...Mightier than the Sword

Dear Diary,

What a fucking week I’ve had. My old mucker Sean Penn is over in Dublin filming a new flick and we had a bit of a bash for his 50th birthday. Total sess’, real old-school rock ’n’ roll.

We went for scoopage in O’Donohue’s on Baggott Street where I introduced him to Larry, The Edge and the bassist. The Edge, like a total philistine, goes “I loved ye in Friends”. Friends! He’s won two fucking Oscars, David, and you ask him about Friends!

Larry, like the pass-remarkable prick that he is, mutters something about I Am Sam and says, “ye never go full retard”, before cracking up laughing for some fucking reason. It coulda been worse though, Larry was threatening all week that he was gona ask Sean if he feels like he’s had a gay experience now that Madonna looks like a tranny.

Sean’s just recently gotten divorced and, of course, once The Eyebrow found out she was all over him like flies on shite. We eventually had to tell her there was a photographer from VIP outside looking for her while we pegged it out the side door.

Kris Kristofferson, Sean’s mate, showed up and played a few songs. He wasn’t half bad either. I said to him afterwards that if he ever wanted to give up the acting and give music a bash to send me a demo tape. He was dead appreciative, cause he just stood there dumbstruck.

Ali was on ‘Dave Duty’, making sure that Fanning didn’t find out where the pints were going to be. I think she had him propping up the bar in the Parnell Mooney all evening waiting on us. Even so, I reckon we were close to being stung, cause that fucker Damien Rice showed up and he’s only a notch above Fanning on the celebrity totem pole.

Drugs are bad, m'kay?

Dear Diary,

It's an awful shame that so many of our young people are turning to drugs these days. Why just today I read a review of our latest single by a poor guy who was obviously smoking the crack.

As has been well documented, the crack makes people get very agitated and their attention span diminishes to near-zero - hence this guy's assertion that "after my first day of listening, I have tired of the U2 format". Sure of course he has! The poor fella would've tired of a roller-coaster after about 5 seconds.

Then, as if slipping further down spiral of drug-induced delirium, he went on to say, "This new single does not have the original, going-against-the-grain factor that might suggest the new U2 album will be any different from the last two decent albums".

Now I don't need to point out the flaws in his logic to you, a non-drug-fiend. But it think it goes without saying that How To Dismantle An Atomic Bomb was pretty much received as the only peer of The White Album, and I personally heard numerous people saying that if John Lennon wasn't dead he'd have killed himself on the spot upon having heard All That You Can't Leave Behind knowing that he would never better it, so what he's on about with "decent albums" I've no idea.

As if to add insult to injury, the little guy goes on to bafflingly ask, "Is it time to... ask if there any need for another U2 album?". I mean, come on - is there any need for another Mandella, another Picasso, another Gandhi? You're fuckin right there is.

Don't push me, cause I'm close to...

Dear Diary,

So there I am in the studio the other day, and I'm belting out a new song I put together. And there's The Edge, and he's sittin there listenin. But I can tell by the look in his eye that the cunt's not really too pushed. So I ask him what he thinks.

"Yeah, not bad", he says.

'Not bad?!", I'm thinkin, 'is this guy for fuckin real?!'

I mean, if I went to work every day with Nelson Mandella or Martin Luther King I'd be only awe-struck on a daily basis. And them by me, I'm sure.

But there's The Edge, Not-Bad-ing out of him to his heart's content, as if I were just some pleb the fucker happened to be in a band with.

About fucking time...

Dear Diary,

So Dave finally turned up with them fuckin pastries. Impetint bastard even had the neck to ask if he could have one. I told him to fuck right off with himself. "For fuck sake, Dave", I said, "what took ye so long? Ye didn't have to get changed into that suit just to bring me the Danishes. Semi-formal woulda been grand".

And the cunt goes to say something, but I throw him a look as if to say "I dare ye", and he shuts his gob. Smart move, Fanning... or my shoe woulda been stuck in a orifice it that can't get out of.

I feel Bobby Sands' pain

Dear Diary,

So I'm sittin here trying to work on some new lyrics, but I can't, cause I'm fuckin starving. I rang Dave Fanning over an hour ago and told him to get the fuck over here with some Danishes, stat.

He kept fuckin shiteing on about "attending a funeral" or something. Don't know what the cunt was on about, cause I'd already said I was at home.

He'd want to show up quick smart or I'll be lettin it known that it was Larry Gogan who spotted us first.

Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want

Dear Diary,

I took a stroll down Grafton Street last night and I passed the statue of Philo.

I mean, what the fuck? Are they doing it simply to spite me?

Surely if Phil Lynott gets a statue like that then I should have one like the Statue of fucking Liberty. Or, they could do it like Mount Rushmore and carve my face into the Wicklow Mountains. Four times.

Another suggestion: why, on O'Connell Street, instead of the poxy Spire - which everybody hates - didn't they erect a statue of yours truly - who everybody loves?

And, if not a statue, at the very least surely on my way home I should hear, "please fasten your seatbelts, ladies and gentlemen, we'll shortly be making our descent to Paul Hewson International Airport".

Fight Music

Dear Diary,

I had a fight with Larry today. He goes mental when he's pissed. Told me he'd stick his drumsticks up "one of the two holes" that I "shite out of". I know? I've no idea either.

Anyway, we were having a difference of opinion over song titles. He maintains that the song titles on the new album should be a minimun of 15 words in length, whereas I think they should be 16. I'm still well fucked off that he wouldn't agree to calling our last album, How To Dismantle An Atomic Bomb In The City Of Blinding Lights Because Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own, so I told him "no way, Larry, I'm sticking to my guns".

Anyway, we came to a compromise at 15.