Christmas in the sun has always been both a fascinating and perplexing concept for me. Gravy and humidity, snowmen and sand, stuffing and suncream - the socks simply don’t match the togs, so how does it work, or does it ? Well, as the mercury hit 32c on the 25th of December, I called my fourth Coco Loco of the afternoon. My vista, (aside from my pale scraggy trotters) the crystal clear Caribbean water that encircled our secluded boutique resort on a private island off Baru. My initial sympathy and concern for the local workers along with the intrinsic and inherent Irish feeling of shame and guilt in experiencing pleasure began to wane as the rum took effect. The sole thought keeping me grounded was the terrifying possibility of personifying a Gen Z influencer who is living in Dubai with his emotional support Louis Vuitton schoolbag, trading Forex and has been (unbeknownst to him) abandoned by his family. Although this paradisaical and celestial setting supplied an inexhaustible amount of vitamin d, line caught snapper, Lays (limon & chorizo) and the odd menthol cigarette it also provided an opportunity and a lens to appreciate all a Christmas at home has to offer..

It’s the bellowing cacophony of ‘Here I Am Lord’ from the lubricated midnight mass goer’s. It’s the wafting threat of an eviction notice as it perforates through the letter box. It’s the slap of a crisp brown cow (€50) in your paw followed by intense hand and eye contact with onward instruction to buy yourself phone credit from the uncle who is a touch too fond of the sherry. It’s the uncomfortable interaction of unexpectedly encountering acquaintances from your past and the frantic internal battle of placing their face, recalling their name and judging every word they speak whilst maintaining a cowardly smile. It’s the insatiable ‘did ya hear’ gossip that disseminates around the urinal of the local pub - confirming who’s married, who’s expecting and who’s gay. It’s seeing the ego’s crumble of those living abroad as they realize their big ‘I work in London’ coat provides only ammunition not protection. It’s the I’ll have a drop of me mothers Baileys in my cornflakes and four packs of Hunky Dorys for supper. It’s the inspection and assessment of structural integrity for every and any potential cheese vessel before it makes its maiden voyage from plate to mouth. It’s the intense, immediate and continued regression to an inebriated neanderthalic state that coexists with the overbearing impending doom of normality on the horizon. It’s the realisation that Christmas is not an ideal but simply a state of comforting unease - the magic and beauty comes from knowing it’s not perfect and never will be , the joy comes from not having to strive for any one thing or wish to be in any one place but to be mediocre in a realm of comforting mediocrity. It’s the fact that letting rip a fart on the couch that your mother refuses to replace after a feed of spuds and a skip of porter gives as much comfort, ease and joy if not more than the Caribbean sun could ever comprehend.

Christmas is where your socks might not match but your feet will always be warm.

‘The Destination Wedding’

Michael O’Leary salivates as he fuels up another Boeing 737 Warship for departure. A battalion of translucent O’Reilly’s from the far side of Athlone have formed a military alliance with the unkept Murphy’s of Cahersiveen. What once would have been a two-hour drive and a slap of the arse overlooking the ring of Kerry, is now a Credit Union loan, half your annual paid leave and a three-day pillage and crusade through the hills of Tuscany. Throngs of deranged Irish conquistadors maraud these quaint rural villages in the endless pursuit of social media’s constructed perception of ‘the perfect day’. Locals retreat behind their ‘Maginoux Line’ and only viable defense - the sweltering summer heat of the Mediterranean sun, but it is powerless to the shameless acceptance of torrential perspiration from these lofty headed wayward Irish millennial militias – don’t forget, we are the generation that grew up in the golden years of the tiger with FDI, EU Funded Motorways, Paddy Casey and Eastern European speculative property prices, shame is confined only, to the bedroom and the mirror.

Lawn chairs creak and flex unnervingly as the soggy bottom brigade take up their positions on the front line. Every hand stitched seam (by a Vietnamese child) of Shein garments are put under enough pressure to overthrow an African dictatorship. It’s all fur no knickers as the disparity and contrast between set and setting can be visualised as throwing a duvet over dirty sheets. However, to question anything would be abhorrent - the endless supply of aperol, limoncello and cheap European lager ensures that no mind has the capacity (not that it would anyway) to critically analyse why exactly a dairy farmer from Roscommon and a primary school teacher from Kerry are hosting a 250 person wedding in Tuscany. Then come the white napkins, (not the white napkins) once a sign of peace and non-violence, now a signal of rage and brutality as they are swung aloft to the almighty battle cry of Abba’s ‘Gimme Gimme Gimme’. This force-fed barrage of Irish imperialism continues and intensifies as the local staff are berated with interactions of:

- ‘Jaaaysus senorita you are awful slow over here’

Bridget you’ve just ordered twenty Jäger-bombs, your husband already is topless and kissing his brother.

-‘Another pint of Guinness, (audible muttering - The Guinness is shocking bad here, shocking bad here.)’

Noel, we are in the foothills of the Alps, not the streets of Killarney.

-‘Fucking hell what do ye foreigners be putting in the sausages’

Declan, it’s chorizo.

-‘I can’t understand you, no speakie Espanyol. One more Aperol Spritz’

Philomena, we are in Italy. That’s your fifth Aperol this hour. Go to bed.

As the adults maintain the ground offensive through the predictable yet excruciating rendition of Mr Brightside. The feral and undomesticated children launch an artillery offensive with the remaining abandoned petit fours. The staff scramble to contain the overflow of unleashed Diarmuids, Lorcans and Caoimhes who are blind in sugar rush splendor, (but of course Mairead, ‘it’s great to see the cousins playing together again isn’t it’). As each hour passes, the occupying forces only strengthen; rock the boat, the conga line, and general rhythmic retardation. The local populace completely bemused and shell shocked as this grotesquely uncoordinated war dance extinguishes and smothers every remaining morsel of regional culture.

The O’Reilly’s and the Murphy-O’Reilly’s (of course she chose the double barrel name) will make the 12 hour door to door journey home but the aftermath and psychological destruction is left to the Tuscans. They have survived the battle but the war wages on. Another 200+ socially pressured friends, work colleagues, brothers, sisters, mother, aunties and uncles are being loaded up to ransack the very same destination - only this time Antonio, Alessandro and Roberto will surrender on the 8th attempt for one more play of Maniac 2000, turn a blind eye after the 10th poor Italian imitation and pay no heed at all to ‘Do ye Italians like pineapple on pizza?’.

So whether you storm the beaches of Mallorca, lay siege to Albufeira’s Val de Lobo or even occupy the vineyards on the outskirts of Bordeaux - one thing is for sure it’s tough to put down the 7th canapé and even harder to refuse the 15th bottle of Peroni. Can I see where the English were coming from? Not quite, but it is certainly evident how effortlessly the power of a situation and a sense of perceived importance can transform a Roscommon dairy farmer into Vasco de Gama,

Don’t forget, with great power comes great responsibility.

Ar scáth a chéile a mhaireann na daoine.

Reposing at Barton Road East, Dundrum, Dublin 14, on Sunday September 28^th, 2025, from 9.00am concluding at 11.30am.

Funeral Mass will take place at noon at Supervalu Deli Counter, Braemor Rd, Churchtown, Dublin 14.

Cremation of thoughts and underpants in the front snug in Smyth's of Ranelagh, Dublin 6, with bursting of togs to commence at 14.00pm.

No flowers to the house, the family kindly asks mourners to subscribe to the mailing list in bio or offer dopamine inducing positive (albeit insincere) feedback.

We are gathered here today in loving memory of a habitually naïve and susceptible shadow of a man. A fragile being who is weathering the aftermath of an unadulterated, unchecked and excessive spree of porter in combination with an unwavering continuous vacuum of nicotine inhalation. We congregate here together to acknowledge and admit, confess and communicate the inherent deep psychological failings and clear inability and lack of emotional regulation in the complete collapse and disintegration of self in the direct aftermath of such occurrences. In sharing and disclosing the discomfort and agony through the five stages of grief, together may we rationalise, normalise, lessen and spread the suffering.

This is the word of the Lord.

Amen.

1. Denial: - Say nothing and keep saying it.

Reality may indeed be a man in his mid 30’s fully clothed lying upside down in a bed not knowing how or indeed when he got there. Yes, there might be the inadvertent pot noodle balancing precariously on the bedside table. Yes, there may be a sockless but not shoeless left foot. So what if there is a fully completed conspiracy documentary titled ‘Flat Earth - To The Edge & Back’ on the laptop. I am not here to diminish the ‘The What?’ ‘The Who?’ ‘The Why?’, all are valid queries, all valid gaps in information but all completely irrelevant until a still and stable cerebral cortex is present. As your phone rings from an unknown number and your large intestine gurgles and churns the last of the curry cheese chip, it is time to use the Irish triceps you were baptised, christened and confirmed with and push all feelings down and fundamentally deny your existence to yourself.

Float above consciousness, rise, pause and attempt a vertical stance.

2. Anger: - Whatever is begun in anger ends in shame.

Once the bed is made and the natural sunlight hits your blotched, rosacea ridden face you can begin to pinpoint the cause or more importantly, the blame. As the enzymes in your body fight frantically to combat the dermatological outbreaks and a thick application of sudocrem is deemed medically sufficient to resist all other ailments, blame begins to turn inward. To thwart such internal resentment one must look to two infallible sources: a) face east, raise your index and middle finger and repeat after me ’post colonial, intergenerational, epigenetic, psychological trauma’ b) a secondary yet equally as effective, is to shift blame on to others that were present - was it really my fault that Diarmuid's communion went tits up, if anyone is to blame it is Maire-Threase and her belligerent free pours on the Hendrick’s and tonic.

The lesson; is gravity responsible for you falling head first into a pint? Yes. Next.

3. Bargaining: - Two in the thoughts, one in the prayers.

Crystals, tarot cards, candles, diffusers - the tabernacle of any millennial. As the plume from the embering sage smudge stick rises, don’t forget to remember that higher, surrealist and absurdist powers are at play. Pull a tarot card, read your moon sign, tap into your pagan roots, no one is judging you for chanting a buddhist chakra whilst rationalising how the three remaining squares of single ply toilet paper will be enough. Plea and negotiate with any and all spiritual forces. Through absurdist bartering with yourself and your whimsical spirituality you should be ultimately able to answer and attest for last night's fallibility i.e. Does my abhorrent drinking make me a bad person ?

No. Everyone loves you with a pint in you. You're a fucking legend on the beer.

4. Depression: - Pain is just french for bread.

As the final drops of dutch courage evaporate through your enlarged pours, a vacant corpse remains - blighted and broken facing what seems its eternal end. As lunchtime melancholy manifests - overwhelming sadness, hopelessness and an utter sense of emptiness resides. Every second-storey window looks like a good idea. The dark clouds move in and there is no alternative, the only feasible option is to wield your epipen - in non medical terms: the carbohydrate kick starter stack. Mandate your local deli counter worker (without making eye contact) with clear, concise instructions: ’Chicken Fillet Roll, Spicy Chicken, Mayo, Lettuce, Cheese’ - pause - ‘Two Jambons’ - pause - ‘Sausage Roll Chaser’. Prepare the IV drip with peach ice tea, a can of Club rock shandy and some flavoured water. Add a last minute chocolate addition at the till and a rogue ‘not really worth it’ pack of skittles for the road home.

Peter De Vries encapsulated it best: ‘Gluttony is an emotional escape, a sign something is eating us.

5. Acceptance: - No rain, no flowers.

The horrors, the catastrophisation, the overthinking, the night terrors are all coming, but your subscription to amazon prime has long since lapsed, nothing is arriving today. If the doorbell rings don't answer, take the slip and pick up the parcel of mental anguish on Monday. Misery loves company, problems are never best solved alone. Today you are society's problem, let the institution that caused this, fix this. Sometimes it's worse to win a fight than to lose it. A hangover from five crisp clean creamy pints is much more manageable than trying to address an unquantifiable Saturday night spree. We live in a world of refinement not invention. Fred Flintstone invented the wheel, you don't have to. Yes the first will be hard, the second too, maybe even the third but as the fourth pint approaches and that fuzzy feeling of normality hits, take a look in the mirror and watch that rye smile return - look who’s back on top, it's you. The problem is the solution and the solution is the problem.

To live is to suffer but to be alive is to find meaning in the suffering.

Beir Bua agus Beannacht.

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Wednesday 26th of June 2024, 5.30am. The Boo Radleys break out in chorus as my alarm intensifies to the point of intolerability. My morning call to prayer, the daily serenade of the 1995 Number 9 hit song ‘Wake Up Boo’ echoes from an extortionate drafty rental in South West London. At the foot of my (slightly too small to the point that I need to lie diagonally) bed, my half-heartedly ironed blue shirt, overpriced & underwhelming ¼ zip and overzealously company branded lanyard lay idle. ‘Quarter Two’ was coming to a close and each and every fanciful and imaginary target/deadline that lined the pockets of my high ranking sociopathic, narcissistic and egotistical corporate ‘leaders’ had been hit - and indeed, surpassed. The toes off capitalism had been sucked clean and in return my overlords had approved five days of reprieve, respite & retreat – and so it began.

Somerset the location, Glastonbury the destination, Liberation the motivation.

As the train pulled out of Paddington, the pilgrimage to Worthy Farm commenced. With a lack lustre almond croissant from Pret a Manger in one hand, a dirty chai latte in the other and my trusty 30 litre Patagonia rucksack (the very same one that accompanied me when I volunteered i.e. fundraised myself a free holiday in Africa in 2016) stowed above my head, an eery and unnerving calm came over me as the reality of the mind-bending expedition ahead set in.

Nearing the grounds of Glastonbury the scene could only be described and characterised as ‘The Labour Vote’ or in other words; thousands of white middle-class flies on a field of white middle-class shit. An overwhelming, slightly nauseating yet oh so familiar stench of ‘affluenza’ tickled my nasal canals. A psychotropic aroma that would almost make you reach into your bio-organic tote bag for your iPhone 16 Pro to post a story akin to ‘Glasto Get Ready #FuckTheTories’. After queuing for what felt like as long as a slice of Bambino’s Hot Pep Pizza on a Saturday afternoon we were finally through the gates to the land of unadulterated indulgence, foolishness, odyssey, magic and more. With my tent pitched (thanks to my Microsoft Excel steeled tipped fingers) all was set to let five days of unhygienic liberal lunacy loveliness unravel.

Each day was a strict diet of perspiration, dehydration and rhythmic consumption. The reverberations of sound became one with my inner core as I was metamorphosing into a semibreve (a whole note for those not classically trained). Scanning around the sea of people I was transfixed by the groovy coloration, luminosity and fluid patterns that would cause an epileptic episode to the un-lubricated mind. As a collective we were delicately riding the serotonin induced wave of joyfulness and splendor. Each day was started with a baby wipe of each loin. Reassuring cans of warm lager followed accompanied with heroic doses of Jeremy Corbyn propaganda and nostalgic early 2000’s pop. The problem solvers and factory re-setters provided exhilarating euphoric bursts during the 200bpm nights and bled into warm, creamy dreaminess once I manged to retreat in to my moisture laden albeit cosy tent. Mind wired, body tired. The hours melted into days, strangers into friends, reality into fantasy and finally intentions into penance - the end came and so did the death march to the train station.

I spent the train ride home and the next 48 hours virtually bereft of life in a self-induced sensorial deprivation pool of my own sweat and self-reflection hoping that death makes more sense than life. Amidst the life-threatening anxiety, monstrously vivid hallucinations, mind numbing depression and far too frequent short circuits of my frontal cortex I began to philosophise:

It became clear that the last five days was in essence an escape mechanism to push back against everything that is imposed upon us in corporate society. We are churning in a capitalistic froth, week after week, year after year, pre-destined to a predefined cycle with only brief respites. These brief pauses where we lift our heads above the parapet and momentarily free ourselves spiritually and emotionally, allowing ourselves to question the ‘why’ in what we do. But is the system and corporate structure pushing us down or do we want/need to be suppressed into a monotonous routine? For these magical, ecstatic and euphoric weekends of utter and absolute release wouldn’t touch the sides if the majority attending them weren’t subjugated to a constant tyranny of mundanity before and after.

So, is it the chicken supreme or the egg mc muffin? Who needs who?

You know what I mean, dopamine.

Wednesday, July 3^rd at 8.00am. I’m seated at my desk.

Incorrect password.

Please try again.

You have one more attempt before your access is blocked.

Let me paint the scene; take Da Vinci’s ‘The Last Supper’ (as seen above) the congregation has been reduced to the kitchen table with the remaining degenerate gremlins elbow to elbow as ears begin to singe and char. Pupils are dilating with immeasurable levels of confidence and heads full of substandard and unrealistic ideas soon become mouthfuls of overly enthusiastic and passionate words. Center stage is commanded and controlled by either (a) a Canada Goose wearing, Turkey teeth showing, tattoo sleeve bearing ‘howya’ or (b) a privately educated, Amex wielding, Ralph Lauren wearing ‘west-britt’ – both, given enough airtime will release an identical conversation ending, dialogue destroying battle cry:

The advent of ‘Crypto’ dates back to 2009 and takes the form of Bitcoin - put simply: a type of digital currency that operates on a digital network (using blockchain) that records and secures all transactions. A novel and revolutionary concept that has gained gargantuan levels of popularity and value in the last five to seven years, but with such rapid exponential value and wealth creation comes specific unwavering attention from moronic hordes of self-proclaimed gurus – ‘Crypto Bros’.

Sitting amongst them feels like being cast into an abstract dyslexic episode of Countdown – ‘rekt’, ‘mooning’, ‘paper hands’, ‘hodl’, a seemingly endless task of deciphering and decrypting terminology, acronyms, abbreviations and colloquialisms. This barrage of parseltongue then envelopes itself into the ‘Crypto Bro’ asserting in a boastful and arrogant manor their (unrealized) ‘net worth’ whilst bragging about how many times they have ’10 x’d’ their investment. The monologue will continue until the dreaded and traumatic sales pitch i.e. your necessary and required recruitment to artificially prop up the latest unserviceable and impractical meme coin protocol ponsi-scheme. If you are so blessed to be included in the tirade, it will be in the form of direct interrogation and questioning: ‘What are you holding?’, ‘What is your portfolio spread?’, ‘What L2’s you in on?’, ’Have you heard of the new (insert inanimate object) Coin?’. As they ooze nauseating levels of capitalistic rhetoric you realize that this ‘after party’ you had sacrificed your Sunday and indeed your productivity for the first half of the week for has turned into an unhinged seemingly endless Ted Talk.

Is this irritating, parasitic virus a new phenomenon or just a reincarnation of some prior deity/being? Well, twenty years prior, when fifty chomps were a fiver and ten freddos were a euro, the same archetype was slinging half-built holiday homes on the coast of Bulgaria claiming; ‘The Black Sea is the place to be’ or selling unstable, poorly engineered glass conservatories to harness Carlow’s renowned Mediterranean climate. It’s a chronic condition and disorder of man to equate unrealized, potential, on paper financial gains as cash in hand - I reckon the over-leveraged developers and illiquid banks of 2008 didn’t have a plan to ‘cash out‘ either.

Look, I’m aware ‘Crypto Bros’ are a sensitive bunch - but go sow your financial oats and reap the cryptocurrency crop you deserve just keep the digital currency porridge away from the after-party table.

Don’t think less of yourselves just think of yourself less.

PS: An investment in knowledge pays the best interest.

My dearest companion,

Hours hath turned to days, and the days doth turn to a month. The anticipation for you to engulf and consume my existence with warm, comforting enchantment is offering critical life support to what is I, otherwise a lifeless, limp and dim organism. My consciousness is dominated by anxieties, worries and uncertainties - a dire condition that has left me jaded and impatient. This partition is the most sustained separation we’ve endured since 2010, when our complex companionship covertly commenced behind the 14a bus stop shrouded by the hedgerows and undergrowth.

Thirty-one days my love, thirty-one days I am destitute and deprived in this desert of vanity and self-absorption without reprieve or relief. Cast into these excessive enclosures of narcissism - face to face with wall length mirrors with every orb of imperfection subject to scrutiny. Indoctrinated into the hordes of weight-lifting loons over-compensating for the fact that their white-collar professions are about as physically challenging as long division. These palladiums of narcissism foster doubt, encourage comparison and ultimately use ‘self-love’ as a veil for self-loathing. What’s worse my dear, I’ve abstained from the gluttonous late-night delights in which we indulged in so often. I’ve exchanged quavers for kale, curly-wurleys for cabbage & lollipops for lettuce – living life on the veg, on the veg of irrationality and neurosis. I’ve hit rock bottom, as rock bottom is where you stop digging, and a full matching Gymshark tracksuit while listening to the Diary of CEO was where my metaphorical shovel conceded defeat.

My dear, what began as a figment of my imagination, a thought, an idea, a challenge and really, just a point of conversation to seem slightly relevant in depths of winter has now devoured me. It has submerged my individuality, blunted my personality and numbed my spirit and in exchange given me about as much character as a magnolia paint scheme in a semi-detached house outside the M50 ring road. Many people die of thirst but I was born with one; I have adulterated with sparkling water and green tea but yet an emptiness remains. Pressures of society have tried to crack and fracture my spirit but I’ve remained true - I couldn’t bare the do-gooders and Andrew Huberman brown-nosers lecture me with ‘we told you so, we told you you couldn’t cope’ - I too can be as stale, bland and as antiquated as the best of them.

My dear, this isn’t a community, it is a cult, a new religion, it’s the Gen Z church of Scientology. ‘Dry January’ - brand it, sell it, consume it. A year’s worth of religion in thirty-one days, it even accommodates for their pathetic attention span.

What’s more my beloved, this month of sobriety has lifted the fog of uncertainty and illuminated your intrinsic value and worth. Constantly tinged with the ‘binge culture’ brush, our connection was so much more. You are the relief and support to make frighteningly trivial and mediocre conversations in social environments not of my choosing bearable. You are the fuel to permit nights to go beyond themselves, to allow terrifyingly poor decision making to occur and thus birth comedic brilliance for the greater good. You are the charitable inner presence that provides an income for the gentleman in the pub toilet slinging the finest 2010 ‘Dior Sauvage’ this side of the Shannon. You are the abolition of barriers to allow borderline inappropriate direct messages with accompanying flame emojis be sent. You are the lubricant to facilitate discourse to move and meander into forbidden and prohibited areas. You are the permission to loiter and idle near medium to large bodies of water on a fine day. You are the necessary finish line and ultimate objective for hiking, cycling, walking, kayaking and any other low to medium strain exercise. You are the foot that kicks Sunday morning’s hangover down the road until Tuesday. You are the suppression of Catholic Guilt. You are the ‘ahh we’ve 20 minutes to kill’, the ‘it’s only the one’, the ‘we really shouldn’t’ and the ‘ah go on, its only baileys in your porridge’. You are a muse, an altered state, an elixir.

Thousands have lived without love, not one without water porter.

Everything in moderation, including moderation.

Grá go deo - Sláinte.

- defined universally as the role or behavior considered to be appropriate to a particular gender as determined by prevailing cultural norms i.e. how we're expected to act, speak, dress, groom, and conduct ourselves based upon our assigned sex.

As a man who is aggressively fond of a vibrantly colored pair of Swedish cotton socks, a touch too enthusiastic and fervent on blasting the Girls Aloud Mega-Mix on the morning commute, a fraction too vocal about justifying the exorbitantly priced coconut oat latte with accompanying acai bowl and who stubbornly insists on gracing renowned Victorian five star hotels each and every Christmas bedazzled head to toe in the finest sequins Asos can next day deliver - my ‘masculinity’ often is subject to interrogation. But look, some of us don’t have ankles for digging a grave and growing up in a generation of power rangers vs power puff girls such ‘feminine’ attributes like creative and emotional expression were and still are (less so you’d hope) suppressed in boys and men. However, what the mind suppresses the body expresses – so where was all this metro-sexuality rearing its frilly camp head?

Ahhhh there it is: ten thousand barrel-bellied, jowl swinging, gout wrecked men. A collective that personifies the ‘machoism’ archetype. Arm in arm singing, swaying and leaping in perfect harmony – releasing every morsel of their metrosexual soul, every iota of their inner queen as they embrace and espouse musical theater within the hallowed walls of Alexandra Palace. Walkout singalongs, thunderous chanting and singing throughout all ending in a crescendo of ‘Angels’ by Robbie Williams at the curtain call. Childhood and teenage repression of expression laid bare for all to see.

This discharge and excretion of theatrical & performative glee is not constrained to the festive spirit. These burly pint slugging animals that turn into jolly Father Christmas’ are part and parcel of a year-round pantomime. Under the guise of sporting spectacles throughout every football ground and associated tavern in proximity there is a rapturous choir of obtuse, hostile and belligerent men that are ‘set in their ways’ i.e. lacking expression. These Old Testament repressed, and creatively silenced queens go so far as to pen their own songs with some of the most imaginative and inventive word play that Bob Dylan would be proud of and unlike Dylan, it’s all produced on the back of a betting slip that probably cost their child a chance at university. Denial for some is a river in Africa but for this cohort of ‘lads’ it’s truly their inner Disney lead character.

We’ve ended up with society defining characteristics with a simplistic male or female association however, it’s just a construct of acceptability contrived from socio-cultural beliefs and expectations not biological differences. Transcend the boundaries my kings, let’s not assume anyone’s molecules – for something to be masculine or feminine is a fluid spectrum and no one trait or value is hardcoded or ringfenced.

You don’t need to be a horse to be a jockey.

Be yourself; everyone else is already taken.

Yours in flamboyancy,

Sauvignon Franc xo xo.

Ah hello. If it isn’t yourself, it must be secondary school since I last saw you.

Friend:

Well, it’s been a while alright. How’s things with you?

Me:

I’m just eating the pavement for breakfast, lunch & dinner mate. Breakfast, lunch and God damn dinner. It must be two years now since I struck endogenous opioid gold. I was flummoxed in a state of disrepair, on a metaphysical level broken, you know? In the throes & torment of a severe dopamine deficit and suffering through an endorphin epidemic. Swear down to you now, my days had turned to in to a repetitious, monotonous, relentless rut – mid morning yirgacheffe brew, work, gut-friendly/probiotic-positive lunch, work, lean protein-based dinner, sleep. I realized I just couldn’t lean on my leaving cert results, my first-class honors degree or my shallow corporate career for chat anymore. I needed that certain raison d'etre. In truth, a last-ditch attempt to rebuild my own hierarchy of needs as defined by Maslow himself. So, listen to this: there I was at home in sunny South Dublin suburbia; my mind wandering in a fog of lament as I stirred the orb of floating cream into my fiery butternut squash soup. Go Tobann (we had a right laugh in honors Irish didn’t we) then as sure as God made gooseberries, the emulsification of cream formed a face in the hand-thrown ceramic bowl – quasi psychedelic I know, but I kid you not. The face mouthed to me ‘You can’t run from your problems, but you can cry try’. There it was - my one way ticket to chaffing eternity.

Friend:

I need to …

Me:

but you know; a vision without execution is just a hallucination, remember the career guidance counselor telling us that one, or was that just me. I’m now that guy, yeah, the one spouting Seamus Heaney quotes of hope and promise - nearly as bad as them tech recruiters posting ‘relatable content’ on Linkdin heh? It’s just sex, weights and protein shakes for yours truly. Pain is my paracetamol and suffering my solpadine. Any chance I get I’m loosen the legs, stretching the seams of my jocks and testing the tenable tog limit. Oh, and the best part man, the best part, the materialism; the outfits, the gadgets, the runners. You seem puzzled - Well, imagine Eliud Kipchoge, now imagine a certified disgraced jock sniffer with the physique of a soft-boiled egg stuffed into unforgiving muscle-fit gym shark attire bouncing around on two Nike Pegasus trampolines whilst drowning in his own hibiscus/ginseng infused perspiration that cascades uncontrollably from his abnormally large head. Don’t get me wrong, I’m shifting the timber alright but it’s coming at a sizable cost to the taxpayer – if you want the rainbow you must suffer the rain, you know? But in truth, my lower body is as tender as a chicken medallion submerged in a 24 hour buttermilk bath and let’s not get into the immoral amounts of chafing etching itself like hieroglyphics on my upper thighs - but we won’t let Instagram know that now, will we.

Friend:

Sorry but….

Me:

and it hasn’t been just a physical transformation. Granted my abdomen no longer swings like a suburban couple with a front garden full of pampas grass and my organs have been returned from their gout racked state but mentally & spiritually I’m awakened. My mind is at peace akin to a neoteric vegan on a bed of celery in a room full of overpriced house plants photosynthesizing the pungent aroma of bullshit as whale sounds reverberate periodically. My social ecosystem now consists of kudos, personal bests, 5km’s and run club coffees - per tenebras ad lucem, you know? I’ll tell you without fear of contradiction that I found my Gwen Stefani, I found my sweet escape. It’s a lot of hysteria, fanfare and all-round ballyhoo but the proof is in the pudding mate, not in the custard.

Friend:

Honestly, I really must be on ….

Me:

Well, I ran a marathon.

Yeah, a marathon, like 42.2 kilometers. Mad, I know.

Can you imagine? Me.

A sub 4 hour marathon.

3 hours & 43 minutes.

So, when the Printworks smoking area archangels delivered from the heavens a willing test subject (unbeknownst to her) in what was set to be the most groundbreaking, unfathomable, and mystifying clinical trials of the 21^st century my manifesto was manifesting, next was solving its fundamental and central hypothesis.

The hypothesis in question; to examine, evaluate and test the age-old proverb / adage:

Hark now hear every doctrine & philosophy from Neptune to Mercury about this vague prophecy: many claim it’s ‘a moment’, some insist on it being ‘a feeling’, others postulate ‘a point in time’, and the remaining few ‘an action’. I was determined to do the scientific research, excavate the truth, and democratize the knowledge of ‘when’ one has found a compatible double act.

As the most eagerly anticipated & incomprehensible clinical trial commenced and the slew of what was overly enthusiastic (strange/weird/bizarre) alcohol induced dates followed. The weeks and months passed by without a red card being shown or final whistle sounding. I had bounced and flounced myself deep in to a ‘situationship’. The promised land of a happy loving and somewhat romantic relationship was in sight, but I was still awaiting a definite answer to my hypothesis and then it came, it arrived, it delivered.

Early-Afternoon Sunday 21^st May 2023.

A balmy summer afternoon, a feeling comparable to life as a forgotten curly wurly in your left pocket going through a 40c wash at an aggressive 600rpm spin cycle perforated our cerebral cortexes. Emotionally we felt like a fridge on a Wednesday – nothing to give. Misery loves company and we were subject to each other’s close company for the day. We were inextricably intertwined in our shared anguish. At no point had the quest for the raiders of the lost hypothesis crossed my mind until I made my way to bin (to recycle where applicable) the various quaver packets, starburst & minstrel wrappers.

As the bin flung open under the monumental pressure of my size UK10.5 Airmax 90’s something in that moment made me pause. I stopped and swiveled my head back to the couch. Our eyes locked. My pupils dilated. Tunnel vision took over. A bead of sweat formed on my forehead and the irrational thought process of ‘take a chance, Christopher Columbus did’ ran through my mind. Suddenly, I was deafened with the ringing of white noise. Identical to Oppenheimer, a flash distorted my vision and the speed of sound then followed.

An absolute rip van winkle of an air biscuit came rattling out of me back passage with reverberations that would deafen a cat.

Five seconds of the most intense eye contact followed.

Everything was suspended in state not consistent with reality.

The magnitude of what I had released began to perforate my nostrils.

Still, only silence.

And then,

 A howl of laughter echoed. 

The past four months of post ten-pint self-induced stomach cramps all flashed before me. Each visit to handicap toilets of various cafes throughout London that felt the wrath of an intestinal build up on any given Sunday whizzed through my mind. Indigestion had been my hostage and now it was free.

Relief.

I had found at the depths of humanity that love is kind, love is blind and love certainly might have a blocked nasal passage. Johnny Cash, you weren’t wrong ‘Love is a burning thing, and it makes a fiery ring’.

So there you go and now you know.

You know.

And Beyonce,

This ain’t Texas and honey dear, I sure as fuck ain’t going to hold ‘em.

“An ungrateful man will complain about a hole in his pocket,

A wise man will scratch his ballix” – Socrates. 

You don’t just turn thirty. The path is long, the path is arduous, the path generally consists of poorly laid asphalt. It constitutes a number of key sections & milestones that culminate in the biggest win of the week being the fact you’ve matched a pair of socks on a Tuesday morning. Childhood- the naivety, the innocence & the joy, Puberty- popping spots and flicking snots, the turbulent twenties- simply put, the ‘what if?’ years, all separate metaphorical floors that need to be experienced in order for the elevator of life to progress and reach the 3^rd floor – yer thirties (together after me, in through the nose and out through the mouth).

For six months now, since the elevator doors creeped open, I’ve scratched my metaphorical ballix, ruminating & pondering on my journey to this defining point. Akin to how our Lord and savior came down to Moses on Mount Sinai to deliver the ten commandments, I am here to evangelize to the average and below average plebian populace, a set of commandments that are not to educate or instruct but to deliver comfort & relief. All rise and repeat after me – “I am not alone”.

1.      White underpants are made for commercials not reality.

The price is what you pay but the value is what you get – nothing echoes this sentiment more than a media pressured purchase of a pair of snow-white Calvin Klein Y-fronts with a 2009 Jamie Dornan eyeballing you from an erotic stance on the label. With maturity, you find it’s the substance in life that truly adds value. So, the next time you catch a glimpse of a pair of white jocks in the wild just know that the boring mundane simpleton wearing them who is feeding this self-serving image & ego based societal system has clearly never experienced the pleasure (and aftermath) of a piping hot vindaloo & seven crisp pints of cobra lager.

2.      Its ok to be the green bell pepper in a multipack.

Red, yellow and green – in that order. The unanimous verdict on popularity regarding the coveted & versatile bell pepper. It’s a multipack that dominates the shopping basket of your twenties and distinctly symbolizes that period in life too. Much of our twenties are spent as a green pepper, full of neglect, alienation and a general sense of ‘am I good enough’. The realization that every red & yellow pepper once was an unripe under-utilized green pepper can be applied to the journey of life. Every dog has its day but if they’ve been a good boy they might get two.

3.      It’s never too late to own a loofa.

*audible roar from housemate in 2015*

‘Why is there a bottle of fairy liquid in the shower?’

Times were tough, but baby so were we. Knowledge is knowing that Lynx Africa isn’t a deodorant, wisdom is realizing that it’s a one of the most aromatic & potent pheromones on planet earth. Knowledge is knowing that shampoo should only be used once a week and that you are never truly clean unless you are scrubbing yourself with a pineapple shaped loofa, wisdom is accepting that it won’t remove the smell of regret, shame & humiliation.

4.      Nobody is right if everybody is wrong.

We live in a world of ‘influencers’; defined in Collins dictionary in 2024 as a homogenized group of egocentric, self-absorbed individuals that peddle about as much sense as Bono between songs. Examples include but are not limited to: overweight people teaching you how to loose weight, size zero models highlighting the joy of eating cookies & pizza, hybrid ‘athletes’ that couldn’t run a bath nevermind a decent time & gymfluencers with more juice in them than tropicana. Step back and remember; statistics don’t measure character and followers certainly don’t measure sense.

5.      Be held like a fart on a first date.

There is only so much a maternity pillow, half a bottle of Gaviscon, a lavender diffuser, three paracetamols and a pack of chewits can do on a Sunday morning after a night on the guzzle. As crippling, border-line life changing anxiety hurtles towards you like Honeysuckle in the 2022 Champion Hurdle you soon come to understand that human touch and more specifically your pudgy tummy being rubbed in an anticlockwise direction whist being whispered ‘everything is ok’ and fed purple & green wine gums is all that’s desired and most certainly all that’s required.

Take from the above what you will but remember it’s all downhill till fifty. Burn the Jo Malone triple wick from both sides – life is for living. This mass has now ended, you may go in peace.

Be your own daddy make your own sugar.

The maestro, the troubadour the poet & the bard.

Yours in crises,

Dedicated to Paul Mescal

– without you, none of this would be possible.

Details:

Age: 29 (we’re all in our twenties).

Height: 6 ft 2” (in a pair of Air Max 90 Terrascapes – the lift we all need every morning).

Location: London (zone 1 if you’re looking).

Prompts:

1)     All I ask is that you:

Let me drink pints with your father.

2)     I’m looking for:

 Planning permission.

3)     Together we could:

Have two pints of Guinness and a fat snog.

London town, for centuries it has seen a multitude of Irish pass through its metropolis. Historically, famine, severe economic depression and crippling poverty had driven young men and women over the Irish sea. The offer of prosperity and hope drew in the downtrodden and disenchanted. Men took to the shovel while women darned their scrubs and filled the wards. These generations of systematically degraded ‘paddies’ or ‘micks’ paved the way for us – the current influx.

‘Babies of the Boom’, ‘Teenagers of the Recession’, ‘Graduates of the Housing Crises’ or in short ‘Generation Emigration’. We are the children of the early 90’s who saw our communion cards of (what transpired to be borrowed) money replaced with unemployment – where a part time job was as rare as true feelings being expressed in an all-boys secondary school. Granted, prosperity ‘returned’ in our twenties, just so long as you adhere to the simple societal guidelines: get engaged, mortgage yourself into a nursing home and go to the same overpriced avocado and eggs eatery every Saturday morning or, well, you could, eh ………

Download Hinge & hightail it to London.

As a long-time champion of the ‘Average Irish Male’ (defined as: customarily atrocious rig, primitive emotional intelligence, abysmal hygiene, an obsolete fashion sense and an unfaltering eagerness to throw weight behind a few problem solvers on a Thursday evening) - it has been refreshing & revitalizing to see the hankering lust of an extensive contingent of London’s female population, across a myriad of cultures unequivocally echo a strong positive sentiment about the Irish attractiveness. Yes, I am aware we are riding on the coattails of Paul Mescal and his mullet but there is no shame in that - he is the lamb of god who brought about this mass & vast female melting pot having a perverted obsession with bagging dates with Irish male mediocrity - have mercy on us.

Coupled with this nouveau ‘Mescal Movement’, we are in the midst of dating app pandemonium. In yester-years it would have been the famed & storied London dance halls and late bars that the sub par Irish brothership would frequent, now the likes of Hinge bring that devilment, high jinx & tomfoolery directly to our fingertips – with no capacity limits, no closing time and the 3rd biggest catchment area in Europe to cast our mediocre net in to.

So whether you are a Tilly, Milly, Lolly or Poppy from South-West London, a Brixton Caribbean queen, a Hackney Hipster with more tattoos than sense, an Aussie or Kiwi on a two year ‘lets get f*cked’ visa or a housewife of Clapton with your whippet on a leash there is a sub par Irish male in his late twenties coming ashore to not live up to your Sally Rooney Normal People chain dangling expectations.

P.S. Ladies be warned, if you don’t have at least an Irish grandparent it’s just going to be another meaningless fling. Fenian blood is hard bet.

Years, lovers & pints of Guinness – things that should never be counted.

Outkick your coverage.

Carpe C’ream

The week is broken, we’re over the hump, on the run into the weekend – but for me it’s when work begins and quite frankly, ends. Payday – well for those of us on the scratcher that is. The mornings where the toaster pops like a pole vaulter, the rolling boil of the eggs looks like a stormy Atlantic swell and the rashers sizzle like a portly Irish teenager in the sun.  A day of elation and prosperity that’s embraced each and every week of the Gregorian calendar.

But it doesn’t just happen? – well, it sort of does.

June 2022; no bleep test, no entrance exam just an extraordinarily bang average man in the depths of his twenties after handing in his badge and gun (swipe card & laptop to be precise) – more than enough to satisfy the requirements from the Department of Social Welfare to cash in the Marxist golden ticket (shout out to Leo Varadkar and the complete incompetence of all involved to get this over the line). A summer of live, laugh, lasagnas in store – or as it soon became apparent, life on the Rock ‘N’ Roll.

With my LinkedIn profile updated to something along the lines of ‘Civil Servant 3-month initial contract with a view to permanent, it was time to make the Camino to the local Post Office. My senses were molested as I arrived to a myriad of knock-off Balenciaga & Canada Goose clobber accompanied with a chorus of ‘Alright Pals’. Before long I was giving my details to Margret (the An Post stalwart) who as cool as the underside of a pillow ripped me off four of the crispest brown cows she had. Margret the magician wasn’t done, she stuck her hand in to what as might as well have been the Trevi fountain and laid out my winnings in full. Two Hundred & Twelve Euros for an autograph - work is most definitely for those that knew no better.

Nevertheless, akin to most things in life it’s the triumphant walk home where the true fulfillment & satisfaction slaps the frontal cortex clean and hard. Nods to strangers, foolhardy firing of finger guns and unquestionably the pillage of the local convenience store. Armed with only a pocket full of taxpayer’s money and a body full of slow metabolites it’s always the large and lonely starter pack of: Milka Oreo (Comfort), Kinder Egg (Mystery), Monster Munch (Reassurance), €6 Euromillions quick-pick (Hope), four pack of Karpackie x 2 (Relief) & off-brand Durex (Essential) (Emergency).

So there you have it - if you thought having a belly full of chocolate and receiving a fistful of €50 notes off some middle-aged lady you are vaguely familiar with for doing absolutely nothing ended at 11/12 years of age - it doesn’t. Collecting the dole is like doing your communion every Wednesday.

‘A rich man wants a thousand things; a poor man only wants one’ – next Wednesday.

Quit the day job, start daydreaming.

Time is precious waste it wisely.

‘Who’s next?’ – rings out in broken English.

A tall blonde (who you’d pour over your spuds if you could) appears and gestures.

Gingerly I peel myself off the faux leather upholstery. She directs me and I obey, shuffling with my head bowed as she whisks my jacket away. There is nothing here but mirrors as I stare face to face under a cloak of invisibility with what now is an ever-reddening face dotted with beads of sweat. A time of forced self-reflection unlike any other (well, bar the ceramic Villeroy & Boch throne of a Monday morning after a skip of Guinness the night before). My thumbs twitch nervously as she approaches from behind, my mind races as my inner monologue provides inspirational solace ‘some days you’re the windscreen, some days you’re the fly - my boy’.

A reassuring hand is put on my shoulder as the tension of the moment mounts and the blood flows south. She whispers quietly in her Slavic tone those words so familiar to us bang average/more or less below par men:

‘Now, what can I do for you?’

My upper lip quivers as I mutter: ‘The same again please love’ - adopting a tough Inner-City Dublin twang to cover up the vulnerability of my socio-economically sound South Dublin suburban upbringing (public-school educated mind you). A gentle brush off a left breast on the back of the head is my last fading memory as she commences proceedings.

‘Is that alright for you?’

Wakes me abruptly from my bewildered and confused daze. Praise the lord and pass the soup my bimonthly rollercoaster of emotion screeches to an end. She cleans me up and I confirm my pleasure at the service. I rustle a few crisp notes from my Ted Baker relaxed fit chinos and signal to tip the change - swallowing your pride occasionally will never give you indigestion.

A short back and sides with a scissors trim on top shouldn’t be a love story - but it is.

My pension’s maturing but I ain’t.

Bertie, we’re back.

Like the apple to Newton’s head this reflection on my younger self reminded me that I sat English Paper II ten years ago this summer past. It’s taken me that decade to poorly apply some of the deeply engrained rote learned syllabus into something that merely accentuates my regression as a functioning adult and highlights that I am - still the same cow - still chewing the same AstroTurf - still waiting to taste grass.

Swigging

(Seamus Heaney’s – ‘Digging’)

Between my fingers and my thumb,

The pint glass rests; snug as a gun.

With godly conviction, he poured out his best.

Tap lines engulfed by dark velvet waves. Expectation awaits.

A trundle of cream down the pint falls,

Steeped in tradition like the timeworn mahogany it sits on.

Unbridled passion keeping the pint aloft.

The sharp tones of barley with the soft viscosity of cream.

A cuddly pint she was.

Between my fingers and my thumb,

The pint glass rests;

I call another.

W.B Pints 

(W.B Yeats’ - ‘Lake Ilse of Inisfree’)

I will arise and go now and go to a place of glee, 

And a pint glass rests there, of malt and barley made. 

Nine dark pints I will have there, relapse for the likes of me, to be anonymous under the barman's glaze. 

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes settling slow. 

Two minutes to arrive and does so with a creamy glow. 

I will arise and go now for the wife is calling me, the children haven’t been collected and have been waiting since ten past three.

Divinity

(Patrick Kavanagh’s – ‘Sanctity’)

To go out for three but stay for more

Emotions parked in the garage

Routine deception my beloved endures

The delicate dance of marriage.

Uncle Edward’s Brandy

(Adrienne Rich’s - ‘Aunt Jennifer's Tigers’)

Uncle Edward’s brandy dances across my tongue,

The burning embrace of a friend far flung.

Oak aged violence replacing despair,

Twice distilled designed to impair.

Uncle Edward’s hand shaking with each and every pour.

A bachelor of the land of which he adored.

The weight of loneliness seen heavy on his heart. 

No one for company just a slice of apple tart.

Uncle’s now dead, his hands lie still

Spotted with anguish he drank the full will

The brandy sits still on the top drawer

If I don’t find a wife soon I’ll be next to pour.

I Think We Should Call It A Night

(Derek Mahon’s - ‘Everything will be alright’)

How should I not be glad to contemplate

the serenity of the morning calm as the sun ascends

through the plume of cigarette smoke.

No man to the slumber, no man to the cot,

but there is no need to go into that.

A state suspended from reality

anchored in empathy of comrades can in can.

It is a blessing rolling over in the company

of those who are cracked for they let in the light.

The barber is expecting me, its 11am on a Saturday.

I think we should call it a night.

I suppose in some ways the old adage about secondary school is true - it’s an awful lot like toilet roll, you don’t miss it till it’s gone.

Yours in exceptional mediocrity.

Warm Cans,

B3 Honours English Student - Leaving Cert 2012.

In the midst of a crippling recession, a nation in turmoil, high stool occupancy plummeting, and the father figures of the boom left with nothing but their y-front jocks – Arthur Guinness proved yet again that even the most beloved Protestant couldn’t be trusted. The Guinness family had besmirched the catholic peasants who line their pockets and failed in their democratic and civil duties.  The grumblings and gurgling’s could be heard from the racked organs of public house patrons nationwide. An inequity had transpired that would unsettle the most unsettled of bellies.

The blonde in the black dress had lost her hips

– our Guinness glass was being phased out.

It is said that ‘the nest is never bigger than the bird’ and in an age of body positivity and the championing of plus size women, the burly voluptuous figure men across the island had been accustomed to handling had been cast aside with contempt. Our rubenesque female icon had been banished from view. Our Adele of 2008, our Megan Trainor of 2014, and our current day Lizzo was now to be forced into a corporate pencil skirt fit for some low-income undereducated receptionist who struggles with telling DPD and DHL apart.  We had lost our grip, literally.

The existence of our very own vessel for tears and container of sin had been called in to question. Under what grounds? None. Time after time it had proven its capabilities. Whether that be the familiar four finger grip which allowed the inside of the palm to sit plush against the glass ensuring that a warm hug from a cold pint was delivered. Or indeed, the unwavering symmetry not seen since the pyramids giving her balance and poise of a USSR gymnast to ensure that even an 8.6 magnitude earthquake could not fracture the cream dome.

Tradition is there to be loved, not understood so the next time a moustache twisting craft beer hipster pushes this neoliberal woke ‘New Guinness Glass’ on you, hold your burley age old companion aloft and remind him of Megan Trainor circa 2014:

‘If you got beauty beauty just raise 'em up

'Cause every inch of you is perfect

From the bottom to the top’

In today’s polarizing societal climate, we have Liberals & Republicans, Remainers & Brexiteers, Full Backs & The Rest, but none of the aforementioned come close to modern society’s mid-Atlantic ridge – the boyfriend vs the single man. Not since the Easter Rising at the GPO will we see friends of the froth, comrades of the cream, belly brothers stare each other eye to eye, and pledge allegiance to their past or indeed, their future. That choice is simple either: take to the high stool or take to the camera, snapping pictures of their beret wearing girlfriend pretending to pick up The Louvre.

O’Leary is fuelling up the 737 ‘Brothership’ with the finest kerosene from crisis-stricken regions that the futures market can buy.  Single, rogue, and obnoxious egg tossers will scramble aboard. Shoulder to shoulder the lonely-hearts club will take to the Parisian cafés and bars with Covid-19 vaccination proof in hand.

These, a gallant troop of men sobbing at every sip of their warm Kronenbourg praying that the fallen soldiers left behind at the perfume section in T2 of Dublin Airport will muster the strength to just Johnny Cash it and walk the line of liberty from their better halves - to once again join in the mob of single, lonely portly men with a drunken chorus of ‘Non, Je ne Regrette Rien’. We are not looking for heroes or freedom fighters merely ‘Submarine Boyfriends’- stick with the crew in the depths of porter, only going to the surface when exterior pressure is unrelenting and proves too much. However, the French horn is a funny old instrument – time will tell if it will be listened to or silenced and subdued.

So, whether your weekend will consist of rolling around under the Eiffel Tower with two bottles of cheap rose at your side or being dragged to The Pont des Arts to ‘lock your love’ with a VAT free Dubai blood diamond engagement ring in your arse pocket just take a minute to crouch, touch, pause and remember:

The opposite for courage is not cowardice, it is conformity and even a dead fish can go with the flow.

You call it madness, but I call it love.

You call it love, but I call it madness.

‘Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité’.