The following is an exerpt from Glenda Gilson’s XPOSED column in The Sunday World Magazine (26/10/08). Grammer and spelling have not been changed. 

“There is someone very special in my life and last weekend I brought him to the RDS to the pet expo. It’s not a man it’s with my dog Harley.

I brought him to the RDS for the pet expo that’s going on.

There was doggy fashion shows (if that floats your boat) dog grooming and other bits and bobs that are dog related. I brought my godchild as she’s obsessed with all animals and I’ll probably bring my own little mutt along for a hair cut too. (my dog that is.)” 

I’m no Garcia Marquez but, ye know…..

Thursday began like every other day -me lying in bed at two bellends wondering if there’s any point dragging my fat ass out only to discover that Dublin’s still shit and death is slowly but evidently creeping up on me (I’m aware of this only because, like all smokers, my cough is now a harrowing ‘splutter ‘ and I throw up after hopping walls). I pulled my laptop onto my chest (noting the word ‘chestop’ while giggling at my innate geniosity and boyish charm) and checked my mails:
From: Celina
Subject: media whores? Should we start tonight?
With a subject line as vague as that I knew it was going to be a smashing evening so I got out of bed and wrestled on my Sunday best.
With all the excitment of actually leaving my flat to join real-life people (or, as mom calls them The Others), I forgot to check what time I was meeting the lads and left three hours too early. So, like any self-respecting wannabe media whore I ventured into the gentlemen’s club to wet my whistle. The Guinness went down well but I was unimpressed with the girl from the PR company who insisted on GETTING THE LIST in order to detemine WHO SHE ACTUALLY WANTS AT THE PARTY, her boyfriend also seemed a bit peeved that she was more interested in eating her pink motorola razor-phone and not his orange moisturized razor-face. 

After three or four the lads escorted me out of the Lemon and we made our merry way (my merry way anyways) to the shindig. We got in the door, jotted our names down on the guestbook and made a bee-line to the bath of corona in the back garden. Peter* threw me a cigarette I never asked for and told me about his ploy to introduce hardcore gaming into the lives of naive teens. Assuming I had just come into contact with the spawn of Satan, I went through the obvious emotions: shock, curiosity, understanding, acceptance and finally encouragement. I advised him the best way to go about it (I was young relatively recently) and went to see how the nouveaux beer-swilling fiend that is Celina Murphy was doing.

Celina was doing good.

After drinking our fair share (cause we had to be fair of course) and keeping the crowd entertained we took a bathroom break. I think it was the outter-body experience of hearing myself utter the phrase ‘Celina, get that owl outta me bag’ coupled with the sight of a certain daytime TV presenter chowing down a piece of half-eaten chocolate cake he found on a table that told me it was about time to go. Peter and his mate Paul* suggested we Bond in a Casino (see what I did there?). We whole-heartedly agreed. The casino was 25 quid in. We went to Bruxelles.

So as to avoid the frankly outrageous concept of buying drinks, we etched around the ladies for about twenty minutes trying to find a bottle opener for the bath beer we fleeced. I got bored and decided to revert to the only way I know how to deal with problems; by smashing them off a sink.

He’s definately a cross between Vic Macky and that bloke from the Crystal Maze, I thought as the bouncer bandaged my slashed up hand, although I’m not sure if he has the hardman look down well enough to take on a natter of Siberian druglords, or if he could do it in a pair of fishnet holdups and a multi-coloured moc croc headpiece….

Around half-one we took my bruised ego home and fed it a garlic cheese chip butty. We watched the IT Crowd and fell asleep. I dreamt about Richard Ayoade again. This time I was the girl.

(The following two days are vague and filled with beer, smoking, jeremy clarkeson, two young blonde guys with a penchant for breaking peoples’ legs with golfcubs and swan-kicking…I probably wouldn’t get in to it even if I could…)

*names have been changed so as to protect the identity of Hitler’s sons.

I woke up on ali’s couch yesterday. We went to Lennox’s for french toast and poached eggs. The bacon was nice but I wasn’t sure maple syrup was apt at 12 o clock in the day. I also wasn’t sure if I was the right orientation to be eating there.

We mulled over the idea of watchin the chelsea game in the barge but when it started to drizzle and the eggs began to suffocate my lower intestine we thought it best to remain Camden Street bound.

It wasn’t long before we hobbled into the Bleedin Horse and propped ourselves onto a table facing eight guys with Oktoberfest heads. Ali got sick at half time so we decided to have one more and head home for pie.

We left the Horse and stumbled upon boylesports. I had 2:1 to liverpool and the fat old guy told me Torres was injured. My scummy Irish blood urged me to back Keane but my common sense told me he’d bottle it quick as look at the Kop. Ali’s Zaki as first goal scorer and 3:1 to the Pool was sneered at by all three blokes behind the bullet-proof glass. I suppose it didn’t help that I had a bowler hat and skirt on and spelled Kuyt as Kite (just for kicks).

Pocketing our respective 28/1 and 348/1 slips with a knowing grin, we high tailed it out of sausageland and made our merry way back to porto. Cans were cracked and corn was popped, I won’t bore anyone with the details.

We had the €1,875 spent on t-shirts, cigarettes, champagne and a trip to Anfield about 35 minutes into the game. But that asshole Zaki got greedy just before half time and we were left broken and boozed. Luckily Valencia was sent off in the 75th so Ali got hit worse than me. A moral victory for the naive in a way.

After the final whistle we retired to the roof. There we played ’drink the alcohol whilest dancing to soudtracks holding an umbrella and sparkler’ -not a great name granted but at least there’s no surprises. I like to think that I won that too, at least some blonde chick walking along the canal signaled that I was doing well while the brown haired woman with the six year old kid was less impressed. Can’t swing a hooker without offending some stupid bitch I guess.

Hot Skater Dad was walking passed with his skateboard and kid around sundown. He heard me referr to him in said manner. In true Hot Skater Dad form he used his kid and board to start chatting to us. We got as far as slurring ‘Awh he’s so cute’ before Ali tried to burn the little thing with Hallowe’en. I lost interest after I realised the guy was probably happily married and sat back to finish my Kopperburg mixed berry.

Ali threw up again before either Dancing on Ice or Strictly come Dancing. To be honest I had no idea what we were watching cause I was more interested in the two bikes on the living room floor. Then Graham came over.

It all gets a bit hazy from here.

Last I remember was cycling down Camden Street with the full intention of getting into Whelans to bring Cyndie Lauper home for Ali’s birthday.

I came home with a 20 pack of silk cut purple instead.

Fortunately I was a bit of a social indie butterfly in my hayday and like a nu-raver to a philthy base line, for a good three years an intoxicated Karen attended just about every alternative night the city had to offer.

Indie nights in Dublin are pretty much Myspace removed. They’re brimming with the regular ‘cooler-than-thou’ crew, you know the ones with the display names ‘C*C (NEONbliss)’ and ‘Riff_[$NAR£]‘, who you cant figure out for the life of you whether they’re hot or not ’cause all their pictures are 85% hair.

It was only a few years ago indie nights were something of an underground phenomenon, you had a lot of research to do if you didn’t fancy a night out dancing to Christina Milian with a load of ten years olds. Fortunately for us a few studenty types went one too many times to Koko, London and decided to bring the beat back to us diffident Irish folk.

The phreshest alt-fest that’s come on the scene in Dublin is Chemistry, Wednesday nights at Wax. It’s the same indie cidys every week without fail but it serves some of the phattest electro beats downstairs and every second week yer man from Doyles throws up some good chewans in the indie room. The dank basement is a boiling pot (literally, bring a hat for afterwards) of neon-headband-wearing, Mighty Boosh lovin’ DJ types and their pocket sized blond úber stylish girlfriends. Whax (as us regs call it; how cool are we?) has its dedicated followers and I’m not shy to say I’m one of them. It’s going to the venue week in week out that has enabled me to note some pitfalls for any Whax virgins; 1) if you kiss someone in Whax don’t be surprised if your Granny knows by Thursday afternoon, 2) the tables upstairs break fairly easily (don’t ask), 3) the stairs are DARK (yea, I fell on my ear, on more than one occasion), 4) if you hang around for long enough outside you’re bound to convince somebody to throw a gaff party, and 5) even though about 200 of your ex boyfriends are there, they’re bound to be too busy trying to avoid there other 400 ex girlfriends that they won’t even notice you.

Doyles is the great-grandfather of indie nights (It smells like him too). The pub itself is about four-thousand years old and has been pioneering all that is good in grit for many Howard Moons. Since the summer of 2006, Doyles has become synonymous with what is known as SneakyNagginCowsLaneDorans/DoylesThursday, a process whereby you down a sneaky naggin in Cows Lane, hit Dorans for a wee snifter and then stumble into Doyles at about 12 bells to do the no pants trance dance. Nicky Coghlan plays bitchin’ sets upstairs after eleven on Thursdays and Fridays, its free in, the door men are pretty decent (even after they’ve barred you), you’re more than guaranteed to score and the nitelink is across the road.

If Doyles is a great-grandfather, Whelans is its (older, but well aging) half brother. You can’t move for the Indie Biz Mos in Whelans on a Saturday night. It recently underwent a renovation, which saw the rusted shutters down for a good five months in ’07. Old regulars bang on about crusty artists who’ve played there, the décor and other shite like that, but all you need to know is there’s a perving area (balcony) that looks down onto the dance floor. If you need me, I’ll be up there.

If you’re bothered trekking up to Wexford street (its worse than the one to Crawdaddy so get yourself a cheeky can), just make sure you’re armed with a pair of cons, a degree in either English, music tech or philosophy, some sort of interesting story involving you, The Mighty Stef, a guitar and a hamster, and you should get on fine.

Antics, Wednesday night at Crawdaddy has been running since ’05 and until Chemistry poached most of their drainpipes it had secured a mafia-type monopoly over city centre scenesters. It’s still a more than respectable haunt music-wise, and usually has guest DJs (which is of no interest to me cause most of it sounds like noise). Truth be told I’ve had several bad experiences in Antics, most came about because I simply hadn’t put enough effort into my pouting and posing. Antics is notorious for its shape-throwing clientele, however I don’t think I’m in any position to confirm or deny these rumours because I’m usually inside cutting a rug to Blur and not paying the slightest bit of attention to anyone else (best keep your head down if you dance anything like me).

What I will say for all of these places (incl. The Hub, Ríra, Kennedys etc…) is that while they do play the best in all that’s indie, and are probably the most student friendly places in all the fair city, it’s the people you choose to spend your nights with that make them so memorable (even if they’re still a little bit hazy).

(Dedicated to the journ-hoes, the cavan bhoys and the philthy WHAXtastic toys ["you know I don't like when you get too fucked BEFORE you go out?"], I LOVE YOU GUYS!!! Hahaha)

Steve’s bi-polar, aren’t we all, he fell in with the wrong crowd, happens to the best of us, but now he looks better than ever. Don’t you agree?

I watched this video yesterday and saw a smidge of Billy the ‘dont call me Wild’ Kid from The Green Mile in little Steve. Billy the Kid was on death row…Let’s hope Steve-o gets himself together before he finds himself in the waiting line. Meanwhile, playing music and growing your hair is rock n’ roll, juggling on cocaine is not. Just so you know.

Wild Bill?

Steve-o?

Some of my favourite reviews, by some of my favourite reviewers, in one of my favourite magazines.

Matchbox Twenty, Exile On Mainstream; 02%

Though widely documented as the reason Jesus created the Ebola virus to end the failed experiment that is humankind, this band continues to enjoy heroically ill-deserved success while all around them dreams are crushed, families break up, children are orphaned, and kittens remain weeping in trees never to be saved. In short, don’t buy this and please eliminate anyone you see attempting to buy it. -Lucas

Ghosts, The World is Outside; 19%

This album is unnecessary. -Hogan

Erasure; Light at the End of the World: 05%

Well invite me over for dinner, drug me, lash me into an ice-cube bath and steal my kidneys. This album is like a collection of Eurovision winners lovingly covered by a drag-queen troupe. Looking at the album cover I really shouldn’t be surprized that, listening to it now, I have to fight the urge to apply body glitter. Think the Pet Shop Boys minus the irony but gayer. I mean infinately gayer. -Ortiz

Maria Doyle Kennedy; Fuckability; 37%

Dear Maria

What?

Sincerely,

Everybody. -Pedro

Cornelius, Sensuous; 71%

Sex music for Dolphins. -Freeman

The Holloways, So This Is Great Britain? 30%

Stand well back, lest you all get splattered with the feeble, watery semen of a thousand NME reviewers. -O’Connell

James Blunt, All the Lost Souls, 92%

It’s become very fashionable to dismiss James Blunt’s music out of hand, just because perhaps You’re Beautiful got a bit overplayed on the radio. But if you do the guy service of actually listening to more than one of his songs, you may come to realise that he is a songwriter of incredible range and abilty. I’m joking. Of course I’m joking. The guy is a wibbly voiced fool and I hope a bird shits on his head. My real score is 0.01% And even that’s being kind. Cunt. -Butler

Mongrel managed a 100% pick-up in Dublin with about 96,000 readers. It was also free, which of course added to its appeal among students. For us, it represented a different path to the ones college was towing us up. Eoin Butler seems to have found God and is apparently going to The Irish Catholic now. Maybe what this publication taught us undergrads is that frivilous use of the words ‘fuck’, ‘cunt’ and ‘wankbag’ in articles will only be tolerated for four years before God eventually finds, and solicits, us.

RIP Mongrel. Live forever on our coffee tables and on the bathroom floor (thats where I leave mine anyway).

Rubik’s Cube

Four-hundred years after the birth of his half-brother, ‘weatherman’ Maritn King, Eron Rubik, inventor of the Rubik’s cube, was raised from the depths of hell to wreak havok on the world in the name of Satan. For twenty years he stayed locked in his chamber, depriving himself of everything but muddy water and dried fruit until he could devise soem sort of unsuspecting item that woul bring Lucifer forth from his burning underground layer and crown him ruler of the world.

In 1974 Erno invented the Rubik’s cube.

When completed, this detrimental cube of destruction explodesto reveal a small Latin incantation inside which, when said out loud, spells the end of man on earth.

Its probably lucky noone can complete the fucking thing.

Rubik’s have their own website dedicated to all things cubical, they even hold events. Apparantly the new Rubik’s Toronto Maple Leaf has 43 quintillion possible moves (who counted that?!) and only one solution. that solution is to put the little block-o-torture down and go watch some TV.

Like the Mayor of Sunnydale, evil rulers of the world try desperately to bring an end to life as we know it and to ensure their position at the right hand of the Devil. 

Lego

When I was six my mom gave me a bucket of lego, I didn’t come out of my bedroom for four days…I found that same bucket on top of my wardrobe last week. Any day now people.

The myth that lego was created in 1947 by carpenter Ole Kirk Christiansen is merely a rumour which was spread by the King of Denmark in order to increase tourism in the area after the depression. Lego, like bovril, has been around since the dawn of time, peaking in the late 1900′s. It mamaged itself a wee comeback as a fashion accessory in 2007 when Camden scenesters were clocked hanging pieces of the round their in a skag-trendy manner.

Lego; usually in our attics, sometimes ’round our necks, always in our hearts.

Watches (with channel changers)

Not many people remember these, but watches with unversal channel changers installed were THE GREATEST THINGS IN THE WORLD. Fair enough they were so big and unstylish that it looked like an actual remote control strapped to your teeny wrist but it sure was fun to wreck the head of spotty teenage Xtra-vision employees and geagraphy teachers the country over.

Technology at its best.

Furbies

Direct descendants of the Mogwai clan (the creatures responsible for the Gremlin Massacre of ’84), the arrival of the Furby hailed the first ever successful autonomous domestically-aimed robot race and cerated violent hooligans of mothers everywhere as they threw themselves into the rng of death that was Smyth’s Toystore in the winter of 1998.

Born in Fimbleland, the little furry Chihuahua-like monsters began speaking in the Fubish but in time developed better English.

Over the years, Furbies have made a direct impact here in Ireland; approximately 86% of writers in the Irish Independant are of Fubish descent, and many more are credited as script in the hit series You’re a Star. One of the robotic creatures even managed to bag himself his own music show on Channel Six. But be warned, with Deveraux comes much responsibilty; never get him wet, keep him away from bright lights, and nomatter how much he cries, no matter how much he pleads, never ever feed him after midnight.

Others have gone the opposite direction in order to take their place in the New world order.

Trolls

Trolls!! Remember trolls?! How these little buggers ended up as a craze is beyond me. They started out as an ancient Nordic myth, depicted  contrarily as both fiendish giants and devios human-like folk of the forest. Then came Tolkien and Dungeons and Dragons and before we knew it, childer everywhere had two or three in their freezers over night (they were the ones that changed colour when they were cold, as one does). The fad emerged in 1959 but had a welcomed revival in the ’70s. By the ’90s we had earrings, dolls, pencil tops, kitchen knives, big ones, tiny ones, ones of diamonds and ones of gold.

In 2006 police arrested a man who as demanding $1 off joggers and cyclists to cross a bridge. The man claimed he was the ‘bridge troll’. Witnesses say he had big pink hair and a silver diamond for a belly button.

http://www.thedenverchannel.com/news/9511801/detail.html 

Story checks out.

Cast: Me (observer), Mother and daughter (10/11 yrs)

(Child starts playing with nose, pushing it up á la pig impression)

Mother: What are you doing lynn?!

Child: My nose is running

Mother: Do you not have a tissue?!

Child: No, forgot.

Mother: Well for God sake stop doing that, you’ll end up like Posh Spice!

The kid stopped.

Poor Aicha’s had to go back to India with the shame….