The Sober Reflections of an Impartial Observer

2007-05-11T01:59:00.000+05:00

2007-04-19T02:42:00.000+05:00

A new and amusing phenomenon has come to my attention recently (is your breath bated yet?). To wit, the finance company radio ad in which the disclaimer at the end is longer, in some cases significantly longer, than the ad proper. Example:

'Roll up, roll up! Mortgages for all! Come and get them while they're hot.

Disclaimer: Terms and conditions apply. The Mutual Irish Mortgage and Home Repossession Society is regulated by the financial services regulatory authority. Interest rates may rise exponentially as well as falling slightly, very slightly, if you're lucky, but this seems unlikely. The European Central Bank etc etc Subject to stringent conditions, charges, terms and conditions, we break thumbs. Terms and conditions apply. Overcharging may also apply.'

This second part is recited at high speed, presumably so Johnny Radio Listener doesn't dwell on the barrage of many-syllabled, forbidding words such as 'regulatory', 'conditions' and 'authority'.
The actors try to speak so fast you can't absorb the information, which, naturally, makes it much more interesting. I strain to hear every word of the disclaimer, whereas the ad itself bores me. Besides, it's ancient history by the time the disclaimer is finished.

'What was that ad about?'
'Dunno. Terms and conditions, I think.'

I take a childish delight in this, because I have a not entirely rational dislike of the advertising industry and a very rational dislike of banks.

Some disclaimers are longer than others, which suggests that some financial institutions are cutting corners in the small-print stakes. The cheeky scamps. It would be nice to think that the more evil institutions had to include enormous disclaimers that comprised the entire 20 seconds of their slot. Or they could simply issue an apology for their generally perfidious activities.

Whoever introduced the legislation that forced banks and building societies to tack on these riders had a wonderfully impish sense of humour. Faceless bureaucrat, I salute you.

2007-03-20T18:51:00.000+05:00

Domestic violence
Recently, my girlfriend bought a house. Unlike me, she has a proper qualification and an actual paying job. The house is newly built. It was built by builders. This is because builders enjoy a monopoly in the whole house-construction area. As everyone knows, all builders are emissaries of Satan.

The house has the usual Mephistophelean quirks of newly constructed homes. The shower, into which I ventured for the first time last Saturday, is unusual. Following a tortuous, not to mention torturous, process of experimentation I established that the shower provides two water temperature options. These are:
1) Death by scalding
2) Death by freezing

The temperature dial serves a largely decorative purpose. I discovered that I have a marginally higher tolerance for the scalding option. Before withdrawing in defeat and in between flinching with pain from the sting of boiling water on flesh I managed to rinse all bar a considerable wad of shampoo from the left-hand side of my head. This shampoo supposedly serves to prevent dandruff. I don't know, but I'm guessing congealing residues of the stuff may have the opposite effect.

I dried myself with a towel which, like the house, is new. A soft, fluffy thing, it decided to attach significant portions of itself to my face. Since I was unshaven it adhered to my jawline all the more eagerly. Gloop-haired and fluff-faced, I had effectively been tarred and feathered by a confederacy of hostile household objects.

2007-02-14T21:05:00.001+05:00

Since it is St Valentine's day, traditionally a time of shockingly dreadful poetry ( I just heard one on the radio: why can't people who can barely string a sentence together realise that 99.999999999% of people simply cannot write poetry, including those who can make a reasonable stab at prose, and that therefore virtually no one in the world should under any circumstances compose verse. Please) I thought I would add to the canon. It is inspired (I use the word in its loosest possible sense) not by love, but by its ugly sister, loathing.

Ballad of an editor who still owes me money

Well, he's a boil-brained blubber-blunder
Soil-stained head of dunder
Canker-sore
Wanker-bore

Once he was my editor
But I am still his creditor

Well, he's a lizard-tongued lumpen-headed
Canker blossom brain-deaded
Truth-mangler
Jeans:Wrangler

Once he was my editor
But I am still his creditor

Well, he's a pestilent pie-faced pigeonshit
He's a lumbering faecal dangling bit
Scatologically adverse
Universally perverse

Once he was my editor
But I am still his creditor

Well, he's a whimpering welching woodworm
With all the charm of heartburn
A louse, a lying leech
A fraudster and a thief

Once he was my editor
But I remain his creditor

2007-02-13T19:00:00.000+05:00

Recently, I embarked on a project which involved writing sarcastic letters to famous people. Marginally more recently, I abandoned the project.
Here is a letter I wrote to human profanity machine, Gordon Ramsay.

Dear Gordon Ramsay,

I do not know this for sure, but I would guess that your television appearances have elicited more than a few letters of complaint regarding your language. I refer, Mr Ramsay, to your frequent employment of terms such as ‘fuck’, ‘fucking’, ‘fucker’, ‘fuckwit’, ‘fucked’, ‘fucked up’ and ‘for fuck’s sake’.

Fear not, I am no Mary Whitehouse. In fact, your ill-tempered badinage with the inept nincompoops who surround you in the kitchen in such shows as Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares and The F Word has never failed to bring a smile to my face. Truly, you are a master of the profane putdown.

On your recent appearance on Friday Night with Jonathan Ross, you, not once, not twice, but thrice referred to that show’s irreverent host as a ‘fucker’. Bravo, Mr Ramsay; that put the cheeky rapscallion in his place! On a marginally less recent appearance on The Late Late Show you insulted its host, Pat Kenny. Speaking for the Irish nation, I thank you sincerely for this.

I hope I have made plain my admiration for your colourful language and devil-may-care attitude to the linguistic conventions of television. However, as alluded to earlier, I do have a complaint. It concerns the soundtrack of curse-induced bleeps that invariably accompanies your shows. At times, your programmes sound like Morse code. This is deeply irritating.

In this regard, I have a suggestion. Decreasing your reliance on the word ‘fuck’ and its variants and drawing on a broader palette of profanity would have a twofold beneficial effect. It would:

A) Reduce the frequency of the beeping sounds which pepper your shows
B) Allow you to verbally eviscerate your incompetent kitchen helpers in a more stylish and synonymous fashion.

So, what do I mean by suggesting you expand your range of abusive language? Shakespeare, as I’m sure you know, was a master of insults: the Gordon Ramsay of the Tudor era, if you will. Here are a few examples of how some typical kitchen scenarios could be resolved in an insultingly Shakespearean, but non-beep-inducing, fashion.

Instead of: “I don’t believe it; what the fuck are you doing? Can’t you even chop carrots, you fucking idiot?” (two beeps)

Say: “Verily, I shudder. Canst thou not cleave a carrot? Thou ist a maladroit malt-worm!” (no beeps)

Instead of: “You’ve overdone the fucking salmon, you fuckwit.” (two beeps)

Say: “Accursed vessel of calamity! Thou hast spoiled the salmon.” (no beeps)

Instead of: “You’re going to put me out of fucking business, you fucking incompetent spineless fucker.” (three beeps)

Say: Thou ist a lumbering lemon-brained canker-blossom and thou hast wreaked devastation on mine house.” (no beeps)

In an emergency, you could actually quote the Bard, rather than merely devising insults in his style. If, I don’t know, say, a chef incorrectly cuts a Japanese blowfish, you could roll out this little beauty: “Methinkst thou art a general offence and every man should beat thee.” (All’s Well That Ends Well)

I hope my modest suggestions may be of some use to you.

Keep up the good work.

All the fucking best,

Seán Kenny

2007-01-19T20:26:00.000+05:00

Yesterday, I wrote this. I submitted it for publication in a satirical magazine to which I have been contributing for 18 months or so.

Celebrity Big Brother in Ratism Row (The Indefinite Article)

Channel 4 has accused BBC, ITV and Sky of ratism in their coverage of the Celebrity Big Brother controversy. A Channel 4 statement read: “Other networks have displayed flagrantly ratist tendencies by targeting Celebrity Big Brother. We cannot all have the same ratings, and we should learn to appreciate each other’s differences in ratings. This means accepting diversity in ratings and fostering an environment of inter-network tolerance where Celebrity Big Brother and I’m A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here can peacefully co-exist as part of the rich tapestry of reality television that exists in modern Britain. We would never stoop so low as to point out Celebrity Big Brother’s ratial superiority to ITV’s Celebrity Love Island. Ratial harmony is what all networks should be striving for.”

Shilpa Shetty, the Indian actress who was victim of the ratist coverage, has expressed her dismay and outrage. “ I had no idea a well-respected format like Big Brother could be responsible for such sensationalist, lowbrow television. Truly, nothing could pay you for tolerating such ambiguously offensive comments. Not my fee for appearing on the programme, not my potentially lucrative spin-off contracts, not my massively increased profile, nothing. I have decided to throw myself into work as a form of catharsis. I hope that some healing may come through tabloid interviews. For a six-figure fee.”

Speaking through an interpreter, Jade Goody, the contestant at the centre of the allegations, said: “I ain’t no racist, but I just think that Englishers is the bestest race, that’s all. That ain’t racist, it’s just patriotistic, innit. Facking Pakis.”
Ends

This article will not be published. Instead, another piece on the same subject written by someone other than myself, will be used. Here it is.

Jade Goody: Not a Racist (The Definite Article)

The latest series of Big Brother is the most controversial yet. But this time, the record number of complaints and the yards of newspaper column inches are dedicated not to Orla’s notorious clothes allergy, Nasty Nick’s subterfuge or the unsightly vision of an MP pretending to be a cat. No, the more uneducated, attention-starved inhabitants of the Big Brother house are being accused of racism, with the irrepressible and outspoken Jade Goody bearing the brunt of the disparagement.

A wave of schadenfreude is sweeping Ireland and the UK as former darling of the public, Jade Goody has fallen out of favour with her adoring masses. But is she really a bigot? The Spanner talked exclusively to friends and family of the falling star.

Celebrity friends Ron Atkinson and Cheryl Tweedy took time off from watching their favourite DVDs Zulu and Roots (respectively) to offer their support. “She’s a nice lass”, claims Atkinson, “though she might have blackened her name in the Big Brother house”. Tweedy added that racism was wrong “most of the time”, though her eyes narrowed when someone asked how she would react if she was offered Jade’s perfume in a nightclub toilet.

An ex-boyfriend of Jade’s has also spoken out; “She’s a nice girl and not a racist” claims Billy Hitler. When our reporter asked if the young Mr. Hitler was any relation to the fascist dictator, he said no, and that he “just likes the name.”
“Jade is not racist”, according to her friend Johnny Smith, a prominent member of the National Front among other organisations, “I know how she feels; you make a few racist comments in jest, incite hatred on national TV and address an Indian person as ‘popadom’ and all of a sudden people think you’re racist. It’s the Politically Correct Police at it again. I hate the PC Police…and the actual police, come to think of it.”
“That Indian bird should smoke a bloody peace pipe!” opines Jade’s mother, “Jade is a good girl, and her friends are a good ethnic mix, not all white South Londoners…she has an ex-boyfriend from Sheffield! She’s a little outspoken and says things as she sees ‘em, and I for one do not want to live in a country where you can’t say what you want, do what you want and scream racial slurs at whoever you want.”

Ends

I will not make any grand claims for what I wrote. It's a trivial piece of ephemera which I knocked out in 20 minutes. I would imagine the other article was written in a similar time (well, I certainly hope it wasn't laboured over). But, as flagrantly biased as I am, I know which I think is better.

Incidentally, and I'm sure this has nothing at all to do with it, you understand, the other article was composed by the editor of the publication in question.

The Spanner (whoops!let it slip), for which I have written maybe 20 articles despite receiving no payment, has lost itself a contributor. Like they give a shit.

My mood in this regard has not been helped by the fact that I had another article - in which I had invested considerably more time and effort - rejected by an editor, whose judgement I actually respect, the previous day.

I apologise for wasting this much of your time with my self-piteous drivel. Sometimes you just can't beat a good bitching session.

2007-01-07T19:00:00.000+05:00

What joyous tidings the BBC schedules bring! What felicitous bounty is this! A whole week of World Championship Darts! Daaaaarts!

Thus far, there is a disappointing paucity of mullets on show. The earring count, however, appears to be up on last year. Not merely the 'I am a heterosexual and I will destroy you if you suggest otherwise' ring in left ear, but more adventurous biploar piercing.

Daaaaaarts!

2006-12-14T19:49:00.000+05:00

Study: Mourinho now beyond parody

A global study of newspapers, blogs and satirical publications has confirmed the worst fears of colour writers, parodists and smart alecs worldwide: Jose Mourinho can no longer be effectively satirised. The findings of the study, conducted by Helder Gomes Silva, professor of abnormal psychology at the University of Porto, make for disturbing reading. “Mourinho has moved into the realm of genuine derangement, where an increasingly absurd and unpredictable perception of one’s surroundings comes to characterise the thoughts of the deranged. This renders him beyond parody. No longer can any words issuing from a satirist’s pen compete with the intricately delusional utterances of my countryman. Indeed, we now harbour genuine concerns for Mourinho’s general mental wellbeing,” said Prof. Gomes Silva.

The professor continued: “Jose Mourinho mentally inhabits a fantastical world in which the privileged are the oppressed, the cheaters are the cheated and John Terry does not belong in jail. Therefore, there is no telling what irrational viewpoint he will propound next. He is beyond burlesque, past parody and he supersedes satire. Do you like my alliteration, by the way?”

Responding to the study, Jose Mourinho said: “Who is behind this new anti-Chelsea propaganda? It’s Graham Poll, isn’t it? No, wait, Wenger? Uefa perhaps? No, I have it; it’s William Gallas, right? Remind me to have him killed some time.”

Satirist Ralph Raillery was distraught at the findings of Professor Gomes Silva’s report. “Mourinho was a satirist’s dream. He had hubris, paranoia, regularly made utterly outlandish pronouncements: all the good stuff. I don’t know what Premiership figures I’ll write about now. There’s always Robbie Savage, I suppose. And Neil Warnock, for another few months at least.”

Another angry satirist and Manchester United supporter, who did not wish to be named, said: “Fucking Mourinho. If he’s not winning the league for Chelsea, he’s rendering himself unsatirisable. Fucker.”

2006-12-11T20:14:00.000+05:00

Paranoia? Check:
Indeed Mourinho even hinted that Arsène Wenger's team might deliberately have been playing into Ferguson's hands. "It is very funny, very enjoyable to see this kind of co-operation when a big team comes to Stamford Bridge and is very happy with a point," said Mourinho.
Jose Mourinho, quoted in The Guardian

Hubris? Check:
And Mourinho is already counting on closing the gap on United against Glenn Roeder's men.
"On Wednesday - no disrespect to Newcastle - I think I will be here saying the points difference is five," said Mourinho.
Mourinho quoted on bbc.co.uk

It's not funny anymore, Mourinho. For a while there, your breathtaking arrogance and fantastical conspiracy theories were kind of amusing, anomalous as they were in the banal world of managerspeak. Now, you are simply a hateful little man. And you don't even have the courtesy to read my little rant, do you? So why on earth am I addressing you?
Come on , Newcastle.

2006-12-07T03:57:00.000+05:00

Anthem for a blog:

http://www.catbirdseat.org/catbirdseat/aug06/blog.mp3

2006-11-30T17:31:00.000+05:00

Outside The Sherlock Holmes Museum, 221b Baker Street, London

A man dressed in police uniform stands at the entrance to The Sherlock Holmes Museum. Note to the proprietors of The Sherlock Holmes Museum: The presence of a man dressed in police uniform outside a building, whilst perhaps of novelty value given the crime-fighting exploits of the character celebrated by the museum, may easily be misconstrued.

Generally, policemen stand outside buildings when:
A) A serious crime has been committed and forensic tests are being carried out.
B) The building contains rich and/or powerful people and the general public is not permitted to enter.

I would suggest that neither of these scenarios are likely to encourage prospective visitors to approach the entrance. I wonder how many Sherlock Holmes fans have been put off entering by the policeman.

[ Ozzie 1: Aw, bonzer! I can't believe, having come all the way from Australia for the express purpose of seeing The Sherlock Holmes Museum, we're almost at 221b Baker Street.
Ozzie 2: Yeah, we've put so much effort into organising this once-in-a-lifetime trip so the 24 members of the Brisbane Sherlock Holmes Appreciation Society can be here. I'm so excited.
Ozzie 1: Wait! There it is! 221b Baker Street.
Ozzie 2: Hang on. Isn't that a copper standing at the entrance?
Ozzie 1: Oh my God, it is! Well, it's obvious that either a serious crime has been committed and forensic tests are being carried out or the building contains rich and/or powerful people and the general public is not permitted to enter. Drat!
Ozzie 2: Sorry, guys, we can't go to the museum. Let's just go back to Heathrow and see if we can get a flight home. ]

Inside The Sherlock Holmes Museum

I enter 'Dr Watson's sitting room'. An old ham playing Dr Watson greets myself and a pretty Russian girl. Having established where we are from, he puts together a short staccato monologue in Russian, causing the girl to giggle. He has the manner of one who is a little drunk or quite mad. Or both.

'Do you speak Irish,' I ask.

'No, but I know an Irish joke,' he beams.

I feel nationalism well up from the pit of my stomach, as though it were a visceral force. Like nausea. (I recognise the same feeling I had in the British Library, where Séamus Heaney and Oscar Wilde are passed off as British)

'I'm not sure I'd like to hear it.'
The man is clearly a buffoon. If a black person walked in to Dr Watson's sitting room, would he ask them if they'd like to be called a nigger? Just, you know, for old time's sake, old boy. Perhaps he is actually is a survivor of the late 19th century, giving him more authenticity in his role as Dr Watson.
'Well, one can always try,' he says, not discomfited in the slightest.
I despise this man.
'I know some English jokes, as a matter of fact,' I say.
Revenge.

Actually, I don't know any English jokes. I only know subversions of the 'Paddy Englishman, Paddy Irishman' gags, where the Brit rather than the Irishman is portrayed as the fool.

Then Dr Watson loses interest in me, the simian Irish peasant from Punch magazine, and focuses instead on the pretty Russian girl. He commences a disquisition on languages in general. It appears I have wandered into a lecture on comparative philology.
'Now,' begins Dr Watson, 'people say Italian is the most beautiful language. Bah!'
Here he flings out his right arm in a dismissive gesture. He is clearly classically trained.
'No, no! Russian is the most beautiful.'
He rolls out some more Russian phrases. Somewhere on this man's bookshelf is a Berlitz Russian phrasebook. I know this because he never speaks more than one short sentence at a time and each new sentence is unconnected to the last. It is also possible that he is telling his Irish joke to the Russian girl.

'Closely followed, that is, by Portuguese.'
He disgorges a handful of short, unconnected Portuguese phrases, translating for our benefit. He is a Berlitz polyglot. Perhaps he bought an entire set of Berlitz phrasebooks. Except the Irish one.

' I was in Russia once, you know. St Petersburg. Beautiful city.'
Here he is addressing the Russian girl. He then turns to me.
'And beautiful women.' He stops just short of licking his lips.

If the Russian girl were my sister, I would give serious consideration to punching him in the face right now. Instead, I make some non-commital response and leave the room.

I wander around the rest of the museum. It's a poor display. And there is no sign of Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps he's snorting cocaine in the bathroom. You'd need something to get through the day working with Dr Watson.

2006-11-28T21:02:00.000+05:00

Vanity project that it is, this blog does not normally include links to other websites. Sometimes, however, exceptions must be made. The heckler in the video clip below speaks the voice of a nation. It is a rather slurred and ineloquent voice, but it gives expression to the thoughts of so many.

http://www.yourirish.com/blog/2006/pat-kenny-heckeld.html

And what kind of man says 'thank you very much' after he's just been called an arsehole by a stranger?

2006-11-10T17:02:00.000+05:00

Boy racer smashes land speed record

A 19-year-old from Navan has broken the Irish land speed record, according to reports from within the car customisation community. The Spanner believes that CCTV footage of Derek ‘Dicey’ Reilly’s 314 km/h dash down the N3 has been sent to the Guinness Book of Records for verification. Mr Reilly’s Honda Civic is thought to have outpaced a Garda helicopter which arrived on the scene.

An independent auditor from the car customisation community, James ‘Belter’ Geraghty, 18, was also present in the vehicle. He briefed reporters about the high-speed jaunt. Speaking behind a pall of exhaust smoke from his own running vehicle, he said: “Dicey had hoped to complete the entire five-mile run on the right-hand side of the road, but a few trucks got in our way. Obviously he’s disappointed about that. Still, 314 km/h isn’t bad considerin’ he’s only been drivin’ two weeks.”

Mr Reilly’s next project is to actually take flight in his customised car, as Mr Geraghty explained. “Dicey’s orderin’ an extra-wide spoiler that’ll act like a pair of wings. His Civic is highly aerodynamic as it is, so we’re hopin’ to take flight some time around January.”

Reilly and Geraghty have formed a pressure group, Boy Racers Against Tethers (BRAT). “How are we expected to race properly if cars with weedy little engines are cloggin’ up our roads? These small-engined vehicles have no place on our roads. And another thing we’re campaignin’ for is to have ‘donuts’ become part of the drivin’ test. ‘Donuts’ are a vital aspect of car customisation culture and there’s no better way of makin’ a quick turnaround if someone’s chasin’ ye,” said Geraghty, whose next comments were drowned out by the revving of a posse of disproportionately large engines.

Seán Kenny

2006-11-06T16:11:00.000+05:00

Are tributes liquid?

It would appear that the current consensus is that they are. Every news medium I have consulted over the last few days (papers, TV, internet, teletext) has carried reports of tributes "pouring in" for Alex Ferguson on his twentieth anniversary as Supreme Ruler of Old Trafford. Cliché after cliché after fulsome cliché.
This apparent liquidity of tributes surprises me. I'd have thought they'd be more likely to be solid, like a pat on the back, if heartfelt. Or gaseous, like hot air, if insincere. And what do these liquidy tributes pour into? The giant vat of Fergie's ego?

Someone needs to update Myles na Gcopaleen's 'Catechism of Cliché'.

And, by the bye, as the first anniversary of this blog approaches, I would like to invite tributes to pour in. Come on, I'm not getting anything else published. Pour in, you bastards!

2006-10-10T20:42:00.000+05:00

People often say to me: "Do you know what I missed? Last February's edition of the satirical magazine, The Spanner. I heard page 23 was particularly good."
Honestly.

2006-10-04T21:10:00.000+05:00

Humorous incidents abroad: part the third
Language barriers are a cheap source of humour, but this is a mean-spirited blog. And no one reads it anyway (bastards).

In a hotel in France, a middle-aged man approaches the bar. He orders an Orangina (this is France, remember). The barmaid hands him his drink. In French, she asks for his room number. He does not understand. She asks in English and he is equally uncomprehending. She embarks on an energetic process of elaborate body language. She gesticulates, mimes holding a key.
'Orangina,' he says.
She performs a rather impressive mime. Take key from pocket, place in lock, twist key, push door.
'Orangina,' he reaffirms.

My girlfriend joins the confused conversation.
'Deutsch?' she enquires.
'Orangina,' he replies.

I have determined by now that the man is either:
a) Spanish
b) An alien, or
c) Somehow intoxicated on fizzy orange.

I produce my room key, which is in fact a plastic card. Its cardboard pouch contains our room number. I point to it. The number is 45. The man / alien has now established that a number is being sought. He gives a little nod of faint recognition.

'Uno,' he says, not a little defensively.
He thinks I was suggesting that he had ordered 45 bottles of Orangina. The barmaid is exasperated. She resumes her game of charades, miming sleeping. He appears to interpret this as some kind of slight on his masculinity. He walks over to his table and returns to the bar with a glass of whiskey.

'Orangina y whiskey,' he elaborates.
'It doesn't matter,' says the barmaid.

Unkindly, the barmaid, my girlfriend and I burst into laughter. Alienman
doesn't seem to mind. He just scored a free Orangina.

2006-09-09T04:17:00.000+05:00

Four sketches from Florence

One
I am standing near the Duomo in the centre of the city. An extremely rotund woman approaches me (This reminds me of a t-shirt I recently saw sported by a rather corpulent man. The following slogan was emblazoned across its front: I beat anorexia). She has long, lank dark hair and, visible under her top, pendulous breasts hang like sacks of flour. There are two things I want to say to her. A) Wear a bra B) Failing that, for the love of God, do not wear clingy, diaphanous t-shirts.

She is holding a plastic cup. She points it in my direction. She wants my money. Here, as with her choice of apparel, we differ. I do not want to give her my money. She addresses me in a language I do not understand. In my own language, I demur. She'd like to give me an opportunity to reconsider. She continues to talk, in staccato bursts. Again, I say 'no'. Her speech continues, rapid-fire. I look away, hoping this will discourage her. She keeps talking. What the fuck is she saying? Am I being treated to a disquisition on the gothic architectural style of the cathedral behind me? No? Is she holding forth on the poignant, elegaic qualities of the last Johnny Cash album? Recommending restaurants for my stay in Florence? Trying to explain how Dublin threw away a seven point lead against Mayo the previous day?

Still she talks. 'I'm not giving you any money,' I say. And that's my final offer. I am irritated by her continued presence now. She makes the sign of the cross. Three times. So, what, I'm possessed now or something? She issues a renewed plea for my money, more lugubrious than before, as if my failing to drop a euro in her cup will precipitate a nervous breakdown.

She changes tactics. Mercifully, for a moment, she stops talking. Then, suddenly, she thrusts her cup into my chest, giving me a start. 'Fuck off,' I say.

She blesses herself again and leaves.

Two
My girlfriend and I are standing outside a restaurant called 'Harry's'. She is reading the menu. It is mid-afternoon and the restaurant is closed. Inside, visible through the window, an elderly, white-haired Italian man, possibly the owner, is performing some duties behind the bar. He sees us outside. Or rather, he sees my girlfriend. For ten seconds he stares at her (count to ten; this is a long time to stare at a person).

He looks at me. He makes a gesture of lascivious approval. He has been openly checking my girlfriend out and now he is making me complicit in his lechery. I am stunned. He's about eighty! It's astonishingly shameless. It's hilarious.

He comes to the door and opens it. He informs us that the restaurant is closed. Then he says, to both of us, "I look, not for business, just for the eyes". Harry's? Yeah, Dirty Harry's.

Three
It is the opening evening of a medical conference. A reception has been laid on for the attending medics in a kind of courtyard inside the fortress complex where the conference is being held. Many of the doctors have not attended the opening lecture and are loitering in the balmy evening air as the catering staff ready the wine and finger food that will be served. The medics, scattered about the courtyard in little clusters, eye the food and drink hungrily. A few approach the catering staff and enquire if they may partake of the repast before them. No, they may not.

For around half an hour, the food and drink sits tantalisingly on the long tables that have been set up. The doctors cast longing glances towards the tables, initially furtive, then increasingly open. So do my girlfriend and I. On several occasions, a renegade GP breaks from her or his party and makes for the tables. Hopes rise among the other medics. They are like hungry lions trapped in a cage and surrounded by wildebeest. Every time, the intrepid doctor is rebuffed by the implacable phalanx of catering staff watching over the food and booze.

Then, someone, somwhere gives a signal that the stuff may be consumed. All hell breaks loose. It is like the start of a marathon.

Four
Sergio is the owner of the hotel we are staying in. He is the most avuncular hotelier I have come across. He is so avuncular you almost expect him to slip a tenner in your pocket when no one's looking. He speaks English quite well, with one rather endearing idiosyncrasy. He addresses his male, English-speaking guests as 'Mister'.

'Good morning, Mister. Would you like a capuccino?'
'How was your meal this evening, Mister?'
'Please Mister, let me take your bag.'

I wonder how many years Sergio has been addressing his presumably amused guests as 'Mister', thinking it is a polite form of address in English, as it is in other languages. Clearly, no one has informed him to the contrary. And I'm glad.

2006-09-05T03:46:00.000+05:00

On tour as a doctor's wife

The scene: entrance to a mediaeval fortress in Florence, where a medical conference is being held (sadly not a mediaeval medical conference: no leeches here). I am an 'accompanying person' and am to be conducted on a walking tour of the city along with other 'accompanying people', while my girlfriend attends the conference (it's the first day of her first conference; by the second day she has learned that the trick of attending conferences is not to attend them at all).

The assembled doctors' wives, for this is what they are, await their guide. I feel uncomfortable. I feel like a fraud. I sheepishly join the fringe of the desultory group of around 20 and inquisitive glances are cast in my direction. It is true that I do not look like the other doctors' wives (I am six foot one, I have sideburns). I might belong in a doctors' wives freak show with other inordinately tall, facially hirsute medical spouses. Not here. There is no one here within 15 years of either side of my age. There is no other male, apart from a ten-year-old boy here with his mother.

Our guide, Marco, arrives and leads the party away. We approach a zebra crossing, which in fact closely resembles the pattern splashed across the cotton trousers sported by the doctorwife immediately in front of me (I am at the back, keeping to the shadows, shunned by the other doctorwives). The normally dependable zebra crossing has a quite different effect on the Italian motorist: like that, say, of a red rag on a bull, or, I don't know, a green traffic light. Marco boldly raises a hand to signal our crossing to oncoming vehicles. "It's ok," he seems to say, "they're doctors' wives!" The drivers magnanimously spare our lives by bringing their vehicles to a halt. The doctorwives blithely cross the road.

As the tour progresses, a motorcyclist whose way is blocked by the group in a narrow street honks loudly. I move aside. I am not in the business of incurring the wrath of strange men on motorcycles. The other doctorwives proceed on their way unperturbed, as complacent as the pigeons that strut around the Duomo. "Fucking doctors' wives, blocking the streets!" hollers motorbike man. At least that's what I infer from his vigorous body language.

San Lorenzo, the Medici family church, is our first stop. A site of huge historic significance, it is almost entirely invisible behind a shroud of plastic sheeting and scaffolding. Marco's phone rings. He begins speaking Italian to a colleague. Some of the doctorwives find this amusing. Funny little Italian man. They titter as he speaks, apparently because he is speaking in his native tongue. At this juncture, Mrs Zebrapants leaves the group to join another guide's party. She has already directed one alarmingly truculent question at Marco and was evidently unimpressed by his response. Doesn't he know she's a doctor's wife?

I am being regarded with increasing suspicion by the other doctorwives by now. Partly perhaps because I am taking notes and writing things about them. Perhaps I have grown taller and more hirsute in the last 20 minutes. In a way, I encourage this suspicion by not wearing my accompanying person name tag. It feels foolish.

A doctorwife who is not staring at me( sorry, the doctorwife who is not staring at me) engages Marco in animated conversation about the cathedral. Subsequently, she questions him between stops, nodding furiously as he answers. She responds to Marco's comments to the group as if they are part of a particularly engaging private conversation. She nods. She raises her eyebrows. Sometimes, in a virtuoso display of interest, she does the two simultaneously whilst giving a little clap of delight. She is the most energetically affirmative person I have ever seen in my life.

"Hmm," she murmurs at the foot of a sculpture.
"Ah," she nods in the shadow of a city hall.
"Yes, yes," she affirms under Brunelleschi's gigantic dome in the cathedral.

I christen her Noddy. Meanwhile, Marco, when he's not talking to Noddy, is a veritable oracle of interesting information about Florence. The fresco on the ceiling of the Duomo (the largest fresco in the world) was counter-reformation propaganda. Michelangelo was celibate. Achilles won a wrestling match by grabbing his opponent's crotch a la Vinnie Jones on Paul Gascoigne (not strictly about Florence, granted). This Achilles story comes up as the group stops at a sculpture of Achilles engaged in the act itself. Marco's eyes twinkle as he waits for the image presented by the sculpture to register with the doctorwives.

"Notice anything about the statue?" he asks. Oh, Marco! You devil! It's a nudey man grabbing another nudey man's privates! The doctorwives cannot contain their glee. Imagine!

This is the undoubted high point of Marco's engagement of the doctorwives. However, something that's not on the tour engages them much more. Marco announces that a street we pass leads to the main designer clothes shopping district. This revelation elicits purrs of interest from the doctorwives, tickling their fancy infinitely more than Brunelleschi's dome or even Achilles' opponent's member. Not counting Noddy, who, of course, is passionately interested in everything.

2006-05-30T02:24:00.000+05:00

I visited the famed Hill of Tara at the weekend. It's a hill, or rather a series of hills. In Tara. It is windswept. It draws tourists like you wouldn't believe. Did I mention it's a series of hills? In Tara? That's about it. To be fair, we didn't stick around long. Large groups of tourists and windswept locales do not agree with me. Maybe something happens if you wait for long enough.

Of more interest is the cafe-cum-shop next to the hill(s). It sells Hill-related items. Browsing through the pagan-themed books on display, I came across a work with the following title: Silver Moon: Your Magical Guide to Working with the Moon. (I seem to be coming across rather a lot of odd books in Co. Meath these days) I noted that the book was:
A. A manual. Like you can actually work with the moon. As if it were, say, flowers or wood. An entire planet seems an unwieldy thing to work with.
B. Not one of those cheapo practical guides to lunar craft, but a magical one.
C. On sale, implying that people, presumably those intent on a spot of moon-work, actually purchase these books.

There was also a book called Love Magic: The Way to Love Through Rituals, Spells and the Magic Life. Ah, I see.
And one called Truth Fairy: The Way to the Truth without a Lie Detector Test.

I made that last one up (but only the second part). I was scanning for more loopy books when my girlfriend dragged me away to eat. My sandwich was very nice. It was called Moon Sandwich: The Way to Your Stomach without Driving Back into Navan.

2006-05-18T23:27:00.000+05:00

2006-05-09T01:39:00.000+05:00

You're a funny guy, Sven. (By that I mean both 'funny ha-ha' and 'funny strange')
England's World Cup squad, eh? There's Peter Crouch: skinny-malinky, long legs, big banana feet himself. There's Theo Walcott: a virtual child with no Premiership experience and barely any lower division experience either. And a couple of highly talented, entirely incapacitated strikers in Owen and Rooney. It sounds like the beginning of a joke. The beanpole, the baby and the two crocks. Let's hope the punchline is delivered some time around mid-June (come on, Trinidad and Tobago).

It's as if Eriksson simply doesn't give a shite any more and has embarked on some surrealist experiment which happens to involve a World Cup. He'll doubtless be pilloried in the English press. And with good cause, perhaps. From an Irish perspective, though, it just makes the pantomime that is the English build-up to a World Cup all the more entertaining. We've had the portentous drama of the Rooney injury saga. Now Eriksson's squad selection has added a touch of farce to proceedings. I look forward to Uri Geller taking on the magician's role and harnessing the English nation's psychic energy in a last-ditch effort to cure Rooney's busted foot (sorry, metatarsal). Alex Ferguson could play the pantomime villain yet if he refuses to release a not fully-fit Rooney.

Is Eriksson actually secretly laughing at the English? Getting his own back? It's my fond hope that he is. Consider this: Theo Walcott is very small (5 foot 5). Peter Crouch is very, very tall (6 foot 7 last I heard, but I think he's still growing). The potential for comic, little and large style photos of the pair of them standing together is enormous (not as enormous as Crouch, though). That's obviously why Eriksson picked them. Should have seen it earlier.

2006-04-04T01:38:00.000+05:00

The cute hoor is alive and well and driving his car around Donegal. A man has escaped being fined for speeding because he was not informed of his offence as Gaeilge. The man, let's call him, say, Pádraigín Máire MacGiollaighhocaighínán (changing a person's name is a failsafe way of avoiding defamation proceedings when you want to say rude things about them. Or so my lawyer, Mr L Hutz, tells me) was apparently ignorant of his speeding because na Garda Síochána, aka the police, could only provide him with an English language document which stated 'You were driving too fast', or words to that effect. Poor Pádraigín, a speaker of the mellifluous Gaelic tongue, had no idea what was going on. So he went to his solicitor. And his solicitor, let's call him, say, Setanta Rua Ó Tírnanóg, got him off.

What a wretched time poor Pádraigín must have on our devilishly anglicized roads. How confusing it must be to encounter signs written in the Sasanach tongue. Strange words like 'Stop' and 'Yield'. And those mysterious marks, 100 km/h. There is no letter k in Irish. So how on earth can a good Gaelgoir be expected to know what these arcane symbols signify?

It was revealed in court that Pádraigín's life was uncontaminated by contact with the planters' wicked words until his teenage years. He can be thankful that his adolescent skirmish with the language of Cromwell himself did not lead him astray down the seductive, wicked path of Anglicization.

Of course, to Pádraigín, the traitorous words I have written would be unintelligble. So, I'll say it in the proud lexicon our forefathers spilt their blood and that of the Sasanach demon to protect, so that men should not suffer the terrible oppression of speeding fines in English: maith an fear, a Phádraigín!

2006-03-20T23:52:00.000+05:00

How you know it's time to back slowly towards the exit whilst browsing through the books in a small town jumble sale:
When the first two paperbacks you see are called The Pre-Wrath Rapture of the Church and Winning Your Inner War with Satan. The words 'Armageddon' and 'evil' also appeared to be prominent among the titles on display.
There may, or may not, also have been biographies of each of the four horsemen of the Apocalypse. I don't know. I was backing slowly towards the exit.

2006-03-15T21:26:00.000+05:00

I'm currently reading a novel - Complicity by Iain Banks - in which the protagonist is a journalist. Cameron Colley is a reporter on an Edinburgh newspaper who gets into a spot of bother when his mysterious, Deep Throat-esque source leads him into some very dark places indeed. Anyhow, young Cameron is presented as a kind of everyman hack.

Here are some of his activities:

Snorting speed several times a day

Drink-driving

Having an affair with his friend's wife

Obsessively playing computer games till 4 in the morning

Killing a man

And that old favourite:
Lying to his editor

Ah, nice to have role models, isn't it?

2006-03-02T22:15:00.000+05:00

re·lief n ( P ) Pronunciation Key (r-lf).
1.The easing of a burden or distress, such as pain, anxiety, or oppression.
2.Something that alleviates pain or distress.
3.Public assistance.
Aid in time of danger, especially rescue from siege.
4. Emerging from driving test centre in Finglas with slip of paper bearing the words 'certificate of competency'.

I emerge from the centre with a big stupid grin plastered across my face. A guy around my own age is at his car as I arrive at mine. He beams across at me, brandishing his own little pink slip of paper.
"Wahaay!", he says (or words to that effect).
"Nice one", I concur.
"I'm getting straight on to the insurance company", he says and drives away.
Another man has witnessed the exchange. He comes over as I'm getting into my car.
"You passed?", he asks, rather plaintively. It's clear from his tone that he hasn't. He's thirty-ish, wearing thick glasses, sounds Eastern European.
"Yeah"
"How?"
"Eh, just didn't make too many mistakes, I guess. I failed the first time I did it."
"I fail for second time"
He shrugs and walks away disconsolately.

I drive out of the car park. On the way home the car cuts out.
Well, naturally.

2006-02-27T22:18:00.000+05:00

Smartarses

Especially this guy

2006-02-16T17:24:00.000+05:00

Some reheated, slightly stale satire:

HOME: Irish Ferries to reconstitute itself as pirate galleons

Irish Ferries management have revealed the true reason behind the company’s recent dispute with its workers: a series of reform measures which would have seen the firm reconstitute itself as a fleet of pirate galleons. As part of these reforms the company would have reserved the right to achieve shareholders’ dividend targets through the plundering of other vessels on the high seas.

“Arr”, commented Irish Ferries board member, Dick Bluebeard (formerly Richard Murphy), “there be nothin’ wrong with a spot of plunderin’ earlye in the mornin’. I’ll warrant ye this: we’d only shoot ‘em if we met with hearty resistance, to be sure.” Resplendent in a Versace eye patch, Armani greatcoat and custom-made tricorn hat by Philip Treacy, Mr Bluebeard denied union claims about new disciplinary procedures for workers proposed by the company. “There be no truth to the rumour we’d make ‘em walk the plank if they were late for duty once. That’d be monstrous, to be sure. No, they’d get to be late twice before walkin’ the plank to their watery grave.”

Other piratical reform measures mooted by management included ‘reflagging’ Irish Ferries vessels under the traditional pirates’ banner of white skull and crossbones on a black background and the refurbishment of all ships to the specifications of the seafaring craft of the seventeenth century. They also planned to pay new recruits at the rate of 3 and a half doubloons an hour. Rejecting claims that these wages were exploitative, being paid in a currency that has been out of use for several hundred years, Mr Bluebeard said: “Arr, it be coin enough to keep ‘em in grog and wenches.”

He further refuted claims that the company had planned to adopt a sea shanty version of Chris de Burgh’s ‘Don’t Pay the Ferryman’ as its anthem. “Hogwash, that is; there be nothin’ at all wrong with the original version.”

Mr Bluebeard was accompanied by Irish Ferries’ newly appointed human resources officer, Polly, who perched on his shoulder throughout the press conference. The macaw middle manager periodically squawked phrases such as “competitive forces beyond our control” and “rationalisation is the key to survival.”

Mr Bluebeard became visibly angry when asked about the legality of the proposed reforms. Fingering the handle of his cutlass, he said: “Avast now, ye lefty landlubbers or I’ll cut ye into little pieces and feed ye to the fishes.” There were no more questions.

Seán Kenny

2006-02-15T19:20:00.000+05:00

We'll huff and we'll puff and we'll smoke the house down

Last night on Sky News: 2 English MPs , a Liberal Democrat and a Tory, debated the smoking ban that is to be introduced in English and Welsh pubs, restaurants and workplaces. From the vantage point of Ireland's near 2 year old ban, the debate was amusingly blinkered. The Lib Dem guy (whose name sounds very like ' Lemon Optical'), claiming to be a 'libertarian', denounced the ban as a gross infringement of (smokers') civil liberties. How dare the 'nanny state' (what a hoary old cliche that's become already) curtail the right of smokers to exhale foul pollutants into the lungs, hair, clothes, food and drinks of those who happen to be in the vicinity of their vile habit. Libertarianism, the last time I checked, favours minimal state regulation of citizens' lives provided their actions do not infringe others' basic rights. Smoking so flagrantly infringes non-smokers' rights in this regard the argument isn't worth repeating. The only reason smoking in public spaces was not proscribed by law until relatively recently is that it was the staus quo, the accepted orthodoxy, however unenlightened.

The degree to which the ban has been accepted by the great majority of smokers in Ireland is truly remarkable, given the resistance it faced from this quarter before its introduction. Most reasonable smokers now accept that the ban is just. Those who still oppose it like to spout Bill Hicks style rhetoric about how their rights have been infringed. Hicks died of cancer aged 32. The arrogance of the British anti-ban lobby has been thrown into sharp relief by the, I repeat, astonishing success of the ban in Ireland (or its towns and cities, at least, I have no doubt smoking continues in many rural pubs).

Put that in your pipe and smoke it (outdoors, you foul creature).

2006-02-03T20:38:00.000+05:00

Westmoreland St, 12.34 a.m:

Man approaches taxi, having narrowly missed nitelink. Man tentatively opens taxi door, aware of the potential pandora's box of irrational and vehemently expressed opinion he may be unleashing. Man enters taxi, stating his destination.

Driver: So are you in work tomorrow?
Passenger: (relieved at ostensibly innocuous nature of driver's opening gambit) No, day off. I'm in college.
Driver: What are ye studyin'?
Passenger: (becoming aware of potential difficulties ahead, considers lying but then blurts out truth):Eh...journalism.
Driver: Aw Jaysus, you're not serious? Sure, they just tell lies, that lot.
Passenger: (sighing inwardly) Well, some of them do. A lot don't.
Driver: Ah now, bud, I don't know about that. What you lot should be doin' is exposin' corruption in the guards.
Passenger: Em, I think there was a story about that fairly recently. In Donegal...
Driver: The tip of the iceberg, bud. Those boys are up to their necks in it. It's all covered up.
Passenger: Well, there are a lot of cover-ups, I'm sure.
Driver: It's a conspiracy, that's why.
Passenger: (becoming alarmed, checks to see if doors are locked) Really?
Driver: When people go to court, right, they have to swear on the bible. I was in court meself last week. Only as a witness, of course. So you swear on the bible. In the Book of Revelations it says the number of the beast is 666, right?
Passenger: (visibly frightened, gives serious consideration to fleeing the vehicle at next traffic lights) Yes, I've heard that.
Driver: And the guards, right, they're in court givin' evidence. What are the first three digits of Dublin cop shops' phone numbers?(pregnant pause) That's right, bud: 666. Now why is that?
Passenger: Hmm, eh...So you're basically saying the Dublin Gardaí are engaged in some kind of satanic conspiracy and that their phone numbers are a manifestation of this?
Driver: Absofuckinlutely, bud. Now, there's a story for you.
Passenger: Hmm, well, I'll certainly keep it in mind.

2006-02-01T20:01:00.000+05:00

Shop sign in Stoneybatter:

Noels' Grocery

How many of them are there?

2006-01-20T18:18:00.000+05:00

Best Band Names
Whilst channnel-hopping the other night I happened upon a heavy metal awards ceremony (no, haven't been getting out much lately). The bands all had typically ludicrous metal Proof that a band with this name does exist

names such as 'Mastodon', 'Nightwish' and 'Satan's Arse' (ok, I made that one up). This got me thinking about band names and, more specifically, my favourite ones. So here they are...

The Tall Dwarves

John Cougar Concentration Camp

The Bastard Sons of Johnny Cash (and that's what they sound like)

The Band (cocky, but I like it)

The Trash Can Sinatras

The Tragically Hip

Death Cab for Cutie

The Nervous Wrecks

And, my favourite:

Sportsguitar (one of the oddest and strangely funniest word joinings I've heard. Note that it's not 'Sports/Guitar' or 'The Sportsguitars' but simply 'Sportsguitar'. Brilliant.)

Best name for a tribute band: The Rolling Clones (genius)

I have just discovered that Sportsguitar are from Switzerland, which somehow makes their name even funnier.

2006-01-18T04:11:00.000+05:00

If you are offended by bad language, I would respectfully entreat you to refrain from reading the following entry.
If you're not, you won't give a shite.

RTE apparently received a deluge of complaints arising from the many naughty words spoken by the players and management of the Dublin football team during 'The Dubs - Story of a Season', screened on Monday night. Words such as 'shit' (good grief!), 'bollocks' (oh, my goodness!) and (brace yourself) 'fuck' (swoon followed by prolonged blackout).

I have one question: have any of the people who complained ever actually been to a Gaelic football match in their lives? Croke Park on a summer Sunday is a positive cauldron of expletives.Fans curse. Managers curse. Players curse. Swearing is as much an integral part of the GAA as Micheál O Muircheartaigh, violent inter-parish rivalry, hats-flags-and-headbands, and rabid nationalism.

So Paul Caffrey, the Dublin manager, says 'fuck' a lot. Big deal. You can either watch a sanitized version of a documentary about top-level Gaelic football or one that portrays something approaching reality. The programme itself was genuinely insightful on occasion and engaging throughout; far superior to most sports documentaries.

I leave you with a quote from The Simpsons.
'Won't somebody please think of the children!?'

No. They should have been in bed.

2006-01-13T20:11:00.000+05:00

My new favourite 'sport'

As you may have noticed, the World Darts Championships are on at the moment. It's on the BBC every year but I've been tuning in for the first time ever in the last week or so and have discovered the joys of this unique sport. Granted, my present interest in the game will almost certainly end with the close of the tournament and is probably just a function of my chronic inability to get back down to work after the Christmas break.

Some reasons why darts is fantastic:

1. The Nicknames - Currently there are professional darts players with the following rather delightful sobriquets:

Wolfie

The Assassin

The Limestone Cowboy

(And my favourite)

The Prince of Dartness

Has the darts world been infiltrated by a horde of tabloid sub-editors, perchance?

Wolfie (civilan name:Martin Adams), whom I witnessed in action the other night, has a cartoon wolf emblazoned across the back of his shiny darts shirt.The same cartoon wolf is pictured on the flights of his darts (the fin-type thing on the end of the dart, for those non-darts aficionados among you). Rather wonderfully, visitors to Wolfie's website are greeted with the sound of, yes, a howling wolf. I kid you not, my friends.

2. The hair - Hair-wise, it's still 1985 in the darts world. Check out the picture of Steve Beaton (aka The Bronze Adonis; I'm not making this up) above. This is mulletry of the very highest order. This man takes his mullet seriously, no question about it. See how he complements his hair with an equally impressive 'tache. Steve is the leading champion of mulletry in the darts world but many others are following in his follicular footsteps.

3. The jewellery - The sovereign ring, much-maligned accessory of the Dublin scumbag, is an essential component of the darts player's outfit. Thick, gold chains, the likes of which you see worn in films about London gangsters, are displayed beneath the open necks of shiny, shiny shirts. The careful selection of gold jewellery can give a player a crucial psychological edge over his opponent by out-blinging him, or quite possibly blinding him, thereby reducing his accuracy with a dart.

4. The fact that the world championships are held in what appears to be an enormous pub - Every sports fan's dream.

2006-01-09T21:09:00.000+05:00

If you have:
A) A penchant for acerbic satire
B) A strong dislike of chuggers
C) Absolutely nothing better to do for the next minute or so

Click on this link

2006-01-05T05:34:00.000+05:00

Cliché Patrol
A tragedy occurs somewhere outside Dublin. Let's say a car accident, involving several deaths. The media gracefully swoop, vulture-like, on the area. Since the main subjects of the story( the victims) are dead, and their family are most likely too traumatised to speak to the press (how inconsiderate;we're the MEDIA, you know), local residents who are almost invariably not directly affected are the TV reporter's best chance for 'a few words'. These few words imbue the reporter with a near-mystical and entirely comprehensive understanding of the locality he/she is just about to leave at high speed in the TV network's van.

He/She closes the report with the following statement: Everyone in this CLOSE-KNIT COMMUNITY is DEVASTATED by this TRAGEDY. I imagine that TV reporters automatically lose their jobs or are demoted to working on Nationwide or somesuch if they do not obey this cardinal linguistic rule of reporting tragedies on TV.

The words 'close-knit community' are particularly important, although it is sometimes permissable to follow 'close-knit' with the epithet 'rural' . Remember, all communities are 'close-knit'. Sure, wouldn't they just unravel completely if they weren't? 'Rural' communities are the most closely-knit of all, however. You'd be hard pressed indeed to wriggle out of a rural community. They're like boa constrictors.

If Paddy Power opened a book on this, I'd bet my (cliché alert) bottom dollar that next time you see a tragedy reported on RTE, the words close-knit, (rural), community and devastated will appear in the piece. Don't these people have any imagination? Or, failing that, a decent thesaurus.

2005-12-18T16:35:00.000+05:00

Blog Awards '05:
The Drunken Reflections of an Impaired Observer

I wasn't feeling up to writing this post on Thursday (guess why), I was too lazy on Friday and I was away on Saturday. Firstly I must say that, although no actual awards were presented, I had harboured ambitions of picking up the coveted gong for Most Derogatory References to Dublin Bus in a Blog. Or, alternatively, the award for Most Unnecessary Use of Wordplay in a Blog. Or just the plain old Most Sarcastic Blog award. But no. The DITMAJ blogging community, in its wisdom, decided that no such recognition would be granted. Fine. I don't mind. Not a bit.

Here are some hazy recollections of the evening.
Being caught in the crossfire of a Simpsons quote-athon (I couldn't compete); making fun of a drunken interloper;having a dickie-bow forcibly attached to my neck;doing a very poor impersonation of Seán Connery (see dickie-bow);Jameson, Smithwick's, sambuca; meaning to remove the dickie-bow and forgetting (see Jameson, Smithwick's and sambuca); a bag of undercooked, oversalted chips; tongues loosened by drink(saying no more about that); dancing (to songs I like);dancing (to songs I don't);having a good time.

2005-12-14T17:57:00.000+05:00

Fine feature on Prime Time last night about how Robert Mugabe and his Monstrous Raving Loony Party are quite literally destroying Zimbabwe. In the way of these things, it was shocking, but not very surprising stuff (state-engineered famine, dispossession, clampdown on the press, ban on foreign NGOs).

Here's a link to a not-entirely serious Robert Mugabe website.

If Boy George and Crony Blair were actually serious about promoting democracy, instead of just pretending they are, they'd be supporting opposition movements in places like Zimbabwe.

2005-12-13T21:21:00.000+05:00

In the next general election, I will vote for any political party that solemnly pledges to ban Enya's music from the airwaves indefinitely. Curse her ethereal warbling.

2005-12-13T16:43:00.000+05:00

Claptrap

You know that brief awkward silence when you're at a gig and a song has just finished, or at least you think it has ( fake song-endings are funny; some people always clap. The smugness of the hardcore/saddo fans, who've held their applause, is almost palpable) . There's a moment before anyone has started to applaud when it's within the realms of possibility that no one will actually applaud at all because nobody wants to be the first person to clap. Someone has to be the first person to applaud. This can be a little awkward. At a recent concert, I was the first person to applaud on two occasions. I just had to break the silence. For about a second I was the lone idiot clapping away while cooler people waited for others to join in before they too expressed their appreciation manually.

Clapping properly whilst holding a pint is also hard. In fact, it's well-nigh on impossible to show your appreciation for the band whilst simultaneously safeguarding your drink. You can clap wholeheartedly and spray everyone with your beer, or you can refrain from applause and keep your drink within the snug confines of its glass.

There is an alternative, though. Apologies to my Zen readers, but this is called:

The sound of one hand clapping

Sorry, but there is such a thing. Simply flick your fingers against your palm in rapid, successive motions. It's not a very loud sound, granted, but it's a noble compromise between the basic human need to connect with others and the even more basic need not to spill your beer.

2005-12-12T17:25:00.000+05:00

John Bull(shit)

Reading Tom Humphries' column in the Times today (about how he hopes England don't win the World Cup but fears they might), I was struck by how wildly partisan a piece of a writing it was. It's plain that he dislikes the England football team and sensible, mature folk will ask: why the anti-Brits hang-up when it comes to football?

And what of the Irish nation at large? We really ought to be more grown-up about our nationhood, more self-confident in our national identity. We shouldn't define who we are by our anti-Britishness. It's 83 years since we got our independence. We should have got over it by now.
But...

I still really, really hope England don't win the World Cup.
Nah, screw it, I hope they don't win a game.

It's the crowing, you see. The boastful rhetoric of the English press, the hubris before they enter every major tournament, the 'SHOCK, HORROR' amazement when they don't bring the trophy home. Fleet Street's expectations are so over-inflated they're bound to burst in the faces of those filling them with hot air. But it's the same every time, 'boo hoo we used to run the world, now we're just a peripheral European country so we expect to dominate on the sports field like we used to dominate other countries politically'. This is the subtext, the assumption that England should be top dogs every time. It doesn't work like that, boys.

And 1966. Have you heard? Kenneth Wolsthenholme ('they think it's all over; it is now'), Geoff Hurst, 'Jules Rimet still gleaming'. ENGLAND WON THE WORLD CUP IN 1966. DID YOU KNOW? OH, IT WAS SPLENDID, OLD BOY. AND WE'LL NEVER LET YOU FORGET IT. EVER.

Imagine if they won it again. God help us. It'd be carnage. No one would be spared the bloody smugness, the boastful editorials, the ' World Cup heroes ' who were formerly just footballers with names not preceded by the statement that they won a medal representing Eng-er-land.

Please, please God let them be beaten 4-0 by Trinidad and Tobago.

2005-12-11T03:44:00.000+05:00

Technology frightens me. This may stem from being exposed to ‘Transformers’ cartoons at a crucial stage in my childhood development. I spent a good portion of my formative years fearfully wondering if commonplace household items such as bread bins and table lamps were, in fact, (cue vocoder voice) ‘robots in disguise’.

The inner workings of my mobile phone’s predictive text function are a mystery to me. Not the good kind of mystery, mind.

Every time I want to send a message like this…

Do you fancy going for a pint?

…the text predictor first suggests the word shot and then the word riot. As I understand it (or at least wish to, for the purposes of the joke I’m about to make), this suggests these words are more commonly used than the options which appear later (ie. the word pint).

Now, which of these sentences is the average beer-drinking phone-owner more likely to be composing:

1. Do you fancy meeting at 8 for a riot? / Do you fancy meeting at 8 for a pint?
2. Wanna get shot this evening?/ Wanna get pint this evening?
3. How about a few shots of the black stuff? / How about a few pints of the black stuff?

Assuming you are not…

1. A baseball-bat wielding anarchist planning a fun-filled evening of civil disorder
2. A pathological masochist
3. Some kind of pixie-type creature who consumes beer from shot glasses

…it’s safe to say the word you’re seeking is pint.

Sad to say, some technician in some Nokia factory somewhere clearly has very different priorities to the Irish beer-drinking phone-owner.

I’ll bet you’re damn glad you read this. Aren’t you?

2005-12-09T06:25:00.000+05:00

Re: Bush sending cards that say ‘Happy Holidays’ rather than ‘Happy Christmas’.

I find it difficult to see what is offensive about the words ‘Happy Christmas’. Consider the etymology of the word; Christ’s festival. The reason that December 25th is a public holiday is that it is the date on which the birth of Christ is celebrated by Christians. Dec. 25th is a public holiday in the US, irrespective of peoples’ beliefs, or lack thereof. Would it be better if only practising Christians were given a day off and all others had to work? And if a person does not celebrate Christmas, why send them a card at all?

I googled some sites that sell Ramadan greeting cards but I couldn’t find any that say ‘happy holidays, non-believer’(they say things like ‘Allah’s Blessings be with you’). I wonder if non-Muslims living in Islamic countries receive cards from the government that say ‘happy holidays’ during Ramadan celebrations? Or non-Jews from the Israeli state during Hannukah?

I did find a Christmas/Hannukah dual purpose card, which is a little bizarre, if touchingly pluralist.

Political correctness is, for the most part, a good thing. It is fine and proper that sexist/racist/homophobic etc language is condemned. However, it can suck the life out of language too. On a linguistic level I like the word Christmas. It’s evocative of a particular season. Happy holidays, to my ear, is bland and generic.

There’s a lot of scary stuff happening in the world:

Arnie deciding whether a man should live or die (would you want the Terminator deciding your fate? A little inauspicious that)
People getting sick
Kids being abused
Donald Rumsfeld talking. About anything at all

Not Christmas cards.

2005-12-08T21:27:00.000+05:00

Shorthand blog:
Following on from Genevieve's Bosco competition (ie. blatantly ripping off her idea;sorry), a special prize to the first class member who can translate the mysterious shapes above into English. The author reserves the right to change the terms of the contest at short notice, or, quite frankly, to renege on his commitment to giving a prize.

2005-12-08T19:01:00.000+05:00

"Journalism is literature in a hurry"
Matthew Arnold

Too right. No time to blog.

"My sideburns are splendid!"
Ibid

2005-12-07T21:15:00.000+05:00

Gig Review: Mark Eitzel, Whelan's, 7th December (and what happened after the show)

You haven't seen self-deprecating 'til you've seen a Mark Eitzel concert. Eitzel is a great performer, but he's an unreliable guitarist. He makes mistakes. He makes jokes about making mistakes. Last night he threw coins into the audience as atonement for every screwed-up chord change. He did it 3 or 4 times. Then he threw coins on to the stage and told the audience to just pick them up themselves. Then he threw notes, a ten and a five. The last song he sang before the encore closed with the words 'I hope the worst is over'. With Eitzel, it's hard to tell if this was unintentional or sardonic.

His music is pretty stark, but he does the odd pop song, after a fashion. I'm not going to describe his music because I can't be bothered and I have complete editorial control over this blog, a privilege I really rather enjoy having. He was, and still is, in a San Francisco band called American Music Club, who had/have influences ranging from punk to folk to jazz (Past & present tense used because they split up 10 years ago but recently reformed. Sorry, why would you care about that detail?This complete editorial freedom thing will be my undoing)

His lyrics are mordant and heartbreaking and sometimes funny. He sings like his heart is rending in two right there on stage.The man could croon 'Simply having a wonderful Christmas time' and make it sound like a graveside lament.

We went for a drink after the gig, Justin(of justintonra.blogsot.com fame) and Julie and I. Some drunken asshole did his utmost to provoke us into fighting him. He sat at our table uninvited and made obnoxious interjections into our conversation. He carried a small notebook and a tiny pen (perhaps he was a journalist finally driven over the edge by his thankless, insecure, poorly paid job.No, I'm not feeling optimistic today). When he finally left us he dramatically flung his tiny pen on to the table in an act of something or other (defiance?anger?mindlessness?Option 3, I think). He swept away into the night to be an irritating prick somewhere else. Except that he'd forgotten his bag. He slouched back to the table half a minute after his theatrical departure, eyes fixed on the floor, and picked it up. Karma? Who knows?

I was early for the nitelink, so I took a walk along the river. There was a thick blanket of fog along the quays. Lights shimmered on the black water; the orange streetlamps, the white lights illuminating the bridges, the alternating red and green of traffic lights. It was a lovely scene. It's interesting how many people are still up at 1.45 a.m. There were lots of lights on in the apartments along the Liffey. I wondered what the people in those rooms were doing; reading, arguing with lovers, making love, drinking, working, playing marathon games of trivial pursuit , surfing the net, eating, talking on the phone, writing, having a party, watching tv, washing the dishes, smoking joints, flossing.... it was interesting to speculate what was happening in those illuminated rooms near 2 o'clock on a Wednesday morning. People have different schedules.

This entry has been longer and more circuitous than I'd intended it to be. If you're still reading, thanks. Now go and get some fresh air.

2005-12-07T00:01:00.000+05:00

It has come to my attention that a cartoonish portrait of myself has appeared on another class member's blog. I can only respond in kind.

2005-12-05T21:51:00.000+05:00

Bertie's spelling misstakes

I had a conversation, or rather a pub debate, with a friend over the weekend about the Irish Times lampooning Bertie for his failure to spell the words 'gover(n)ment' and 'sympat(h)ies' correctly in his message of condolence on the death of George Best. It went something like this.

Me: I think it's a joke that the Taoiseach can't spell government. I mean, it's a word that features fairly prominently in his job description, for God's sake. And he must read it 50 times a day in the papers.
My friend: Well, eye think it was a cheep shot. It's not the bee all and end all if ewe can't spell dat well.
Me: But he deals in the business of words as a politician. Surely it's important.
My friend: A.A Gill is dyslexic. He doesn't actually right his colm in the Sunday Times. He dictates it all every weak and he's still a grate righter.
Me: I don't think Bertie is dyslexic, though. He's just a crap speller.
My friend: There are udder forms of intelligence, dough. There are udder weighs of expressing yourself. Ewe can here him speak and he gets his pint across.

Fair enough. On the one hand, it was a cheap shot. On the other, it's good to laugh at our political leaders (They must spend enough time laughing at us."Oh, My God! They voted me in! Again!!Even after last time!!" Cue hysterical mirth for next five years) . People have died for the right to laugh at their political leaders. They've died for democracy and this is a component of democracy.

However, there is a touch of sneering in this attitude to Ahern. He's not a southside boy who went to a private school (unlike a fair chunk of the Times' readership). He's not from that elite we call 'Dublin 4' (even though it's a state of mind rather than a postcode). He has a Northside accent, he likes his GAA, his soccer, his pints; he plays on this, it's part of his everyman image. But he is a working class boy made good, whatever you think of his performance (not much, in my case). It wouldn't be ok to laugh at his accent if he was an immigrant but it's ok cos he's just a Northsider.

P.s. My friend is a perfectly good speller. That was just a cheep shot too.

2005-12-05T19:02:00.000+05:00

Idea for television programme: political panel discussion show in which politicians, academics, business people, trade unionists, journalists etc etc. answer questions posed by outraged/disenfranchised/occasionally deranged audience members. Dickie-bow wearing gentleman chairs the discussion. The programme would be called:

Politics Tonight With Stella Artois

Participants must imbibe several pints of the programme sponsor's brew prior to recording. This would give the show the feel of that much-loved forum for political discussion: the pub debate. Outlandish, Stella-fuelled viewpoints that do not conform to politically correct modes would be expressed. Politicians might give a few straight answers (ok, that's stretching it) . Since the programme would be one long ad for the magical,personality-transforming qualities of Belgium's finest 5% brew, there would be no worries on the finance score.

Even if the debate is boring, the night will almost certainly culminate with some level of fisticuffs, a frequent by-product of the consumption of Stella. Tell me you wouldn't watch Questions and Answers if there was a real possibility of John Bowman headbutting Martin Cullen. Admit it, we've all wanted to do it at one time or another.

Another version of this show would involve the consumption of Buckfast, but it would probably only be suitable for transmission after midnight on one of the trashier satellite channels.

2005-12-01T17:03:00.000+05:00

Hark! Hear the sound of lengthy adjectives being readied. Of withering scorn and gushing praise. Of similes. Always the similes (A sounds like B playing C fronted by D). Or A sounds like B. On speed (always on speed;provides extra rock 'n' roll cachet,implies author has personal experience of amphetamines). It can only mean one thing. There is music journalism afoot.

Gig Review: Tift Merritt, Whelan's, 29th November

They had the tables out in Whelan's; a sure sign ticket sales haven't been great. We took our seats, like the old people you see at gigs we're fast becoming. The support band walked on, to the kind of muted reception support bands usually get. More correctly it was a support duo, called The Have Nots. They were excellent. They played acoustic guitars and sang sweet, sad country duets (I like country music. IMPORTANT DISTINCTION: There are two kinds of country music: the horrible soulless crap that embodies all that is market-driven and, yes, evil, and the good stuff) . While they played some people talked at the bar, as people are wont to do during support sets. A woman in front of us was not impressed. Her method of conveying this to the talkers was to turn her head 90 degrees and frown through the dark at them. It didn't work. Then she got up and told them to shut up. They shut up. This part of the gig to was also notable for being the first time I have seen a performer bite a portion of his nail off on stage in full view of the audience ( I made that sound like they're always doing it secretly, didn't I?). All guitarists, even terrible ones like myself, know how cumbersome over-long nails can be. It had to be done, I suppose.

Tift (I know, I've never heard it before either) came out to polite applause and the odd restrained whoop. How to describe her music. Well, firstly, she's got a voice that's sweet but gritty too. Like honey on sandpaper. Or something. In fact, she has a voice like a seraph (see? I didn't say 'angel'. Thesauruses were a wonderful invention; I'll bet the dictionary people were bricking it when the Roget boys got in on the synonym game).

She plays gospel-influenced, folkish, countryish, sometimes quiet, sometimes loud songs. Good songs. At one point she unplugged her guitar and sang without amplification('to remove what's between us'. Nice touch) . Her voice really is stunning; perhaps the best live vocal I've ever heard. She remarked on how quiet the audience initially was. People were whooping after songs after a while (and during them by the end). That'll be the drink.

Tift played an encore. People cheered. Then we went home.

2005-11-29T21:25:00.001+05:00

It's fucking incredible how long you can spend on the internet without actually doing anything. I've been on the net for, oh 2 or 3 hours, and I can't even remember what the hell I've been looking at. God be with the days when we all sat around the fire tellin' shtories.

Below is some sarcastic drivel (ie. satire) I wrote on the occasion of Saddam Hussein's trial. Note to lawyers: the text below is pure fiction. All quotes and events included therein are wholly fabricated and bear no relation to real events. Honest. Anyway, I have no money. You'd be suing an impecunious student. And Seán Kenny isn't my real name.

Saddam Lawyer Slams Court’s Failure to Allow Client Fade into Obscurity

Lawyers for Saddam Hussein are preparing to argue that their client’s fundamental human right to avoid prosecution and fade into obscurity outside Iraq has been denied. They will argue that legal precedence dictates that this right, granted to past despots such as Uganda's Idi Amin and Haiti's 'Baby Doc' Duvalier, also applies to their client and has been cruelly ignored by the court established to try Saddam.

According to Saddam’s lead counsel, Khalil-al-Dulaimi, “there is a long and noble tradition of allowing deposed rulers of dubious democratic legitimacy slip quietly into a life of luxurious exile. My client’s favoured destination would be an Arab brother-state, preferably one with ample beaches where alcohol is easily attainable. Tunisia, for example, would be ideal.”

Dulaimi believes that the regime Saddam has been subjected to while incarcerated in Iraq is also a breach of his client’s basic rights as a former dictator. “As an absolute ruler of over twenty years’ standing, my client naturally has highly sophisticated culinary tastes. In a callous and calculating move, the Americans have attempted to break his spirit by serving him low-to-average quality food and drink.”

Dulaimi related how, on one shocking occasion, the ex-dictator had even been served own-brand tea from a discount Baghdad supermarket. “This to a man accustomed to only the finest Earl Grey; is this not cruel and unusual?” said Dulaini as a bullet zipped past his left ear.

Moreover, Saddam intends to take legal action against George Bush and Donald Rumsfeld on the grounds that his quality of life has disimproved considerably since the U.S. launched hostilities against Iraq in March ’03. “My client has endured terrible hardship and trauma. Before his imprisonment he had to live an itinerant existence without a regular supply of water, electricity or prostitutes. He has, in fact, had to endure the living conditions faced by ordinary Iraqis.” Mr Dulaini’s press conference was then interrupted as a series of rockets exploded in his immediate vicinity.

Meanwhile, a star-studded array of concerned dictators from around the globe recently came together at a glittering ceremony in downtown Harare to show their solidarity with Saddam in his hour of need. Speaking at the ceremony, President of Zimbabwe, Robert Mugabe, announced the formation of a dictators’ rights group, A.I.D. (The Association for Incarcerated Dictators). The charity will campaign for the humane treatment of imprisoned ex-rulers.

Flanked by Cuba’s Fidel Castro and Kim Jong Il of North Korea on the podium, Mr Mugabe made an impassioned plea for clemency in Saddam’s case. “Dictatorship is a high-risk career. Dictators trying to do an honest day’s work face innumerable occupational hazards: coups d’etat, invasion, discovery of the mutilated corpses of your political opponents by human rights groups. And to finally face imprisonment and trial for merely performing your patriotic duty like our esteemed colleague Saddam…How do we expect to attract young people to take up a career in dictatorship under such conditions?”

A.I.D. will plead with the authorities that, at the very least, Saddam should be allowed to sport the traditional dictator’s garb of olive green fatigues, sunglasses and beret instead of a prison uniform.

2005-11-29T20:05:00.000+05:00

Today I received a compilation cd and a short accompanying letter in the post from my cousin in Galway (thanks T). He's coming to Dublin next week and could have handed me the cd in person but he posted it instead. Cos it's nice to get stuff in the post. And letters are personal and tactile in a way that e-mail can't be. I like that, and I like getting (and making) compilation cds. I hope the art of making music compilations for your friends doesn't die out with the advent of i-pods and downloading. Will cds even exist in ten years? The notion of e-mailing a compilation folder or somesuch just doesn't have the same appeal. Maybe I'm just a luddite. Hey, I've got to fill space on this thing.

*Note new, considered, (mostly) non-sarcastic tone in keeping with mature. sensible new blog name

2005-11-29T03:51:00.000+05:00

"A bus! A bus! My kingdom for a bus!"

Meanwhile a commuter patiently waits for the 39 bus in Blanchardstown

Ok, I am firmly resolved not to mention Dublin Bus or the number 39 on this blog again. That's it. There's a great big world out there beyond the Dublin Bus (sorry) network. Next week: Bus éireann. That was a joke. Maybe.

Eagle-eyed readers will also have noticed that this blog has been rechristened. This author felt that a name that included the words 'ranting', 'raving' and 'riling' provided a misleading and possibly career-threatening portrayal of self as some kind of bile-spitting polemicist, foaming at the mouth with bitterness and possible psychosis. And nothing, as you know dear reader, could be further from the truth. So I devised the most neutrally-worded name I could think of. How did I do?

2005-11-26T19:11:00.000+05:00

George Best 1946-2005. R.I.P.

I'm too young to have seen George Best play live. But the numerous clips I've seen of Best's finest moments paint an impressionistic portrait of a man who played the game of football beautifully. They show a footballer of almost balletic poise and balance and of extraordinary flair and imagination. Of a man who could conjure magic with a ball at his feet. Has a footballer ever been more appropriately named?

Just a note on the media circus, which has surrounded his illness and death. The media have been circling vulture-like around Best's sickbed for the past couple of weeks. Articles that looked like the obituary of a still-living man were appearing in the papers two weeks ago. On a smaller scale it's reminiscent of the coverage prior to the pope's death earlier this year. The press almost wet themselves in anticipation of the old man drawing his final breath. At its worst this kind of journalism is voyeuristic and callous.

There's no way of getting away from this. Best's alcoholism must have been a contributory factor in his early demise. In his later years he often cut a sad figure, stumbling from one alcohol- induced crisis to the next. The athletic prowess of his earlier years had deserted him, as it does to all athletes, and George Best the ex-footballer often evoked pity or scorn or both. A whole media sub-industry fed off him. He was fodder for the tabloids, another middle-aged booze hound, brought low by addiction.

But George Best the footballer was so much more. Moments of genuine artistry on a football field are rare and should be cherished accordingly. Best's football career was overflowing with such moments. He brought joy into millions of football fans' lives. The drink can't take that away.

As I write it's near 3 o'clock on a Saturday: football time (despite Sky's attempts to bore us all to death by stringing matches across the whole week). I like to think of George limbering up, ready to take his place in the great 4-4-2 formation in the sky, having spent the morning in bed with, oh let's say Marilyn Monroe. So long, George. Give 'em hell.

2005-11-24T17:09:00.000+05:00

A mighty blow has been struck in the war on mobile phone ringtones. Actor Richard Griffiths asked a woman whose mobile had rung three times during the performance of a play in London to leave the theatre. Griffiths played Uncle Monty in 'Withnail & I'. This man is a legend.

Here's a link

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/london/4458810.stm

2005-11-22T23:59:00.000+05:00

You know this isn't going to be good. Soon I will begin speaking of Dublin Bus. My blood pressure will rise exponentially. Rational thought will take a back seat (along with the smokers and the occasional junkie). You may lose the will to live.

Anyhow, here's another tale for the annals of our esteemed public transport provider. I was on the 39. Not unreasonably, I wanted to leave the bus at my stop. So did 5 other people. I pressed the bell in good time. So did someone else. The bus didn't stop. "We want to get off at that stop" said a put-upon commuter as the bus stop shrank in the rear view mirror. "That's not a stop" said the driver, referring to same stop. I don't think this was a metaphysical rumination, along the lines of "but how do we know bus stops really exist?" The guy was for real. I've got off the bus at this stop at least 50 times.

"Is this some kind of joke?" I ventured. No. No joke. The bus kept driving on. And on and on. The next stop, as it happens, is 2 miles away (don't ask; or ask the people who are supposed to be planning this city). "We want to get off the bus" came the chorus from the by now mutinous passengers. "That wasn't a stop". This was his mantra. Oaths were sworn. Imprecations rained down. Expletives were issued. I myself issued a number of variants on the word 'fuck' (under my breath,of course). The dunderhead in the driver's seat kept on driving, refusing to accept the existence of the bus stop and, more irritatingly, refusing to stop along the road as a damage limitation exercise.

Angry words were exchanged as the put-upon passengers, now frothing at their collective mouth, finally escaped Bus átha cliath's very own version of Speed. Some people asked for the driver's name and number (do they have numbers? Probably just cover them up like the Guards if they do). I didn't bother. You waste your breath. It took me 40 minutes to walk home.

Now, in fairness, this is an isolated incident. To my immense pride as an Irish citizen, Dublin Bus have never before deposited me 2 miles away from the stop I expressly requested to be left at. But anyone who uses the service (sic) knows what they're like. Sure, it'd drive you to drink.

2005-11-21T17:22:00.000+05:00

Ok, so this is a little dated as far as up-to-the-minute news goes, but I'm sporting a hoodie today and was thinking about the Fine Gael TD Michael Noonan's recent call for shopping centres to ban people wearing hoodies from their premises.This man used to be our Minister for Health. Anyway, here's some satire:

Fine Gael TD: Hoodies fast becoming the new root of all evil

Fine Gael TD Michael Noonan has revealed that his call for a ban on the wearing of hoodies in shopping centres is only one of a wide range of measures he has formulated to counter shoplifting and anti-social behaviour. The Limerick TD also advocates the banning of hats, backpacks, long hair and pockets.

“All of these things facilitate shoplifting; long haired youths can easily conceal their faces from CCTV cameras by using their hair as a kind of curtain. Hats can be used in a similar way. Backpacks are commonly used as a receptacle for stolen goods. Trouser, jacket and especially hoodie pockets also provide convenient storage space to the shoplifter.”

Despite these additional proposals, the banning of hoodies remains top of Mr Noonan’s agenda. Elaborating on his earlier comments on the link between the wearing of hooded tops and anti-social behaviour, he said “Money’s days as the root of all evil are numbered; hoodies are well on their way to becoming the primary well-spring of anti-social behaviour and general malevolence.”

The former Fine Gael leader believes that, apart from concealing the identities of trouble-making youths, hoodies actually imbue their wearers with a powerful mischief-making impulse. “We’ve heard a lot about how alcohol transforms people. People who wear hoodies undergo a similar transformation. They often can’t help themselves from rampaging through the streets when they’ve the hoodie on them.”

Deputy Noonan also admitted that he himself had once owned a hoodie, which he wore while exercising. “But I burned it long ago, thank God” he said.

Seán Kenny

2005-11-20T02:05:00.000+05:00

Yesterday, Roy Keane left Manchester United Football Club by 'mutual consent'. In my simplicity, I had always taken the term 'mutual consent' to mean 'agreement by both parties'. It seems the term now has a new meaning, namely 'the entirely one-sided will of Alex Ferguson'.

Keano Has Left the Building: A Tragedy in Three Clichés

"Truth is the first casualty of war"

Keane, the man who dared to speak the truth about Utd's poor form, however brutally (and it was brutal), is the first casualty in a civil war within a football club in decline. In the past Ferguson has indulged Keane and other great players, knowing that their brilliance was worth the odd disciplinary lapse. Not this time. Keane is in decline as a player, so Fergie's not prepared to indulge him any more. But, more than that, sacking Keane is the act of a wounded animal, lashing out in a desperate attempt to save his own skin. It won't. We'll be seeing another high profile departure from Old Trafford soon, by 'mutual consent' (the consent of the Glazer family).

"Live by the sword, die by the sword"

To some extent, the ruthlessness with which Keane was despatched from United reflects his own footballing persona. It's not difficult to imagine Keane acting in the same manner as Ferguson did if the roles were reversed. Has Fergie's authority in the dressing room been so badly undermined that he felt Keane had to go? Keane has made many scathing remarks about his teammates in the past without any public response from the manager. To this outsider, sacking Keane now looks like the act of an insecure manager.

"Sick as a parrot; the boy's done good; bragging rights" etc etc etc

The football lexicon is one of cliché and banality. The great majority of players have little or nothing to say for themselves. Their lips move but they say nothing. They're all bling; glittering on the surface, hollow underneath (I love the onomatopoeic quality of the word 'bling'; makes me think of the ker-ching! of cash registers). Keane has always spoken his mind, cutting through the bullshit. This makes him valuable in a sport whose lifeblood is being drained away by dullness and conformity. Keane has courted controversy throughout his career by simply telling the truth as he saw it. He is a genuine sporting idealist, always striving for perfection, wounded deeply by failure. Keane is a poor politician; he is too honest for that.

Roy Keane is no saint. I'm convinced that much of what will be written about him in the coming days will be hagiography. The nightclub 'incidents' (ie. punch-ups) of his earlier years, the tackles that too often crossed the line dividing sport from naked violence - they are unpleasant footnotes to an otherwise glorious career. But one thing is indisputable; Roy Keane is the real deal. In a game full of whingers, fakers and posers, he will be sorely missed.

2005-11-17T02:01:00.000+05:00

A Strange Occurrence on the 39 Bus:
So I took my seat on the 39 this morning. The windows were very steamed up (condensation, I believe, is the scientific term). I decided to make a small contribution to oxygen levels on the upper deck by opening the window next to me. 30 seconds later this guy who was sitting across from me gets up and shuts the window I've just opened without saying a word. Now, I'm not in the habit of asking people if they mind my opening/closing a window on the bus but if someone sitting across from me had just opened a window I would regard shutting that very same window 30 seconds later without consulting them as somewhat rude.

I'm stubborn by nature so my first instinct was to re-open the window. But I don't like rows, least of all with unpredictable men on the upper deck of the Blanchardstown bus. So I bit my lip. Until I couldn't resist the temptation and, 5 minutes later, re-opened the same window. I was half-expecting the guy to leave his seat and shut the window I'd just opened for a second time. But he didn't and a part of me (a rather petty part, admittedly) felt I'd won a tiny moral victory. The other, more whimsical, part of me kind of wanted him to shut the window again. It was a stupid little power struggle and, if he had countered my window-opening a second time, I'd probably have laughed and shaken his hand (or maybe he'd just have decked me).

Does anyone agree that Irish people are too easily cowed by intimidating strangers (especially smokers on the bus)? It pisses me right off, I tells ya.

2005-11-16T15:59:00.000+05:00

Re: Posting Below

By the way, I'm not in the habit of posting blogs or indeed being anywhere in the general vicinity of computers at 2.56 a.m. The time's wrong!

2005-11-16T15:56:00.000+05:00

I wrote a review of Neil Young's new album, 'Prairie Wind'. The link is below.

http://www.oxygen.ie/page/144

2005-11-13T02:03:00.000+05:00

Hello,

I hereby renounce responsibility for any rioting, legal actions or general mayhem arising from the publication of material on this blog: my lecturer made me do it.

First up: a link to the online version of an article I recently wrote for a satirical magazine called The Spanner. Form an orderly queue now...

http://www.oxygen.ie/page/137