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Part of me would love to see Sarah Palin show up on Saturday night Live to do her own spoof take on Tina Fey. It’s a funny and clever premise. The other half of me thinks anything that could potentially help McCain‘s campaign should be crushed immediately.

Rumours are still circualting that she may appear on SNL shortly. Slashfilm has it here, and this morning Palin said she would love to appear on the show. However Hollyscoop (nope I’ve never heard of them either) say it’s unlikely (ish).

What do you think? Good idea? Bad idea?

Here’s Tina Fey’s impression of Mrs Palin.

Can someone please start a campaign to bring Miss Saigon back to Dublin? This is just so wonderful:

Also, this is just cute:

Now excuse me while I find out where Lottie left my testicles.

One of my favourite comedies when growing up was the inspired Dirty Rotten Scoundrels with Michael Caine playing the suave and debonaire upper-class con man and Steve Martin playing the crass American swindler. The two fail to see eye to eye and set up a competiton to relieve the young Glenne Headly from $50,000. Caine is almost a parody of himself and relishes the part. In an anti-James Bond role he is a villain we love. Martin too is on fine form and this is probably the last great movie he did (an exception might be made for LA Story and Housesitter).

The movie was comedy genius. So why the hell are they remaking it????? This is the worst news ever and I am not exaggerating. I cannot think of anything that has ever happened or could ever happen that is worse than them remaking Dirty Rotten Scoundrels. No! Just no!

Casting ideas? Probably Will Ferrell and Pearse Brosnan, hamming it up and making a flop. I can see Anne Hathaway throwing her career away by appearing in it. Why do they keep remaking these movies that are still as good today as when they were released?

Disclaimer: Ok, so, well, in my research for this very important post, I have discovered that Dirty Rotten Scoundrels was itself a remake of a 1964 movie with David Niven and Marlon Brando, Bedtime Story. So, ahem, it does tarnish my point somewhat. But still…I dunno…shut up…

I have two things to say to Mr Gray Wright:

Firstly, your name is so damn cool. I’m sure it’s a pseudonym to keep you in the land of anon, but I hope it’s a real name because I love it.

Secondly, you may have teetered over the edge and fallen into insanity. Maybe!

Gray is a new blogger who writes on Sinful Origami Paper and has a nice turn of phrase which forced me to go back and read all of his posts (it wasn’t too much work – there’s only 9 posts). I would particularly recommend reading Broken Places.

Today’s post, Stranger Than Fiction, shows him slipping into madness, but there is something in what he’s saying. Stuck in a Truman Show psychosis, he is worried that everything may be an illusion, a figment of the imagination. So, is he right? Is the whole world a stage in which we are all the players and he is the director. Or worse, is his girlfriend pulling the strings? Aagh! I think he’s taking me down with him.

Go check out his blog…now…go on…

Seemingly some people had problems accessing my Another Saturday post as part of the Seven Bloggers Project. The problem appears to have sorted itself out now. So, go on, give it a read.

Another Saturday…

Lottie will be taking over the reigns held last week by Deborah on Avoiding Life and AJ on LeCraic the first week, to live blog tonight’s episode of The Apprentice Ireland. Tune in to TV3 at 9 this evening with laptops at the ready to praise, ridicule, berate and critique the contestants this week.

Show up and support Lottie – she’s nervous. 🙂

After my recent punnery on the show’s title, I discover that one of the greatest TV shows ever is returning. The Krypton Factor, which originally ran for 18 years and finished in 1995, will return for a new revamped series next year.

ITV say it will be harder and include the latest technology to create a new show for the 21st century. I’m excited. I think the only thing better would be news that they are bringing back The Crystal Maze.

Maxi has got our creative juices flowing this week. He has set up a little project involving seven bloggers with seven different viewpoints. Each of us were challenged to continue the previous person’s story in a new voice. English Mum kicked it off, so you can start the trail there. Thriftcriminal followed her and H of Shitetalker, came next. Maxi had his chance then and passed the baton to me. It was an interesting piece for me to write and I’d love to read any comments you might have.

When I was done, I passed it over to Darragh and he gave it to K8 to finish the story of seven parts.

So, I’m picking up where Maxi left off…

Story links: Intro | part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 6 | part 7

__________________________________________________________

I nervously drag myself towards him. On the outside I’m a wreck; I’m a pale, shaking pillar of anxiety, with a quivering voice and a head firmly buried in my chest. Inside, I’m different. I’m someone people should listen to, take heed of. If they knew what went on inside, they wouldn’t fuck with me.

But on the outside…

I nervously drag myself towards him and tap him lightly on the shoulder.

“Are you the manager?” I ask, knowing perfectly well he is. Why don’t I just grab him by the throat, kick him in his lardy stomach and then when he writhes on the floor, smash that wine bottle over his head? Why don’t I? He deserves it.

He is taking a decade to turn around. People are always doing this to me. They think my time isn’t important. It’s very fucking important. I’m an important man and I could have deadlines and meetings. He should move faster. He doesn’t know what I could do.

He finally turns fully and I take a shaky half step backwards. Why did I do that?

“Pardon?” he says.

He was just doing it to piss me off. He knew what I said. He knew what I asked. He was like all the others. Like my ex wife. Like my mother. Like my boss and my kids and the guy at the train station. They know what I said. Why do I always have to repeat myself?

I take a deep breath. I know what I’m going to say to him. I know what I’m going to do. I’ll clasp my hands onto his hair. I’ll drag him down to my level. I’ll shove a fork in his ear – then he’ll have reason to say ‘pardon’. Everything would be ‘pardon’. He’ll be ‘pardon’ on the phone and ‘pardon’ at home and ‘pardon’ with his customers. He’ll regret ever saying ‘pardon’ to me.

I try to speak, but my throat dries up. I clear it and meekly say, “Excuse me, are…are you the manager?”

Of course he’s the fucking manager. What a stupid question? My mind races back to that idiot cyclist earlier in the day who went through that red light. I should have pushed him over. I should have pushed him onto the road and smashed his head in with my shoes. I should have stuck my umbrella between his spokes and sent him flying through the air. His face would be mangled on the tarmac and his nose would crack open. The red blood would cover the road and he’d never run a red light again. I should have done that.

“Yes, how can I help you?” he says. Pretentious prick. Help me? He can’t help himself. He thinks he’s something special with his fancy restaurant and his stupid uniform and his tea towel on his arm and his name badge and his perfect hair. I want to tell him how dumb he looks. I want to knee him in his balls and make him cry on the floor. I’ll rip out his hair and I’ll take his name badge. I’ll burn his whole fucking restaurant down around him. He makes me so angry.

Even now he’s smiling and waiting for me to say something. What if I say nothing? What if I just stare at him? He’d be scared. He’d wonder what I was going to do. He’d be worried. He should be worried.

I knew what I wanted to say. I wrote it down before I left Mother’s house. I had a plan. Where did I put my notepad?

I fumble. I search my pockets. I look in my briefcase. It’s not there.

I can feel my heart rate increase. My palms are becoming sweaty and my vision is blurring. Where is my notepad? Where did I put it? I looked at the manager and he is still smiling at me.

I can’t breathe.

“Is everything ok?” he asks.

“NO! No, it’s not,” I shout at him. I don’t know where that came from.

I run. I turn to him and I say “sorry” and keep running. My chest hurts. I can’t breathe. I fall over a chair, making a loud thud as I hit the ground. I can feel people staring at me. I’m crying now. I’m crying loudly. I get up and run. I don’t stop running. I’m running and I don’t know where I’m going. I’m still crying and my leg hurts. Why does my leg hurt? I can’t breathe. I have to stop.

I look around. I’m on a street corner somewhere and people are looking at me. My head is pounding and I don’t know where I am. I think I’ve stopped crying, but I’m still gasping for air. I take a deep breath and I look around again. Where am I?

I know where I am. I recognise that shop. I’m not far from home. Which direction? That way. I’m walking now. My head. It hurts so much. Why is my leg sore?

I’m nearly home. I’m limping now. What happened?

I look down and I see my trousers are red. Why are they red? I’m bleeding. My leg is bleeding. What happened? I don’t remember anything.

I don’t know how I got here.

I’m nearly home. I know that. But I don’t know where I was. Why is my leg bleeding?

I remember leaving the house. I said goodbye to Mother and I went out. I remember her face. She looked worried. Why was she worried?

I remember leaving the house and walking down the street. It was the first time I had been out of the house for a very long time. Why did I leave the house?

I see my front door and I see Mother. She runs to me.

“Oh my God, what happened to you? Are you ok? How did you do this?”

I can’t answer. I’m silent.

“What happened?” she screamed.

Silence. Everything is blurring again. It’s very dark.

………

I’m in my room, in my bed. I try to move and I stand up. My head hurts and my leg hurts. Why does my leg hurt?

I hear a shout from downstairs: “Are you ok up there?”

“Yeah”, I reply.

“Pardon?” she says.

“I’m fine,” I reply, louder this time.

Why do people always say that to me? Don’t they know who I am?

I look out my window, down onto the street and I see another bastard’s face, with his smug grin and know-it-all eyes. I’m going to kill him. I have a plan. Where did I put my notepad?

Lottie bought me a ring in Galway about 4 years ago. It’s a silver ring with the Lord of the Rings thingy on it – “One ring to guide us, one ring to blah blah blah“. I’m not a Tolkien fan and have only seen each of the movies once. I have seen no DVD commentaries, nor have I been to a convention. I just really liked the look of this ring we saw in the jewelery store window and Lottie bought it for me. I love it. Honestly, every time I look at it I feel something. Happy that I have such a great girlfriend, reminiscent of times past, sad that I’m stuck in work and am neither with Lottie nor in Galway. It reminds me that most of the greatest times of my life occurred when it was just me and her. It’s wonderful to have many friends around you, but it’s truly special to be able to share your life with just one. The ring is a small thing, but I love it.

Not long after my Granny passed away, I got a gift from my aunt. She’s my uncle’s second wife and I don’t really know her well. I don’t know her at all really. She gave me this gaudy glass picture frame, not anything I would pick for myself, and in it was a picture of me and my Granny on my sister’s confirmation day. She is sitting in my parents’ sitting room, looking glamourous as ever and I am sitting beside her in my blue shirt, yellow Bugs Bunny tie and mustard waist coat, with a blade 2 haircut. It’s the gayest I have ever looked. And yet, I treasure this present. It always has one of the prime photo positions in our sitting room.

Just over one year ago my biomammy came up to Dublin to see me and to celebrate my birthday with me for the first time since I was born. She drove all the way from Clare, just to see me and I took an extra long lunch break (which seems a little feeble now) to meet her for lunch. We went to Pacino’s restaurant at the bottom of Grafton Street and chatted away like we had known each other for many years. I loved it and I can say unreservedly that it was one of the greatest days of my life. At one point during the meal, she nervously produced a box, my birthday present. I wasn’t sure what to do – to rip it open, to save it until later, to casually unwrap it while still deep in conversation? She went to the bathroom and I tore the box open. In it was a beautiful Armani watch and underneath was an inscription – “To Darren, Love Teresa, 02-08-07”. I have worn it every day since then and I adore it. I look at it and am reminded of how lucky I am to have the wonderful life I do.

These are, indeed, a few of my favourite things. I am fairly materialistic and I do hoard a lot of junk, but these fall among the list of possessions that I treasure. If there were things I would grab as I legged it from my burning apartment, these would be included. I wonder if other people have some small items that mean this much to them – simple items that may not mean much to other people, but hold a special meaning to them?

I went to see comedian David O’Doherty in Vicar street last night. I wasn’t sure what to expect. Rick speaks highly of him and Anto thinks he’s a comedy genius. His support act was Wilson Dixon. Apparently he’s a Country Music star from Colorado and while I may doubt the veracity of his claims, I couldn’t knock his comedy. Taking a swipe at middle America, he was funny and smart, but once he was singing his comedy songs he shone. DOD had a tough act to follow.

He needn’t have worried, of course. O’Doherty’s natural comic act was hilarious. His laid back delivery and who-gives-a-fuck attitude make his show a great success. Some of his act fell off a bit, but most of it was lapped up by a very appreciative audience, me included.

This is DOD’s first gig since his return from winning the if.comedy award in Edinburgh and, according to him, his biggest gig to date. He will only get bigger.

Two rednecks, Bubba and Cooter, decide to go to college. Bubba goes first, and he is advised to take maths, history and logic.

— “What’s logic?” says Bubba.
— “Well, let me give you an example,” says the professor. “Do you own a tractor?”
— “Sure do,” says Bubba.
— “Okay. Then I assume, using logic, that you have a yard.”
— “That’s real good,” says Bubba, in awe.
— “Logic also tells me that since you have a yard, you also have a house. Is that right?”
— “Gawly!” says Bubba.
— “And since you own a house and a house is tough to take care of by yourself, the odds are that you have a wife. Right?”
— “Betty Mae! This is incredible!”
— “Finally, since you have a wife, logically I can assume you are heterosexual. Is that right?”

— “You are absolutely right! Why that’s the most fascinatin’ thang I ever heerd of. I can’t wait to take this here logic class!”

Bubba, proud of the new world opening up to him, goes back into the hallway where Cooter is waiting.

— “So what classes are ya takin’?” says Cooter.
— “Maths, history and logic,” says Bubba.
— “What in tarnation is logic?”
— “Let me give you an example,” says Bubba. “Do you own a tractor?”
— “No.”
— “Then you’re gay.”

Question: What did the Buddhist say to the hot dog vendor?

Answer: Make me one with everything.

I‘m on the DART on the way home after the David O’Doherty gig in Vicar Street and I’ve been catching up on the affairs over in The Blog Pound. It’s a lively, if somewhat pointless debate spurred on by a rant from my best friend Mr Doyle. I’m not going to add anymore to the debate here. I don’t feel there’s a need.

However, in my reading, I followed a link to Le Craic’s blog this evening and now, sitting on the train laughing so hard I look like a buffoon, I’m receiving odd stares from my fellow passengers.

So, what has inspired my guffaws. AJ’s photoshopping skills have produced the best picture of me ever, with some sage words from yours truly included.

AJ, I love this. Still new to blogging, I have enjoyed it so much and it’s silly moments like this that make me realise why. It’s all fun. The online debates and the offline meetups; the lengthly reports on new Irish start-ups and the stories of bruised moobs; the lampooning videos of US Vice-Presidential candidates and the YouTube clips of a strange unicorn named Charlie; the smiling pictures of bloggers with Mickey Mouse and the photoshopped satire of the very talented AJ. All of these things make reading blogs far more interesting than just perusing the Independent in the morning or vegetating in front of Sky One all evening.

So…I say, let’s all meet up at the Web Awards and raise a glass to the Blogosphere and all who sail in her.

I haven’t had much of an online life lately – the offline world has been preoccupying my time. One of my favourite real world activities is going to the theatre and on Tuesday night, the Bruiser Theatre Company staged a production of The Case of the Frightened Lady in Greystones Theatre.

They describe it as a classic ‘who-dunnit’ for all ages, but it is so much more than that.

It is not a straight ‘who-dunnit’. In 1932 the acclaimed thriller writer, Edgar Wallace, receives a call from his publisher demanding the finished draft of his newest novel. The problem: he hasn’t written it yet. Throughout the night, he, his wife, his secretary and staff brainstorm and act out his entire new book devising plot, character and climax on the fly. Playing out each character to perfection were a cast of five – who each pretended to be a number of characters in the novel. As the evening progressed so too did the novel’s plot, but also the subplot of the tensions between Wallace, his wife and his secretary.

This play was hilarious, from start to finish. It didn’t miss a beat, probably because it was choreographed to perfection. Indeed the choreography was the most important part of the play. Each scene change, each gesture, each brief interaction was timed to the second. The mania and hysterics of the play didn’t let up right to the end and the audience truly felt as though it had been taken on a journey throughout.

Ultimately, the pay off – the reveal of who actually dunnit – is a little flat and there is no true drama building up to it. The subplot of the love triangle isn’t fleshed out to a finish either, which does disappoint. So, as a dramatic piece, the play does fall short, but as an out and out comedy it is wonderful. I laughed constantly and the comedy techniques employed were brilliant. Everything from the subtle glances, to the farcical prat falls, from the witty lines to the low brow ‘knob’ jokes, The Case of the Frightened Lady delivered beautifully.

Well done to the cast and all who were involved in putting this play on stage. I’ll will keep an eye out for future Bruiser Theatre productions.