This week...

My toes hurt and my fingers have lots of tiny cuts that hurt every time I touch anything. My skin on my face and nose is raw with windburn. I'm tired all the time and have to be in bed by twelve. The weekends are lazy and too short for recovery.

I forgot how bloody hard this couring lark is.


Life seems a little repetitive these days. Seems like I ve been dragging my body through sand and the only way i can cut the rope that is attached to some car is to leave Dublin and start again. I'm not sure I'm abe to do that. Still couriering nearly five years on and after completing a empty and remote degree, the situation I find myself now in appears locked. Money is so tight in this game thats its like the last 15 years economic boom didn't happen. Maybe It didn't.

It didn't happen for a lot of people. Theres been five murders in the last week over gangs and drugs. A few guys kidnapped a family while there son who worked in a Bank had to take out 6 million Euro. The guys beat up his wife and got away. Luckily the police caught two of them and half the money back. Money the banks dont have. Now more gangsters have more money and can walk around more dangerous and capable then before.

What happens? Nothing. We still buy our coke and pills, MDMA, hash and the rest. While the guards raid weed shops looking to crack down there minimal teenage trade. The message, grow your own.

Also this week several people were really rude to me as I picked up each drop around town. Women are the worst. They work in offices. They don't understand really that I am a person other than a service. I'm not sub servant but I am polite, too polite maybe as these people let me down, making my otherwise pleasant day a little tainted. Middle aged women are the best and worst so I shouldn't make a sweeping generalisations like before so I take it back. I had one lady explain to me very plainly that I was to return with the bag I was carrying there post in. I couldn't suppress the laughter as she was speaking. Maybe I do look like a fool or even maybe others have lost the bag before. But generally as a rule in life, if your picking up something in a bag you generally return it. What did she think? I wasn't going to return my direct/return drop. I suppose I appeared ignorant to her laughing at her repeating herself. She just didn't get that at nearly 30 I could understand simple instructions.

Enough moan. Other than that the week was good. Next week might be bittersweet with farewells and closing doors but in the end at least I have my bike and apparently tomorrows suppose to be a nice day.

ha ha

some fucker tried to grab my ass as he drove by me yesterday...the silly fucker left his window open...Bang. how do you like those apples fuck face?

It be Hard Times Charlie.

 

That voice.

Dont you use 'that voice' with me, Daithi.

Ive been re-reading a lot of what I have written lately and have realized that at least every sentence has at least three 'I's contained within the lines. So, in an effort not too change the rhythm of each linguistic string, I am going to step the constant self referencing up a bit to see if this one dimensional words-smith can create anything of interest ( for others ) to read.

Me and I met Liz aka PychoAnaLiz (renamed by 'That Voice' Daithi) on the Green last night about six. Finished work early so I waited around on the Green for her to arrive with my sandwich. I, and me, did not dress correctly for February's out door drinking sessions, so I had to borrow a woolen cycling jersey of Mac (thanks). We had a few beers. Liz was a bit tired as she spent most of the previous night up puking in my toilet after smoking a joint and pulling a whitey. I didn't realise that women her age still pulled whiteys. I thought that was just an adolescent hangover. However, as usual, she proved me wrong.

Nonetheless we carried on.
Later on the canal as the alleycat ensued(somehow I told Kropper that I would marshal) Liz and Vinny and myself took the nearest checkpoint being Love Lane East (not quiet Love Lane as our bittered threesome couldn't cope with that geographical heart break). We continued drinking in the lane as the residence of the near by apartments entered and exited their gates. Nice.

6 cans of Hineken, beef curry and a pasta salad later. The boys arrived with envelopes looking for us to stamp something. We didn't have a clue what we were doing. Fucking locked at that stage.

Fast forward 3 hours and Im in Kimmage trying to retrieve my bag from under a heap. Grabbed what ever looked familiar and cycled like a drunken postman home. Of course I took the wrong bag. Sorry Steve.

It was a slow week in work. Everyone I know is seriously broke. My brother made five Euro in his taxi yesterday. Everyone is on the dole, cept me. All I hear is redundancy this, or suicide bankers that. This new community of poverty got me thinking the other day as I sat waiting for my 4km trip to Ballsbridge to arrive at reception(15mins wait) paying me 1.80cent. As I begun my journey through drizzling darkened rush hour traffic I tried to count the benefits of the current economic weather. The dark evening and brown drizzle of the rain as it hit my face, somehow captured the present financial bleakness. However a negative appraisal is too obvious. Life is getting a little harder to manage. Bills rent, cost of food, is taking so much away from the 'drinking money' that Ive actually cut down immensely. The pub? What? Yeah right.
But, its also getting a little more intimately funnier.

I arrived at my final drop of the day happier. Although my hair, clothes and runners had now gone a disgusting shade of gross (hair is recession curly, I cant afford to look GHD gay anymore) I felt brighter than the spring evening. Cycling to Rathmines from Herbert Park to an impromptu dinner In Izzy's house inspired me with promise. There is no more mid week pints to catch up with a friend. But, the alternative of dinner invites, glasses of cheap God-bless-Lidl wine and lit (or gas) fires has opened me up to the little things I have forgotton. In the last few months I have seen my friends in their homes or mine, more. Had more conversations about real things in comfort and ease.

A long tradition of my family to have friends round for dinner weekly has been sidelined for the pub for years. Now is the chance to dine with good food good people in a economic climate that has poured down our mouths but has, I think that I am sure, brightened up our evenings.....

Liz reeling in the years...

Sex.on.pedels.

Original Eindhoven Script

Right, here's the original blog left at 2.00am Tuesday morning. Thank god for the dole and alcohol oh and the fact we have no jobs/lives. Read it here

left my jacket in Hogans Bar

Jaysus.
Met Liz for a quick 5 o clock scoop after I picked up me cheque for 40 Euro (thanks First Direct for reducing your rates and paying us even less, even though they don't take a pay cut and we all have to work harder, thanks). Obviously with my lined pockets I could afford a few beers. Liz got her grant cheque too so I thought she was good to cough up a few pints. We met a few boys and Liz pretended that she fancied one of them so he would buy her a drink.
He didn't, even when she asked.
I would like to think that this was a low moment of hers but she managed to get through it gracefully. Instead I lashed a few on my laser card so were grand. 6 hours later Christine Beep Beep shows up and manages to bring me home. Even though I had my head up me hole. Thanks Chris. And for the breakfast, and I told you I wouldn't go near you so relax.
No jacket. Did the walk of shame back to Hogans bar to pick up my green jacket that I have left there in a total of four times. Same jacket, same guy.
Luckily Chris had the Bruce foresight not to let me cycle home. So my bike left in the rain for the day had an orange glow around the key areas to greet me as I hopped on.
I cant remember who I was talking to in the pub but at one stage when I answered my phone, it slipped out of my hand hitting a girl in the back behind me, crashing on the floor. That was only at 6.30pm. By 12am I was hallucinating while simultaneously seeing into the future.

Liz legged it a bit earlier only after she chased that guy(who didn't by her a drink) off into the secret bar. Legend.

Handwoven in Eindhoven part 1

Basically our original plan (Liz and I) was to let a tidal wave of abuse let rip on the couriers, the male couriers. about their guilt, shame and sensitive alcoholic emotional natures. But as I said we ended up talking about Martini and calling everyone fucking cunts. So it might not read well.
We started off with our tales on Eindhoven and how we hit critical mass at this vital batch. I arrived from Utrecht with Murph, meeting her the day before it started with the rest of the posse.
I had been away from them for eight weeks lapping it up in my parents gaff in France(thats another post). My plan was to cycle from Paris where the pre event was, however the morning I awoke to follow the thirty something riders in District 18, I couldnt feel my legs. I crashed viciously the night before and drank most of my body weight in cheap as fuck French larger. Instead I followed the usual path of least resistance and got the train the next day with Murph. (thats also another post, fucking epic)
Cut to the end, I met Liz, the lads, the other lads, the Scottish lads, the American girl, the London lads, the older lads, the robbing lads and the new lads. oh and the Danish lads (sorry Liz). We got really messy and had a million adventures. some of which I'll post later.

Right now I have to go up to the base and pick up my cheque for a half days work a week ago. Che ching.

sapenger

Liz and myself attempted to publish a blog on Monday night. However, when morning broke and her cat jumped on my head, we awoke to a brain fog that eliminated any memory of user name and password. I think it was somthing about lasgana in a gutter but I cant remember.

I only called over for a glass of wine.

But when I got there her wine was shit. Luckily, I had a few cheap cans in my bag.
After we drank that and pretended to talk meanfully to each other, We rolled a million joints (as she poured brandy into my leftover-christmas-drink Baileys) and we set to work on our amazing travel log of the ECMC's in Eindhoven.

However, it ended in her mashing the keyboard and trailing off about an advert on the tele from the eighties.
When I find it online I'll publish it.

The heading of this Blog was inspired while I was talking to John. He said that if you could sell salvation to Irish people to remove the inherent guilt that is instilled on us, we could make a fortune. Which wouldn't work because we haven't any money.
Still, this idea got my pistons firing. Why do Irish people have so much guilt. I mean its not just a Catholic thing is it? Is it because, us unlike the Spanish say, are constantly pissed, running to the pub to avoid confrontation, incapable of appreciating any successful others as we secretly loathe ourselves?

Maybe not. But those shower of rich cunts in their Jeeps do my fucking head in.