Sober Paddy

Hiding away from blogging because….

First there was the virus. It has ravaged me little website. It keeps coming back. It’s like a drunken bum that hangs around the back of a pub, sniffing the warm scent of stale beer buried in the plastic bins. It stays active, pumps itself full of virus steroids, and gets back into the Sober Paddy central nervous system. Then it kicks the shit out of it. Pummels it with leather clogs across the cranium. It spews into it’s bowels

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Probelms with Sober Paddy

This Post is just to let people know that I am experiencing problems with the website. Not the sober part of it. But the flipping pain in the ass virus that keeps infecting it. Not sure how these things work. It just seems to keep coming back. So if you are reading this and have not been redirected to the Russian porn then great. The porn is not that spectacular by the way. So I am working on trying to fix all the little problems I am having. This is why there have been no posts for the last week. I apologise. But there

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Dead Drunk

I have taken up the art of reading books again. Well, when I say reading books, I mean downloading books onto my kindle and ingesting them that way. Before I got my hands on a kindle I thought there was no way I would be the ponce who went around with one. But the books are cheaper. You can carry as many as you want. You can buy them whenever you want. I really think they are an awesome creation. If you haven’t 

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Beautiful Thoughts

This post is a little random today. I include it because my sister Ellen quoted me a poem I wrote, which she sent back to me last week when I was feeling down. I was really touched by this and it cheered me up no end. The essence of the poem is that life is a mess, turns out in a way you never considered possible, but also that no matter what happens you have to stay positive and look at the bright side. We all have a dance to dance and a reason

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So Over It

I spend the days like this – In torpor. Torpor is when your brain is glue, your words are mud, your legs feel like slushy plop and your emotions are a bag of second hand sandals. I feel like a mango that has been smuggled down the top of an octogenarian slut, who has no chicken fillets left to fill her off-white brassier. I might as well play bingo in a hall, on my own, with a packet of monster munch

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