Samsara
A chill wind whipped down lonely Dawson Street as we marched glumly toward our destination. Searchlights whirled overhead, spears of neon bathed the building in lurid streams of illumination. A garish, luminous precursor to the baleful and malignant events to come. The crowd gathered outside had a nasty feral look. Sporting the glazed over vistas of the professional media whore, ligging and schmoozing their way through another endless night of empty shitchat followed by loveless, animal rutting in the suburbs. The bouncers glared out at them, mean eyes closed to slits, fists balled in readiness, earpieces chattering meaningless gibberish. ‘Names on the list, names on the list’ they kept muttering like idiot savants. Sweeping the crowd with basilisk stares willing the troublemakers forward. There to be dealt swift justice. The media whores leered and cackled knowingly to one another, shuffling forward they began their scrupulously practiced lies, their half truths, the fearful promises and bargains they struck, anything to unbar the way forward to the glorious media hole within. But these were the übermensch of the bouncing fraternity. Lean, hard eyed, implacable, made sexless and granite hard by years of brainwashing and beatings. Poor bastards.
I glanced over at my companion, she was in bad shape. Five double espressos and a monstrous sugar binge had not improved our chances of gaining entry. It couldn’t be helped, the caffeinated goodness had staved off the near total collapse of our nervous systems for just a few more hours. Good God, just a few more hours and this nightmare would be over.
Then with that slow air of familiar dark inevitability the bad things began to happen. The air about us grew deathly quiet and took on a darker aspect. Above a mushrooming mottled bruise blocked the night sky. The queuing media nobodies clasped their Dolce & Gabana fanny scraps closer to their wasted bodies and shuddered. Some of them perhaps in the dim sodden wastes of their empty, pitiful lives still remembered a time when the warmth of humanity still flowed through them.
The maroon space wagon with night black windows rolled to a silent halt in front of the goggling fuckknuckles crowding the entrance. A space wagon! I smelled the fetid arrival of B-List. Things could get messy. I knew we were on the guest list. I knew. We had friends here or allies. People who could be relied upon not to talk, to usher us past this nightmare crush. But still now the royalty had arrived the bouncer’s threat assessment would ramp up to full alert mode. Anything so much as a fart wafted in the wrong direction could bring these roided up manbeaters onto your back. Mercilessly strip searched, beaten and dumped in Stephens Green for the crime of despoiling the perfumed air surrounding whatever mincing Gashbunny was topping the charts this week.
I grabbed my companion’s trembling hand and whispered a harsh ‘act natural’ to her as we plunged into the melee. Elbowing my way through the anorexic Fionnualas and begoateed pantysniffers we closed on the spacewagon. Stirring signs of life within indicated an ‘appearance’ was about to commence. Around us the audible sound of sphincters tightening could be heard as the assorted media gits mentally pleaded with whatever Dark Gods they worshipped that it would be the Theakston or the great one the Bono or god be praised the Madonna herself. Far gone into this semi-stupor they gave way easily to my frantic elbowing and cursing. I could see our allies at the door as I desperately signaled for attention. But then from behind us came the sound of popping flashbulbs, the mating cry of the paparazzi. ‘We’re buggered’ I managed before the crowd frenzied.
Screams and yells filled the air, whoops of terror and despair, a desperate scrabbling sound as the hordes pressed forward. Judging by the crush pushing us aside I reckoned. more than one celeb was approaching. The situation did not look good. Then suddenly the crowd parted and I saw them. It was Six.
Six, SIX! Great creeping Jesus Six! Louis Walsh’s latest handful of teen wank come to guzzle at the trough of celebrity before being carted off to be gutted open to feed the next batch of pop abortions. Six, by God I’ll not have those jumped up little shite peddlers push me off the street.
Gripped by a towering rage I advanced on the unsuspecting warblers. We were lucky; having yet to be fully subsumed into the moloch hive of celebrity they were still mere larval celebs. Pop maggots in their gestating phase. Once their single was rotated up the charts and the great machinery of the Hive sucked them in forever they would gain (for a time at least) the full awesome power of a Spice at their height. Able to command the life or death of their warped followers and make perverted demands of Sisyphean proportions. But for now all they could manage was a low level entrancement glamour or a minor tantrum conjuration. I smiled, easy meat. The fools had even allowed them out with a skeleton crew of handlers. The dark prince Louis was nowhere in evidence. Excellent that spawn of Croms arse had dark powers that could turn a mans insides to gooey jam with the merest twitch of those dead fish eyes of his.
I began fumbling for my mace. Yes a mace attack would do nicely at this point . Set the tone for the evening as they drag away the stricken poptarts puking and crying, ropes of snot and phlegm clinging to their reddened weeping faces. A nice photo montage for tomorrows red tops. Maybe even the manbeater too just to give them a lesson. Save their worthless little hides before the Mammon spawn rape their humanity. I was still fumbling in my satchel for my trusty cudgel when I caught the eye of my companion. There was fear in those eyes, fear and panic. She mouthed a horrified ‘No’ at me. I froze, trapped in the full glare of the searchlights. My God what had I become? A wasted, jiggering freak in the grip of a massive caffeine and sugar rush about to commit murder on the steps of an exclusive Dublin night spot. What the fuck was I thinking, the bouncers would burn me alive and boil my charred bones down for gruel in the kitchens.
There was nothing else for it now but to press on and try and wing it. I filled my lungs with righteous anger. EXCUSE ME! EXCUSE ME PLEASE! I barged forward past the bland, oblivious to their recent peril and motioned to our allies who quickly ushered us past the velvet ropes and glaring doormen. At last we were inside,.,Samsara.
What’s in a name?. I’ll not belabor you with a lengthy treatise on the subject but a few words are necessary to fully comprehend how far the owners of this hawking whorepit of a bar have shoved their heads up their own arses in the pursuit of cool. Samsara is a Buddhist term and is described as:
The world of illusion in which we live. All the things that we consider physical and solid are merely illusory. When individuals are obsessed with this world we neglect our spiritual needs. Samsara relates both to this illusion and our mortal lives. The goal of Buddhism is to escape Samsara, or the cycle of rebirths and reincarnation. Samsara is the hellish world of time and space and the shifting shapes which energy assumes, the fluctuating world which is apprehended by the senses and presided over by the judgmental ego. This is the world that the Buddha described as being “bitter and painful.”
‘The goal of Buddhism is to escape Samsara.’ Begob ne’er a truer word was spoke. Christ by the time I crawled out of that fetid shitehole Dawson Street felt like fucking Nirvana, Heaven, Tir Na fucking N’Og even.
Let Siddhartha Murphy here enlighten you to the karmic buttfuck that awaited us that night in this black place. When we last left our imperiled companions they had braved the rabid doorkeepers, dodged the media whores and breached the outer defenses of the hive now we return to them as they step nervously across the threshold and peer apprehensively into the gloom,
,We’re in. I couldn’t believe it. Surely the worst was over now we were safe in the darkness. But I was wrong. The foyer was not too bad; relieved of our belongings by fussing coat checkers we hustled into the bar. Not too bad I thought. An eastern feel to the furnishings and décor, not too overdone, a string quartet in the corner soothing my frayed nerves. But wait we’re being hustled on further in, further in and there’s more, there’s,so,much,more.
Further and further back it goes walls going far up into the rafters, roof steepled sharply. Something not right in the shape of it all, something oddly familiar, but wrong. I pause trying to work it out when the mass of bodies subsumes us. Hordes and hordes of pullating, befannyscrapped mediabitches twisting to and fro to the music, barking and whooping their inane empty chatter. ‘Dahling, yah, good to see you.’ The air is thick with air kisses.
Drink. Oceans of it piled on the bar. Sticky red cocktail ooze, the bar top is awash with the vile stuff. Pitiful mewling emanates from the unfortunates jammed into it by the crush. Stuck fast there like red-tarred criminals. God for a pitch capping crew. Sweating barkeeps frantically trying to keep up as the baying mob swills the free booze into their bleating gobs. Barely pausing for a breath before they begin their gassy exhalations once more. There is a whiff of brimstone in the air here, I like it not.
Craning my neck upwards I realize what this fearful place reminds me of. A church. It’s fashioned into a twisted blasphemy of a Christian chapel. Heh, heh what delicious irony. Here I am at the launch of another worthless ragmag. Fit for nothing but a few short months employment to a bunch of talentless know nothing fuck knuckles better off cleaning the latrines in a leper colony or scraping turds from the hulls of pleasure boats on the Thames for all the good it will do them. Another meaningless orgy of money, greed and avarice that are the de rigueur of our burgeoning modish yuppie class. What better place to partake of these criminal pursuits than here in this black church of the damned. Unconscious to the savagery perpetrated around them the mob marches on oblivious to all. ‘SIX, SIX!!’ squeal the gimps as the dread Louis’ peons are swept past us towards the VIP lounge. The camera’s and luvvies follow slurping at their wiggling arses. I take another fearful look over at my companion and start to cry. She’s grabbed handfuls of the free jelly beans off the bar and is hurling them at the Kombucha drinking, food refunders cowering anorexically in the corner. ‘Choke on this stickbitches!’ she’s screams ranting furiously. ‘Oh God and baby Jesus, we’re doomed’ I sobbed quietly to myself.
Escape was the only option. Steeling myself I gripped my gibbering cohort sternly by the arm and made for the door, hoping against hope that our façade of sanity would hold until we breathed the fresh sweet air of Dawson street again. For the second time that night we called on our allies to get us past the crush to the door. The bouncers eyed us humorlessly as I bundled my companion out into the night babbling about the ‘filthy jelly eaters’ and ‘the bad ladies’. But we were out, out and free in dirty Dublin, the long night of the Samsara was over.
Editors Note: The trials and tribulations of this certain short-lived ‘newspaper’ have recently been recorded for posterity in an RTE ‘True Lives’ documentary. Hopefully you had the pleasure of viewing this delightful little story of greed, cupidity and wrong-headed folly. If not the Gurrier strongly recommends you obtain a copy and settle down for a fine evening’s entertainment of loud guffaws and schadenfreude.
August 30th, 2006 at 10:41 am
[...] Blogorrah - An Irish version of Defamer. A recent addition to my reading list. I’ll admit I didn’t want to like this site; owned as it is by this fellow. (A gentleman whose previous doomed enterprises I had the misfortune to be peripherally involved in. Perhaps you saw the documentary. I saw so much more gentle readers, so much more. That story will keep for another day.) Also they publish a magazine in the U.S. about dressing up your dog like a whoor. The world needs less of that. However I am not a man too small to admit I was wrong. I like Blogorrah and find it well written, witty and the editors are spot on in their skewering of the Irish meeja and celebri-whores. Also I want to know, where do they find those wonderful photos. [...]