This is a recording of a band who I used to go and see when I worked as a music teacher in an Irish language summer school. I was a ceannaire, a sort of student supervisor, and we would go out every night drinking, it was insane.
The band, Blonderbraü, was made up of teachers from the area, and we would hang out in the pubs they played at. I think this night this was recorded, I was sitting right beside the the camera, and we made up about half the pub, it was fucking excellent.
Enjoy!!
Showing posts with label ireland. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ireland. Show all posts
Monday, April 12, 2010
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Black-eyed Freeze - an anecdote within an anecdote within an anecdote...
So I’m currently sitting in Birmingham International Airport (BHX for you international airport designation fetishists) doing a wee bit of typing, because people keep staring at me. There’s a chance that I may be called away for my flight soon, but unless I say otherwise, assume I wrote this post here, also this post is going to be FUCKING MASSIVE)
-funny fact-ette, I’m at a Costa coffee adding to my future massive heart-attack and people keep staring at me. The place is packed with home-goers, all sharing tables, but I’m the fat girl at the party with icing on her chin that no-one wants to dance with. Awwww.
First of all, why am I in Birmingham when, cor blimey Mary Poppins, I live in London?
Good question reader! Well, yesterday (22nd) I left my little Uberflat in the wee hours, slipping and sliding with my luggage and Lassie as I tried to walk up my little street which was glazed with ice. I somehow made it to the train station, looking like a plum that someone had jizzed on, got the train and after a half-hour journey, found myself in Luton airport.
Now, I was a bit hungover yesterday. On Monday I went to the jobcentre and then found out that my dole application had been rejected. That’s right, I’m so awesome that I can’t even sign on properly. Anyway, I was walking back from the Dole office, feeling somewhat dejected about how the week had been when I passed a joke shop with ‘Help Wanted’ written on it. I bounded in, shaking myself like a dog (it was snowing ridiculously heavily) and met the manager. I gave him my CV, heavily implied I would give him oral sex, and went on my way, somewhat bouyed by how I may have just gotten a job, and choosing to ignore that it was in no way a Law job or that no-one else seemed to be interested in having it.
(Quick question out there: Who thinks I should work in a joke shop?)
I went to the pub to say goodbye to my barfly friends (the cool pub I drink at, not the shit hole I sometimes work at...) and had a few whiskeys (Yes ‘whiskey’ not ‘whisky’, based on the Irish word Uisce Bheatha – Water of Life. Thank god/Darwin for St. Jameson) by the fire. It was lovely, a perfect warm respite from the freezing evening outside.
I had to cancel a date with ‘the girl that I’m seeing’ (which was really annoying cos she’s great) because I was going to have to leave the house at four or five to get the train because of the snow. Therefore the evening became a bit of a nothing-to-do affair so I stayed by the fire and chatted to my friends.
When I say ‘a few whiskeys’, I can’t really quantify how many. I drink doubles, because singles seem lonely, and there were definitely a few. Then people heard the ‘Boom Boom Pow’ story of my black eye and grew to love my sparkling repartee, and a few kind souls started buying me Christmas drinks. At that point I may have gone next door to the shithole and chatted for a while, because I distinctly remember drinking Guinness with a few of the grrrrrr locals and there was definitely more boozing there. I had a pizza at some point, then went back to the cool bar.
Scene deleted (I just called my friend Beatriz who works in the Cool Bar to find out what happened, and she said she’ll find out for me. I was good though, didn’t do anything bad at least)
I woke up at about 4, feeling grand. The birds were singing, the trees were saying and I definitely was not hungover. Yes, there was a distinct taste of vomit, and at least six hours were missing, but I hadn’t been raped and was in my own house, ready to get ready to try and get ready to go home...
CUT TO:
I was in Luton airport with a hangover. The worst snowstorm for the last 15 years was still raging, and quelle fucking surprise, like the sword of Damocles hanging over our holiday ambitions, the world-weary Easyjet crone-in-chief announced the flight was cancelled.
-Rather miffed, as you might imagine, I approaced the desk and asked whether there was any chance of transferring to a later flight.
No.
-I asked was the any point in trying to wait to see if the status changed (cos I imagine airport announcements to be rather like Facebook updates- “Luton Airpost is: So psyched for the snowwwwww!!! lololololo xx <3”)
No.
-I asked could I pay cash-money to buy a ticket on a later flight
Yes, sir (she didn’t say sir)
-I asked when the next available flight was.
January 2nd.
Fuck sake. I waited for about four or five hours and when it was patently clear that NOTHING was gonna happen, I went home.
(N.B. There was ‘an American’ present. ‘An American’ in travel terms for people who live outside the US, is the one American customer who makes a fuss about service. Usually middle-aged women in mountain-climbing boots and clothes woven from hemp, drinking from an unnecessarily large nalgene, her hair streaked liberally with grey. The usual response to ‘There was an American on my flight’ is to say ‘Ugh’. This is not an insult to Americans btw, it’s an inconvenient truth. My ‘American’ jumped up on the counter and sat, shouting at Easyjet Staff about her rights. I didn’t bother pointing out the finer aspects of consumer rights law to her, I couldn’t betray the sisterhood.)
I went to the Uberflat again and freaked out, there may or may not have been a few tears. My parents sprung into action. There were three options.
1) Spend Christmas and New Year with my lovely family in Kent (with whom I spent most of the Summer)
2) Take a 13 journey by train to Scotland, get the ferry to Belfast and teh Bus home. I favoured this because of the clear ‘adventure’ aspect.
3) Get the train tomorrow to Birmingham and get a flight to Derry, my home.
My mum bought the ticket, and this morning I once again got on the train. It cost £66 from London to Birmingham. That is more that the original (cancelled return flight to Belfast) cost.
Anyway, I’m in Birmingham airport:
For some reason people seem to fundamentally change their personalities when they’re about to travel, and not for the better. First of all, they overdress, to the extreme. Dowdy middle-aged women slap enough powder to represent modern art masterpieces (or fake-tan homages to spider web collections) and men, clearly dressed by their wives, adorn themselves with stone-washed denim, brown leather brogues, and whichever middle aged cry-for-help Esquire magazine has tricked them into buying.
(That’s not a swipe at Esquire, but it IS bit offputting to see men as old as my Dad trying to dress trendier than I do...not that the bar is set extremely high)
Also, because they’re about to do the unthinkable and jump on a plane, they think they’re superior to everyone. It’s the same from Forks, Washington to Ulaan Bataar (Twilight AND Mongol Rally ref. Tasty) people leave their manners with their packed liquids at the security queue.
Example!
I was in the queue for security when a little kid tripped over and started crying, his parents were about a foot or so in front and had sorta missed him for a second, as clearly happens when you’re running through an airport with the whole family. I love kids, and stooped down and scooped the wee blighter up, gave him a sorta half smile/half giggle and walked him to his Dad who had noticed. The wee fella grabbed my hand and I walked him over to his dad and did that ‘oh he had a fall’ thing and the Dad smiled his thanks. Then, the Mum, basically shoved the husband aside and wrenched the boy to her, glaring at me.
(I’m sorry, mea culpa, I clearly didn’t get the memo saying that if you help a kid who’s tripped you’ve become a foaming-at-the-mouth paedophile. I’ll just step over him next time)
The dad was mortified and I walked on.
So now I sit, with 20 minutes until my gate opens and the effects of the coffee kicking in. The place has quietened down a little and a feeling like le petit mort has settled in. For one I am glad to be going home, even if the flight is a little delayed.
See y’all on the other side folks.
xx
ps - I'm in Ireland now, after many hours of travel. The flight was diverted, then on arrival at a different airport, the buses were delayed. I'm now finally home, drinking red wine by the fire and watching Bridget Jones 2- The Edge of Reason with my wee sis and mum. They're perturbed by how much of the dialogue I know. I'm gonna sleep for a fucking week (hadn't sworn enough) and then have a fan dabby dozy Christmas. I'm gonna forget the worst week ever
1) The Boom Boom Pow
2) The No Job
3) The dole rejection
4) The missed flight
5) The mammoth journey home.
all that is going to be offset by
AN AMAZING FUCKING CHRISTMAS WITH THE PEOPLE I LOVE.
-funny fact-ette, I’m at a Costa coffee adding to my future massive heart-attack and people keep staring at me. The place is packed with home-goers, all sharing tables, but I’m the fat girl at the party with icing on her chin that no-one wants to dance with. Awwww.
First of all, why am I in Birmingham when, cor blimey Mary Poppins, I live in London?
Good question reader! Well, yesterday (22nd) I left my little Uberflat in the wee hours, slipping and sliding with my luggage and Lassie as I tried to walk up my little street which was glazed with ice. I somehow made it to the train station, looking like a plum that someone had jizzed on, got the train and after a half-hour journey, found myself in Luton airport.
Now, I was a bit hungover yesterday. On Monday I went to the jobcentre and then found out that my dole application had been rejected. That’s right, I’m so awesome that I can’t even sign on properly. Anyway, I was walking back from the Dole office, feeling somewhat dejected about how the week had been when I passed a joke shop with ‘Help Wanted’ written on it. I bounded in, shaking myself like a dog (it was snowing ridiculously heavily) and met the manager. I gave him my CV, heavily implied I would give him oral sex, and went on my way, somewhat bouyed by how I may have just gotten a job, and choosing to ignore that it was in no way a Law job or that no-one else seemed to be interested in having it.
(Quick question out there: Who thinks I should work in a joke shop?)
I went to the pub to say goodbye to my barfly friends (the cool pub I drink at, not the shit hole I sometimes work at...) and had a few whiskeys (Yes ‘whiskey’ not ‘whisky’, based on the Irish word Uisce Bheatha – Water of Life. Thank god/Darwin for St. Jameson) by the fire. It was lovely, a perfect warm respite from the freezing evening outside.
I had to cancel a date with ‘the girl that I’m seeing’ (which was really annoying cos she’s great) because I was going to have to leave the house at four or five to get the train because of the snow. Therefore the evening became a bit of a nothing-to-do affair so I stayed by the fire and chatted to my friends.
When I say ‘a few whiskeys’, I can’t really quantify how many. I drink doubles, because singles seem lonely, and there were definitely a few. Then people heard the ‘Boom Boom Pow’ story of my black eye and grew to love my sparkling repartee, and a few kind souls started buying me Christmas drinks. At that point I may have gone next door to the shithole and chatted for a while, because I distinctly remember drinking Guinness with a few of the grrrrrr locals and there was definitely more boozing there. I had a pizza at some point, then went back to the cool bar.
Scene deleted (I just called my friend Beatriz who works in the Cool Bar to find out what happened, and she said she’ll find out for me. I was good though, didn’t do anything bad at least)
I woke up at about 4, feeling grand. The birds were singing, the trees were saying and I definitely was not hungover. Yes, there was a distinct taste of vomit, and at least six hours were missing, but I hadn’t been raped and was in my own house, ready to get ready to try and get ready to go home...
CUT TO:
I was in Luton airport with a hangover. The worst snowstorm for the last 15 years was still raging, and quelle fucking surprise, like the sword of Damocles hanging over our holiday ambitions, the world-weary Easyjet crone-in-chief announced the flight was cancelled.
-Rather miffed, as you might imagine, I approaced the desk and asked whether there was any chance of transferring to a later flight.
No.
-I asked was the any point in trying to wait to see if the status changed (cos I imagine airport announcements to be rather like Facebook updates- “Luton Airpost is: So psyched for the snowwwwww!!! lololololo xx <3”)
No.
-I asked could I pay cash-money to buy a ticket on a later flight
Yes, sir (she didn’t say sir)
-I asked when the next available flight was.
January 2nd.
Fuck sake. I waited for about four or five hours and when it was patently clear that NOTHING was gonna happen, I went home.
(N.B. There was ‘an American’ present. ‘An American’ in travel terms for people who live outside the US, is the one American customer who makes a fuss about service. Usually middle-aged women in mountain-climbing boots and clothes woven from hemp, drinking from an unnecessarily large nalgene, her hair streaked liberally with grey. The usual response to ‘There was an American on my flight’ is to say ‘Ugh’. This is not an insult to Americans btw, it’s an inconvenient truth. My ‘American’ jumped up on the counter and sat, shouting at Easyjet Staff about her rights. I didn’t bother pointing out the finer aspects of consumer rights law to her, I couldn’t betray the sisterhood.)
I went to the Uberflat again and freaked out, there may or may not have been a few tears. My parents sprung into action. There were three options.
1) Spend Christmas and New Year with my lovely family in Kent (with whom I spent most of the Summer)
2) Take a 13 journey by train to Scotland, get the ferry to Belfast and teh Bus home. I favoured this because of the clear ‘adventure’ aspect.
3) Get the train tomorrow to Birmingham and get a flight to Derry, my home.
My mum bought the ticket, and this morning I once again got on the train. It cost £66 from London to Birmingham. That is more that the original (cancelled return flight to Belfast) cost.
Anyway, I’m in Birmingham airport:
For some reason people seem to fundamentally change their personalities when they’re about to travel, and not for the better. First of all, they overdress, to the extreme. Dowdy middle-aged women slap enough powder to represent modern art masterpieces (or fake-tan homages to spider web collections) and men, clearly dressed by their wives, adorn themselves with stone-washed denim, brown leather brogues, and whichever middle aged cry-for-help Esquire magazine has tricked them into buying.
(That’s not a swipe at Esquire, but it IS bit offputting to see men as old as my Dad trying to dress trendier than I do...not that the bar is set extremely high)
Also, because they’re about to do the unthinkable and jump on a plane, they think they’re superior to everyone. It’s the same from Forks, Washington to Ulaan Bataar (Twilight AND Mongol Rally ref. Tasty) people leave their manners with their packed liquids at the security queue.
Example!
I was in the queue for security when a little kid tripped over and started crying, his parents were about a foot or so in front and had sorta missed him for a second, as clearly happens when you’re running through an airport with the whole family. I love kids, and stooped down and scooped the wee blighter up, gave him a sorta half smile/half giggle and walked him to his Dad who had noticed. The wee fella grabbed my hand and I walked him over to his dad and did that ‘oh he had a fall’ thing and the Dad smiled his thanks. Then, the Mum, basically shoved the husband aside and wrenched the boy to her, glaring at me.
(I’m sorry, mea culpa, I clearly didn’t get the memo saying that if you help a kid who’s tripped you’ve become a foaming-at-the-mouth paedophile. I’ll just step over him next time)
The dad was mortified and I walked on.
So now I sit, with 20 minutes until my gate opens and the effects of the coffee kicking in. The place has quietened down a little and a feeling like le petit mort has settled in. For one I am glad to be going home, even if the flight is a little delayed.
See y’all on the other side folks.
xx
ps - I'm in Ireland now, after many hours of travel. The flight was diverted, then on arrival at a different airport, the buses were delayed. I'm now finally home, drinking red wine by the fire and watching Bridget Jones 2- The Edge of Reason with my wee sis and mum. They're perturbed by how much of the dialogue I know. I'm gonna sleep for a fucking week (hadn't sworn enough) and then have a fan dabby dozy Christmas. I'm gonna forget the worst week ever
1) The Boom Boom Pow
2) The No Job
3) The dole rejection
4) The missed flight
5) The mammoth journey home.
all that is going to be offset by
AN AMAZING FUCKING CHRISTMAS WITH THE PEOPLE I LOVE.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Why Irish Politicians are more fun than most other...
Okay, so as a nation, the Republic of Ireland is never going to be as internationally powerful as say, the US, or Britain, in any sense other than cultural or from an 'intellectual economy' point of view, thanks to the ridiculous amount of job stealing graduates....Thanks, modern Ireland!
Also, unlike the US and UK, which are (actually for the US, and in practice for the UK) two party nations; Ireland has a much wider variance in it's political spectrum, no doubt due to the proportionate representation method of election. While it is arguably more democratic, it inevitably leads to a mosaic of different parties, and thus, the political landscape becomes quite complex. The five main parties (Fianna Fáil, Fine Gael, The Green Party, Labour and Sinn Féin) and a number of independents make up the members of the two houses of the Oireachtas; the Dáil and the Seanad. What's more, the government (the Taoiseach -Prime Minister- etc) has traditionally been a coalition, as the votes of one individual party will rarely be enough to make a majority.
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As a result of these two facts, there are two consequences, which are both desireable and often problematic:
1) All the passion and vim that other nations have for international affairs gets compounded down to a national level. Issues like social welfare, healthcare and the Budget become political parodies of dystopic nuclear battlefields. The little things matter, and we'll let you know, dammit!
2) Because of the itty-bitty nature of representation, a largely differing political spectrum and the nature of the coalition government, things can get a little...bitchy. Everyone scrambling to say what they mean, and getting into petty squabbles in the wee hours.
So, when Deputy Paul Gogarty was debating a very small claus-ette to a very small article of a (very important, I'll admit) proposed Bill, he went into a bit of a strop when his sincerity was called into question, and...well....he may have overreacted...
Ooh er, well, okay. Calm down, man.
Apart from seeming like a seven year old who doesn't know how to return smack-talk to some neighbourhood youths, this is pretty funny stuff from the Deputy from Lucan.
Still, at least we're not as bad as the Bolivians....
Grrrrrrrrrrr, passion!
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What really annoys me about this video is the response from...yes, you've guessed it, facebook cunts. These oxygen thiefs were quick to comment when the video of Gogarty was posted:
These people are what is wrong with the country and with politics, not some Deputy who gets a little over excited and swears. These fucking bits of dead skin with nothing valid to add. Fuck me, I mean, I sorta respect the fact that he was passionate and reckless enough to take the risk and lose his temper. How many people are going to know about this man and listen to what he has to say from now on? Everyone.
Fucking Facebook parasites.
Anyway, my rant aside, this is why Irish Politicians are a little more fun than every other country (except Bolivia) If you excuse the manic glint in his eye, this guy is good...even if I don't agree with his politics
Also, unlike the US and UK, which are (actually for the US, and in practice for the UK) two party nations; Ireland has a much wider variance in it's political spectrum, no doubt due to the proportionate representation method of election. While it is arguably more democratic, it inevitably leads to a mosaic of different parties, and thus, the political landscape becomes quite complex. The five main parties (Fianna Fáil, Fine Gael, The Green Party, Labour and Sinn Féin) and a number of independents make up the members of the two houses of the Oireachtas; the Dáil and the Seanad. What's more, the government (the Taoiseach -Prime Minister- etc) has traditionally been a coalition, as the votes of one individual party will rarely be enough to make a majority.
------
-----
----
---
--
-
As a result of these two facts, there are two consequences, which are both desireable and often problematic:
1) All the passion and vim that other nations have for international affairs gets compounded down to a national level. Issues like social welfare, healthcare and the Budget become political parodies of dystopic nuclear battlefields. The little things matter, and we'll let you know, dammit!
2) Because of the itty-bitty nature of representation, a largely differing political spectrum and the nature of the coalition government, things can get a little...bitchy. Everyone scrambling to say what they mean, and getting into petty squabbles in the wee hours.
So, when Deputy Paul Gogarty was debating a very small claus-ette to a very small article of a (very important, I'll admit) proposed Bill, he went into a bit of a strop when his sincerity was called into question, and...well....he may have overreacted...
Ooh er, well, okay. Calm down, man.
Apart from seeming like a seven year old who doesn't know how to return smack-talk to some neighbourhood youths, this is pretty funny stuff from the Deputy from Lucan.
Still, at least we're not as bad as the Bolivians....
Grrrrrrrrrrr, passion!
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What really annoys me about this video is the response from...yes, you've guessed it, facebook cunts. These oxygen thiefs were quick to comment when the video of Gogarty was posted:
18 hours ago
Emily B
what a twat. you'd know he was a green.
17 hours ago
Aaron M.
He should have been booted through the front door.
13 hours ago
Amy D
sounds like something you'd hear in the pub- twat, i second that.
12 hours ago
Megan Mc L
12 hours ago
Megan Mc L
twat
6 hours ago
Jane McG
Whatta plonker! deV would be rolling around in his grave!
5 hours ago
Emma L
and we wonder why we're in the mess we're in...who the hell voted for this man!!
2 hours ago
These people are what is wrong with the country and with politics, not some Deputy who gets a little over excited and swears. These fucking bits of dead skin with nothing valid to add. Fuck me, I mean, I sorta respect the fact that he was passionate and reckless enough to take the risk and lose his temper. How many people are going to know about this man and listen to what he has to say from now on? Everyone.
Fucking Facebook parasites.
Anyway, my rant aside, this is why Irish Politicians are a little more fun than every other country (except Bolivia) If you excuse the manic glint in his eye, this guy is good...even if I don't agree with his politics
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Naughty Step Democracy and the Death of a Reckless Liver
I don't sleep well, it's a fact.
In the old brain, there's a weird chemical mix-up caused by Nature that dictates that no matter how long I stay in bed, I'll only ever get two or three hours sleep a night. I hate it, but I'm well used to it (as I've been like this for the last seven years) and it doesn't mean that I never rest. In fact, I'm such a lazy bastard that I will lie in until I absolutely have to get out of bed and (grumpily) greet the day.
Usually, the process of waking up is a phase-by-phase affair, with much swearing, rolling over and double-checking the clock. Then, when either my (often ignored) conscience or my (piece of shit Soviet-era) phone goes off, I eventually pad downstairs to s/s/s and have a cup of tea or an espresso. It's a routine that I know well, a certain comfort existing for me in the familiarity and daily annoyance of it.
Today was not one of those day. This is how I woke up. Obviously that's another metaphor, but this morning's hangover was so fucking awful that I yelped.
Yesterday, when I was uptown with my aunt, we decided to celebrate a successful trip to the bank with a pint. Well, two pints. Then, when we returned to the house, we had to celebrate getting home safely...by drinking a load of budweiser. Somehow dinner was prepared and eaten and we settled down to watch a RomZomCom with S&D and their friend Ola. Victorious at having beaten Death and lived for another day, we drank and made merry. Then Uncle D brought out Sambuca, and the evening took a turn for the worst.
The film over, I was sitting on S&D's lovely gargantuan sofa and suddenly I realised that we were all talking bullshit. Lots of shit. We moved to the kitchen and S and I smoked a lot, whilst continuing to promise myself that I was successfully quitting. As the two of us sat, smoked and talked shit, the conversation took a turn for the 'air family laundry' and 'talk about things that bring up waaaay too many emotions' and we both turned into tawdry, teary-eyed puddles of chemical imbalance and borderline alcohol poisoning. Then I made out with the toilet for a while, good bye curry.
Then, I got on the phone and texted AND called a certain young lady. I don't usually drink and dial (apart from an occasion where I called a girl to tell her she had "lovely, shiny hair and a pretty smile" that I don't need to discuss here) but last night I went ahead and did it. Smooooooooth.
Right, I can see you shaking your head in disappointment. Give me a break okay? Everyone's allowed to drop the ball every so often.
So this morning, I woke up feeling like a concrete pigeon had taken a crap on my head, and then the world of Facebook annoyed the fuck out of me. I saw lots of status updates from people I usually think are rational and fair-minded, people I love and respect immensely. Here's why I was annoyed: The Lisbon Treaty
Last summer, on the 12th June 2008, Ireland rejected the Lisbon Treaty. For months beforehand, the different political parties, interest groups, worker's unions and people of note had raped every signpost and spare inch of wall across the whole of the country with posters, clouded up the very finite amount of radiospace and television airtime and clogged up social networking sites, new sites and newspapers with their positions, whether pro- or anti-Treaty. Short films were made with cliché attempts at political satire, and the entire nation was bored fucking senseless with the entire deal. As with most politics, the general public were more-or-less oblivious to the vast majority of the proposed legislation. Most people got their opinions from the hysterics of the 'No' campaign, or the vague uncertainty of the 'Yes' campaign, using the misleading bias of the print media as a sort of ignorance grout, holding together vague notions of what the Treaty could mean. 'No' supporters decried the imminent loss of Irish neutrality (not at all possible under the Treaty without the Irish people ratifying that) and culture while 'Yes' supporters vaguely promised that everyone would become massively wealthy and that we'd all get to have sex with nubile Italian women with loose morals.
Now, personally, I would be in favour of the Treaty. I am a pro-EU guy and think that the streamlining of all the old Treaties by amendment and the coming into force of the Charter of Rights (which for example bans capital punishment) are things which should be embraced. I also wouldn't mind having sex with a lot of nubile Italian girls.
Here's the problem though: the Irish people already voted No, way back in the times of ancient history (last summer) that have gone from memory and passed into fable.
Legally, thanks to the 1987 case of Crotty v. An Taoiseach, any serious amendments to the European Union treaties have to be ratified by the government AND the Irish people at referendum. In 2008 we had a referendum, the people voted no.
Ireland is recognised as being one of the most democratic countries in the world but this seems to be highly undemocratic practice. It was a political embarrassment that Ireland said no, after it's politicians being some of the architects for this new European law, and there was a hell of a lot of pressure on the Irish government because of the reaction of the Irish people. Now another referendum has been organised for tomorrow, the 2nd October.
I ask you, how democratic is that? It seems like the Irish have been sat on the naughty step for the last year, and now will be expected to be good little children and vote as they're expected.What if the 'No' camp win again? Will there be a 2010 referendum? It seems that the silly Irish didn't get it right the first....silly Irish electorate.
It is widely considered that if the 'No' camp win out tomorrow, then the Treaty of Lisbon will die. I sincerely hope this is not the case, as I am a 'Yes' chap. However, the sheep of facebook who say "John Smith: voting YES! and if you say no yur a reetard" are really getting on my nerves. This naughty step democracy is contrary to the political freedom we Irish deserve and hopefully this is only a minor blip. What's more, those who try to beguile and mislead to sway people's opinion are scumbags, simple as.
I think my friend Helen has the most rehreshing insight into this situation, and I urge anyone bored enough to read my blog to follow it:
Helen C has read the Lisbon Treaty in full and come to a decision- you should do the same!
Damn straight Helen, way to go sista!
So in conclusion, I'm hungover and pissed off with politics. Quelle fucking surprise...
In the old brain, there's a weird chemical mix-up caused by Nature that dictates that no matter how long I stay in bed, I'll only ever get two or three hours sleep a night. I hate it, but I'm well used to it (as I've been like this for the last seven years) and it doesn't mean that I never rest. In fact, I'm such a lazy bastard that I will lie in until I absolutely have to get out of bed and (grumpily) greet the day.
Usually, the process of waking up is a phase-by-phase affair, with much swearing, rolling over and double-checking the clock. Then, when either my (often ignored) conscience or my (piece of shit Soviet-era) phone goes off, I eventually pad downstairs to s/s/s and have a cup of tea or an espresso. It's a routine that I know well, a certain comfort existing for me in the familiarity and daily annoyance of it.
Today was not one of those day. This is how I woke up. Obviously that's another metaphor, but this morning's hangover was so fucking awful that I yelped.
Yesterday, when I was uptown with my aunt, we decided to celebrate a successful trip to the bank with a pint. Well, two pints. Then, when we returned to the house, we had to celebrate getting home safely...by drinking a load of budweiser. Somehow dinner was prepared and eaten and we settled down to watch a RomZomCom with S&D and their friend Ola. Victorious at having beaten Death and lived for another day, we drank and made merry. Then Uncle D brought out Sambuca, and the evening took a turn for the worst.
The film over, I was sitting on S&D's lovely gargantuan sofa and suddenly I realised that we were all talking bullshit. Lots of shit. We moved to the kitchen and S and I smoked a lot, whilst continuing to promise myself that I was successfully quitting. As the two of us sat, smoked and talked shit, the conversation took a turn for the 'air family laundry' and 'talk about things that bring up waaaay too many emotions' and we both turned into tawdry, teary-eyed puddles of chemical imbalance and borderline alcohol poisoning. Then I made out with the toilet for a while, good bye curry.
Then, I got on the phone and texted AND called a certain young lady. I don't usually drink and dial (apart from an occasion where I called a girl to tell her she had "lovely, shiny hair and a pretty smile" that I don't need to discuss here) but last night I went ahead and did it. Smooooooooth.
Right, I can see you shaking your head in disappointment. Give me a break okay? Everyone's allowed to drop the ball every so often.
So this morning, I woke up feeling like a concrete pigeon had taken a crap on my head, and then the world of Facebook annoyed the fuck out of me. I saw lots of status updates from people I usually think are rational and fair-minded, people I love and respect immensely. Here's why I was annoyed: The Lisbon Treaty
Last summer, on the 12th June 2008, Ireland rejected the Lisbon Treaty. For months beforehand, the different political parties, interest groups, worker's unions and people of note had raped every signpost and spare inch of wall across the whole of the country with posters, clouded up the very finite amount of radiospace and television airtime and clogged up social networking sites, new sites and newspapers with their positions, whether pro- or anti-Treaty. Short films were made with cliché attempts at political satire, and the entire nation was bored fucking senseless with the entire deal. As with most politics, the general public were more-or-less oblivious to the vast majority of the proposed legislation. Most people got their opinions from the hysterics of the 'No' campaign, or the vague uncertainty of the 'Yes' campaign, using the misleading bias of the print media as a sort of ignorance grout, holding together vague notions of what the Treaty could mean. 'No' supporters decried the imminent loss of Irish neutrality (not at all possible under the Treaty without the Irish people ratifying that) and culture while 'Yes' supporters vaguely promised that everyone would become massively wealthy and that we'd all get to have sex with nubile Italian women with loose morals.
Now, personally, I would be in favour of the Treaty. I am a pro-EU guy and think that the streamlining of all the old Treaties by amendment and the coming into force of the Charter of Rights (which for example bans capital punishment) are things which should be embraced. I also wouldn't mind having sex with a lot of nubile Italian girls.
Here's the problem though: the Irish people already voted No, way back in the times of ancient history (last summer) that have gone from memory and passed into fable.
Legally, thanks to the 1987 case of Crotty v. An Taoiseach, any serious amendments to the European Union treaties have to be ratified by the government AND the Irish people at referendum. In 2008 we had a referendum, the people voted no.
Ireland is recognised as being one of the most democratic countries in the world but this seems to be highly undemocratic practice. It was a political embarrassment that Ireland said no, after it's politicians being some of the architects for this new European law, and there was a hell of a lot of pressure on the Irish government because of the reaction of the Irish people. Now another referendum has been organised for tomorrow, the 2nd October.
I ask you, how democratic is that? It seems like the Irish have been sat on the naughty step for the last year, and now will be expected to be good little children and vote as they're expected.What if the 'No' camp win again? Will there be a 2010 referendum? It seems that the silly Irish didn't get it right the first....silly Irish electorate.
It is widely considered that if the 'No' camp win out tomorrow, then the Treaty of Lisbon will die. I sincerely hope this is not the case, as I am a 'Yes' chap. However, the sheep of facebook who say "John Smith: voting YES! and if you say no yur a reetard" are really getting on my nerves. This naughty step democracy is contrary to the political freedom we Irish deserve and hopefully this is only a minor blip. What's more, those who try to beguile and mislead to sway people's opinion are scumbags, simple as.
I think my friend Helen has the most rehreshing insight into this situation, and I urge anyone bored enough to read my blog to follow it:
Helen C has read the Lisbon Treaty in full and come to a decision- you should do the same!
Damn straight Helen, way to go sista!
So in conclusion, I'm hungover and pissed off with politics. Quelle fucking surprise...
Friday, July 24, 2009
Something for the Weekend.
As per some of your requests... I've decided to put up some photos of Ireland.
I spent half my time growing up on an island off the NWest coast in Donegal. My parents go there every opportunity to go there and it's beautiful.
These are some pictures of that place. One of the photos has my little sis, Cíana, in my coat, having written the words 'Conor loves Dubledore" in response to my claim (also in the sand) that 'Cíana loves Daniel Radcliffe, which she does.
Anyway, these are just a few snaps of the best place in the world for me. Hope you like them. I'll more up when I come back after the boat-adventure.
Hope you all have a fun weekend!
Con
I spent half my time growing up on an island off the NWest coast in Donegal. My parents go there every opportunity to go there and it's beautiful.
These are some pictures of that place. One of the photos has my little sis, Cíana, in my coat, having written the words 'Conor loves Dubledore" in response to my claim (also in the sand) that 'Cíana loves Daniel Radcliffe, which she does.
Anyway, these are just a few snaps of the best place in the world for me. Hope you like them. I'll more up when I come back after the boat-adventure.
Hope you all have a fun weekend!
Con
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The funniest thing is that the only thing my ma could say was "yer man sounds exactly like Jedward with that Dub accent". Eh, what?! Jedward sound more like they're from Malibu than Dublin!