves into the military re-education council. A salad would be just as good.” Pinocchio = lying bollocks.
So we went to the local car buying house (I’m a total natural as you can tell) and blitzed about 8 different dealerships including somewhat foolishly some swish German ones. “No we will not accept a baggy full of belly button lint and a horsechestnut for this S-Class. Acorn or better Sir, otherwise you waste both our time!”
Considering how we’re so obviously a pair of rubes, it was hard to believe how resolutely ignored by everyone we were in the dealerships, like the shy little girl at the prom sitting on her own, eating oily, stinking mackerel from the tin that she brought from her home in the sulfur mine.
Sidebar, my girlfriend at the prom (called a debs in Ireland) didn’t eat mackerel from the tin however she did lock herself in the toilet, possibly because it was such a magical night (more likely because I went with someone else). Almost entirely her idea.
We were so desperately trying to get attention out of these car jerks, I was one frustrated moment away from taking my top off and bouncing around a little. Like they like.
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And I thought I had the whole attention-seeking thing down pat.
Eventually after I had alienated the staff at the second to last dealership pointing at a mahogany jeep (actual quote) “who chose shit-brown for the for the floor model eh?” we got serious. Had to, my charm wasn’t really winning them over. Surprisingly.
“We don’t arrange the colors sir. Now here is a picture of a wreck in another dealership filled with garbage, richer than Christmas pudding and smaller than a seahorses danglers. You don’t want it. Leave.”
Larks. Eventually we sat down with a chap in Toyota and after entertaining buying a different car that one could accidentally inhale should one gasp with surprise next to it we eventually settled on a hoor-red Yaris with enough space for a talented blogger to have a tantrum in and still not break any windows. Before deciding to purchase we had a bit of a testdrive to make sure we weren’t purchasing a puce lemon. It was my first time driving automatic and indeed my first time driving since finally driving safely for 25 consecutive minutes and passing my test 6 or so months ago.
There’s no way for you to know I didn’t pass my test by just teaching Herman my tester how to kiss properly. Lots of teeth, that’s the key.
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Okay Herman, you and I are about to break down some boundaries.
Joking aside I am still haunted (not to mention Meg loves bringing it up) how my first instructor Zsolt would in a panic grab my hands and swerve us away from traffic and after the emergency subsided he would lean back over to his side of the car and mutter “…sorry to…touch you.” Yeesh.
I hopped into the business end of the first automatic car I was ever to drive and as it was a new-fangled button-start car to boot (the boot was regular-fangled mind), I was instructed to just put my foot on the brake and press the button to start.
Then I planked my hoof squarely on top of the accelerator and kept prodding the button until the salesman’s embarassment was outweighed by his desire to get going and the error was pointed out to me. As I struggled further he had to advise me to take my left foot off the brake as it’s apparently not the done thing. More bloody rules and etiquette than a hot-tub party with the Queen of England!
Rule 1 – there are no rules
Rule 2 – Prince Philip gets to watch.
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Okay Prince Philip is all done. Send in the corgis…
Ever the canny businessboys, we decided to head home to pretend-think about the purchase in case he threw in a punnet of goose-eggs extra to sweeten the deal. Meg’s Canadian. She thinks all eggs are goose eggs.
As the salesman stewed like a bag of sweaty giblets in a roast chicken (it’s called foreshadowing) Meg and I got to prepping for Canadian Thanksgiving as we do most every year.
Regular readers will know Meg was recently flummoxed into some purchases by a wandering meat man (apparently she produces the readies to any stranger willing to give her a flash of beef) and most went straight into the freezer. Among these items was an organic chicken we decided would be the flagship meat pile of this year’s calorie-drive.
After struggling to defrost the sucker in time I was gratified to see it good and floppy as I banged it into the oven. Oh and should you have missed it, there was an opportunity for a crude intercourse joke there, but I dunno, Trump has kinda ruined genitals for me for the foreseeable. Yours. Mine. Burn it all down and start over.
Anyway, I assumed the extra blood and general oily gore was down to the organic-ness of the chicken. Indeed it was because I had left a plastic bag of frozen guts inside the offending fowl and had roasted that bird all the same. I’d be lying if I said the next morning wasn’t a bit touch and go belly-wise but that’s why they put windows in toilets.
In other news I have recently been told I am going to Iran. On Sunday.
I have nothing controversial to say on that issue and I for one am welcoming this opporuntity to shut my dirty mouth.
Silencio!
Belly Buttoner Of Leek

Morroconer of Leek

Being married to the man is apparently not “the shit”

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It’s admittedly gar-geous but probs a ‘mare Brad “The Sweaty Arm” Pitt.

So I know I’ve been slacking on the blog a bit lately, but I’ve actually been really busy mainly with work.

The memoir will be called “Fur-tive Glances” if I ever move into a less controversial industry. Actually I might save that for my soul album. I’ll be holding a sax with a grapefruit on the end of it. No reason.

This weekend just past, Meg and I went on a mini-holiday to Windsor. The town where the Queen keeps all her ceremonial knickers and residents live in fear of being savaged by ferocious over-sized corgis.

We had been talking about going there for so long, my dear Mater got sick of hearing us yak about it so she got Meg a Christmas present of a night in a Windsor hotel. And guess who tagged along, ruining the luxury getaway vibe with trivia about the British Navy’s embarassing (but oh so invigorating) hazing rituals and constant references to the Queen Mother’s gusset?

This putz.

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This is the kind of classic crotch gag you can enjoy by following my Instagram feed. There’s also the odd photo of stuff I eat. Mainly pencaps and Tictacs. I understand trendy things.  

So a bunch of little incidents to report from this.

On the way into Windsor, I looked up something on my phone. On a bit of a whim I had liked Cliff Richard’s Facebook page (also liked Daniel O’Donnell’s in the same session but Daniel has decided that his fanbase are a bit more analog than digital) but hadn’t really  delved into his depths. Now the first photo I saw set me laughing, but as I kept swiping through it unveiled a whole series of bizzare mini-dramas that left me panting, weeping and indeed dribbling as Meg apologised to the others on the train for ruining the library in a vacuum ambience of the quiet-car. A big deal for the limeys.

Firstly Cliff has apparently bought shares in a vineyard in Portugal and is lacadaisically flogging his very orange brew to elderly women via his photo feed. In one amazingly restrictive promotional event, he was turning up for a tight two hours, where if you bought three bottles of his grog (€20, a total shteal) he’d write his name on a piece of card. Also a lot of the people who were commenting on Cliff’s inane updates had profile pictures commemorating the man himself and urging him NEVER to retire. And there’s a hell of a lot of saucy promotional images of Clifford himself for his albums (Just… Terrific Rock and Roll is on pre-order now) and his calendars.

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Mister February 2015 here. His page is full of horrifying dream-invaders like this image. No way to know he’s wearing underpants here guys. No. Way. To. Know.

Just an idea for anyone looking for Christmas ideas for me, those calendars are in shops NOW.

As Meg and I walked down the main street of Windsor, we could see what in the distance and poor light looked like a group of men spread out across the otherwise deserted high street. Owing perhaps to our days in Manchester where stuff like this can go sideways fast and our own upbringings proximal to Limerick and Detroit we have a sensitivity to diceyness. Probably a good thing.

As it turned out, the large group of men was two small separate groups. One was a group of rotund midgets drunk off their arses and crammed to their tiny gills with Windsor fudge (probably a metaphor) and the other was waiters clearing the tables at an establishment called Madame Posh. Not the first or last time since moving down to the Thames Valley that we were the scum to be viewed suspiciously.

There was this flabby 7 year old lad in the station sucking on a Bounty bar (coconut is a fruit) and eyeballing all the other candybars in the vending machine in what could only have been a threat.

Our hotel in Windsor was lovely, but there was obviously something going on at breakfast as the staff were disorganised like 4 year olds at a birthday party. At one point a lady in denims stormed up to our table and dropped a bunch of brown bread toast on our table and quickly before she ran off I blurted “This isn’t ours <no response> um I don’t want this toast.” The penny dropped and she realied it wasn’t ours and her eyes darted around the room.

“Good morning. <no response from the guests>… GOOD MORNING!!!”

Some people actually awkwardly chorused “good… morning?” and one guy got his toast. A tale as old as time.

There was a lady on the train wearing shorts in 15 degrees to show off her varicose veins the size of tiny knuckles poking out of her calf and brown curled toenails like she had been trying to use her feet to find a penny in a pile of her own fecality.

girl-train-posterWhat I did trying to avoid looking at those uncharitably uncovered hooves

Other tidbits from the weekend, I stole 11 soaps from the housecleaner’s cart, the hotel totally nailed the angle of the toilet mirror (100% view of the TV while sitting on the toilet) and Meg and I got smashed on Moroccan wine.

Also apparently there is such a thing as Moroccan wine.

We watched a TV show where obese people were literally publically weighed in front of their peers which included such gems as “I had a tough childhood, my sister was hit by a truck” and “your husband lost twice as much weight as you did and HE’S not even following my program!”

It was a rich full weekend.

In other news Meg called me excitedly with news from her work-at-home day. There had been one of those door to door meat salesman that we’ve all heard of arrive onto our road like a bacony Willie Lomond and Meg obliged him by signed us up to an £80 a month meat club.

When I heard that some travelling flesh-peddler had been taking the fancy of the local women with his fantastic line of thick juicy sausage, I was about fit to round up the village men and hang him from a tree like Mussolini. Then bang on time we got a box of admittedly high quality meat (the % of which orginating from the local morgue being undeclared) which has meant the whole thing has turned into a draw, but we decided to cancel anyway as we can’t have the neighbours knowing we have meat notions.

Still think I’d rather this cuckhold squadron didn’t know our address. I won’t be able to get to work in the morning with shady spivs plying me with pockets full of ground beef and their drawers full of tripe.

“Hallow me owld Choina salt, whadoowehav heeyah then, a lovely bit of kidnay foh da misses.”

Gotta go, I hear someone’s at the door.

Morroconer of Leek

Gwen Stefoner of Leek

He beat up his schoolmates when they called him a girl-man,

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It’s granite-faced grumblepuss Ron “rent-a-toughy” Perlman

That photo is a bit less Dr Frankenfurter and a bit more Professor Hogroast.

So the last bit of info-broth I ladled out was that Meg and I had been bumped up into the lower echelons of aerial luxury on our way to Canada. We arrived into Toronto as we have many times before, knowing several things.

One was that the border guards, though looking and sounding much like their humourless, twitchy US counterparts were much less likely to prong their guns in my face and accuse me of being an Al Qaeda if I passed some well-deserved post-flight gas at the desk.

Those lads in JFK are too much. “SIR, PLEASE SUCK BACK IN YOUR FART!”Thank God Agent Orange is building that wall eh? Pfff.

Another thing we knew was that Meg’s parents would have soft drinks (which in Ontario is referred to as “pahp”) in the car. A very welcome habit of their’s and much like mothers internationally, Meg’s mom is highly attuned to the preferences of guests. Thus she had noticed some time ago I was keen on Snapple so she had filled their garage with cases of every flavour of the delicious sugar-wet from Kiwi Dream to Kumquat Ebola and everything inbetween.

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She didn’t exactly pull my Snapple-love out of thin air to be fair to her.

The following day we stormed down through central Ontario, bellies filled with all-Canadian sugarballs (aka “TimBits,” aka “Timothy’s donut rinds” aka in some US States due to orders of the Surgeon General, “Diabits.”) We were attending a rooftop wedding in Windsor, just across the water from Detroit. Apart from a brief thunder storm forcing the ceremony indoors and the occasional spattering of small arms fire from across the river the whole thing went swimmingly.

There was however a dude in the foyer who had vomited his mother’s spaghetti on his sweater and kept threatening to “drop bombs.”Meg assured me he was just a local lad who was struggling with his life as a nutless pheasant.

I think I officially have a “Rap Beef” now. Call up Drake. Tell him his songs all sound like he doesn’t open his mouth all the way and Rinnana needs to put on a hoody or she’ll catch her death.

Might say something about me but I’ve only been invited to two weddings, both via Meg so I’m probably not an expert but they had prime rib, a pasta bar where all the pasta was al dente and more meaty sausages than the 1974 Buffalo Bills.

That sounded like a real reference didn’t it? But nope, just nonsense.

Anyway, the food was boss. Oh also, the local high school hotty from 2002 was mixing the drinks, Meg was super excited. Tony Bean. Chet Lighthouse. I dunno some North American garbage name. Hey Meg, what’s his name?

Jonny Bratt. His name is Jonny Bratt.

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And this is my North American cousin. Tuck… Napsack. I don’t mention him much, because he’s awful.

Anyway Meg and I were storming it on the dancefloor, with me whipping passers by with a hail of briny sweat as we jammed it to a selection of Motown hits (Detroit is only a heavily polluted river away after all) and probably less predictably, Hollaback Girl by Gwen Stefani.

Sidebar. I really like several of the songs from that album and frequently sing Rich Girl but where I change the lyrics to be all about chicken dishes. Meg has to deal with a lot.

Original Lyrics-

Come together all over the world
From the hoods of Japan, Harajuku girls
What, it’s all love, What, give it up
What (shouldn’t matter [Repeat x4])

Yes ma’am, we got the style that’s wicked
I hope you can all keep up
We climbed all the way from the bottom to the top
Now we ain’t gettin’ nothin’ but love

Changed by me to-

Cup of gravy all over the bird
If you want a chick make chicken sando girl
What, it’s sando, What sando
Chicken sando [repeat x4]

If you want to have some chicken
You can eat it in a pie
You can eat a wing of chicken
Or you can even eat a chicken thigh

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G-Stef and me are peas in a pod. Sidebar #2, peas go great with chicken.

After the wedding we went back to Toronto and prepared to receive my dear mother who was flying in to meet Meg’s parents for the first time. Sorry to say there were no major anecdotes or serious mix ups that were worth reporting, all was fine though there was a topless woman just kicking it sitting on a pile of dirt as we went in for pre-dinner drinks. Bit of a conversation starter that one. Free the Toronto two and all that.

Then Meg went home with her folks for a few days and Ingrid and I flew to Newfoundland for a trip that Meg would have hated.  There was a lot of overcast skies. A lot of light drizzle. A lot of walking up hills just to see what was at the top. Meg has a famously low tolerance for an incline. Any more than 2° and you’ll see a side of her you don’t like.

I’m pretty sure she didn’t mean everything she’s said on those occasions though. The Koreans had a rough time of it when we visited the quite hilly city of Seoul.

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They’re still looking for her after the hand gesture she made after hiking up to the border though

Newfoundland was lovely as it happened, though bizarrely like home. Accents, landscape and even music were basically like being in West Cork. That said I’ve never heard radio stations in Cork complain about how Quebec is stealing their hydroelectricity and they should just tear up the contract and if those goddamn jokers up in Ottawa have a problem with that they can get off their little soft three-ply quilted toiletpaper wiping asses and come here and tell us so!

They’re not so keen on being Canadian. Curious why? Well some arsehole you know has just done Newfoundland for series 2 of 80Days Podcast. Which brings me to my new section- Plug This Arsehole <waves> I’m the arsehole.

Just to underline how I’m now an internet sensation (just like, please pay attention to me but totally casual cause I’m cool about it like George Clooney or Kanye) I will be devoting these final lines of the blog to plugging my various online nonsense receptacles.

Firstly there’s the biggy, 80daysPodcast (the aforementioned)that’s where we look at a poorly-known area of the world, the other two (Joe and Luke) research it and I make rude noises in the background as they attempt to discuss genocides and funny hats.

I’m also on Instagram as I’ve previously mentioned, mainly taking photos of pictures with rude implications and occasionally doing the photos-of-my-own-food thing. Just to prove to my mother that I’m not only taking in calories through beer and microwaved tubs of Nutella like I did in college. A packet of Hobnobs in milk was another one. You’re welcome.

I’m also on Twitter and you can just search me out on Facebook. I’m not gonna put a link in for that, just follow the smell of curry powder and BO.

And now after that hard sell I bid you adoo…

<sound of flapping> Caw CAW!

Gwen Stefoner of Leek

Tyler of Leek

When I asked him how things were going, you could say he was an over-confider

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It’s movie-toxin omni-twerp, Rob “The Nob” Schneider

I just say Nob because anybody called Rob (the only name more popular in my year of birth than Mark) was immediately called The Nob. Even if they were nice. Thank goodness my name didn’t rhyme with anything.

Though Mrs. Boyle was probably cruel enough as a nickname.

BerppahdeBERPPP! And like a particularly buoyant turd, I’m back baby.

After almost a month on hiatus the Toner of Leek has rid himself of all the filthy trappings of relaxation. The baubles of sloth. The frippery of his atrophied idle hands which embarassingly sinks below the pant line at your aunts birthday party for innappropriate but well-deserved scratch.

Just to be clear these are things I am no longer associated with, though Meg will still anyone that listens I have the shrivelled cabbage-eating hands of a carny.

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“Now I know you’re not looking at mah chicky. Buckwheat, peck his eyes out.” 

So what’s been the fly juice since last we spoke I hear you bashfully ask. You’re absolutely adorable you know that? But if you cross me…

The summer only really kicked off three weeks before it ended as I travelled to Finland for workboy times. I had decided to stay near the airport as Helsinki is in actual fact quite far away from my house so my time exploring the city would have been minimised to a quick perusal of the recycling bins at the train station before turning tail and heading back.

So I went along to a work barbecue. There were huge slabs of deep marinated skirt steak. Pig middles. And a barrel full of flame-roasted shrimp the size of Don Cheadle’s man-parsnip. He calls it Dong Cheadle.

The next day was workmode but once I was done I was all set to luxuriate in my crapulence in the airport lounge. Look it up, it’s kosher. Unfortunately I wasn’t able to fully enjoy my Finnish wine and bulk-bought minipretzels in the style to which I have become accustomed. Stressors included a last minute phone call, writing up a final draft of a report and a highly autistic kid who was happily smashing his head into a wooden panel as I tried to dampen the intensity of my concerned glances at his mother. She was getting into the soup. Can hardly blame her.

Soup like.

soupwshaqAs a young boy I often dreamed of being a cup of soup. This cup. 

I feel like they would have been well-served by acknowledging that soup can function as a snack. The tagline writes itself. Christ even have a meal deal with Shaquille O’Neal.  Cop a feel and make him squeal. That’s the soup competition in prison.

My talents are wasted.

So I flew back the three hours to London, arriving with just enough time to have a full and hearty evening of packing. For verily, the next morning Meg and I departed for the True North Strong and Free. With a national currency known as the TimBit and the Head of State recognisable by their Canadian Crown of hockeyplayer’s molars studded into a maple syrup-lacquered moose antler, Canada is a nation of contrasts.

This was my third time in Canada in about 18 months, so I’m a real dab hand at… that. I’ll admit I just wanted to say dab hand. Because it’s weird.

This is normally where I might include an image illustrating my point. But apparently Dab Hand is quite a common name for both fake penises and bongs. So just imagine that here.

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Or if you’ve got a crummy imagination, just enjoy a brief reprise for R-Money.

Meg and I got to the airport in jig time and we wandered straight through security like Drake or Bonnie Tyler or one of them other celebrity arseholes. As it happened I could sneak Meg into the airport lounge much like a grubby Leonardo DiCaprio street urchin, up from steerage with all the Guiness swigging wastrels to the Captains table with Billy Zane.

She kept reaching out to pick something up and then pausing hand hovering in the air while she looked for me, waiting for the inevitable nod. She had a light pre-flight lunch of M&Ms and Baileys, like a rockstar.

I sampled some Drambuie without ice and regretted it more than the time I asked a lady with a potbelly in a Japanese bar, “Baby… in stomach?”

We then walked out, filled with chocolate and sweetened boozes onto the plane when we got the best surprise you can get when getting onto a plane. “Please turn left.”

UPGRADE! Like finding a bucket of fried chicken under a pile of dirty pants, we happened upon a real tasty meat-treat. In the shape of premium economy. Not quite Business Class. But definitely not cattle class.

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Not that cattle aren’t the hero of their own story. They just don’t get the leg room we do.

That seems an obvious point at which to leave our boozed-up heros, hurtling through space with our heads on cushions on a chemical toilet wall on 10,000 ft of North Atlantic air.

Poetry ‘n’ ting.

In other news Meg and I have been battering it with the life admin. The washing machine has been whirling like a stanky wet dervish since we came back and bar a bit of jetlag (and associated conciliatory curry) we have been going to bed at good Christian hours of the evening and eating more thick green leaves than a Californian cult leader. Cult leaders eat healthy. Anything as fun as leading a cult, they want to stick around as long as possible to see how good it gets.

the-wicker-man-6DO THE HUSSLE! Also, no more bras, we’re done with them.

I have also started running again and as well as a blog, podcast, facebook page and twitter account, I am also now the food photo-taking owner of an honest to God Instagram account. And boyos, I’m bloody hooked. Not a scabby pigeon goes by with out me taking a photo, dawbing a filter over it and thinking I’m all deep and soulful.

I’m a real fancy boy now. You wouldn’t believe I’m the same guy that used to soak his runners in Dettol.

Well you would. You’ve always hated me.

Typical you.

Tyler of Leek

Squaloner of Leek

His secret is eating a breakfast of kelps

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It’s bumpkin-headed human jet-ski Michael “Swimmy Boy” Phelps

He really is a swimmy boy.

In my first Olymblog, I would like to tell you all how much I like the Olympics. The type of much is not bloody much. Smarming BBC personality vacuums wander around a car park on the outskirts of open-sewer favelas, as their joyless countrypeople perform obscure tasks (the bloody omnium is it!?) in lycra while the four Brazilians that turned up to watch threaten to inject the judges with Zika if they don’t win the cockless doubles. I know how it’s meant to be spelled.

This is compounded by the fact that my normal stream of youtube thug videos has been interrupted by stroppy internet that won’t co-operate and won’t get any ice cream if it keeps behaving this way.

What’s a thug video I hear you crane your neck in and ask? Well I’m very glad you asked.

 Pasty children taking swearing to nuclear levels and general unexpected intenseness. 

The Olympics better watch out, because if I have to watch one more person rolling around on a bench with chalky feet I’m going to go over there and feed them all that seawater they have with the flesh-eating diseases. Yes that’s a real thing.

Oh apparently they just arrested the head of Olympics Ireland for hawking tickets. Marvellous. They’re making the World Cup look frigging moral and that’s just an excuse for a few grubby Swissmen to try and plant their seed in the local women while inhaling big wadgers of cash. I’m getting worked up.

Moving on.

Meg and I had an adventure last Sunday. A really depressing adventure.

We were walking home through a small laneway with all these cutsey English houses, named dumb things like Kettle House, Wysteria Cottage and Fig… Pudding. The laneway is about 100 metres and ends in a 90 degree angle leading to a harsher crueller world. In the corner is the biggest house of the lot, a little less sprucey goosey but basically white. Two rusting childcatcher vans sit right outside the front door with an unnervingly thin piece of twine draped across the 3 metre deep courtyard.

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Why thank you Google. This is the gaff. You can almost hear the muffled voices of the Lindberg baby in the boot.

Despite having walked past the place about 100 times, on this particular day the idea of walking by without investigating couldn’t have been further from my mind. I bent up my little getaway pin and swung it over the twine followed by gam number two. Meaghan glared at my daring form as I shuffled up to the window and peered through the living room and into the backyard. It was filled with grass up to about two metres in height.

“Meg come over here and look at this”

Meg mumbled her reply but I was now very interested in the piles of old papers which were giving me a clue as to how long it had been since someone lived here. I did not recognise any of the brands and everything was coated in thick dust and grime. So a fair old while. I was wondering how long it had been since some over-privileged little inbreedling had inherited the house and immediately forgotten about it because he was auditioning for Made in Chelsea. Then I heard someone shout “BUP!”

Meg’s audio track faded in. “The window’s open. Someone’s in there!”

“BUP… BUP BUP!”

She turned and started marching like a POW in Manchuria up the path. With some amount of haste. Barely not running.

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Meg would later tell me she could see something like this rushing towards the front door, through the filthy glass

Thinking I didn’t want to be right in front of whatever was making that noise when it burst forth into the August sun I got back on the other side of the twine passing the two rusting kidscoopers and started walking away after Meg. Slowly.

One of my many hard-learned life lessons is it rarely helps you to look guilty or fearful. Especially when you are indeed guilty and fear… let’s say fearish. I’m clearly too much of a toughie for actual fear.

I looked over my shoulder to see what had spooked us and it was an older man, about 60 or so, leaning out the front door topless and sporting a spidery beard. Perhaps he was the legendary 6th Spice Girl I thought, Spiderbeard Spice.

“Whaddya doing!!!!”

“Um I was just looking in the window there”

“Well why don’t you knock on the door if you’re gonna look in the window”

As this last sentence made no sense and I was speaking to a guy who lived on a throne of garbage I decided to raise my hand in a “my bad” fashion and started back off after Meg, occasionally glancing over my shoulder to check he wasn’t chasing me with a wicker basket filled with his turds.

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Yes I can see the link is tenuous to this photo. No I do not care.

I continued to amble nervously along while Meg shouted encouraging words like “he’s at the f-ing door!” as she sprinted away from me and around the corner. As we continued to walk along the main road towards our own house, Meg kept twitching whenever a car approached as she assumed the guy had revved up one of his old paedo-mobiles and was going to chase us down to sacrifice us to his rubbish bride.

As much as it was fun to frighten Meg, it was a deeply grim experience realising that the fella was clearly living in miserable squalor. I mean, Meg might use the dry shampoo two days in a row the odd occasion and I could probably clear out some of the slacker pairs of underwear I have. Especially those ones that are shall we say, pre-Obama but lord save us (I was actually raised in Ireland, not that it often shows) this place was next-level awful.

Might look up whether there’s any council services I could send his way. Though they generally only concern themselves with stopping house building (would dilute local prices doncha know) and keeping an eye on local suspiciously foreign Remain voters.

Those handsome bastards.

In other news Meg cemented her claim as emotional assassin with the following exchange from last Monday.

“Um, I’m not sure that’s right Meg”

“Well I give plenty of wrong answers. Like when I said yes to marrying you.”

 Touché… <sobs>

Squaloner of Leek

Caledoner of Leek

If he had the money he should have taken the plane,

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It’s the Titanic’s resident baddie Billy “cool guy” Zane

Jesus he’s hot, like a young lickable Brando. But the poor boy had the last drop of acting beat out of him like he was an almost finished bottle of ketchup in the cafeteria of a government-run shelter for the clinically untalented.

This past weekend I headed to Edinburgh to attend the stagging (you can tell by my deft use of the terminology I’ve done this a lot) of a college chum and former housemate. As someone who has lived with me and not been disappeared by my hoodlums during the brief nine days I was head of a Massachusettes gang of streetwise bakers (trust me it’s a thing) I kinda gotta keep him sweet. He knows all the freaky stuff I’m into. Though he still thinks his hamster threw itself into that wood chipper.

Maybe he needs to.

So I took the rustically-named Caledonian Sleeper up to Scotchland. This is the name given to the overnight train between London and Edinburgh and surprisingly it was really comfortable.

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The other, better known Caledonian Sleeper. What’s under his kilt eh ladies? A pasty Celtic shmekle. Obvs.

Before I had got on, I’d purchased an intoxicating beverage with the hope that it’d help me get off to sleep, but as I sat into my seat I felt it perhaps a little vulgar and was reticent to whip it out. That was until I saw the lad beside me pull out his can of Special Brew.

Special Brew for those of you mercifully unacquainted is a super strength lager that can barely be contained by the thin layer of aluminum that manufacturers have recklessly put between it and humans. The noxious fumes released by the metallic click and hiss were all I needed to tell me… I was among friends.

After a 7.5 hour journey, we slid into Edinburgh which was looking its foreboding best under a clear sky with the last wisps of morning mist driven out on a sharp coastal breeze. I’m really painting a picture. I’m eloquent as f brah!

With The Irish Imposition as one of my many nicknames, I promptly darkened the door of true Tralee Boy (Ardfert division) Philip. Despite a late night, he put up with my tea-sucking nonsense for a few hours before we wandered out for further caffination and a crescent length of pastry.

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Actually Mark, it’s called a croissant and it’s from France. There are many kind of bread from all over the world. This has been another info-blast, from Bread Man.

Hahaha. That’s just my friend Bread Man. He lives in the equipment shed of the electricity sub-station behind our house. Hey Bread Man, did they ever find those evil baker gang (told you it was a thing), the Bakers Dozen that put your wife in that oven?

Bread Man doesn’t want to talk about it apparently. Don’t chime in if you can’t bring the friendly patter Terry! Arsehole.

Ermm… Edinburgh! Yes, so I met up with the stag and cohort of mentype beings who were decidedly the worse for wear after the pints consumed the previous night. The smell of accumulated sweaty man bottoms brought back to my various childhood experiences in summer camps, even back to first year in college when I was sharing a room. Sharing a room with men is a whiffy business. Especially when my smelly bottom is added into the broth.

We then hiked up Arthur’s Seat. A steep enough climb up a massive rock that is pretty much glower powering over everything in Edinburgh, like Mr Burns freaking out some hippies. I was happy to find that despite not having done any hiking to speak of over the past few years to speak of, I was still among the first to the top.

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It’s important if you’re going to sneer at Gods creation, to do so from a good vantage point. And yes that is me in the photo. We should talk more often eh?

From then on we mainly boozed, napped and saw some grade-A comedy from the Fringe Festival. To recount my favourite joke from that day (David O’Doherty for the win), “When Steve Jobs died, they tried to bring him back to life by jamming him into a giant bag of rice for three days.” As a stag, probably the seediest thing about it was my rendition of Ignition Remix by avowed child fan R Kelly.

After we were chucked out of the karaoke bar there was talk of seeking out an establishment called “Fingers,” but a quick Google showed it to be well closed by the time my poorly advised haggis burrito (you have not LIVED!)  converted our small singing booth into the chlorine wafted fields of Flanders. No survivors.

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They used to crack these babies out when I made my patented 8 bean and diesel salad.

In other news, Meg and I are watching the skintight shitshow that is the Rio Olympics. Don’t swallow the water or your kidneys will fall out your arse and on the offchance you get elected president, enjoy your last few moments pre-impeachment. And not bs Bill Clinton poling-the-electorate impeachment. “Madame President, did you steal that oil rig?” impeachment.

Some things we’ve noticed include that the music the gymnasts do their routine to, is being played out of a 2002 Nokia enhanced with speakers held together with tinfoil and and biscuit tin lids, the pool for the diving hasn’t been cleaned since Pele started doing those boner-pill adverts and UK commentators have dropped all pretence of unbiasedness.

An actual quote from a BBC commentator on the British sync divers: “Taaaaake your tiiiime…. do it right.” Fortunately the commentators for the gymnastics were far more forgiving of the bendy lasses of Team Brexlympics.

As they slipped, slid and fell on every damn bit of their body but their feet, the arseholes at the BBC were constantly trying to explain away their vertigo-addled stumblings. “Oho, she fought that well there.” You mean gravity!? That’s the gig Chuckles. “Great effort there.” The judges don’t seem to agree. “Unlucky there.” TO BE BORN WITHOUT JOINTS!?

I’m hepped up. Need something to soothe my nerves, what’s on? Dressage.

Mightn’t be here this time next week if I’m honest.

Caledoner of Leek