Eoin Butler: writer, journalist and Mayoman of the Year
Tripping Along The Ledge
evening herald
“I left my heart in Koh Samui,” he says, wistfully. “I really did…”
His little brother Daniel isn’t so sure. “Thing is,” he sniggers. “Fergus mighta brought a little bit of Koh Samui back with him and all.” Oh really? “Specifically in the, ah, crotch area…” Daniel mimes an itching action. Oh, for the love of God… Read the rest of this article here.
“DEAR PATRICIA. HAVE TAKEN COP. SEE YOU LATER…”
“Your work,” she inquires. “Legal, isn’t it?” “Am… mostly… Why do you ask?” She eyes me quizzically. “You’re the solicitor, aren’t you?” “No, I’m the journalist.” She squints over her glasses and snorts. “Arrah, for the love of God…” Read the rest of this post here.
ARLINGTON HOTEL
Transformer robots… High School Musical dolls… Selection Boxes and bottles of Jameson… When it comes to Christmas shopping, my great aunt Geraldine likes to get the job done early. Her annual trip to Dublin is the stuff of legend. And, let’s just say, her shopping prowess is only half the story.
It’s lunchtime. The shopping bags have been discarded. And the Westport train doesn’t leave until six. Auntie Geraldine, though, is putting the G&Ts away like they were on special offer. Read the rest of this entry »
YOU KNOW WHAT YOUR PROBLEM IS?
Sara has a low opinion of Irish men. But there’s one for whom she reserves particular scorn. One prototypical idiot she regards as even more clueless than the herd. “Tell me Eooo-wen”, she purrs in that annoying Teutonic drone of hers. “What are you getting your girlfriend for Christmas?”
“Binliners, perhaps? Tampons?”
She shrieks with laughter. I don’t bother lying.
“To be honest, I doubt we’ll even be together by Christmas.” Read the rest of this entry »
OF ALL THE JUICE BARS IN ALL THE WORLD…
“Barkeep. Hit me with a Blueberry Burst – and don’t spare the blueberry!” Read the rest of this article here.
LISBON LATEST: VOTE YES TO CUTE KITTENS!
Aidan is buzzing. He’s like a kid in a toyshop. I, meanwhile, am just about keeping my excitement under wraps. We’re sitting in the first and, to my knowledge, only Dublin bar to offer the “unique” pull your own pint experience. Aidan thinks it’s amazing. Pulling our own pints. God above. Whatever next?
I’m not quite so enthusiastic. I think its a gimmick. They’re making me do something that’s normally done for me by someone else? Yippee, when we’re finished here, can we clean the toilets? Read the rest of this article here.
“TO BE FAIR, LINDA WOULD BE MORE OF AN IRISH STEW…”
It’s closing time on Monday night and Aidan and I are sitting in front of at a pair of empty glasses. For the last five minutes, he has been engaged in a freewheeling mobile phone conversation.
“Ah, not a lot now” he’s saying. “Myself and Butler are finishin’ a pint in Grogans. Just scratching our balls to be honest. Probably head home after and see if herself is feeling frisky…”
Then person on the other end says something and Aidan makes a face.
“Sorry, who am I speaking to?” he inquires. Read the rest of this article here.
THEY’RE TALKING ABOUT “THE BUTLER”…
A little manoeuvre I invented where I approach an attractive girl, stumble, fall and headbutt her in the crotch… Read the entire article.
PUTTIN’ ON THE RITZ
‘Probably the Smallest Pub in Dublin’, boasts the Carlsberg sign outside The Dawson Lounge.
Dublin pubs are places where men can go to drown sorrows and nurse grievances. So it is only right that its smallest pub should this afternoon be the venue for two of the city’s pettiest citizens to air their shallowest grievances.
“Arjen Robben,” I announce, out of the blue.
“What about him?” asks Aidan.
“If I had an identical bald twin, I think that’s who it would be.”
Aidan doesn’t give a shit.
“No way is this the smallest pub in Dublin,” he says, shaking his head in disgust. “I’ve been in way smaller places. Way smaller! What a fucking con…” Read the rest of this article here.
Published: Evening Herald, March 2009THE DAWSON LOUNGE
‘Probably the Smallest Pub in Dublin’, boasts the Carlsberg sign outside The Dawson Lounge.
Dublin pubs are places where men can go to drown sorrows and nurse grievances. So it is only right that the smallest put should this afternoon be the venue for two of the city’s pettiest citizens to air their shallowest grievances.
“Arjen Robben,” I announce, out of the blue.
“What about him?” asks Aidan.
“If I had an identical bald twin, I think that’s who it would be.” Read the rest of this entry »