The shop was underground, a cavernous space of exclusivity for the chosen few who trail home from the office, dressed in the kind of suit that a culchie would be garbed in for their funeral. There was a corpse like quality to the beings that haunted the isles. Each one a spectre of loneliness, absorbed in haute-cuisine meals for one – the antithesis of Sarah’s idea of what a meal should be. Normally she would shop in Lidl, or Aldi, and their fancy stuff was enough for her. Lobster bisque for €1.49, truffle oil for €1.79; it adds a bit … Read More
People don’t get corrupted but they do get deceived. The gombeen has been transformed from the days of collecting the landlord’s rent to now sowing regime illusions. The monster propaganda machine (RRR T EEEE!!) has no more important role within it than to anchor the Late Late. The host, the self-confessed nerd, the Blackrock boy, the Peter Pan of Donnybrook, known to us as Ryan Tubridy, is there to tell us what we should think. Witness Tubridy’s hostile trial by video of Paul Murphy on the Jobstown protest. Or him bristling in disbelief when John Connors says he thinks Travellers … Read More
One of our more backwards and archaic laws gets the puntastic treatment by Emare.
Our chief messer in ink, Mickey Bananas had this rather cutting take on Brexit up Norn Iron for #rabble12.
While the regime tried their damnedest to depoliticise and adapt the centenary of 1916 to their own ends, the Blueshirt class of shopkeepers and bankers were found once again fumbling in their greasy tills, Shucking history for a few pennies over the odds. Let’s starry plough through some examples. 1. Connolly Shot Glasses Carroll’s brand of sheep clutching, flat cap wearing Guinness swilling leprechauns is hardly going to turn its eye to the rising with any sensitivity. If chocolate bar proclamations weren’t bad enough, one can only imagine what our lost labour leader Connolly would have thought of his mustachioed … Read More
Tragic Terry and The Magic Cowboy have been fighting, but after a week of counselling and mediation sessions with Jonjo Flyntermeister, we managed to get them back into their oracular sanctuary for some anal horoscopy and divination.
Dublin Old School became something of an automatic rabble favourite when we stumbled upon it at the Electric Picnic a few years ago. It’s back for a short run in the Project Arts Centre this week. So, take a look at this interview with Emmet Kirwan from #rabble9 if you need convincing and grab yourself a ticket while you can. See yiz there.
Dublin is being socially cleansed of rabble like us, either through the pressure of emigration or having to hightail it to the ‘burbs over rackrent prices. These days the meeja, politicians and other muppets declare the rise of the Celtic Phoenix, while landlords write letters to santy asking for another bubble. As the Harboisation of large swathes of the city continues, we’re pinning our hopes on third generation really existing dubs to keep the shit real. Until then, here’s our take on Dublin’s five most bougie spots. Malahide. This place is well north, putting lie that old myth that all … Read More