Panadola Diction

Hello! Blogging is shit.

Seriously. But you all knew that. It’s an indulgence, which I like to dabble in every now and then, but it is largely inconsequential and pointless.

Oh, but it’s writing, it’s great to be writing, you say. Yes, well, no. It’s an excuse not to write anything worth writing. I find that prolific blogging periods correspond with zero proper-writing periods, and vice versa. Q E fucking D.

But there’s nothing wrong with the odd indulgence. A rogue cigarette, a glass of A Winter’s Tale, an episode of Emmerdale (Farm), a game of Wii Tennis. Actually, there’s an analogue - blogging is to writing, as Wii is to exercise. Sure, it’s doing you no harm, but you’re deluded if you think it’s genuinely a form of exercise. But what about Wii Fit, you say? Well, all I can say is that it’s marketing genius - the  Jap who said “lets sell people a weighing scales that can count your push-ups for €100″ is truly a clever Jap.

Is saying ‘Jap’ offensive? Doesn’t seem offensive to me, it’s merely an abbreviation. Hello Japs.

Oh, but it’s a gateway to the world of critical media. It’s only a matter of time until I’m invited to write a column for the Sunday Independent, or guest as an expert on a radio show. Or maybe I’ll get a book deal, and become the Loo Read of 2009, you say.  

Oh, but it’s an outlet for my feelings. Woe is me, you say. Yes, woe is you. Woe betide, I’m leaking feelings.

Oh, but it’s a fine soap box for my poorly-formed polemics and amusing rants, you say. Aye, ’tis. 

Have you ever tried standing on a soap box? Your average box of Daz won’t support your average man. I’d suggest one of those foldable footstools available from “The Book People” - those folks who leave ‘books’ in your office once a month - the latest selection of TV tie-in cookbooks, some children’s books, a sportsperson’s autobiography (for the men) and some other gimmicky gimcrackery. Never a novel. God forbid.

So, yeah, what’s my point. Blogging is like Wii? The Book People are cucksockers? Your blog is even shitter than mine? I’ve got Blog-bulimia? I hate books like “Overheard in Dublin“? I’m looking for attention? I am high-i-i-i-igh on emotion? I frown upon enjoyable and vaguely rewarding pastimes? I’m ok with mild xenophobia? I like sherry? No, no that’s not it at all.

And for god’s sake, if you have read this, please don’t feel the need to justify your blog, or, heaven forbid, mine. Or do, it might amuse me. I might kill you though. Ooh, I’ve just threatened the world. Does that make me a terrorist? Relax, Americans, it’s going to be Ohkay.

About two years ago, I went to the bar in Dicey Riley’s Garden and asked for two pints of Smithwicks. I paid with a red note and waited for my change. “40 cent please,” said the bartender. “Ahahaha,” said I, and I vowed never to go there again.

In the interim period I have heard two stories about the place - one involved Colin Farrell, and the other involved a bare-chested man trying to pay a waiter for a round of drinks with cocaine in the toilets, as he’d run out of cash. I think they were unrelated incidents.

Last night, against my better judgement, I went there to meet some friends, to celebrate multiple birthdays. I arrived at 9:30 and was asked to fork out a fiver to enter. Sigh. As I walked in the door, Ireland equalised against Serbia. Woo. I bought a pint of Smithwicks - €5.50. Argh. I met my friends and they told me I was sunburnt, I told them no, it was merely a hat-mark.

Then began two hours of constant harassment from ‘Praetorian Security’ - laughable suited assholes with hi-vis vests telling everyone that they couldn’t stand wherever they were standing. You weren’t allowed stand anywhere in the beer garden - only constant movement was acceptable, apparently. And then there were the heaters, which were on full-blast despite it being a warm evening. And the overcrowding. And the half-hour bar queues. And the music (bad). And the clientèle (vapid). And the €6 lager ( I felt like a peasant drinking my cheap ale).

If I were the son of a property developer and had a bland stripy white shirt with a little designer logo on it, sunglasses on my head and a slack jaw, I would no doubt go to Dicey’s Coke-yard every week and be very successful at pulling sparkly hellpigs.

I can just about understand why someone who worked nearby might go there for a couple of ciders on a sunny Monday evening, but as a venue for a weekend night out, Dicey’s makes no sense to me at all.

I made excuses, left early, headed for the other end of the scale - Carnival (a half-empty, dingy, perfect gloom-hole, with good music and a poorly-stocked bar), and thought about calling in the air strike.