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POSTCARDS FROM THE HEDGE

I was perusing the Sunday papers the other day (it might have been Sunday, now that I think of it), when something dawned on me. I hate the Sunday papers. The first six days of the week, newspaper articles tend to follow the format: ‘Brian Cowan has announced…’, ‘Sources in Ballyjamesduff report…’ or ‘Grave robbers in Timbuktu have stolen…’

But come Sunday, it’s all: ‘Can I get swine flu by worrying about my bum?’ ‘Is Twitter turning our children into murderous cannibals?’ The answer, invariably, is ‘Almost certainly not… But here’s 4,000 words and tenuously related celebrity photograph just to be sure.’

The thing I hate most about Sunday newspapers though are those ‘A Day In The Life’ features. You know, where some semi-famous person reveals how they spend their average Sunday. But you just know it’s not really their average Sunday. They’ve just cherry-picked the five coolest things that have ever happened to them, and are pretending that these things happen every week in order to make themselves sound cool.

So it’s like: Wake up. Make first Communion. Meet Bono, Colin Farrell also see Brendan Gleeson on the street, but it might not be him. Tell Bono a joke that’s so funny snot comes out his nose laughing. Get voted Ireland’s sexiest man at the TV Now Awards etc. etc.

If I were to do one of those honestly, it would read more like: Wake up. Delay getting out of bed by surfing the internet for three hours. Purchase and consume breakfast roll. Go to The Belfry to watch football. Fight man with scabs on his face for control of the remote control… (If there are any features editors reading this: call me.)

This week I mixed things up a little bit and went into the International Bar for a pint with Murphy. He’s the perfect man for Sunday pint. He can offer a warped opinion on any topic you care to mention. But he’s not uncomfortable with long periods of silence either.

I’ve been going there long enough to recognise the regulars. There’s the English guy with the Rasta hat. He plays the guitar and grumbles like he was Billie Holiday or something when people don’t shut the fuck up for him. There’s the quiet, beaten-down looking woman who sits in with him sometimes. She does this hilariously bitter ditty called ‘Don’t Get Married Girls’. Then there’s the middle aged lady who… Well, who may not actually be a lady at all. She actually knows a fair bit about football though, if you ever get to talking to her.

There’s an ad I always notice on the wall. It’s for Beamish, I think. It’s got Dermot Carmody talking about how the International Bar is his local. I’ve been in the International Bar a hundred times, I’d say, and I’ve never once run into the guy. Also, he’s looking fairly dolled up for a guy sitting drinking pints in the middle of the day. Which gives me an idea. Hmmm… I wonder how much he got paid for it?

(If there are any advertising execs reading this, me and the man with all the scabs on his face will be in the Belfry next Sunday. Recession-busting rates: call me.)