The Blindboy Podcast - Did you read about Erskine Fogarty?

Episode Date: October 25, 2017

In Episode one, Blindboy debuts a short story from his upcoming book , while also discussing the psychology of creativity. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Hello! What's the crack? How you getting on? Yart! That's me smoking my electric fag. Which may or may not kill me, I don't know. It doesn't feel like it's gonna kill me. It's better than real fags, I can tell you that. The old vapes. You know, all I can do is listen to my body.

And I know that if I smoke a lot of vape, I can go for a run the next day. But if I smoke a package on player, then I'm fucked. I can't run. And I'm addicted to nicotine. What can I do? So, welcome to the first podcast. First ever podcast. My name is Blind by Boat Club. I am one half of the rubber bandits we sing songs on the internet uh do a lot of shit i don't know we're gas contests so anyway this is the first ever

podcast um i don't know what i'm doing i haven't a clue i don't really know what this podcast is about or where it's going or you you know, what the format is. And I'm grand with that. You know, I want to I want to feel this out. I want this to develop and I want, you know, feedback from you listening to tell me what you would like the podcast to be. Currently, it's just me talking now doing this. But, you know, i could uh interview some people you know who would you like me to interview i don't leave limerick much to be honest

but if i can figure out a way to uh interview people over the internet um i've heard there's good results with skype um so i can do it in a kind of a high fidelity. Do you know, I'm a bit of an audiophile. I love recording, sound recording and producing and things like that. So I like it when a podcast sounds professional and is pleasurable to the ears. And oftentimes when I listen to podcasts and are interviewing people over the phone, that's not a very enjoyable experience for listening. So once I figure out how I can record properly over Skype or some other service. Then I think yeah we'll do a few interviews. And you tell me who you'd like to be interviewed on this podcast.

Also what I can do is I don't know. I can just talk about shit every week. Make observations. Respond to questions that you lads ask me on Twitter. Um, on Twitter at at Rubber Bandits. Uh, and on Facebook. Ask questions. Send a private message.

The DMs are open. And we will together shape this podcast. And that's what's class about podcast isn't it like if this was for radio i'd have some producer or some commissioner telling me you must do this you must do that we must get listeners for a podcast who gives a fuck if a hundred people listen to it it doesn't matter who cares and we can let it grow organically and find its own shape and we'll do that together but right now i do kind of have an idea what the podcast is going to be and there's a reason that i'm

releasing it right now at this moment it is because um i've got a book coming out called the gospel according to blind boy and it is a book of 16 short stories and i would like to use the podcast to read to you some of these short stories and not just read it like an audiobook um you know do it as like a little piece of theater read one of the stories and you know i've made a little bit of piece of music put some music over it create some ambience a few scary noises and to create a pleasurable listening experience for you to give you full immersion in uh whatever the fuck it is i'm reading whatever story and i'm i'm thrilled with the book absolutely thrilled with it because i've been writing for years i've been writing for 17 years okay uh mainly writing for television

writing either tv or writing comedy sketches or writing songs and the thing is when you're when you're creating anything not just writing can be painting can be creativity within sports you know if you're you're handy at soccer there's this thing in in creativity called flow the state of flow right and this is the drug that every creative person chases and when i wrote this this book the gospel according to blind boy these 16 short stories when i wrote this i achieved a state of flow for every single story about 99 percent of the time and that is quite rare for me, flow is an intense feeling of concentration. It's almost otherworldly. Now, I'm not really, I don't really believe in kind of esoteric stuff or the supernatural, you know, but flow feels that way. Sometimes when people describe intense

religious experience, when I read that i'm like yeah that's that's flow that's a flow kind of feels like to me um the definition of it is is uh it's it's a mental state of operation in which a person performing an activity is fully immersed in a feeling of energized focus full involvement and enjoyment in the process of the activity. In essence, flow is characterized by complete absorption in what one does and a resulting loss in one's sense of space and time. And that's pretty accurate. And what's so pleasant about the state of flow when you're writing is that

you have no critical voice telling you something is right or wrong in your head when you're doing it. That's the point of it the the enemy of creativity tends to be that cognitive critical voice in your head that tells you whether something is good or bad if you're doing something and your ego pops up and says jesus this is class or this is shit that gets in the way of decent creativity that puts all the creativity to the top of your your conscious mind whereas true kind of art comes from your your deep unconscious it comes from the place where your dreams come from that's where real uh kind of transcendent imagination comes from it comes from your repressed unconscious memories so when you achieve flow i think um what happens to the creative person is your the deep wells of your unconscious channel themselves in a very streamlined and focused way

through the pre-conscious to the conscious mind where your talent and learned skills lie um it's like um i don't know why know why this image is coming into my fucking head right now but I saw a thing on the internet years ago and it was like I don't know remember play-doh remember with play-doh you could squeeze

shapes through play-doh well there were these lads on the internet and they were making these things for their arses and they were shitting shapes through these... And shitting like big long gogs in the shape of stars and triangles. I don't know why that came into my head. But sure, that's the benefit of the unconscious, you know. I probably have some type of...

Some type of coprophilia going on. But anyway, that's what flow is like. It's like um your unconscious are your bowels and then your talent in your conscious mind are these star and triangle shaped things that you strap to your arse so you shit and then the talent shapes it into a shape so that what that's what writing the book was like terrible fucking metaphor for such a beautiful experience but that's what writing the book was like for me i achieved the state of flow for 99 of it that's quite rare when i'm writing songs maybe one in every 10 i'll get

a feed in a flow uh the thing is with flow as well is that um you know bob dylan said it once bob dylan was talking about a song he wrote called it's all right ma i'm only bleeding fucking incredible song and dylan said when he finished the song he he stepped back from the page and and he didn't know where those lyrics had come from he felt like the lyrics had were pre-existing in the universe and had been handed to him that's one of the things with flow when you achieve flow if you create something in a state of flow you'll come out of that state and finish the work and look at it and go fuck i did i write this where did this come from i don't know

where any of this came from how could something so kind of uh structured and inspired come from that state there where i wasn't even thinking and i did feel that about this book and you might think it's a piece of shit and it's grand that's totally acceptable i'm talking about a very personal aesthetics here you know um for me personally as a human being uh i'm happy with it I'm incredibly happy with this book. But aesthetics are entirely subjective, lads. I know people who love Coldplay. I don't like Coldplay. I would go so far as to say that Coldplay are shit. Am I right and that person is wrong?

No. I'm right in my reality and he's right in his reality. Do you know? I adore Bob Dylan. I know people that my reality. And he's right in his reality. Do you know? I adore Bob Dylan. I know people that think Bob Dylan is shit. That's fine. For me, them thinking Bob Dylan is shit doesn't make Bob Dylan shit for me. Doesn't matter. It's entirely subjective.

So subjectively for me, I am very happy with this. Will you rise with the sun to help change mental health care forever? Join the Sunrise Challenge to raise funds for CAMH, the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health, to support life-saving progress in mental health care. From May 27th to 31st, people across Canada will rise together and show those living with mental illness and addiction that they're not alone. Help CAMH build a future where no one is left behind.

So who will you rise for? Register today at sunrisechallenge.ca. That's sunrisechallenge.ca. Rock City, you're the best fans in the league, bar none. Tickets are on sale now for Fan Appreciation Night on Saturday, April 13th, when the Toronto Rock hosts the Rochester Nighthawks at First Ontario Centre in Hamilton at 7.30pm. You can also lock in your playoff pack right now to guarantee the same seats

for every postseason game and you'll only pay as we play. Come along for the ride and punch your ticket to Rock City at torontorock.com. book i'm very proud of this book i'm happy with these stories and i cannot wait to share them with you i cannot wait and hopefully a few of you will like them as well and if you don't like them fuck off who cares you know what i mean doesn't affect me doesn't affect you we'll be grand so the first story i'm going to read is called did you hear what happened no sorry did you read about Erskine Fogarty that's what this one is called and it's from my upcoming book of short stories called the gospel according to blind by which is available on October 27th in most bookshops in Ireland are on Amazon or something I don't know know, on Amazon, I think, if you're living abroad.

And I'll be releasing an audiobook, maybe. Not sure. Possibly. We'll see how this goes. So anyway, I'm going to shut up now. Please enjoy the following short story. There's a three-part golf course in the demilitarized zone between North and South Korea that has active land mines on it it and if you ever played a game there you'd have a 70% chance of dying. This single golf course makes golf one of the most dangerous sports in the world. Just this one course and another in Florida that has alligators in a lake off a sand bunker. There's a town in America called Centralia

that's been on fire since 1962. There's a Catholic chapel in the Sedlak area of the Czech Republic made out of human bones. There's a ski resort in Bavaria that has no snow. The slope is made out of a type of fluffy sand, an industrial silicate and people ski on that. In 1518 in Stroudsburg there was a plague of dancing that lasted one month and 400 people

died from not being able to stop dancing. In 1858 the river Thames smelled so badly of shit that the British government had to shut down. In ancient Greece the most elite fighting force was made up of 150 pairs of gay male lovers. They were ferocious in battle because they fought to protect the person they loved and not themselves. There was a 17th century leather seller from England named Praise God Barebone, whose full name was, unless Jesus Christ had died for thee, thou hadst been damned, Barebone. There's a Dutch socialist politician named Tiny Cox. The last black person to be exhibited in an American zoo was in 1906. His name was Otta Benga. Schrodinger's cat is a theory in quantum physics which states that a cat poisoned in a box is

both alive and dead if no one is around to observe the cat's demise. Quantum suicide is the theory that claims that it is technically possible to achieve immortality by committing suicide. This theory came about by looking at Schrodinger's experiment from the point of view of the cat. There's a three-inch aluminium sculpture of a spaceman on the moon. It's the only artwork not on earth. The only reason it's there is because the Americans gave 1600 Nazi war criminals secret identities and they founded NASA. Human male infertility is tested with hamster eggs. Medicinal cannabis was introduced to Western medicine by a doctor from Limerick. An American doctor called Stubbins Firth used to cut himself open and smear the blood, shit, puke and piss of

yellow fever victims into his cuts. He'd also pour shit in his eyeballs. His research was fruitless. Thousands of toads exploded in Germany in 2005 for no apparent reason. Hens have empathy for other hens. Cows are fed rubber-covered magnets so that accidentally consumed metal doesn't slice up their insides. There's a tree in Athens, Georgia that legally owns itself. These are just some of the 1,138 facts that I'm writing on the individual pieces of wood that make up my facts arc. Noah had his arc full of animals, but I have my facts, and they're going in my ark. That's all I have left.

How did I afford the lumber for this ark? That looks like an expensive afternoon in Woody's DIY, you say. I was able to afford it because I sold the American fridge freezer for 300 quid to a liquidator's auction. And I used the cash to buy two old sheds that I'm now taking apart. A Fisher and Paykel RS7667FHCL fridge freezer 2007, a retail value of 2300 euros including delivery when I bought it last year in Arnott's. Seven imposing feet of double door stainless steel sublimity and virility, a towering behemoth of achievement, a monolithic signifier to any dinner guest that states

unequivocally that I have arrived. Would you like ice in your San Pellegrino, Dr. Carolyn? And then I'd waltz over to the Fisher and Paykel, and it would cough out crushed ice from the left door, shattered crystals of filtered purified water careering into his glass and fizzing up the fucking San Pellegrino. And I'd stare Carolyn down while I did it too, the smug Dublin Leinster rugby cunt. That was before the recession. The fridge-freezer was the last thing to go. Yesterday I threw the keys back in the letterbox of the six bedroom semi-D in Glasnevin. I've sold the apartment in Smithfield for 68% less than what I bought it for. I've taken Daniel out of Trinity College.

I've removed Megan from her school and cancelled her dressage. Their mother Catherine is thinking about Foss. I've sold my jet ski. I've sold the Audi. I owe 862,000. Count it. When I throw the keys back in that Glasnevin letterbox, I genuinely grieved. As if my possessions were children or pets. I truly suffered for everything that was left inside that door

that I could no longer access or call my own. The 50-inch Samsung plasma, the Blendtec blender, the baby gagea coffee machine, the wood-burning stove, the fucking AGA, the shunned Japanese kitchen knives, the Denby mugs, the Dyson steam cleaner. But they weren't taking the fucking Fisher and Paycal American fridge freezer on principle. Not a hope. That one was coming back to Limerick. Catherine waited in the driveway in the Punto when I dropped in the keys. Megan was refusing to speak to me and the little bitch had been posting photographs of herself in lingerie on her MySpace page to get back at me. Daniel stayed in Dublin with the Carolan's son and will likely go to Australia. He's 19,

it will be good for him. Mom, I don't want to go to fucking Limerick and be a colchie, Megan whispered in her well-spoken Dublin tongue. You'll get to see Granny in Buster, Megs, Catherine said, with her very tired purple set of eyes sinking into her bitter old puss. Catherine was wearing several layers of clothes to save space. Megan was stuffed to one side of the rear seat with the suitcases on her. The Fisher and Paycal fridge freezer was in the other side, up against Catherine's seat as far as it could go. We silently drove for three hours down the freezing December motorway with the boot open until we got to Limerick. Do I feel bad? No. Megan

needs toughening now that she's going to be going to Skull Carmel and Catherine deserves it for fucking Dr. Carolyn and God knows how many of his rugby pals. I've been no angel. There was Alice, Deirdre, Becca and Susan from the office, but the difference is I had the decency to not get caught. And also, I didn't fuck people who eat at my dinner table and ask if I bought my wine from Tesco while side-eye winking at my cunt and wife like it's their personal in-joke, elitist Dublin prick. We pulled up outside Catherine's mother's house in Carbilly. The mother crawled up the driveway puffing a fag

and busted a half-blind fat bastard terrier behind her, panting like he smoked 20 Rothmans a day too. His stupid arse wriggled when he saw Megan. The mother didn't look at me or talk to me. Catherine and I didn't even have to speak about it beforehand, but this was the end. The Glasnevin house and our jobs were one thing, you keep up a charade for that, but not when there's nothing. Then you're really faced with the void between two people, the lies, the hatred we had, plotting against each other, getting one over on each other. had. Plotting against each other, getting one over on each other. All that toxic shit is tolerable when there's a boiling water tap in the sink and a heated towel rack in

the en suite. But this was a mutual decision that did not need discussion or thought from either of us. Herself and Megan took their things from the Punto and the door of the mother's house was shut. I'd given the few grand from the Smith and the door of the mother's house was shut. I'd given the few grand from the Smithfield sale to Catherine to pay for Megan. That's fair, so long as Catherine doesn't decide that she wants to shove some Spaniard's dandruff up her nose. Oh yeah, I know about that. The punto was Catherine too.

I had 268 euro in my pocket, my Paul Smith suit on my back and the Fisher and Paykal fridge freezer. I had no plan. It was already dark at 4.30pm as I wheeled the fridge freezer down Athlunkard Avenue towards Corbally Super Value. Young lads won't rob a 7ft fridge freezer so I left it outside the shop and got a hot chicken roll which only cost 3 euro. Not bad, that would be 6 in Donnybrook Fair. I could smell a rain in the dark ether. The black chimney smoke from Lee Estate hung low as the cold air above the Shannon River pulled it down into smog. I was definitely back home. Dragging the fridge freezer to the area underneath the Corbally overpass was difficult, as there were large stones in the way that the rotors would get caught in. When I tilted it, that the rollers would get caught in.

When I tilted it either the door would open or the hot chicken roll would fall out of my jacket pocket onto the wet ground but I eventually made it. I set the fridge freezer on its side just underneath the bridge on the canal. Plenty of space as I got inside and of course an aluminium fridge freezer of this calibre has a spectacular energy rating. Anything designed to keep cold in like that is equally as effective at insulating heat. After 15 minutes I was toasty and dry, no mean feat considering that it was mid December. The chicken roll made me do onion burps. I had to open the fridge freezer door every bit so I could let them out, which would then leave cold air in, this wasps. I had to open the fridge freezer door every bit so I could let them out, which

would then leave cold air in. This was frustrating. I tried to sleep and that's when the facts first came rushing into my head, jumping up visually when I closed my eyes. The phrase Iron Dobbin was the first. It was a type of petrol powered metal horse designed by Italian fascists in 1933. The second was Great Stark Derby, which was an unusual situation in Canada between 1926 and 1936, where many women became pregnant because a wealthy man named Charles Vance Millar wrote in his will that he'd leave his fortune to the Toronto women who could have the most children in the ten years after his death.

I don't know why the facts just started jumping up at me. I hadn't thought about them in years. I'd been on Blackboard Jungle, you see, when I was 17 in 1992. Blackboard Jungle was this TV series on RTE. Ray Darcy used to host it. It was a general knowledge quiz and every secondary school in Ireland would enter. Our school won in 1992 and I was the one who won it for them. It was this question about volcanic activity that did it.

I just have this ability to remember facts, it's not an issue for me. I hear a fact once, then it's stuck in my brain, that simple. Winning Blackboard Jungle is what got me a scholarship to study economics in Trinity College in Dublin. There was no way that my parents could have afforded that. Trinity was also the first time that I had the pleasure of meeting elitist Dublin cunts. When you're from Limerick and live in Dublin, you get the unique privilege of being considered both a cultie and a scanger. When the jokes about cow shit were made, I got a mention.

When the jokes about Northsiders were made, I too gotta mention. Trying to please elitist Dublin cunts is a losing game. Get a new set of doobarry deck shoes like the lads from Malahide and they ask you where your knife is. Pour a 60 euro Barolo into the glass of Dr Carolyn, the wife fucker, and get asked if I bought it in Tesco, you can never win. Unless you get the American fridge freezer, there's no arguing with that. The American fridge freezer is the signifier. I have arrived. I should know I'm lying in one. I got about an hour's kip and decided to return to my old neighbourhood in Cahordhaven to show

them all what a big shot I was with the Fisher and Paycal fridge freezer and my Paul Smith suit. It was 7am. I pulled her up the canal path. The Corbally Canal by the way is another invention of elitist Dublin cunts. I thought to myself as I battered the rawners of the fridge freezer off the cobbles which were laid in 1843. Limerick used to have three breweries in the 19th century and they were run out of business by cunts. The Carbally Canal was built by the Guinness family. Before the canal that black Dublin shite had to come down to Limerick on horse and cart. The bumps on the road would destroy the taste in the battle, so they gave up. And Limerick, fair play to her, brought her own parter. Then Dublin cunts built the canal to bring the Guinness down

and put hundreds out of work, just like they did to me. A group of children on the way to school stopped on the canal to look at me with the fridge freezer. I felt like smacking them. I carried on. As I got to the lock gate near Ball's Bridge, an old man with his dog roared at me. I thought you were a train, sir. Excuse me, I retorted. Denies, sir. I thought there was a train coming up the canal with the noise the fridge was making, sir. I couldn't believe my ears. I thought I was near the tracks. Thought I was gone stone mad altogether, ha? The wrinkly, sarcastic Coffin Dodger said. I immediately

grabbed him by the collar and asked, are you fucking calling me a train? His skinny-arsed greyhound leapt up and latched onto the arm of my fucking false mid-suit, which knocked me straight onto the wet footpath. Coffin Dodger took this opportunity to start belting me into the face and forehead with his blackthorn stick which split my eye and lip open as his mongrel made tatters of my suit. After they left, I returned to the fridge freezer. This was only a minor issue. Myself and the Fisher and Pay Cal proceeded up past Barrington's Hospital, built by Joseph Barrington in 1829 to offer free health to the poor of Limerick.

Limerick City Centre was barren, stony and grey. It looked like how people described Glasgow, but worse. Unpicked litter assaulted the streets as pigeons and crows fought over a spilled out bag of takeaway containers by Arthurs Quay. A cold mire of smoky curtain fog hung on top of the distant traffic lights. You could hear them beat from a thousand yards, because no engine disturbed their sound. They battled on, like chirping mechanical birds, unaware that they no longer served their purpose of moderating heavy morning traffic. The effects of last year's economic downturn had hit Limerick hard, worse than Dublin. O'Connell Street was a fiasco of unit after unit of closed businesses. Their harsh metal shutters bore down

on me as the fridge-freezer and I made our way up the centre of the street. Clearly there were no morning commuters en route to their trusted jobs because the few cars that passed easily moved around me and it was 8.30am. Most of the factories and businesses in the city had shut down in a year because of the actions of Dublin cunts. The young were leaving or killing themselves. The middle-aged were queuing for the doll, but the big brand flagship stores remained open. I knew I'd have to do something with the wounds on my face from Coffin Dodger, so I walked into Brown Thomas. It was utterly empty except for two vapid-looking girls

who guarded the expansive retail floor, which had been a home of customers and makeup women when I visited last year. It was cosmetics I required, not medical attention. I fully intended to complete the visit to my old neighbourhood, so it was imperative that I looked smart and successful. My lip had inflated to twice its resting size and there was a large bump above my forehead. The wounds had closed but my face was covered in congealed brown blood. I knew this because I watched my face swell in the immaculate reflection of the stainless steel fridge door along the way. I'd left the Fisher and Paykel outside so I made a confident beeline to the Mac counter.

I have arrived, I said. A girl of 22 named Aisling wiped blood off my face with cleanser. The best I can do is hide it under a face full of makeup, love, she said. Her breath smelled like instant coffee. A lavish amount of dark foundation was required to fully conceal the bruise above my left eye. This had to be applied all

over my face for a convincing finish. Aisling quite cleverly applied blue eyeshadow and a bright red lipstick to reconstruct my face and fully convincing finish. Aisling quite cleverly applied blue eye shadow and a bright red lipstick to reconstruct my face and fully camouflaged any evidence of injury. I was quite happy with the results and did not regret handing over €150 for the procedure. The Paul Smith suit was still ripped and my starched collar was bloody so I purchased a new shirt from a dandy man in the menswear section downstairs. I now had 48 to my name. I was ready to bring the American fridge freezer to Cahordavon for envious perusal by the people I grew up with. The fridge freezer held its own as we

travelled over the Shannon Bridge. The paving of the footpaths was quite kind to the wheels underneath and we made decent time reaching the suburb of Catherdavon just after 11 a.m. The Fisher and Pay Cat and I presented ourselves on the tarmac of Blackthorne Drive at 11.17 a.m. The road where I spent my youth, the curbs that I threw soccer balls off, the schoolyard where Ernie Kendall chipped one of my teeth with a conker, the bins at the back of the church where Emma Donlan let me feel her tit, the mounds by the community centre where I drank two naggins and needed a stomach pump. I began a slow march, one hand in the breast pocket of my suit, my posture

immaculate, my chest out, the other hand dragged the door of the fridge freezer, which had come a bit loose from the journey. It was very important that the old neighbours knew that I hadn't been defeated. I was still the big shot who'd made it up in Dublin, especially after my parents had died and couldn't keep the neighbours updated about the particulars of my success. They needed to be assured that I was doing well. So I began to shout, loudly and proudly, I have arrived, I have arrived, I have arrived, I have arrived, while championing the fridge freezer behind me. Godger Canavan's dad was the first to open his hall door. He looked jealous as fuck, the old prick. He always thought he was better than everyone, just because he had a pond out the back. Well,

he hasn't got a fucking Fisher and Paykel American fridge freezer, has he? The lump-faced, carp-enthusiastic, langer nose. Can't even get these fridge freezers outside of Dublin, Conti. Is that the fogarty lad? said Mrs. Nocton.

Why is he wearing a lump full of woman's make-up? said Decky O'Donovan's dad with the lisp. Before long, the entire rabid road was out in nosy force. Mostly people's ma's and da's, but they'd report back to their flock. Except for Titmilk Sarsfield. He lived at home because he had bipolar and was on SSRIs. Keep flying the fucking flag,skine, fuck him. He shouted. Thank you thick milk.

I dodged through the gobble of codgers. Are you okay? Do you need help? Have you taken anything? Were some of the inquisitions. Others enquired as to whether they should ring the guards or get the ambulance. Begrudging old fucks. Jealous that I had clearly arrived

and was now bigger than this small town limerick, colchie, skanger shit if anyone tries to speak to me I just hit him with a fact will you come in and have a cup of tea Erskine, you look very tired to which I would have swanned the state of California was once legally considered

an island do you have a contact number for your wife Erskine kangaroos have two cocks I'd say. It went on like this for 40 minutes at least. The jealous fuckers following me as I did 8 round trips from the top of Blackthorn Drive to the bottom of Blackthorn Drive with the fridge freezer carrying it like my cross letting them know that I had arrived. Until they gave up and went back inside. I had a rest at the bottom of the road outside Dr O'Brien's clinic and leaned against the scuffed aluminium

betamoth. Titmik Sarsfield, fair play to him, came over, said fuck all and offered me a silk cut. I obliged, I hadn't smoked in years but Christ that fag hit the spot. He didn't talk because he knew I didn't need talk right now. But then the silence broke. There's a liquidators auction out in the old Dell factory by Platy where they'll take that fridge off you cuz. Said Titmilk. Fair enough said I. We'll lob it into the back of my diner and they'll take you out there. Nice one bud. Nice one.

They'll never take Blackboard Jungle off you, Erskine. The boys still talk about down here in the pub. Or when we're playing darts. You're a legend because of that. You're the smartest fucker in Cardhaven. No one's taking that away, man. That's forever. I burst into tears and cleared the empty fag packets and Lucozade bottles from the passenger seat of Titmilk's diner, while he loaded the bulky fridge freezer onto the back. We drove to the auction warehouse in Plassey, and not a word was uttered between us.

I smoked half of Titmilk's fags. Then he drove off and beeped the horn several times. at Titmilk's fags. Then he drove off and beeped the horn several times. The Dell factory was a gigantic empty warehouse that had once employed half the city of Limerick. I walked through the main reception with the fridge freezer, the negative space of the Dell logo hanging above a desk where the sign had been removed when it closed. Beyond reception was the former factory floor. It was colossal. The height of the ceiling made me feel queasy.

Nick Faldo could drive a golf ball through there and it still wouldn't reach the back wall. The space once housed hundreds of assembly lines as thousands of workers manufactured all the Dell computers for Europe. This came to an end because of elitist Dublin cunts. Now the machinery was gone and innumerable household appliances lined the floors. Jet skis, jacuzzis, office chairs, coffee machines, dentist chairs, wardrobes, Victorian style gazebos, flat pack decking, full kitchens. This was the pecked out carcass of the Celtic Tiger rotting under a wet dark tree trunk. When you defaulted on your mortgage and threw the key back in the letterbox, this

is where all your stuff ended up. All your prized possessions being sold for about 70% less than what you paid for them. This was a graveyard for the upwardly mobile, a sepulchre for failed business and bankruptcy, like the killing fields of Cambodia, except instead of skeletons littering the ground, it was wood-burning stoves, and instead of bombs causing all that devastation, it was elitist Dublin cunts. A lump colonised my throat when Fatso Yellowhair offered me 300 cash for the Fisher & Paykel RS7667FHCL fridge-freezer, 2007 retail value, 2,300 euros. It's 2008 now bud, I'll give you 300, meow, yart, said the hawker with the long fingernails. I used the cash to buy two large wooden garden sheds, a fully stocked toolbox and a Dunn Stores bag of assorted stationery

from the display of a liquidated Carlo art and hobby shop. I took these to the infinite empty car park outside and dismantled the sheds. Then, like a mother cat with her litter, I carried the wood by hand piece by piece until it all lay on the bank of the river Shannon by Plassey there are 1138 pieces of pressure treated wood before me on this sand I've never built a boat

or sailed one or been on one but this vision came to me in the fridge freezer during my hour of sleep under the canal bridge this morning or sailed one, or been on one. But this vision came to me in the fridge freezer, during my hour of sleep under the canal bridge this morning. The facts in my head were merely a sign, pointing to a greater purpose. I haven't arrived. I've never arrived.

I can see now that I took the wrong journey. Now I'm taking the noble journey and I will fucking arrive. Over the next few days I will write a fact on each of these 1138 pieces of wooden slats with a permanent marker. I will construct a timber raft made of facts with a simple canopy to shelter from storm. When my arc is completed, just like Noah, I will start anew, because the flood has come, but this time it has saved the wicked. I will drift north on the mouth of the Plassey River, adjacent to the pontoon. The current will take me down the tailrace and open into the larger Shannon River. I'll drift past Corbally, through the island fields and meet the Corrigoer Falls.

Then I'll sail on the mighty current that cuts through Limerick City, waving at all the people as I navigate the torrent. Finally, out onto the Shannon mouth and the Atlantic Ocean, just me and my ark made of wax, getting as far away from Dublin as possible. I don't know. Did you enjoy that? Wasn't that lovely and peaceful? So that was the short story. Did you read about Ersk't that lovely and peaceful? So that was the short story. Did you read about Erskine Fogarty? From the point of view of Erskine Fogarty. And it's from my upcoming book. The Gospel According to Blind Bay.

And that is one of 16 short stories. Most of them are around that length. I think that's around six or seven thousand words one of them sixteen thousand words couple in there maybe two thousand four thousand um but the book is out on october 27th uh in all good bookshops in ireland a couple in england maybe and but you just buy it on Amazon. Buy it on Amazon. Thank you for listening. Like I said.

I don't know where this podcast is going. You and I are going to shape it's direction. So tweet at me. At Rubber Bandits. On Facebook. And make some suggestions. Ask some questions. You give me some topics for me to talk about next week and I will talk about them

whatever the fuck alright, yort please go in peace Rock City, you're the best fans in the league, bar none. Tickets are on sale now for Fan Appreciation Night on Saturday, April 13th when the Toronto Rock hosts the Rochester Nighthawks at First Ontario Centre in Hamilton at 7.30pm. You can also lock in your playoff pack right now to guarantee the same seats for every postseason game and you'll only pay as we play. Come along for the ride and punch your ticket to Rock City at torontorock.com.