What's the story with getting a good breakfast in this town?

I love a cooked breakfast of a Saturday morning. My wife, Bundle, loves a good cooked breakfast of a Saturday morning. So, why is it, that we keep getting served guff in places that spice it up on their menu as "brunch".


We normally get a good breakfast in Le Cafe in Clonee village. It's not brunch. It's a fried breakfast with no fuss. It's just cooked perfectly. If your mother was one of those people who was a good cook, then Le Cafe serve you a breakfast your mum would make. Perfect. Nothing burnt, undercooked and the ingredients are first class.

Go ten miles into Dublin 4 to the Schoolhouse Hotel and try their Schoolhouse Breakfast and what do you get? Reheated guff for €8.50. Almost 2 lids more expensive than Le Cafe which doesn't pretend to be anything other than what it says on the tin.

The Schoolhouse on the other hand portends to be "ahead of its class. Unique, intimate and ideally located, the four star Schoolhouse Hotel exudes a warm and friendly atmosphere."

And it was. Two years ago.

We used to live just behind the Schoolhouse and frequented the place quite often. It was never tops for a good brekkie, but, we never had reason to say we'd never go back again until today. Indeed, the best breakfast for both value and how it was cooked was in the 51 on Haddington Road when it was officially called Paddy Flaherty's.

Their brekkie was very much like Le Cafe's, except it came with chips over the top.

It's not just the Schoolhouse who don't offer a decently cooked breakfast. There are numerous other establishments which sex up a cooked breakfast by calling it brunch, but, still couldn't fry an egg Sally O'Brien style.

Having said that, most are streets above the fare served up to us in the Schoolhouse today.

This is my email of complaint:

My Wife and I had the very unpleasant experience of eating your
"Schoolhouse Breakfast" earlier this afternoon.

We ordered our breakfasts to be served with so called "perfect
scrambled eggs". They were turgid. They were congealed. They were luke
warm and if I were Kevin Myers I could think of a lot more vulgar
names to call them, but, perfect they weren't.

The sausages looked old and withered and the rashers almost had as
much fat on them as the Tanaiste.

The whole breakfast was clearly a re-heat.

I have had a MacDonalds breakfast and it is clearly head and shoulders
above what you served to us today.

My wife suggested that we send it back, but unfortuneately, we didn't
have the time and we would never eat something from a kitchen after we
had sent the orignal order back, as you'd never know what the kitchen
staff will add to your new order.

I would never suggest that your staff would contemplate anything
improper, indeed we have met many of them of over the years as we used
to lived behind your hotel in Estate Cottages. We have had many
enjoyable occassions in your establishment, but, today''s fare was
just not up to the standard we had come to expect from a Dublin 4 cafe
bar.

We would also like you to note that the hygiene in the toilets was of
a very, very poor standard. Crumpled-up toilet tissue was clearly
visable as well as a build up of grit behind the lavatories in the
gents toilets.

There was also a large open bin which had been left in the
middle of the floor and the toilet brush in one of the cubicles had
been left on the floor and the whole gents facilities looked like they
would do had a crowd for a six nations game been in the pub for the
whole day.

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Quotes for today

If the Dutch lived in Ireland, they would feed the world. If the Irish lived in Holland, they'd drown. - Otto Von Bismarck.

This is one race (Irish) of people for whom psychoanalysis is of no use whatsoever - Sigmund Freud

The problem with Ireland is that it’s a country full of genius, but with absolutely no talent. - Hugh Leonard

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Beware English underdogs

England come to Dublin on Sunday and for the first time since the 80’s they come as underdogs. They also arrive with the extra baggage of knowing that they could become the first in England side to lose the first three Championship games since 1987. Some albatross.

There’s no doubt Andy Robinson’s charges are but a pale shadow of Clive Woodward’s World Cup winning side. The international retirement’s of Martin Johnson, Laurence Dalaglio and Neil Back, coupled with injuries to Will Greenwood, Julian White, Richard Hill and one Jonny Wilkinson have robbed Robinson of the guts of Woodward’s side. There’s no international outfit around that could absorb those blows and still retain the mantle of world beaters.

However, you don’t see Robinson, or any of his players, crying or making excuses. Their mantra is still get out on the pitch and win. Rightly so. As Ireland coach Eddie O’Sullivan pointed out yesterday: "England have had these changes based on retirements and a couple of injuries. But I don't think it's a major deal. There aren't too many rookies on the English team; they've players with experience still. England are in transition at the moment, but it doesn't mean they're not ready to play."

Not too many rookies is spot on. The Irish rugby public can tend to get carried away with how they perceive a game will pan out. No one apart from O’Sullivan and Brian O’Driscoll gave Ireland a chance against England at Twickenham last year. In fact, most feared one of those all too familiar pasting’s in West London.

It’s always interesting to try and read into O’Sullivan’s pre-match comments to attempt and gauge his mindset. Before Twickenham 2004, while others watched gobsmacked, O’Sullivan declared that he felt that there was no better time to take on the World Champions on their own patch. His captain, O’Driscoll, almost caused derision among English and Irish alike when he announced that he hoped Ireland would give the prawn sandwich brigade something to choke on. Talk about motivating the opposition.

It’s all history now, but, what came to pass that afternoon will never be forgotten as Ireland recorded a rare and precious victory away to the auld enemy, scored what has to be one of the all-time great international tries and in the process defended a narrow lead for the last ten minutes. England didn’t play badly, but, Ireland pulled a performance out of the hat that was full of O’Sullivan’s planning and executed almost without fault by the players.

This week, however, there’s been no talk of prawn sandwich’s or of kicking England when their down. An English backlash for losing two games they should have won, is perhaps, feared. O’Sullivan will certainly be taking that into account and perhaps has tailored his comments this week to allow no possible fuel for English motivation.

There’s no doubting that a backlash is what our friends from across the river will have in mind. English pride doesn’t just evaporate because of a couple of poor results. How often have they been given the slipper down under on summer tours only to dish it back out to all and sundry in the following six nations?

But, when all is said and done, Sunday will really boil down to the Irish performance. We know England won’t roll over, so it’s up to the players to front up again. If there are below par performances a la Italy there will certainly be trouble t’at mill.

O’Driscoll’s inclusion is a boon that cannot be overestimated. Whatever one thinks of his indulgence in making the most out of his image and his perceived cockiness, there is one thing that’s certain. No one gives more than he does on the field. His motto for training is: "train as hard as you mean to play". He neither compromises in training or playing.

But it’s not all about him. Big games are needed from the locks Paul O’Connell and Malcolm O’Kelly and the backrow cannot afford to go missing like it did in Rome. All test matches are won having been built by some sort of forward platform.

The Irish will surely not let supposed English weakness play on their minds and cause an underestimation of the opposition. Too many hammerings at English hands will see to that.

Maybe it might be Robinson who unwittingly provides Ireland with the motivational spark. Indeed Mr Robinson, Ireland do need to "take the next step".

Forecast: Ireland to win by 10 points after tight first half.

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The Birth of an Irish Super Hero

He was sodden. Saturated from days of the Irish weather unleashing its wrath. He had absorbed all of its various precipitation's and survived. Even a low flying jet had emptied it's, well lets just say they weren't fuel tanks, and he had survived.

After hours of painstakingly crawling through the wild Mayo undergrowth he was, at last, home.

His pilgrimage to Croagh Patrick had not gone well. Days of flailing himself with rushes hadn't relieved him of his guilt and as his anger swelled to rage he cursed his god. That's when the storm came.

For five days, four nights, a brief bit one morning and then again in the afternoon, just after lunch, before reverting to five more days, the weather lashed him like he had never been lashed before. It all came out of the heavens. Rain, more rain, rain again, and then for a change, misty rain, hail, snow and finally that rain that doesn't look to bad when you look out of the window but gives you a thoroughly good soaking once you step out the door. He was in Mayo after all.

Now he lay in his bed preparing to meet the maker he had so rashly cussed and slandered. Fits of fever racked his weakened body. Shaking limbs made it impossible for him to eat or drink. Broken in body and spirit he waited for the final convulsion that would end his agony and start him on his final journey.

The convulsion arrived with a fury akin to a thousand hurricanes. But it was not there to take his life. On the contrary, his maker(please choose one of the following, Protestant/Catholic lord, Jah, Buddha, Mohammed, Shiva or Jabba The Hut) had other more exceptional plans for him.

You see his maker (please see above) had been getting just a little bit peeved with all the cussing and slandering he had been receiving over the last few millennia and had now decided to act. In his infinite wisdom he ordained that Peader McWhacker, our pal from Mayo, would become his instrument on Earth. But first he would receive a bloody good lashing for his impudence in the first place.

Of course all gods act in mysterious ways and naturally enough this one never told poor Peader a thing about what he had in store for him, leaving a man, from Mayo of all places, who had flailed himself on top of a mountain to figure everything out for himself. Charming.

And to a degree Peadar did figure it out. But not anything like his god had intended. No Peadar thought he was something quite different.

When Peadar awoke from his convulsion, which was a bit like what David Banner used to do before he changed into the hulk, he felt he had changed. His sense of smell had increased a thousand-fold, which was a bit unfortunate because Jamie Maguire's pig farm was right next door. His strength was now mighty to say the least and more importantly for someone who hails from a county with minimal or no public transport, he could run very far and very, very fast.

The flying bit would come much later and by total accident.

So he knew he was different all right, but, what was he?

He decided to discuss the matter with Jamie the pig farmer over a bottle or two of Poitin. He showed off his magnificent strength and speed to Jamie, who appropriately "ohh'ed" and "ahh'ed" in appreciation. There was even a "Jaysus" or two thrown in just to make sure Peader got the message.

And then with the Poitin about to run dry, Peader's thirst for alcohol had also improved along with his ability to hold it, an answer arrived to Jamie. It could only be one thing. It had to be it. What else could it be?

He turned to Peader and said, "Jaysus", for the third time, "I've figured it out. You're a feckin super-hero Peader".

Peader just nodded in an all knowing manner, although with the amount of Poitin that had been consumed it was very probable that Peader would have nodded all knowingly at the toilet bowl.

The lord wasn't to impressed though. When informed of developments with Peader, he was heard to simply utter "Doh".

And so it came to pass. Irelands first super-hero had been born through the super natural coincidences of the Irish weather, a god who had a gripe with the world and two lads with too much Poitin.

Peader of course still didn't have a cause, but after awhile, like so many recent events in his life, a name did arrive.

Since he now had the ability to run very far and very, very fast, he never had to want for Poitin. So after a year he decided to go on the wagon for forty days and forty nights. On the fortieth night, when he could stand it no more, he rushed out and got a bottle of the clear stuff, wolfed it down, as you would, when he saw it. A solitary potato, in the shape of the devil fell out of it's sack and rolled over beside his foot.

He picked it up. Looked at it for hours, before saying in a slurred but just about audible way, "from this day forward, I shall be known as Captain Spud".

Authors note: All rights concerning Captain Spud, his nemesis and any side kicks he picks up on the way are reserved. Copyright Piaras Murphy 2000.

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Halcyon Dublin

As the cow gathered momentum down the hill, it became difficult to distinguish the back end from the front end and vice-versa. Likewise, the cow's, it may have been a bull but it was hard to tell in the dark, cries of distress became one long cry making it impossible to tell where the "moo" started and then finished.

It's probably much the same thing as watching your dad fall down the stairs. He first tries to grab the banister and when fails there is a small yelp of surprise, which evolves at an astonishing rate into the familiar "Aaahhhhhhhhhhh", as he is pulled down the stairs by Newton's old friend. At that point it is best to run as you'll only get the blame anyway.

It is one thing that has always amazed Spudnik about human kind. It’s our eternal capacity to laugh at people or animals falling over, or even funnier still, being pushed.

Cow tipping may not be the most politically correct of activities one could get involved in, but to some it makes for a thoroughly pleasant evening.

Animal lovers may not agree but there is quite possibly something worse than cow tipping. That is watching babies take their first steps, which is always going to end in tears for the tike, and then laughing as they fall over. These events are usually videoed and shown to anyone gullible enough to watch them, mostly neighbours and family, therefore aggravating any embarrassment caused by the initial incidents.

It seems as if it's actually politically correct to laugh at celebrities, politicians or anybody in the gaze of the media when they lose their footing.

So from the youngest to the oldest, from the two legged to the four, it seems that all sections of the world we live in are fair game. Except if your drunk.

When drunk it's only other people who are drunk that will laugh at you. The rest turn their heads away in disgust. But now is the time to redress that imbalance with, whether you believe or not as Ripley used to say, a true story.

A nameless man has been out for a few bevvies. Naturally he has got some serious munchies on him, so, on his way home he stops for a take-away curry.

The curry now becomes the centre of his world. His life now is a simple one. Get home, eat the curry and go to sleep with all his clothes on. But potential danger lurks a few feet away.

In Dublin, and not so long ago either , it used to be the practice that people working on pavements or for that matter roads, would not erect the proper warnings that such works were in existence. So you can see that are friend with the simple life is in danger.

He comes to the hole. He doesn't notice it, so, therefore can't evade it and plunges into it's murky depths. He does however take his mind off the curry long enough to realise that he's falling, which in turn brings him back to the curry and what will be an astounding feat of coherence and agility for a drunk man.

It is now an inescapable fact that his curry, or more correctly, his enjoyment of the curry, is going to be ruined.

Quickly and instinctively he raises the curry over his head while simultaneously pushing his feet into the side of the hole and slowing his decent until, finally coming to a safe halt at the bottom of the hole, with his curry raised aloft like the World Cup, just appearing out the top of the hole.

Needless to say this being Dublin, the curry did not remain in his possession for much longer. A quick thinking passer-by grabbed the curry from his outstretched arms and made off with it at great pace.

Our friend panics, tries feverishly to clamber out of the hole, slips, falls and ends up lying in the puddle at the bottom of the hole he had just been standing in.

A true story.

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