The Kilbarrack Open Air Theater is set to open its doors begin staging cultural events from next week.
They are rumoured to be opening the season with A Builder’s Crack, an opera in three acts, with colourful language and lots of whistling.
Category Archives: bric a crap
Just for Christmas
An over-sized cuddly St Bernard toy is just for Christmas. Not for life.
By 5 January the kids rarely play with it. By 10 February they hardly give it a side glance. By 18 March they have forgotten it even exists.
It takes the parents a good deal longer to summon the energy to round up all the useless shite around the house and dump it outside the door of the charity shop.
The Horror. The Horror.
I am not squeamish.
But today I encountered a stench that almost felt like a physical mass, it was so potent.
For half a second I contemplated climbing up to the 3rd floor but I really was in dire need of urination.
I entered the horror chamber with a mix of revulsion and morbid fascination. I was actually surprised that the light bulbs had not exploded from the smell.
I imagined dead badgers. Rotting for days in fetid ditches. And then eaten by hyenas.
And then defecated.
The olfactory holocaust was not man-made. Couldn’t be. No human digestive system had ever produced anything quite so unashamedly feral.
And then he exited his cubicle. Stopping me mid-trickle. Astonished as I was.
Had I been the author of such pestilence, I would have made sure that there was no being capable of identifying me within a half mile radius.
Cool as a cucumber, he just exited his cubicle and left. Probably unaware that the odour he left simmering behind was definitely in breach of the Geneva Convention.
Only a minute later it hit me, as I was washing my hands: I was alone, in the second floor men’s toilet. With the mother of all stinks intent on breaking a longevity world record. I was beginning to wonder if it could cling to my clothes and hair.
That’s when the European Operations Director walked in.
I’d be willing to bet that there is an allegory somewhere in there, compliments of the Council Litter Management Services, but I’ll be damned if I can find it.
Actually, I’ll be damned for picturing the promulgator of the Evangelium Vitae encyclical letter in a less than flattering light…
Signs of the times
Caught cold-handed
When the owner of the silver merc rushed out of his house and accused these two of having touched his property, there wasn’t really any point in trying to deny it.
So I did what any responsible dad would have done in my shoes.
I urinated on the window to destroy the evidence.
May the smartphone be with you
These two were clearly experiencing severe withdrawal symptoms by the time the end credits rolled, with a background of trumpetty triumphant Star Warzy theme song.
Spoiler alert! Do not read below if you do not want the many surprises of the latest Star Wars to be ruined for you!
Ok… you asked for it…
There is a light saber fight.
Some high speed chasing with loads of wooshy sounds from the tie fighters and the x wings.
With a couple of explosions thrown in.
There are cute droids.
A bit of a love interest (but no sex scenes).
A lot of Chebaka moany groans (but not in sex scenes).
Close ups of eyes that say a lot about determination, and bravery, and tapping into the Force.
Blasters blasting like there is no tomorrow.
Outnumbered rebels in a seemingly desperate situation somehow managing to flip the situation around (thanks to their determination, and bravery, and tapping into the Force, and not wasting precious time on sex scenes).
Oh, and there is the obligatory edge-of-your-seat-totally-unexpected coup de theatre, spot on at the moment when you expect to least expect it.
Oops shite. I may have said too much.
None of you could have expected such feats of invention in a Star Wars movie.
Bad mememe2U. Bad, bad mememe2U!
Shortcut to redemption
Finnzy-Bob had the decency to win a bottle of wine for his dad on the Wheel of Fortune at the school winter fair.
This peace offering has somehow managed to lessen the trauma of yesterday’s house birthday party-cum-ordeal.
There was much merriment at the school Christmas fair.
Mimi had numerous social engagements, and blushed profusely when in the presence of the handsome elf-who-was-also-cast-as-Danny-Zuko-in-the-school-production-of-Grease. Talk about starstruck!
Luca was worryingly having far too much fun with the rest of the Aspi club. I dread to think what the two of them were up to when I had my back turned.
And Finn received the confirmation from Santa himself that his name was on the “good” list. He was delighted. With the socks and his certificate.
So when he won the bottle of Listerine, the fancy hair conditioner and the can of Guinness for his second attempt at the Wheel of Fortune (or Misfortune, if you happen to be a mouth ulcer, prematurely bald or a teetotaler), we suggested that he should give the can to Santa, along with the usual mince pie and the carrot for Rudolph.
He thought that this was an excellent idea. But saw no point in delaying the process, since the Big Man himself was in attendance.
He rushed back to the grotto to give the can to Santa.
And he was beaming when telling us afterwards that Santa had been delighted and upgraded him on the spot to the “even better” list.
Seven at 07:07
And loving it.
On a scale of ten of all-time daft birthday presents, S. and H. next door unanimously voted Finn’s a seventy-two.
For the last few years now, the kids have been treating Finn’s birthday as a dress(ing gown) rehearsal for Christmas.
They made a first attempt at exiting their bedroom at 06:15 and were intimated to head back to bed in no uncertain terms.
When we finally let them come downstairs at 06:45 and Finn discovered the three packets of wipes amid the balloons on the big table, his expression was one of disbelief tinged with a deep sadness.
Which kind of lifted when we told him to head upstairs to the attic, for his real present was too big to fit on the table.
By the time we lifted the sheet that covered the drum kit, he was literally beaming.
Long may his enthusiasm last.
Although S. and H. would beg to differ.
No more riff-raffy entertainment for me, buddy.
I have swapped the pints of Guinness in O’Loughlin’s with BS for the bottles of Krug with Bono in St Tropez.
Clubbing with the high society
At the end of a quest that had spanned several decades, Dominic had finally found it.
He had located the G spot.
It was nothing to write home about, to be honest.
Still, it was a pity that Fionnuala wasn’t there. Typical of her, she was rooting around in the bargains aisle of Dealz, across the road. She’d only be gone for 5 minutes she had said…
It was supposed to be a special moment for a couple.
According to his mates in the pub.
He had seen them snigger while singing the praise of that elusive, mysterious G spot.
He was now convinced that they had been taking the piss.
That shower of bollixes.
In and around Dublin 