Win-win Situation for Munster Men

Fair play to lads from Munster - another win today and by a comfy cosy margin to boot. Still monitoring my feelings on an ongoing basis and I'm still feeling angry and annoyed that I can't watch my province play live against another team without paying a foreign satellite tv company for the privilege (those shitbags at Sky have the rights hijacked this season), but I find the County Sound commentary very entertaining. The passionate commentary is delivered with all the irresistible gusto of an excited man bursting into the pub to tell you that he just caught the biggest fish ever to swim in water on top of hearing that his wife just gave birth to twin boys. I don't know his name but he's D'Unbelievables meets man on the sideline during a hurling match who jumps up and down excitedly. Great to see young Barry Murphy back on super form after his match against those dirty rotten cheating bastards of Leicester langers. Here he is above in a tough tango from last weekend's match...

All this watching people playing sports on tv makes me feel a bit lazy and not very fit. And, of course, it doesn't really help when I'm swilling stout as I watch it too. The missus just dozed off as I looked over the lads' impressive performance while slurping my home-poured pints in a sophisticated manner. I'm definitely getting up on that bike tomorrow morning, and if conditions are favourable, may even have a dip in the water in this mild late autumn we're having.

Biological Warfare off the Irish Coast

In the course of my work today (I had a day that was far from boring, thanks be to God, but the rain was persistently pouring all the live-long day), I met a man who told me the reason behind the cutting back of American planes passing through Shannon airport on their way to the Middle Eastern colonies of the US Empire.

He said that the Americans were basing planes at Shannon and then testing some relatively mild chemical weapons (although the porcine brucellosis in question would give you severe stiffening of the joints, according to my man) in the Atlantic offshore, away from prying eyes. The Irish government discovered this, so they insisted that the Yanks take their nasty circus elsewhere. Well, I find it hard to picture our limpid government insisting on anything to the US government, apart from insisting that they love them very much and insisting that they can have whatever they want while their bands of butchers are in town.

The same man insisted that he knows that chemical weapons were used by both the Iraqis and the American-led "Bitches of America" grouping that bombed the shit out of people back in 1991. One of the things that the Americans were after and one of the things that they hoped would constitute a "smoking gun" to justify their wanton slaughter this time around, was a good batch of the chemical weapons that they actually sold to Saddam in the first place. But these things have a short shelf life and they disintegrate quickly. The yanks learned the Chemical weapons business from the Japanese at the end of WWII. The Japanese had been the first to use anthrax on live Chinese human bait at the beginning of that conflict and, similar to the bounty of German scientists that helped the space programme, the Western front yielded the reward of Japanese experts in biological warfare - something the Yanks then sold on to Saddam back when they considered him relatively cute compared to the bold bold Iranians.

He didn't seem crazy - all very interesting. On a totally unrelated topic, I'm thinking that I may well go down to the pub to watch Munster hammer the shit out of Bourgoin tomorrow evening.

Men with caps

When you're driving on the road, there are a few hazards that you have to watch out for: The first thing, and one that always gives me heebie-jeebies, nightmares and the tremors all wrapped up in a cold sweat is ... cow(s). One is enough to do some nasty damage to your nerves and your car in one sickening, bloody thump. A whole herd of them suddenly appearing around a bend in a country road, and you're fucked; you've nowhere to turn, you see. They're all over the road, so they are; moo-ing in their whiney forlorn voices. Oh! Don't get me started on the cows. I haven't ploughed into a herd of them yet, but I seem to know an inordinately high number of people who have, so I can't help getting the feeling that my turn will come soon.

Bovine terrors aside, the next most dangerous thing (and on certain occasions, I sometimes think that it is the most dangerous) is the man with the hat. Watch out for and be wary of such a man if you see him on the road. He's about seventy or so. The age is difficult to determine, but what will mark him out is the way in which he drives, trundling along at exactly 60kph and thinking about a cow or something, all the while remaining entranced and oblivious to the world around him generally, and to you hoping to overtake specifically. The large cap is held in place by large satellite-dish-like ears and I now believe that the cap contains his brain, so it isn't functioning correctly as it's not being kept at the correct temperature to allow it to work properly. You'll notice that his reaction time is slow and he tends to hedge his bets by driving at an equal distance from both hedges - i.e. bang slap in the middle of the road. This style of driving serves the double purpose of allowing him to see further ahead on the road and also to prevent anyone else behind him exceeding 60kph.

Here endeth the lesson on men with caps who drive. Just keep an eye out for them; there are many of them in Ireland, where they are as plentiful as cows, but don't produce as much milk.

No Mass Appeal for me

A difficult time arises in the life of an agnostic when he's faced with a choice of whether or not to bring his child to Mass.

On the one hand, I have grown to despise the Catholic church and all its dirty deeds, its nonsense, its bullshit, its determined protection of the guilty and its persecution of the innocent (specifically in relation to acts of sexual perverts amongst its ranks). I accept that there are many nice priests and bishops who just want to help people by giving them a comprehensible spiritual code in their lives in the knowledge that it will enrich them or help them to cope with incomprehensible and head-wrecking notions such as death, but... I'm afraid all I can see when I look into a priest's eyes or when I look around a church is just a large powerful institution that will cling grimly to its power base for as long as the earth turns. They're running out of suckers here now that we're all educated and well off and couldn't be arsed with their hokum. So, the fertile recruiting grounds for members are in the dirt poor places - Africa and the like. There's an incredible power of persuasion built into a pitch to a guy lying in a gutter. I don't want much to do with these phoneys if I can help it and I don't much fancy the idea of my children being taken in by their nefarious wibble.

On the other hand, my wife is one of those who thinks that "it's good to give them some sort of religion" and when you're in a small overwhelmingly Catholic community where every other kid in the class is having their first communion, and your child wants to do it because everyone else is, then you have to come up with convincing arguments to deny him this pleasure.

Well, I couldn't, really, so I find myself having to go to that wretched Mass shit if I want to play along with the whole Holy Communion thing. The other Sunday at Mass, I was already slightly on edge from the combined factors of mild hangover coupled with the expectation of Munster's first European Cup match coming up later that day against the Langers from Leicester and the irritation that I'd have to go to the pub and listen to Brit commentary on a Brit tv station if I wanted to watch my province play. Anyway, as it turned out, we won, so that should keep those wankers quiet. As I was saying; at this Mass yoke, as I looked around the church and at the priest, who was hoo-ing and haw-ing away at the pulpit in a saintly pose with the head tilted to one side, I began to get increasingly angry at the whole set-up; at me - look at me! the hypocrit! Kneeling down with my knuckles clasped together before a marble collection of holy paraphernalia and stained glass windows and a holy-Joe of a priest and his gang of pawns answering his prayers, and I knew the answers myself but I wouldn't say them! And I thought; well, why won't I say them if I've gone to bother of going to Mass in the first place?! And then I looked at yourman beside me, I stopped being angry and watched him go up to the pulpit and do his little reading, which he delivered very well.

P-p-p-p -pickups!

The new wave has started. At first, there were just one or two, but it has now become a bit of a wave, really, if I'm to be honest about it.

I had a similar feeling back around 1992-93, when I began to notice that competition amongst farmers to get themselves "a fine jeep" was getting testy to say the least. One by one, the Volkswagen Jettas began to disappear and were slowly being replaced by the larger all-terrain vehicles; the sort of yokes, in short, that could just as easily drive over a muddy field and sheep carcasses as drive along the main street in town, leaving a trail of deposits from said fields on the uneven Irish asphalt.

Back then, the higher vehicle was a new thing, so it was. For farmers, they felt right at home sitting up high, looking down curiously on those they didn't know and saluting those they did. It called to mind driving through town in a tractor. Only, this wasn't a tractor. At all. It was fancier, warmer, it had a radio, some day it might even have a television, it could drive faster, it didn't make you bounce up and down banging your head quite as much as a tractor did, it had electric windows, it actually had windows, it smelt nice. A fine vechicle, so it was.

Then there came a gradual change. Whispered stories came from America that over there, ordinary regular people would be seen driving these vechicles, even though such vehicles were obviously designed with the farmer in mind. Yet these were being actually driven around by townies - just to show how much money they had and just to drive around in a cleaned-out version of a farmer's vehicle just because.. whatever! Fuck you! Wow. That really captured the imagination, so it did. Live the American dream right here in little old Ireland and get yourself big fat wheels with a big bastard of a vehicle attached.

Since then, the enormous gas-guzzling 4x4's have become de rigeur on the roads of our confused Republic. They've become the staple diet of those who want to propel themselves around at speed in a wasteful amount of transport space because they're worth it. This avaricious market segment has been getting itself bored and has been on the lookout for something new; something perhaps even bigger or even more wasteful. What about a large jeep which has a long extension at the back into which you put absolutely nothing! Totally fucking excellent! That's what I want, alright!! Shut up and give me the bastard! Behold!
Here you are - this yoke is multiplying so fast around the roads of Munster that they must be fucking each other. I know one woman who crams her five children into the cabin with no seatbelts while all the while she has enough space for ten more behind where there aren't any seats. Ah well, at least we have freedom of choice.

Resigning with Resignation

I had to laugh just while ago there when I read that Sweden's Minister of Culture has decided to resign after just a few days in office because she completely and totally forgot to pay the bloody television licence. How many times has that happened, in fairness? Where you're ambling along in life, doing the daily routines, minding your business; combing your hair, eating your toast, washing your toes, cutting the lawn, spying on the neighbours, calling the cat, burying a dead body, surfing, drinking some beer, when... all of a sudden doesn't the tv licence inspector turn up at the door and asks you where's the tv. And, of course, you're there closing the front door, shouting "Get away or I'll call the Guards! You're not a tv licence man!" through the letter box, while simultaneously screaming at the children to close all the curtains, while all the while resolving to buy a tv licence tomorrow. You didn't want to be in this upsetting situation - you just forgot, that's all. We all forget things, like getting stuff in the shop, like whoever's birthday or anniversary or whatever - I forget.

Now in the case of Cecelia Stego Chilo (for that is the former minister's name), she had forgotten to pay the licence for the last 16 years. So I suppose you could conclude that she's so forgetful that she has no business being a minister. I mean, if she's that forgetful, she might forget to come to work some day, or even most days, in fact. Or, she might forget who she is altogether and go around the streets naked and looking for money for her pet cat's eye operation, or something. In fact, with a name like Cecelia Stego Chilo, I suspect that she's forgotten her real name, because that's not a very Swedish name, is it?. You really wouldn't know with someone that forgetful, would you? That's the point I'm trying to make.

She was minister number two to resign from the same government. Her colleague over in Trade - Maria Borelius - resigned the other day because didn't she go and buy a house a while back through a Jersey-registered firm and, guess what, it totally slipped her mind to pay tax on the bloody thing! Well! If I had a half a euro for every time I've done that, I don't know whether I'd be in heaven or hell at this stage!

I'm surprised to find such a concentration of forgetfulness in such a relatively small group of Swedes. I always got the impression that they had so little to worry about there, that they had no problem keeping their minds focused on things. But maybe that's the very problem there. Maybe, it's because they don't have to worry about doctor bills or schools or pensions or anything that they become a bit docile, or even, stupid. Maybe if you reduce the number of things to worry about, you become more relaxed and, by extension, more forgetful. I notice that when I forcibly reduce the number of things that I worry about, I get more relaxed and I can't remember what happens next. Interesting.

Forgetfulness is a disease common in Ireland too, and particularly amongst Irish politicians. Poor Bertie hasn't a notion what happened to him at all from about 1980 up to the present day. Money was coming into his accounts and into his hand before he had accounts and God only knows where it originated. Friends, obviously, but what their names were, he just can't remember. Maybe if a few heavies from Fine Gael, the Green Party and Sinn Fein (they'd be the ones with the knuckle dusters and baseball bats) got him in a room and showed him pictures of friends, it might jog his memory.

Time to wrap things up: I had something else important to get down on paper there, but I've forgotten what it was.

Munster Madness

So they've finally lost at their Thomond Park fortress...

Well, this day was on its way, so to speak. But the fact of the matter is that it didn't really have to actually arrive, so to speak, and if you know what I mean. What I'm trying to say is that you wouldn't mind so much if the record was to be knocked off of its pedastel by a fine strong bastar of a team from France or England or wherever. But, the fact of the actual ma I'm too exhausted; I'll finish this thought in the morning / afternoon .


Feeling better now - even for a Monday morning. Well, I think the thought that I was trying to get to was that, apart from the double-blow of losing Paul O'Connell and Ronan O'Gara, there seemed to be a lack of confidence in Munster. I think that this is just the beginning, unfortunately. I think, I''m afraid to say, that there is a growing, troubling realisation amongst the players and staff alike, that they know they've done wrong; betrayed their fans, their people, sold their souls at a cheap price... however you like to put it, it all adds up to the same dirty, dirty thing. They've jumped onto the Greed Express now, leaving the sports fans toiling in their wake. It just makes me angry and more besides.

Election Tissues

Now that we have an election looming (and, curiously, they also have a presidential one looming in France. I don't know if that's the kind of thing that happens on purpose due to Euro-standardising or if it's just coincidental), I think that it's high time we all started to demand things for a better Ireland, isn't it? We should start setting the agenda, pushing it into place, getting it dressed up, combing its hair, de-lousing it, whatever; getting some tangibility into election issues. I, for one, will be pushing for the addition of the letter "t" to be placed directly in front of the issues. This will instantly allow such intransigent, slippery, indefinable things to become tangible, useful things. This is very important if we are ever to get a grip on issues as they arise. If they're not tangible, then how is anyone ever going to get a grip on them? Not possible, really. Think about it - just for a second before you read the next sentence... Tissues are very important in this colder, wetter sort of weather that we've been having of late. I'm going through a fair amount of tissues at the moment, and on a daily basis, so I could do with as many tissues as possible; not the stupid scented ones, mind; they're only for queers. I'm talking about the normal ones, the ones that you wouldn't be embarrassed to produce in public. We all need to insist on 4-ply strength too. I had a horrible and very messy accident last night with a 2-ply packet I bought (no, actually herself bought) in Lidl. I was a little emotional after the soccer and the beauty of it and the goal from Kilbane that was like a fragrant young flower sprouting out of an old heap of shit, and then the other goal coming so soon after and the huffing and the puffing and the near miss from a man whose best form is dearly missed and.. well, let's say I just had a heavy cold and it made my eyes weep and my nose run. I wiped my eyes with the 2-ply. Ok so far. I blow on the nose into the 2-ply and... "Fuck sake!" I shout, making the kids jump, "Look at this shit!" Like a man trying to extract a messy piece of toffee from his nose using a piece of toilet paper, only it wasn't toffee.
I screamed some more, I ran out of the room, and.... the rest doesn't really matter. I think that I've made my point on this matter, though. It's not all fun and games in the world of tissues, so it's no harm at all, no matter what your religious persuasion is, was or will ever be, to highlight these and all types of tissues with your local politician; you need something that you can get a hold of. Vote with care for people who care. yes, that's it. If nothing else, make sure not to give your vote to people who care only for themselves. It's hard to spot these people because they look and sound very much like people who do care about the Republic. And, by the way, don't be afraid to use that word "Republic". One of the few good things of permanence that Bertie has done is to try to instill the very idea of a Republic back into minds of our citizens. It's a good thing - don't worry. And we don't need to apologise to the Brits about it. I know a lot of them mightn't like it, but many of them do. Anyway, the stole our land, so that's the why.

I must check the label on those anti-biotics; I don't think the whole course was meant to last only a day and a half.

All Change...

All is changed, changed utterly...
A terribly strange sort of peculiar kind of class of an inexplicably unexpected kind of wonderful sort of kind of, well... beauty has been born, in a sense. Let's hope it lasts, Staunton, you feckin' eejit!

Terrified of the Czechs

I'm afraid that I am; terrified, that is, of what's going to happen to us tonight at the hands of the Czech national soccer team who have made a point of coming here to our fair country from their remarkably clean and tidy country with pretty towns such as Cesky Krumlov and Prague. They come tonight armed not so much with lovely beer, but with dangerously lovely football skills and a run of impressive wins.

These are indeed trying times for an Irish soccer fan. At this particular time, try as I might, I cannot see any conceivable reason as to why Ireland will win their match tonight, as win they must. But they won't. The blind are being lead by those blind to any form of motivation (apart from a fat salary an expensive house in England and an Essex girlfriend), who are in turn being led by Steve Staunton. All very worrying and confusing. Steven "Eh-im thu Gaf-fur!" Staunton is lucky that he has some excuse in the fact that his team has actually been hit by a mysterious, sort-of inexplicable and unexplained injury plague. So mysterious it is, in fact, that he'd nearly want to check that he hasn't got a boy with a disturbing and vacant look on his face called Damien hanging around the training sessions. But even taking into account the disease of damage that has afflicted his squad, it still doesn't explain how Ireland has turned into the Liechtenstein senior citizens mentally retarded special needs team. Not really.

The game in Cyprus was a curiously entertaining one. It was such an astonishing match that I found it completely absorbing and utterly compelling; how many goals can these goofs score against us? 4? 5? More....!!?? When Cyprus scored their 4th, I laughed and cried simultaneously like a joke machine thing where you press the button and manic laughter comes out and it vibrates in your hand (if such a thing exists - I dunno). The children moved out of the living room altogether after that, huddling in the comfort of their mother in the hallway while I continued speaking to myself using words, mime and hand movements and increased the speed of beer ingestion.

So, I suppose the next emotion in this intriguing merrygoround of emotions brought on by the recent travails of the national football team, may very well be anger. I saw Stan on the tv again last night and when he mentioned "I'll take it on the chin.." in the context of bearing responsibility for the Cyprus disaster, all I could think about for a fleeing moment was swinging a fire-extinguisher at his large chin. Now that my (very relaxing) summer has ended and the start of the Heineken Cup is fast approaching, my anger levels are also increasing as I know I'll soon be faced with the dilemma of either (a) subscribing to that wretched crowd of "Sky" (pardon the language) cunts.. (b) going to the pub to watch it... or (c) sulking at home, preaching to the family about the evils of greed coupled with satellite tv. Ohhhh.... it's enough to make your blood boil, so it is.

That's it - work today was incredibly boring - even more boring than yesterday. I'm off home to drink beer / wine / Southern Comfort in front of the tv and will focus my expectations on an entertaining analysis from the RTE football panel.

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