The Gipper
New Member
Attention those of you that have noticed the Division 2 c.1978-83-haircut phenomenom knocking around various venues in Dublin. Gangs of characters (mostly from Clondalkin and Donaghmede-allegedly) with ridiculous Mod/Oasis bearra gruaiges can be seen lurking in the dark, making the TBMC look like an out-take from 'Scum'. For argument's sake we'll call this bizarre sartorial genre Clondalchester. So the next time the spritual heirs to the Josephs/Subtonics/Otherbandssportingfatliamgallagherfrontmen are playing in town, you know what to do:
Give any London connections you might have a shout in advance of the next (Listo, mar shampla) gig and see if they can sort you out with a full Clondalkin ensemble (Fred Perry, Gola sportsbag, Parka, farcically serious pouting facial expression etc), available from the Clondalkin Cliché boutique on Carnaby St. Don't forget your 'ludes and blues for the gig. Anyone who hasn't been to Bray (the Clondalchester Brighton), having travelled there out of their tits on the DART, better sort it aht. When I went there were three Clondalkin Mods and a few rockers from Raheny beating each other around the beach with rusty deckchairs -exactly like Quadrophenia!
If anyone has a washing machine, a copy of Definitely Maybe and a good contact for shite speed, we're heading back to yours after the gig to swagger around your living room, sniffling profusely.
The drill for the full on Clondalkin teeth party is as follows:
1. Get about ten cunts into someone's utility room after about half one in the morning.
2. Chop out a few lines of shite speed on top of the washing machine with your 'classic' fake i.d. that says your name is Gareth Mountfield (the photo shows a pouting young Clondalkin worthy with his fist raised in what he imagines to be reminiscent of Ian Brown, but makes him look more like a mop-topped Christy Brown). Don't worry if the speed and Daz powder get mixed-up, if some cunt's nose starts foaming pretend he's o.d.-ing - it'll make the night seem madder.
3. Be sure not to wake the parents that are asleep upstairs (this only happens at the maddest parties and the main noise maker is the thirty-five year old, who was into the Jam in the early eighties and who is shifting someone's eighteen year old sister until she inevitably tires of his scooter obsession. This cunt is likely to pull a wheel spin in the wee hours with a devil-may-care toss of his Pat Jennings mane).
4. Once everyone has their line into them, proceed in swaggering single file, through the kitchen into the living room
5. Stick on Definitely Maybe at a very low volume and sit around with your hands half-way up your sleeves tapping your adidas clad feet along to the beat and your hands on your lap, nodding all the time and periodically miming in a manner that involves tilting the head backwards and performing feats of facial gymnastics heretofore associated with cormorants swallowing sizeable fish.
6. At some point cushions will be thrown around in a fashion designed to emulate legendary Who hotel-trashing moments. Such behaviour can be triggered by anal-retentive debates about the merits or demerits of John Squire's solo-career
7. Settle down and get someone to skin up on the cover of some old Merton Parkas LP that your older cousint gave you
8. At first light, fuck everyone out and warn them not to start singing 'Don't look back in Anger' until they're at least past Tuthill's newsagents (Clondalkin-specific instruction)
9. Swagger up to bed for a pedal and crank over Patsy Kensit, which will have to be aborted due to the penis-shrinking effect of the bad speed (the White Leeyine) ingested earlier
Give any London connections you might have a shout in advance of the next (Listo, mar shampla) gig and see if they can sort you out with a full Clondalkin ensemble (Fred Perry, Gola sportsbag, Parka, farcically serious pouting facial expression etc), available from the Clondalkin Cliché boutique on Carnaby St. Don't forget your 'ludes and blues for the gig. Anyone who hasn't been to Bray (the Clondalchester Brighton), having travelled there out of their tits on the DART, better sort it aht. When I went there were three Clondalkin Mods and a few rockers from Raheny beating each other around the beach with rusty deckchairs -exactly like Quadrophenia!
If anyone has a washing machine, a copy of Definitely Maybe and a good contact for shite speed, we're heading back to yours after the gig to swagger around your living room, sniffling profusely.
The drill for the full on Clondalkin teeth party is as follows:
1. Get about ten cunts into someone's utility room after about half one in the morning.
2. Chop out a few lines of shite speed on top of the washing machine with your 'classic' fake i.d. that says your name is Gareth Mountfield (the photo shows a pouting young Clondalkin worthy with his fist raised in what he imagines to be reminiscent of Ian Brown, but makes him look more like a mop-topped Christy Brown). Don't worry if the speed and Daz powder get mixed-up, if some cunt's nose starts foaming pretend he's o.d.-ing - it'll make the night seem madder.
3. Be sure not to wake the parents that are asleep upstairs (this only happens at the maddest parties and the main noise maker is the thirty-five year old, who was into the Jam in the early eighties and who is shifting someone's eighteen year old sister until she inevitably tires of his scooter obsession. This cunt is likely to pull a wheel spin in the wee hours with a devil-may-care toss of his Pat Jennings mane).
4. Once everyone has their line into them, proceed in swaggering single file, through the kitchen into the living room
5. Stick on Definitely Maybe at a very low volume and sit around with your hands half-way up your sleeves tapping your adidas clad feet along to the beat and your hands on your lap, nodding all the time and periodically miming in a manner that involves tilting the head backwards and performing feats of facial gymnastics heretofore associated with cormorants swallowing sizeable fish.
6. At some point cushions will be thrown around in a fashion designed to emulate legendary Who hotel-trashing moments. Such behaviour can be triggered by anal-retentive debates about the merits or demerits of John Squire's solo-career
7. Settle down and get someone to skin up on the cover of some old Merton Parkas LP that your older cousint gave you
8. At first light, fuck everyone out and warn them not to start singing 'Don't look back in Anger' until they're at least past Tuthill's newsagents (Clondalkin-specific instruction)
9. Swagger up to bed for a pedal and crank over Patsy Kensit, which will have to be aborted due to the penis-shrinking effect of the bad speed (the White Leeyine) ingested earlier
