Blog

Published: The Dubliner, June 2010

In case anyone was worried I wasn’t using my break from blogging productively

It’s one o’clock in the afternoon. The sun is shining. The sky is blue. And I’m plonked on the couch in my boxer shorts eating Crunchy Nut Corn Flakes and watching the World Cup. Watching football while everyone else is at work? Christ, it’s good to be alive. If someone had asked me when I was a kid, what kind of life I wanted when I grew up – I gotta tell you, I’d have settled for a lot less than this.

The postman sneaks his nose around the open door. There are a couple of bills for me. Who’s winning, he asks? Serbia, I say. Klose has just been sent off. Postman looks pissed off. Miroslav Klose, he asks? Yup. Shite, I have him on my Fantasy Football team. He accepts my offer of a seat.

If there is a downside to the World Cup – and I very seriously doubt that there is – it might be a slight over intrusion into our daily lives. I run a tight ship around here, ordinarily. Breakfast starts no earlier than 11am and finishes no later than midday. I read the Irish Times, Guardian, New York Times, Washington Post. I watch the previous night’s Daily Show, Colbert Report, Letterman monologue. Lunch breaks are taken no earlier than 2pm and finish no later than 3.30pm.

But this hectic live football regimen is really fucking with my timetable. It’s 3.34pm today before I get a chance to pause for lunch. I put it off as long as I can, until a chorus of vuvuzelas from my stomach forces me to act. By the time I roll into Spar, there isn’t much produce left. There’s some chicken in the deli. But even padded out with stuffing, there’s no way it’s enough.

Lesser sandwich aficionados would throw in the towel. More energetic sandwich aficionados would give up and try elsewhere. Well, by God, I’m not about to do either of those things.

The guy behind the counter looks bored. What’s your name son, I ask him? Muhammad, he replies. Well Muhammad, I tell him, you and I are about to do something special here today. But you’re going to have to trust me. You’re going to have to do exactly as I say. Do you understand?

Muhammad just shrugs. Whatever. He looks bored.

I line up the order: I’d have mayonnaise, a little mustard, as much chicken you’ve got there, a sprinkling of stuffing and a hint of red onion.

This is the easy part.

Next I beckon my young assistant towards the hot food counter. Now throw in a couple of those cocktail sausages, I tell him. Muhummad’s eyes widen.

Relax, I say, I know what I’m doing here.

Now this isn’t strictly true. I’m rolling the dice here and he knows it.

Luckily, it pays off. The finished product looks revolting but, holy moly, I’ve just created a taste sensation. I’d hang around to soak up the plaudits, but that’s not a luxury I can afford right now. The second half of Slovenia v the U.S.A. is about to get under. Vamoose, vamoose… Truly, there’s no rest for the wicked.