PA Kennedy reviews Eddie Rockets in Cork

October 27, 2009

[Note: If taken out of context of the below links, this post could be either awesome or horrible. So before or after, it’s up to you. Or not at all. I just wrote the damn thing about it, you bastards.

But I’d recommend reading AA Gills article at some point, if only to show to you how a 1500 word restaurant review can contain 500 words of review and 1000 words about killing primates.]

All this furore today on Twitter about AA Gills review where he discreetly mentions killing a baboon has somewhat overshadowed my own review of Eddie Rockets in Cork. And I’m not happy about it.

———————-
City Centre 97-98 South Main Street, Cork City
Facilities: baby-chairs, wheelchair acccess, spacious dining booths suitable for celebrations, birthday parties (up to 8 people)

One Star = Shit
Various friends with No Michelin Stars

I axed a badger in Leitrim, last Tuesday, just before supper. Axed it dead. Those of you with uncontrollable bladders should close their urethras now. This article contains graphic nonsense and may kill the feeble minded and ill-bladdered. But it doesn’t contain any audio, so while it may make you have to buy new pants, it won’t make you ears rupture as you fall off your chair, with your head pustulating as the satire invades your arteries.

I was in Leitrim wearing a Zak Dingle from Emmerdale tweed cap. The sort of hat that just makes you yearn to axe stuff. I have a theory about hats. They really do maketh the axe murderer.

Zak Dingle

Graphic depiction of me in this story

Temperament and inclination to doing shit, and like, stuff, squat in a hat. Jackie Healy Rae is an obvious example, as are indie fans, sheiks and Mafioso’s. Put on a wooly hat and you are possessed. Magically your t shirt shrinks and you have a desire to say “The Klaxons are like, awesome.”

We could do a lot liberal social engineering by placing different headwear on different people. If swimmers had to wear scrum caps, there would be much less gratuitous record breaking. Chefs should have to wear hurling helmets, office workers should have big rubber Tom Cruise face masks, girls in pajamas should be made to wear those ha-jabs after morning. If the rugby players and hockey players wore each other’s protective headgear, it probably wouldn’t led to a very good game, but it would be bloody funny.

So I’m in Leitrim, in a tweed cap, with brooding intentions and a tractor full of axes and other blokes in tweed caps. Tadgh the farmer said: “Why don’t we axe a badger?” All shooting the shit, bobbing up and down, looking over the wheel at the dull, unexciting Connacht rocks that mostly stay stationary on the Leitrim Hills. What about a badger?

And here’s the thing: If you screw around the unexciting and mild bits of Leitrim long enough in the company of farmers with self mocking tweed caps, sooner or later you’re going to maim badger. You think you’re not, you think you’re the exception, you’re going to say no to badger, but pretty soon it’s the weasel on your back. I should of worn my Davy Crockett hat.

So, I yelled, fuck yes. Just a huge bastard. I can handle it; I’ll be a recreational badger axer. Now, Badgers are bone ass thick. Well, thicker then David Hasselhoff. They know that two legged Irish in headwear, lazing about in tractors with axes, are probably just fencing their land. They see you, they come up to you, in great carnivorous packs, cubs riding their mothers like bloodsucking succubi. And then they sit about on the grass and snarl like rapists and roll around, showing off their ample genitals, a lot like Italian supporters, well, anywhere. Ha! But neither badgers nor David Hasselhoff are stupid enough to have put a big, sharpened lump of metal on top of some wood. So there was this little lad rolling around the grass, rubbing his nose into the ground, a hairy shit paddlying with his pants off. I took him just inside the face. He exploded. I’m told they can be quite easy to axe: they just sit there, in the dark. They die easy, badgers. But not this one. I had the chase the fucker for 35 minutes.

I know perfectly well there are some great reasons for doing this. No one really likes them. Yes, they aren’t good to eat, unless you’re a bear, but there is a rock solid argument for culling and control. Like foxes: A veil for happy-go-lucky axing. They will, most definitely in the near future, eat you, your family, steal your car and ignite global war between China and the U.S – they are opportunist bastards. You wouldn’t trust one to do anything. But then, everything has to be a bastard, sometimes. I noticed that, when it had a fully intact face, I thought of it as a total shithead. Now he’s in ribbons, I’m posthumously adding human features to him for little to no real reason, and that was one of the reasons I axed that badger. I wanted to get a sense of what it would be like to axe someone, a stranger. You see it in all those films: axes and faces, barely a close-up of the sense of joy and fun. So what does it feel like to axe someone, or someone’s friend? But, as so often happens in life, when you tune out after culling small animals, it’s just the sheer boredom induced that reflects back to you in the window. He looked so much smaller mutilated, the body parts rendered inhuman by the violence of the thing, something that it could not be even regarded as something that had evolved at all. I rummaged through the carcass with the same disinterest as when I finish some curry chips and chicken. And then you look in his mouth, and there’s no difference. His mouth is also mangled. It might be just a chest cavity for all I know. “Some local people say it’s good luck to axe a badger,” Tadgh mentioned. Definitely. I’m not the one who’s just been on the wrong end of a good axing.

Anyway, this weeks restaurant review is for Eddie Rockets in Cork City. I was with a few friends who have no chefing or critique background.

It was shit.


Balloon Boy Newsworthiness Exposed in Laziest Ever Blog Post

October 18, 2009

balloons

Balloon Boy < The X Factor
but
Balloon Boy ≥ Everything else

Anyone living underneath rocks with Internet connections can just Google “Balloon Boy”.


A Leader we can all Aspire to Mock

October 7, 2009

Berlusconi is fucking awesome.

[Background: Italian Prime Minister. Owns everything in Italy practically; Media, Football clubs, runs the God damn country. Also, he happens to be repeatedly involved in activities unbecoming of a Prime Minister. Oh, also? Idiot.]

Berlo

Berlusconi: Pre or post-coitus? I’m thinking mid-.


Of course, I mean that he’s awesome in that “all that stuff is happening, like, elsewhere, man. Like, yeah,… crazy shit?” Where were that here I would be openly training monkeys to fling poo in his direction.

That’s all I could do really: direction. You don’t expect me to be able to train them to actually hit him do you? I am a man of little to no monkey training experience and I imagine that at best I could point them and hope that all overused Internet jokes involving animal stereotypes ring true.

Anyway, what neatly summed this man up for me today was, much like a nice package you might get from the ‘Internets’ (or, Santa, or whatever is the ‘in’ phrase) I came, nay, stumbled, across a little article on RTE today. I shall provide the link…..

NOW.

[Lazy people link summary: Berlusconi is trying to bring in a law that will effectively make him above the law.]

You see, to sum it all up, much like the bear in autumn who gathers squirrels for their mid-hibernation snack (they do that, right?), Berlosconi here has been preparing. Getting himself ready. The fact that Mr. Silvio B owns everything in Italy, and runs the country, and is not Russell Crowe from Gladiator will soon even catch up with this old rocker. Berlo here has been trying to protect himself from the ramifications of really liking to have sex with hot, young ladies (You and me both buddy! High-cocaine snorting- five, baby!) by creating some laws, that could, you know, been seen as granting him a bit of a carte blanche. Assuming that the phrase ‘carte blanche’ means ‘I can do what the fucskio I want AND have my pizza too.’

Oh, before I forget, Warning, borderline racism and poor understanding of French can be found above.

Now, if Lethal Weapon 2 has thought us anything, it’s that this is a damn fine idea, and power to ya mate, go for it. Dip-lo-mat-ic I-mmun-ity, or ahem, a law that “shields him from criminal prosecution” worked for that whole film until Murtaugh shot him in the head at the end. And Danny Glover’s 63 years old these days, so, you know, just keep out of his way and you should be fine.

Anyway, Mr. Berlusconi. As a bit of a heads up to other possible avenues to explore, here’s some other Lethal Weapon plot angles you could try and throw into everyday life. For kicks and shit. Some of them don’t even need ‘Dip-lo-mat-ic I-mmun-ity’.

  • See if any of your stripper friends can get their way out of a straight jacket.
  • Every tried booby trapping someone’s toilet?
  • Offer Patsy Kensit a secretarial job.
  • Spend Christmas with a stranger’s family and endear yourself to them. Flirt with the daughter perhaps?
  • Attempt to strangle Gary Busey, realize he’s not worth it man!, and then shoot him later anyway.
  • Befriend Joe Pesci. Get him to act like exactly he did in Goodfellas to fit in around the home. Or Casino, it’s practically the same character.
  • Get involved with…. I dunno, triads or something?

Whatever, the 4th film was shit.

Lethal Weapon 4

Mel Gibson’s short hair + Chris Rock = You’re just taking the piss, Hollywood.


Youth Media Plug

October 7, 2009

Right, one last (?) Youth Media thing to throw up:

Tedious to do and would of liked to put more time into the actual jokes as opposed to fighting iMovie (I am at the cutting edge), but bleh.

Also, ‘bleh’ is not a valid reason for anything and the cutting edge bit is a nerd joke.

More inside the usual ‘Insert The Potato Here’-shaped box forthcoming.