fuelled entirely by lovely tea……

The bro got married last weekend, and himself and this missus are foodie types so the whole kit and kaboodle camped out in celebychef Kevin Dundons gaff down wexford way.

I’m a big lover of weddings, funerals and any other excuse for getting all pissed up on booze while in a suit, and this was no exception to that rule.
But it’s the food bit that has me posting. Kevo, because we’re mates now, oh the craic me and Dundo, as I do sometimes call him, have when we are on the tear, sure its mighty. Anyway we’re like this (does something disturbing with index and middle fingers) since I was round his gaff and all, and Kevo is reputedly a michelin star chef, although I can’t find any direct mention of this on the net, but he’s definitely in there or up there someplace in the highest echelons of cheffery.
I had steak, I’m cutting directly to the mains here cos that’s kind of tough frontiersman John Wayne type that I am. So, the filet steak, marvellous  job there Dundo, it was exactly as a steak should be; about the size and shape of a fist, lovely pink all the way through, a carnivorous dream.

I had Venison the next night cos I’m also a woodsman hunter type and its good to keep some survivalist flavour, keeps me on my toes in case of apocalypse. Also I like to pretend I’m Robin Hood, Errol flynn era, with lots of bread and no cutlery. That approach does not always go down well at weddings as some folk lack imagination, especially older folk who almost never  get into the mutton-leg waving food-spitting vibe with the hearty laughter and the wench raping and all.
And the venison was great too.

But see, here’s the rub; two courses in Dundos gaff is €56. In my experience thats on the high side, unless one of those courses is cocaine or dinosaur eggs.
And although all the food was bang on, I know I’ve had pretty much just as good elsewhere, and at half the price. Its all a bit of a bluff really, food only gets so good, its diminishing returns after a point.

My mate Clumsey Bear once worked as a steak Chef in a Sidney shithole called Filthy MacFaddens or something, and turned out lovely steaks despite his handicap. Steaks are probably his one and only talent, other than knocking things over.
I once got a steak in averagy nice place in Prague that was every bit a good as Dundos, and it cant have put me back more than a handful of clams.

When folk are into something they just want to spend money on it. I do it myself, I’m a terrible hoor for big speakers, fancy boxing gloves I don’t really need and rare records I can’t afford.
The foodies can keep their elite food, its’ for them anyway. And although my presence brings a touch of class to even the classiest joint, they don’t really need my lack of enthusiasm.
For my part, I like the grub but would prefer not to be walking out of there with a sore arse, if you take my meaning.

Yeah, so, Arachnotron.

I wanted to take the time to explain myself fully, as early polling has shown that I may have chosen a hard to defend position on this one. Sometimes a man has got to stand up and do what’s right, believe in his own judgment and walk the walk.

Unfortunately I’m a bit tired and, due to my unusual value system whereby the urge to sleep trumps even the survival instinct, I’ll represent myself poorly, offer a half baked argument  and slink off to beddy byes. Leaving future-me to look like a twit, but then what do I care about that fucker? He can’t do anything for me or to me, time moves in only one direction and that dudes problems are his own.

Anyway, we came to a shortlist of names for our firstborn child, a daughter as it turned out. The list was made up of several names for each possible sex, compiled by the missus, and one all covering unisex mighty name postulated by my bauld self, that name being Arachnotron.

Now I’ve heard the arguments against, I’ve done my research. There’s no point in telling me the name sounds daft, that I’m naming a person and not an advanced piece of futuristic  military hardware or that the child will get a fierce slagging.

For a start pretty much nothing rhymes with Arachnotron, leaving the primary school kids with little ammo. Maybe if myself and herself get divorced they could chant “Arachnotron, yer Da is gone”  but that’s both contingent on an unlikely event and also a bit weak, even for six year olds.

Secondly, advanced pieces of futuristic military hardware often have cool names;  apache, cobra, sidewinder, xk-11 etc.  At the same time parents are constantly trying to give their kids cool names so they will be better equipped to survive the hostile social environs of the education system;  Lee, Zoe, D’jemelanie or whatever.
I’m just ahead of the curve on this one, quantum leaping to the name everybody is going to wish they thought of first.

And, most relevantly, when this child grows up to be a twenty-five foot tall, spider shaped robot with pulsating green lasers flashing from her eyes, reducing the city to smoking blasted rubble, Roisín is going to sound pretty lame.

I lost that one. I fought the good fight but she’s tougher than she looks, is the missus. The childs name is Roisín.
I have to admit, it does suit her; she’s all small and cute and red-faced. She does all that super-cute baby gurgling and and a very funny sneeze, like a kitten sneezing.

I can only hope that she continues to grow into her name, and not into a metal and silicon construct driven by an alien and nameless rage.