The problem with starting to blog is starting to blog….

I’m not a great man for making potentially life-alerting decisions. The very thought of being in a position of having to chose Rice Krispies over Frosties or what pair of jeans to pull on in the morning is enough to send me for the Prozac and Anxiety Therapy CDs voiced by Weird Al Yankovic. Imagine the stress I’ve been forced to endure, if you will, over the past three weeks trying to decide the topic with which to pop my proverbial blogging cherry with. Folks I give you a small but possibly important list of the options….

A Northsider on the 46A

One man’s struggle to fit into a world with which he has no relation. Is it possible to reset Microsoft Word to English (Southside)? How many shades of fake tan are commercially available? Would everything of a latitude below the Liffey combust if Katie or Glenda weren’t in the papers? What’s the obsession with “mare”? Do these people live in some kind of false stud farm orientated reality?

Forget ticket prices, hooliganism or foreign ownership – fashionable footballers have really killed soccer.

Remember the days when grown men would discuss with other grown men the days when proper grown men played grown men’s football? You do? How wrong is it so that Thierry Henry’s new range of clothes with Tommy Hilfiger has eclipsed his moving to Barcelona and what it means for Arsenal and the position of English football. I won’t even start about David Ginola or Kevin Keegan’s Brut.

John O’Donoghue goes all Randle Patrick McMurphy on us.

More West LA than The West Wing, anyone want to open a book on the number of Dáil sessions until Richard Bruton is removing the Ceann Comhairle’s bell from Enda Kenny’s small intestine. It’s a reproduction from Lough Lene Castle you know…. the bell not Enda Kenny’s back passage.

Gordon Brown moves into No10

Who did the snag list? Will he change the locks, and will the image of Cherie walking around in her smalls ruin his sex life?

So many possibilities but in the end none of them enticing enough to sit in front of a computer for ten minutes and attempt to wax lyrical about…instead just hours away, my homage to a man who shaped Irish culture but has been discarded to the bargain bin of ridicule. Tomorrow My Night In The Company Of Brendan Bowyer…..