Irvinespotting
Now Playing: The Devils Advocate
Topic: Suggestions Welcome
DEP: 0915 ARR: 2212

The sign has duly been registered in Mr. Welsh's subconscious.
This event occurred at 09.15 this morning.
The sign has now been removed from outside the hoose.

Tomorrow: The Stash of Ganesh or perhaps a reworking of the parable of the six blind men.

It Must Be A Sign
Now Playing: Danger! Elephant Trap
Topic: Suggestions Welcome

15.30 24 November 2004

I have lived solely on glutinous rice for the last week and now that the cupboard is entirely bear I must work. The sign was erected this morning. I wasn't around today however to record a sighting of Mr. Welsh espying it.

Another bill arrived for him today though, from the hospital, the costs of treating his alter-egos gammy, gangrenous peg.

I dont actually get paid until tomorrow but a generous friend has offered to feed me tonight.

Neither starfucker nor paparazzi
Topic: Suggestions Welcome
OK I didn't have the time today. Or rather I had the time but not the motivation. I made the sign at least.

I must admit that I got the urge to shadow Mr. Welsh the other day, after I saw him in the Deli. Ethically, of course, this type of behaviour is unacceptable. I am neither starfucker nor paparazzi and this would be a downright invasion of privacy. I dont see any problem however with taking photographs from the window of my own room, or placing objects in my own garden, no matter how nefarious or manipulative my motivations. The project recommences.

Danger! Elephant Trap.
Now Playing: Five -a-side
I seen Mr. Welsh this morning though. About 11 am sitting in the corner of the deli on the corner, txting away like crazy. Must be all those film deals and rights and all of that. I read there over the weekend that he has some production company or something going with the actor Robbie Carlysle.

I had my camera with me but I was hardly going to shove it in his face so I walked backwards and forwards past the window of the deli a few times and tried to do it discreetly. All dressed in black with a fluorescent pink shirt with neon blue Chinese dragons printed on it - about as discreet as an elephant in a corporate box at Old Trafford.

In this shot the reflection unfortunately obscures the portrait. He is behind the window though.

And here the waitress in the black cap is serving him tea.

I have decided to make a sign that reads -
Danger! Elephant trap.

And stake it in the ground beside the arrangement of branches and twigs in the front garden. Tomorrow morning at 10.30 Mr. Welsh will hopefully walk past it, and I will remove the sign in the afternoon.

Would You Send A Dog Out In This?






It is pissing rain. Has been all day. I wouldn't send a dog out into that, never mind a world-renowned novelist. Speaking of which, I haven't seen Mr. Welsh for a few days now. The last time he was sitting in the coffee shop on the corner at the Portobello Bridge, with a woman. If he has any sense he will be on a beach in Thailand or something. Like I wish I fucking was.

In the picture, dodging the droplets is an old lad that lives up the Road. He is always on his own. He shuffles past the window usually twice a day. Normally everybody walks by really fast. Even today, in the pissing rain, he shuffles by at a snails pace. Hence I could get this picture.

I am supposed to be on Thomas Street this afternoon but have become so engaged in this anti-social activity that I have missed the gig.

http://www.darklight-filmfestival.com/pages/seminars.htm

The diary of a psychological stalker.
Now Playing: Groove Park


13:04 18 November 2004

The diary of a psychological stalker.


Suggest an object to place into Mr. Welsh's subconscious here

Any suggestions which make it into a new novel win cash prizes!

Meeting Mr. Welsh
The urge to set up a web page documenting the psychological stalking of Mr. Welsh is phenomenal. Some bald headed cunt, who isn't Mr. Welsh, walks past the window. I shall interpret this as the universe conspiring to have this page created. Is it Mr. Welsh or is it not Mr. Welsh?





Mr. Welsh moved onto our street recently. I read in the papers that he had been around town, getting into scuffles with a certain Mr. McGowan.

One day, when I was out pruning the roses and making adjustments to the elephant trap, Mr Welsh walked past. I thought I should take on the role of friendly neighbour and I decided to take a risk and introduce myself. I am no starfucker, believe me, but I certainly enjoyed his novel 'Trainspotting' and think it a modern masterpiece. The idea appealed to me to have Mr. Welsh over for tea occasionally, to discuss literature, Joyce, Gogarty and drugs.

Mr. Welsh? - I enquired. He acknowledged that indeed it was he, adjusting a heavy gym bag on his shoulder, so as to be able to shake my outstretched hand - I think we are neighbours.

Och Aye, he said - Sew whits et like living on Groove Park?

Now I like having Ugandans on one side and Muslims on the other because I feel more like I am living in Shepherds Bush, or the East Village, rather than the Rathmines Road Lower - I gave my stock answer.

Aye, yiv goat Be-emdubyas an shoapin kerts oan the one Street.

Parked outside the flat is my white 1990 318i BMW Estate, nearly 15 years old admittedly but not yet one hundred thousand k on the clock and almost paid for. In the garden next door, where six Muslim lads live, is a shopping cart from Dunnes Stores.

This got me thinking. If Mr. Welsh has moved to this country, onto this street, to find his muse, to write his new novel, perhaps a worthy successor to 'Trainspotting' and is keenly aware of his surroundings. He is using the immediate area, people and objects as the raw material from which he will construct his new novel, perhaps it could be possible to inveigle objects into his consciousness. The horrific thought dawned on me; could I garden my way into Mr Welsh's consciousness and hence into his novel.

He noticed the BMW and the shopping cart. He walks past the garden every morning, half-asleep, his gym bag over his shoulder. I often spy him whilst I am half asleep in bed or working at my desk.

Is it possible or not? This journal will document the attempt.

Bringing The Filth To The Door
Now Playing: Filth
Last week, my roommate had his friend 'Stan' from London to stay. To say this guy looked crusty is an understatement. 'Stan' stank. As we were introduced I feigned indifference to his abhorrent smell and offensive fingerless mittens by shaking his hand and mentioning the fact that I had just introduced myself to Mr. Welsh.

'Stan' had some sort of an infection in his leg and he disappeared in the middle of the night to have it attended to. The next day, unusually, I locked the door of my room because I did not trust 'Stan' in the house on his own. When I arrived home from school with my daughter, 'Stan' was sitting on the couch with his gammy leg on the coffee table and the distinct odour of rotting flesh permeated the air around him. Now I live in a two-bedroom flat so I sat down at the table to do the Obair Bhaile with the little girl and the whole time 'Stan' sits there silently staring at the wall.

My roommate disappeared on a bender, without inviting his friend to join him but instead left 'Stan' asleep on the couch. The next day, whilst 'Stan' was 'out buying pasta' my roommate mentioned would I mind if he stayed another night. I asked him what 'Stan' was doing here, what was his business, where were his family and why did he need to stay another night? My roommate, already late for work, decided that he would ask him to leave and so we waited for him to come back.

An hour passed and there was still no sign of 'Stan.' My roommate was looking nervous and I was looking out the window of my room, stalking Irvine when five or six men walked past the window in quick succession. Now I haven't done much work in the garden for a while and it doesn't normally warrant such attention. But these guys were straining to see in the window. I went to the curtain. One of the men outside must have noticed the curtain move because he looked directly at me and there were suddenly eight guys out of nowhere banging on the door. I went out to my roommate and I said

- I think there's someone at the door for you.

It was the filth. An Garda Siochana drug squad and they turned the flat upside down. For four hours they held us there separately. We waited for another hour and a half till they got the sniffer-dogs. They said they found a bag of heroin in 'Stans' rucksack. But I didn't see anything.

There is a huge sack of polystyrene balls on top of the wardrobe in my room. I walked past the door on one occasion and a couple of ruddy cheeked Gardai were taking their pictures with a digital camera, holding up the sack of polystyrene, the biggest bag of smack ever hauled by Terenure DS.

They gave my roommate his bag of weed back. They left the place in a worse state than as if burglars had ransacked it. 'Stan' never came back to pick up his stuff.

The next day a bill arrived from St James Hospital infectious and tropical diseases Department addressed to none other than Mr. Irvine Welsh.