Shut your fucking wordhole!! It's Ear Time.

I was reading a new blog today, something I haven't done in a while, and the writer was talking about how he knows there is no god, as opposed to 'timid' atheists or rationalists, who merely disbelieve, or who know they don't know. I think based on his rather black and white definition, I was one of those timid ones, that amused me.

It was a very well written piece though, the law student in me liking the source-quoting, the 'close the gate' method of returning to his original point, and he even gave a half-hearted attempt to understand why people would have opinions contrary to his own.

Then the comments...

Now, I'm as open-minded as the next guy I hate the rest of the world as much as the next guy, and I always have something to say when people make massively broad statements such as 'I know there is no god'...even if I agree with 90% of what he said.

I was thinking that maybe I'd point out that his assertion that evolution was fact and not theory was erroneous, as the 'theory of evolution' is merely more plausible than sky-wizards and thus has greater scientific credence. I might also have pointed out that atheism isn't timid, it's more precise in scientific terms, science 'being aware' of the fact that it doesn't know the answer as opposed to religious fundies who accept creation theory as explaining a 'truth' how the world came about, and this writer being paradoxically as incorrect as them in proclaiming a universal truth about the creation of the universe.

(Yes, I do find it hard to fill the hours when I'm away from my girlfriend.)

I was considering how best to word this (I thought) rather eloquent riposte, when I scrolled down the comments page and saw that the nuts had got there first.

Anonymous wrote: YOU ATHEISTS ARE ALL MAD!!! If there's no God, HOW DOES THE SUN ORBIT THE EARTH??


I sat back, absolutely dumbfounded. No....no fucking way, this can't....please no...

Then I saw that it was sarcasm, and nearly wept with relief. Life was good again. It was a blogger linking to his online store of atheist t-shirts. I threw a crust of bread at the unconscious hooker on my floor and smiled as my fear dissipated.

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It got me thinking though...mind-thinking. Why is it nowadays that people will discourse on a topic about which they know nothing?

When did it become okay to just 'have a go'? When did the world become so arrogant as to believe that everyone is an expert on a topic and has a valid point to make?

Post your comment:
Anonymous says: I attended a one week crash course on the ethics of biochemistry so I can talk with exclusive domain about a topic that people have endlessly debated for sixty years.

Anonymous 2 says: No WAY man!! You're crasy, My bibel tutor told me that biochemistry is what makes hommosexualls and asians, don't mess with God's plan!!!

Anonymous 3 says: Yeah, I half-read an online article about stem-cell research on a right-wing newspaper's website. YOU PEOPLE ARE SICK!!

Anonymous 4 says: I went to an obscure liberal arts college that none of you could afford and we had a very productive coffee-and-humous round table discussion of the moral consequences of stem-cell research. We agreed it's necessary for scientific development. I took philosophy for a semester so I know what I'm talking about. Lol.

Anonymous 5 says: Whats stencil research???

God Lover says: Bless you all, I pity you.

Anonymous 6 says: You know who else used stem cell research? Hitler!!!!!

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I mean, when did it become the norm for people to fool themselves that they had an expert opinion on something they've overheard in a pub?

I used to watch a lot of medical dramas (before I pawned my TV to buy chloroform and a handkerchief) but I'd never assume I could perform a tracheotomy.

I COMPLETELY agree with the concept of freedom of speech by the way, please don't think I'm advocating some restriction on people's right to voice opinions. I just wish people didn't kid themselves into believing they were an expert on everything they've read, seen or heard.

It happened to me the other day, and I literally didn't know how to respond. My girlfriend is moving house soon, and she and her flatmates are looking at houses in Northwest London. In fact, one of the places they're considering is Maida Vale, about a mile from where I used to live and somewhere I used to go running. It's one of the most expensive parts of London for property and I mentioned this, along with the fact that the Tube gets really slow in the mornings.

"No it doesn't"

What?

"I've been on that line before, it's really quick."

I was trying to point out that the two lines which service the entire area get extremely clogged in the mornings, as opposed to the east of London where there are more rail lines. Also, I mentioned that one of the lines gets closed every third weekend, thus increasing the pressure.

No, no listening there.

Now, I had lived there, knew the area well and could offer some practical advice, but the Flatmate knew better because she had heard otherwise from a friend. So what's the point?

In the Law, there is a tight control on what constitutes an expert witness. It's true for the Irish, UK and US legal systems. Not just anyone can come and give expert evidence. The court will insist on scrutinising qualifications, looking a practical experience (for say a fire officer in an arson case) scholarly articles and a whole panoply of other factors to to determine whether a purported witness knows what the fuck they're talking about...I'd love something similar in Real Life, like those regulators that stop a moped using above 150cc, or those machines that won't let the car start without a clean breathalyser test.

Because really, what's the fucking point of asking a question if you're not going to listen? Why does that whole fucking world close their ears until it's their time to speak and what the fuck has happened to our generation for us to believe that everything we read, see, hear or hear-from-a-friend-who-heard-it-from-some-bloke-who-overheard-it-down-the-fucking-pub?

So in future, if anyone asks me a question, I'm going to be really 100% accurate in my answer, or just not answer. Because when the entire world is so eager to talk, and no-one will listen to anything which is contrary to what they think they know, why fucking bother?

*end rant*

Blogswap!!

As part of the 20sbloggers 7th blogswap, I'm really happy that Melissa has come a-visiting and written a little piece for the old pizza box. Her blog is a haven for music lovers everywhere (but mainly Canada) and she's a really great writer...

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Hi everyone! My name is Melissa and this is my very first guest post on someone’s blog. I signed up for a blog swap a couple weeks ago, and after completely forgetting about it, I got a very nice message from Conor telling me we had been paired up. 2 days later and here I am trying to write a reasonably not-too-long, not-too-short post about myself and why I started blogging.

As a disclaimer, you should all know that Conor was nice enough to send me his post first so that I could have a little idea of how this whole blog swap thing works. After reading about our future as an old married couple at dinner parties, I got a bit of a better idea on how to write this out. Oh and by the way Con, I certainly hope our future isn’t so grim?! I promise I at least won’t be smoking, that’s not my thing.

So, how about a little bit about me and why I write. My blog is 85% music and my adventures on the borders of the industry. Now, I’m not some huge musical genius who can quote any song dating back from 1975, but I am in love with music TODAY. There’s something about seeing an artist or band perform that makes me feel like I know myself a little more.

If you’re looking for me, try one of my best friends’ cars, in a random city, or at a local bands’ show. There is NO better place in the world to me. The road is where everything happens. You discover the greatest new songs, you see the most beautiful views, and you spend time with the best people. Every concert I go to is like falling in love with music all over again.

Now all of this is really great and fun, but I can’t say that it’s really a blogging style or a reason that I started my blog in the first place. It is, however, the reason I keep doing it 3 years later.

I originally started blogging way too long ago to even remember the specific date but I must have been 15 or so. I eventually started writing on BlogSpot when I was about 18, and I moved over to WordPress over 3 years later. I’ve always been the kind of person who wears her heart on her sleeve- I always needed an outlet for my thoughts. Maybe that’s a big reason that I can’t live without music. To me, it’s the ultimate way to express your emotions.

I have to admit that sometimes it’s hard to remember why I keep going back to my blog. Why not a good old fashioned journal? Maybe it’s because I’ve relied on it so much over the years; maybe it’s simply through habit. I think everyone has their own reasons to keep their little space on the internet open. Conor pointed out in his post something that really made me laugh because it was just so true. He quoted George Orwell who stated that one of the reasons he writes is the sheer egoism of it all. Everybody wants to be remembered or thought of when they’re not around- has blogging really become the modern day way to do just that?

The more I think of it, the more I realize that it’s become difficult to sift through the thousands of bloggers out there to find the quality ones. Everyone seems to have something to say, but that doesn’t necessarily mean they should be publishing it online. Every once in a while I’ll come across a really GOOD blog, one that’s worth adding to my very short blog roll. I think that’s my favorite part about the blog swap. I would have never found Conor’s blog among all of them had it not been for our random pairing. Looking through his archives, I found myself laughing at his sarcasm, his humor and his (sometimes) blunt honesty. All qualities that you really do need to keep up a good blog. Hey Con, how’s that for an opening line at our future dinner parties?!

In any case, I write exactly how I speak, if that makes any sense. If I’m feeling sarcastic, I’ll write that way. If I’m feeling angry… you get the point. I don’t know if any of this is considered a ‘blogging style’ but maybe that’s a blogging style on its own. Forgive me, it’s getting late and I feel like I’m not making much sense anymore. I’ll give you an example though. I was looking over Conor’s blog and vlogs earlier, and I noticed that he does the same thing. His posts each have their own writing style, in some funny way. They each reflect a new part of him and who he is on that day.

Writing this post has probably been one of the most difficult things I’ve done all month. It’s nearly impossible to sum myself up, my thoughts on blogging and blogging styles… but there you have it. If you’ve read this far, thanks for not losing interest in my ramblings. And Conor, thanks for letting me take a little space on your blog! I’m really glad that I found your blog among the thousands out there. Keep up those incredibly entertaining vlogs of yours and keep in touch!

Telegram from the Queen.

Aaah, my 100th post. Also, my 50th follower. Also, my 23rd birthday.

I am satisfied. Feeling like I've just eaten a big meal that I can still taste, hours after, with every burp. I'm sitting in my bed in my pyjamas and a Law Society t-shirt, smelling like mint after a very long hot bath and listening to my playlist. I just talked to my lady Lopez and I'm contemplating bed.

I imagined getting a tweet or a Follow Friday from the Queen, but alas...

QEtooooo : One wishes @conordarrall congratulations for his 100th blog post and for still being alive after all this time. Pity he's a bloddy Paddy lol :P #FF #Blogs

Plus, I hate her and her stupid punchable face, so I SO would have unfollowed her.

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The last 24 hours have been eventful.

I went out for dinner with an old friend Emma last night. I stayed with her while looking for the Uberflat last summer and we hadn't seen each other since Christmas. She didn't know it was my birthday, so when I told her (after a while) she was mortified and took me drinking.

This bar wouldn't be my favourite in the world, but it does have a barmaid, Chess, who is ridiculously pretty, and who I've never had the courage to ask out. Emma and I chatted and drank, and when she stood up to leave, she looked at the barmaid and said, 'You should totally ask her out' extremely loudly, so that in the wake of her exit, Chess was looking over. We eventually got chatting, and getting quite drunk, I asked her out. It was smooth...

Chess "Oh I don't usually date customers, I'm sorry"

Me "Oh no, it's alright, I never drink here if I can help it"

-awkward silence

Chess "Okay, so where should we go?"

Me "Um.............the zoo?"

So yeah, I asked a beautiful women to go on a date with me to the zoo. Perfect work, maybe next time that happens I'll see if she wants to go visit a recycling depot. The good thing is that I got the date, but I have a sneaking suspicion it was because it was my birthday and I was (technically) drinking on my own so she took pity. We'll see...

She is VERY nice though.

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TODAY, I woke up a bit hungover (read: very hungover) and stumbled into work, bleary eyed and useless. I didn't tell anyone that it was my birthday apart from a few of the guys who I've made friends with and my buddy Sean whom I got a job for. At about 3, the Big Guy came over and stood right next me.

Oh shit, he can smell that badness seeping out of my pores and wants me to clear my desk

"I've got a problem sunshine"

"Um, you do?"

"Yeah, I don't like it.........when people who work here don't tell us it's their birthdays and make us check Facebook!"

"Wha-"

He pulled out a few bags from behind his back, he had bought muffins for everyone in the office to celebrate. It was lovely. I was a bit embarrassed but hell, it was such a nice gesture. It's little rays of sunshine like that that make the place eminently bearable.

Also, another little ray, the Prohibitively Mean Secretary (PMS) got fired today. She's a compulsive liar, and had been causing a lot problems by lying and not doing any work. I'll miss her 8-hour-long monologues that chart her real-time thought process. The absence of that tinnitus buzz of shite that pours out of her mouth will be sorely noted.

ANOTHER little ray of sunshine. My ubercool uncle/godfather/musician Brian called to wish me a happy birthday and tell me he likes this wee blog, was thrilled to hear it. Then Mamo, my granny, called and we spent 20 minutes chatting about blogging.

It was surreal: in the meeting room, stinking of stale booze, the shakes, exhausted, on my birthday, with PMS leaving for good, holding a muffin, chatting to my gran about blogging. She thoroughly approves of it, but I've warned her off reading. My description of things and post titles (think HGFLMcP and the Work Life Skullfuck for example) do tend to have a bit of swearing in them sometimes. She wants me to collate all my posts together and try and make a book out of it. I'd love to do that, but the writing needs to improve I suppose.

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I write a little notebook on the commute to and from work. It's like an old fashion version of a blog that is in a little book made of paper that you type in by using a pen. I keep my notes in Irish so the nosy cunts can't read over my shoulder (and it's also private, and looks vaguely intellectual) and I just found the last thing I wrote, without thinking, as my train pulled up to the station

Is fíorr a rá go dtéim ar strae in ámanna, ach in aineoinn na crúachtáin a thiteann ar an bhóthar anseo agus ansiúd, ag déanamh iarracht mé a bhrú as an slí, tá an t-ádh orm go bfhuil mé in ann léim thart orthú agus leansaint ar aghaidh.

I think that's true, but only a handful of you will ever know how much you've done towards this, or what it means to me. Most of that handful aren't allowed to read this blog, and the others are too polite to stop reading :)

So, not the best of 'Century's and hardly deserving of my lovely 50 followers, but frankly the best you could expect after 23 years of baths and pizza. Maybe age brings wisdom; I know for a fact it brings grey hairs, a beerbelly and obscene levels of rage.

Perhaps the next hundred will see me finally get to punch my beloved racist, let's hope so.

Con
xx


ps - this is what I'm listening to as I try to go to sleep, it's such a beautifully mysterious piece

Happy-go-fucking-lucky McPositive and the Work/Life Skullfuck

Aloha,

So I've been a bit of a phantom-man around the old blogosphere, popping my head up to bitch and moan about work, or put some innane and useless video up. In short, my posts have gone seriously downhill in terms of quality this past while. There are a few reasons:

1) I have SERIOUS writer's block at the moment. There are a few things that I really want to start working on, drama and comedy, and I can't for the life of me get my thinking hat to stay on my head. I can't even string a sentence together that is not something that I am reading from a page, or as in this case, reporting back.

2) I am tired. I know, I know, I complain about insomnia all the time, but this is fucking ridicularse. It's like I've got a mild concussion or a case of fume-induced delirium. I kinda feel a bit stoned, but in a way that's not cool, or relaxed or appetite-exaggerating in the slightest. It's like a warm cosy feeling mixed with a little scratchy squirrel trying to burrow his way from behind my eyes. Grrr

3) I'm a depressive person. If you spend enough time with me you get to know that, even in spite of the buffoonery. I honestly can't really give a larger-than-small shit about the old cyber world when my own head is so firmly ensconsed up my own arse. I'm also pissed-off more easily these days, like when I want to momentarily shove a barbed-wire dildo up the arse of the smug Corporate type passively aggressively whacking his suitcase into me on the Tube for more space. It's like a little madness.

BUT, most of all...

4)

Work. I used to roll my eyes when people talked about a 'work/life balance' as being something elusive and vaguely whitewhalish. "Who the fuck do you think you are, Ahab?"

Well, keeping with the Moby Dick theme, the only recurring character who I'm honestly representing at the moment is Mr Starbucks. I'm a caffeine-fuelled automaton, obsessed with the next source of a Joey boost at my job.

(NB: As it turns out, I was massively wrong about the people I work with. Again, I've jumped before looking and my first impression (and an uncharacteristic judgmental mood) was completely out of whack. It turns out I just hate working, the people i do it with are actually lovely, it's not their fault I'm a lazy cunt.)

What I'm finding at the moment is a bit of a cliché. I'm like the female protagonist who can't balance her trendy media job, her angst-ridden (less pretty) friends and the relationship with her oh-so-hunky-but-in-revelation-a-bit-of-a-dick boyfriend in a shite RomCom. I need some serious balance. At the moment, I come in from work, eat, drink tea, eat some more and go to bed. Occasionally I might read for 20 mins or halfheartedly chat online to some buddies, or even play some useless flash game. When I do finally get to bed, the atheistic panic streak before I turn the light off of 'Wow, life is seriously short. I need more time!' that would gnaw at me during my more-stress-but-less-miserable unemployed Chest Shaving/Escalator Tumbling days seems to be absent. Crikey bejikey, maybe I've conformed.

("Like, oh no man, what a drag.")

ANYWAY, I had this plan about work. I was thinking I'd go on some really strong dose of anti-depressant (oooh, like, say a 60mg daily dose of Citalopram or something) and just coast through the next while in a bit of a coma. It seems that that might not work (I haven't implemented it anyway) because I have to talk to people a lot at work....but we'll see. And by 'we'll see' I mean, 'Of course I won't do that'.
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A part of me has been wondering about the whole blog idea. When I began, about 10 months ago, I was intending it to be a forum to write about the law and politics, and definitely not use words like 'skullfuck' or 'barbed-wire dildo' to express my thoughts. It's like everything in life, you start with good intentions but before you know it, out come the dildoes.

So, and not in a 'girlfriend test' way, I'm going to think for a while about why I actually have this blog, and whether I want to keep it. I'll keep blogging, and actually try a wee bit more, but I may soon come to the conclusion to shut down the treehouse for a while. We'll see.





HAHA, how ranty and self-obsessed. There have been good developments in my life too, for example...

Dah dah dah daaaaaaaaaaaah!

I've done more of my 101 things to do...
1) Quit smoking cigarettes (that was fucking HARD!)

35) Get tickets to be in the audience for the radio recordings of what will be a TV comedy show (I'm claiming this as done because of the Twitter-based Sarah Millican tickets, that was an awesome night!)

Completed 7/101

So there, it's all relative I guess.
xx

I got a (slightly feminine) award!!

Aloha!

Hope you're all well. I've been given an award by my Irish-mob lovely Spanky! Apparently my blog is over the top, which is good? Anyway, I'm going to take it as a compliment and name a few blogs that I love.

Thanks a million Spankster! Her blog is excellent, and a little crazy, go check it out!

So, there are some tasks to complete before I can accept this lovely award! Huzzah!


part 1: answer questions:

1. Where is your cell phone? resting on my beergut (my Guinness baby, Arthur)

2. Your hair? Dark Brown

3. Your mother? insane/intelligent/Irish mother syndrome

4. Your father? brave/firefighter/handsome

5. Your favorite food? one guess....(the answer is pizza)

6. Your dream last night? didn't sleep but had a crazy doze-dream about a land where people lived on different levels connected by slides, who passed the time walking around all the time, stepping on coins. The coins went into the feet and would be picked out later, as the main source of income. The world was therefore heavily populated by wishing wells. Bit odd.

7. Your favorite drink? Coke or Red Wine or Whiskey (Jamesons)

8. Your dream/goal? A successful writing career

9. What room are you in? Grandma's living room

10. Your hobby? blogging, writing, smoking my pipe

11. Your fear? many, claustrophobia being one of the biggie

12. Where do you want to be in 6 years? qualified lawyer with a published book or produced screenplay

13. Where were you last night? Grandma's living room

14. Something you aren't? narrow-minded

15. Muffins? aye...if only for the bluffin'

16. Wish list item? a car (a Mini Cooper S or an Alvis TE 21)

17. Where did you grow up? Derry, Ireland

18. Last thing you did? drank a cup of tea.

19. What are you wearing? multicoloured socks, jeans, brown canvas belt, blue and white boxers, navy long-sleeve t-shirt, white shirt, aura of awesomeness.

20. Your TV? don't own one

21. Your pets? had a wee terrier called Holly when growing up RIP, and now we all love my aunt's wolf mutt, Bran.

22. Your friends? I have many 'friends'. Some are fake and full of shit and say they're my friends, but they're the bits of dead skin who get designated Facebook Cunts eventually and who I feel nothing for. I'm very very lucky for having the sincere friends I do. They are my second family, and I love them dearly, and they don't judge me, which is the most important thing.

23. Your life? Dull and unfulfilling at the moment, but usually a crazy misadventure that I love

24. Your mood? Antsy, cooped-up and frustrated, but eternally hopeful

25. Missing someone? not really, i don't really do homesick or lonely, just once in a blue moon. I miss my big bro Ruairí and his girlfriend Hannah, but I know he's happy in Vietnam so I'm okay. I always miss my wee bro Shane, and my adorable little sister, but we chat all the time so it's okay

26. Vehicle? Nope

27. Something you're not wearing? Assless leather chaps

28. Your favorite store? Probably one of my obscure bookshops/coffee shops somewhere, I'm not sure.

29. Your favorite color? green or blue

30. When was the last time you laughed? all the time

31. Last time you cried? I tear up all the time, prob about half an hour ago reading Letters of Note, especially this one

32. Your best friend? Ruairí ÓMaolain, Sara Lynn, Sparky (the flatmate) and any of the Derry boys.

33. One place that I go over and over? The Black Lion pub in Kilburn

34. One person who emails me regularly? The Novelista Barista (one of 'The Irish Mob')

35. Favorite place to eat? In the bath.

part 2: pass the award on..

Okay, first of all, here is an award for.....

Laurie at 'Girls are Smarter then You'. It's true, they are

Jenn-Boll at You'll Grow to Love Me. That may or not be true, but she is a very funny madam, with her rampant drug abuse, her work for CIA, and her naked antics at Tufts. We're getting married at some point.

Kerstin B at 'Trouble. Thinks.' - a lovely artistic soul who makes me laugh, think and (sometimes) scares me a little. She's awesome.

Stephen K. This fella's a guy like me. A write-addict insomniac law-guy who lives in London (we actually live comparatively close together) he is a great guy. He's a lot more idealistic than I am, and is a refreshing cynicism-buster if ever there was one. If you read my blog, you should read his too, if only cos it's better :)

Ashley @ Germato. I love this blog, but I'm not exactly sure why. Anyone who describes themselves as 'Living like they were dying' is the sort of phosphorous individual whom I can call a friend.

and finally:

SARA! That's right, Lopez from 8th Continent Soy Milk. This internet-savvy social-media goddess will undoubtedly capture your heart with her boundless happiness, cool cooking vids, her Meow mix personal serenades (which I formally ask permission to publish) and her coooool job. She's moving to cali from ohio in 12 days, so go show some love and luck. She's a darling.

Enjoy your award, winners! x

in words of Spanky:

luvs it*

Awards!!!

For the first time ever, I have some awards that I'd like to offer to those bloggers with whom I have developed a connection. This is a humane award, for people who embrace all aspects of what it is that makes us who we are.

In July of this year, my uber-cool NY gal-pal, the Novelista Barista gave me one of these (thanks!!) and now it's time for me to pass on a few myself...

This is for those thoughtful, intelligent people whose blogs make me smile, give me pause for thought, stir up interesting debate, or are just completely honest. I am glad to have met you all, and look forward to more from you in 2010.

(Okay...drumroll.)

Nikki, who apart from being a new friend (and one of the only redeeming features of this year) is also an excellent funny blogger. Her FML quosts and her irrational love of tea and writing make for excellent reading.

Jay, whose thoughts (ranging from poetry and love to the zombie apocalypse) are as scattered as my own, but infinitely more interesting.

Shinay, a writer whose beautiful poetry gives me pause for thought every day.

Melanie, who, for a person who describes herself as 'lost', is a lot more clued-up than most other people and makes me ponder life, and

Mr Apron, whose blog is snarky, opinionated, stubborn, intelligent, and infinitely more commendable than 99% of all the blogs out there. He raises issues of debate, and is one of those enlightened individuals for whom identicality of opinion is not a precursor for friendship, but who values reason.


I've only given 5 out because I think it's better to be selective. There'll be lots more to follow I'm sure.

Congratulations guys, you really make blogging a joy for me.

Con
x

Very short Repost

My good buddy the Novelista Barista is having a BONANZA this week. To celebrate the (admirable and enviable) feat of attaining 200+ followers, she's decided to give away rather spiffing bracelet. All you have to do is be a follower and post a comment here.

Best of luck!!

My Weekend on the Boat - Too many videos and photos result...

I've been talking quite a lot about how much I was looking forward to my weekend on the high seas. By 'high seas' I really mean the River Maidstone in Kent. After four days of boat fun and frankly ridiculous amounts of alcohol being consumed by a plethora of whacky characters, I'm currently sitting on the leather mega-sofa and watching Hannah Montana with the little cugina and cugino.


The last post I wrote about the boat was the day we took it from Chatham to Maidstone in anticipation of the Maidstone River Festival, but since that day the weather had been a bit 15yr old goth about it, swinging its mood about to the straining beats of Cradle of Filth and scratching 'I hate my parents' into arm with a penknife; sunny to monsoon and back again.

We had a big build up to the festival, enjoying the sun (my back having been burnt to a cinder a few days earlier) and relaxing as best we could, until THIS happened...





we had to wait until Friday evening until we could go down to the Holly Louise and begin drinking...and drink we did. It was quite obscene. We bought a great many cases of budweiser, cider, little dumpy beer and tonnes and tonnes of food. On the first night alone, we drank about a million bottles of suds. Highlights of night 1 include:

1) Being grabbed and kissed (tongues de rigeur for her clearly) by a 45 yr old lady who said my accent "made her want to have sex" and who asked if she could keep me.
2) Her friend telling me that it was the THIRD time she had done that to randomers.
3) Me sitting with a group of (actually) lovely people and then out of the blue being hit on the head by a 15lb chill-box of seafood. Some lady was having a domestic and tried to throw the heavy entirety of her product from a high wall onto her ex-boyfriend. It was heavier than she thought, fell short, and it bounced off my head before bursting open on the quayside. Ouch

and

4) Meeting some nice young hipsters who were dressed up as pirates. One of whom (who had tried, unsuccessfully, to dress like Jack Sparrow) told me it was the greatest outfit he'd worn in his life.


We all eventually passed out, excited to see what the festival day brought.


The Saturday can be summed up as follows:





That's right, it was Hammer Time on the boat, we are all phenomenal dancers, and we were having a great time.


BUT...

Every face in the Aunt and Uncle's friendlist wriggled out of the wood work to come visit. They're the sort of couples who, in their FB messages to the other couples, feel obliged to refer to each other as 'good friends' or 'true mates' etc so that they can convince themselves that they don't spend the entire time bitching each other out horrendously. So when they found out that S&D had a hugely exploitable boat in the River Festival, guess where they went. I'm not saying they are bad people (for they WERE very nice) but just that their idea of friendship is ridiculously out of whack. There are a few of them who are amazing though, the sort who I see in the house most days, or who come to all the events, such as my Aunt's best friend Ola, or Leigh, the wee 18yr old guy who used to practically run their old pub. They're the sort that contrasted so much with these boatmoochers and it was really cool to hang out with them.


The day was beautiful, the sun was splitting the stones and I was ridiculously hungover and slightly sore from the head-fishbox contact. We sat out all day, with interludes where I sat below deck to read my current page-turner (which is excellent, though a bit jingoistic and overtly British for my Hibernian tendancies) and tried to catch up with my correspondences (because nothing is as nice as a handwritten letter is it?) during any lull in the festivities.

Anyway, by the time we had started to rock out to the Hammer Time shuffle, we were (again) more sauced than Mr Tabasco when he thought that his nachos needed a bit of oomph and got his ingredients out, and there were no signs of it stopping any time soon.

At one point, between the Hammer shuffle and the later drunken torpor, we painted a face onto my uncle's belly. That's what we did. It was a lot of fun. We called the little belly-lady Stella, and she became our mascot.




What was also a great deal of fun was when uncle D then went and started chatting to some of the cops who were patrolling the quayside. For about 20 minutes he had a lovely conversation about all things boaty with the bobbies on the beat when I snapped this photo, making him look like a schoolboy being scolded...




For parts of the day, all the kids (of the moochers and the nicers alike) for some reason gathered around me, and treated me like a human climbing frame. As it got dark, we watched from the deck of the boat as loads of people in their tricked-out watermobiles ambled past, it really was nice:



Soon, all the little sprouts jumped up on the fore deck with me and soon we were playing the 'let's scream really loud at all the boats' game:




It actually was a lot of fun. There also was a massive fireworks display. All the couples stood on the boat hugging each other and being all cozy and it was one of the few 'dude, you need a girlfriend' moments I've had in a while. It was very romantic, me and my budweiser.




All in all, it was a really good evening.




Sunday was pretty much a 'we're hungover and don't want to do anything' sorta day, and when we sailed back upriver to Chatham, it was pouring with rain and we were all sorta sick of the sight of everything around us. We moored at Chatham, had some dinner (a massive meal at Nando's that left me feeling positively pregnant) and the whole bunch of us squeezed onto a small berth to watch Twilight. I'm a wee bit in love with Kristen Stewart, so it was all good. The only bad thing about the evening was that the skies opened with a vengeance and at 5am this (Monday) morning, a huge drip of icy rainwater started on my head.


So, as I said, today I am exhausted, drained and (despite my bad storytelling) really happy to have such a great weekend. Life on a boat is a lot of fun, but it was important to try and get some time to myself so that we didn't all end up tearing each other's throats out. I found that a book and some writing stuff went a long way. The pros are obvious; the fun, sense of adventure and the chance to learn a new skill, but there are cons (apart from me haha) it can be a few days between getting showers, most boats are not laptop friendly, and you can get a bit cramped.


Today, we've lazed on the sofa and aunt A just made the most magnificent cottage pie. Now with a cup of tea and a strong case of shiprock (where you can feel the boat moving whilst on dry land) I'm almost ready for a lot more fun...in a few days.
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ps: One of the people I met this weekend, who has known S&D for years because of the river festival is this guy below. Pete, or 'Popeye' as he likes to be called, is a bit like the male lead from a 1970's softcore porno. In the photo below he is as he was the entire time, wearing a pair of short cut-offs with no underwear...tasty. The entire festival he entertained a gaggle of women of varying ages, and his entire day seemed to consist of kissing the cheeks of young maidens and punctuating his speech with words like 'my darling', 'sweetheart', 'lovely little one' etc. Now, I use some of those endearments from time to time, but I really don't want to end up like this guy...a walking STD. Although a lovely man, he was very clearly in the 'sex pest' category of the charming spectrum. Ew. Isn't he gorgeous ladies? What say you to a slice of popeye?

(Yes that is a hoop in his ear)



Anyway, that's what I got up to this weekend. Hope y'all had fun :)

Interactive Thursday

Howdy! I was supposed to be spending the next three days on a boat for the Maidstone River Festival, but when we came back from the (absolutely beautiful) beach at Camber Sands in East Sussex, we were all completely exhausted, stroked by the sun and in my case (after jumping into the sea like an over-excited dog) as salty as any regular seaman (Pun intended)

We decided to leave the boatery until the morrow, after we've all slept.

Jen, from the uh-maze-ziiiiiing!!! blog the novelista barista has, as part of her great series 'Interactive Thursday', posited the simple interactive request:

"Write about what u do when ur life sucks.. how do u get out of a funk.
bc i need to know the answer!"

So, as part of Interactive Thursday, I'll try to answer.

My silly head can swing between being in a sorta happy buzzymood to being ridiculously depressed. I used to spend way too much time worrying about what that meant until I got used to the idea that the jump between hyper and comatose (by way of assholeness and lazy-bastardness) led, apart from the annoying parts, to a much more interesting and eventful life.

What I've found though, is that my most favourite hobby, writing, follows these mood swings like a canoe on the sea. Sometimes,, when I'm on a buzzy high, I can spend hours and hours writing and coming up with new characters, stories and plots. The opposite happens when I'm down, or rather, the water turns choppy. If I'm pissed off, heartbroken, hungover or similar, I can use that to keep writing, and find it adds a different perspective to what I'm trying to say. However if it's a REALLY bad case of the blues, I find that the usual symptom is twofold; boredom and writer's block. The boredom is bad, but the writer's block is like having a limb removed, so it's necessary to act.

The answer is quite simple, but took me ages to come up with, although it'll probably be really obvious to everyone else.

I do stuff.

I find that if I even go for a walk, and try to notice something new or previously hidden about the sights and sounds I pass everyday, my mood can lift. One time, I was in a MAJOR depressive low, my friend suggested we go for a drink and then go to a ballroom dancing class. Despite the fact that I had previously spent seven hours watching 'The World At War' and feeling sorry for myself, I had one of the best nights ever. Nothing get's rid of the blues by half-drunkenly waltzing around with a bunch of strangers whilst pretending to be cool and suave.

It's a bit paradoxical. When the world seems like a concrete pigeon has taken a crap on my head, often the last thing I want to do is go out. However, if I try really really hard to not be an antisocial arse-biscuit, the low mood, even if it's terrible will eventually shift.

Some funks or major depressions can last for days, weeks even, and then it's the best thing in the world to have a safety net of friends to hang out with (even if it's just to drink tea and watch the match in silence) so that you're not alone in the flat all the time. I would advocate the acquisition of a girlfriend/boyfriend for people, but being depressed is never the best excuse to go chasing girls (as i've found out at my peril) and then some.

Really, the best answer about how to get out of a major funk is to never allow yourself to get bored, that's when the devil makes work for idle hands. Stephen Fry (a fellow upsy-downsy chap) said that he'd love to write a book called 'The Secret of Happiness' with nothing in it but five words and three hundred empty pages, 'Stop feeling sorry for yourself'. I dunno how that would work (especially for a moay SOB like me) but he has a point. If you never allow yourself to get bored, instead of spending your time alone and depressed, and keep an active enough life, the funk can be successfully avoided. Perhaps a combination of actvity and trying not to wallow too much (volunteering or charity work can help) can combat the funk.

Plus, when I'm active and going on adventures, I find I have better stuff to write about. We'll see how bored I can be after a weekend on a lovely boat.

I hope this helps :)

Con

20-something bloggers BLOGSWAP!! Vittoria and I discuss Beyoncé

Greetings!!

Today, I am honoured to have a lady come to visit my blog, as part of the 20sb blogswap. In the run-up to this, Vittoria and I got waaaay too excited talking about Beyoncé (not in that way, pervs) and decided that we ought to both rant about how great and shit some of her songs can be. You can check out her jolly amazing blog here and see what a real blogger's stuff is like.
Without much further ado, it a great honour to present Vittoria!

-----------------------------------

Hello all!!! My name is Vittoria, and I’m subbing for Conor today (I know, I’m sorry in advance). I’m from the States, currently living in our nation’s capital (YES WITH BARACK OBAMA ZOMG!) and as my blog is entitled, I am pretty much always drunk, and never a bride. With that, away we go!!

So.

I’m kind of a bad girl. Not like Fiona Apples “I’ve been a bad, bad girl…”. No no. Like I do a disservice to my gender, sometimes. Par example, I hate – HATE – shopping. I mean, srsly. I don’t like girly mags (even the ones from across the Atlantic – sorry!). I never EVER wear make-up, unless it seems utterly necessary (like when I was trying to entice my current Boy and I wore eyeliner all the fucking time because I knew he fucking liked it but joke’s on him cause I haven’t worn it since we started sleeping together MUAHAHAHAHAHA).

Point is.

I’m a shitty female. And emblematic of this lack of honor for my vajayjay is my utter lack of love for the one, the only Beyonce. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I enjoyed “Crazy in Love” and when “Naughty Girl” comes on, I always think “aw Lindsay Lohan, remember ‘Mean Girls’? Why did you go so far astray?!” But like, I mean, cmon. Her singing “At Last” at the inauguration of my bestie B. Obams? I don’t think so. I LOVED the song, the performance/performstress? Not so much.

Until.

Someone – some GLORIOUS person (I believe my sister Grace) – introduced me to “Single Ladies.” You know it. The one where she does the super fucking AWESOME dance with the two other super hot chicks and dudes are turned on cause of the moves and chicks are turned on because of the lyrics, and also, probably, the moves.

I mean, let’s be honest here.

It’s pretty fucking amazing, because it’s pretty much what ever girl wants to have happen in a post-break-up-period. Dude dumps girl, girl finds new dude, old dude gets pissed, girl gets to be like “look you fucking douche, you should have gotten me when you had me, too EFFING bad.”

Wondrous.

I danced at Zumba to this song, at BARS to this song (and usually I only jive to music of the Bon Jovi variety). I woke up to it, I got ready for the EVENING for it, I just couldn’t get enough of Beyonce!

And then she came out with another.

“If I were a boy” is of the same variety of “Single Ladies”, in that it’s SO EXACTLY WHAT GIRLS WOULD SAY. Except in this case, it’s what they WOULD have said.

When they were 15.

When I was 15, I was like “oh my GOD if only RS would just LET ME INSIDE HIS HEAD I know know KNOW I could teach him to love me forever!” and when aforementioned RS started dating someone else, I was like “GOD if only I were a FREAKING BOY I would NEVER hurt a girl like that EVER”.

It was super mature, I know.

The best and worst thing about “if I were a boy” is that it groups all boys under the male category. Boys, in all honesty, ARE shitty human beings to girls. And girls are pretty fucking dumb as well, but in different, equally-hurtful-to-female ways. MEN, however, are not. Men are wonderful creatures, who make you breakfast and watch Friends with you and don’t judge you when you’re on your eighth freak out of the day because you’re getting your period.

Well. SOME men.

The point is, that while Beyonce has TOTES got it right in “Single Ladies” – ie, if you liked it then you should have put a ring on it, motherfucker – she probably should have clarified “If I were a boy” by titling it “If I were that 16 year old boy who ripped your heart out and probably is a drunk frat 30-yr-old frat boy in the middle of nowheresville, America. Oh and he’s fat, too”. That conveys the same, some males are stupid sometimes idea that Single Ladies does, without fucking over all men everywhere.

Mmm. Fucking men.

Uh, what was I saying? Ah yes. In short? I suck at being female, but Beyonce can totally rock my world anytime she wants, and SO CAN EFFING CONOR!!! Thanks you guys for reading! And stop by the blog whenever you’re in the mood for drunken-slutastic-cursing. XOXO

Untergang Part 3 (Day 1)

So,

I've decided to go ahead and jump over Part 2 and talk a little bit about what happened after my exams. Not immediately, mind, but about three days after. I've decided that part 2 is going to be more a treatise about the feasibility of defending several Dublin locations in the wake of phase 3 of a Z-virus outbreak. Not much to do with debauchery and adventure, more of a strategic exercise.

Anyway...

There was the usual panoply of end-of-days roleplay: the goodbyes, the sincere (and patently not-so-sincere) promises to keep in touch, the many retroactive wishes that "we'd gotten to know each other better" and the inevitable messy leavers dos. All par for the course, and suitably corrosive on the old liver. I had been unceremoniously thrown out of my old gaff on campus (the cell that overlooked the methadone clinic and the homeless shelter that I'll talk about later) by the day after my final exam by the putrid, money-grabbing whores of the TCD administration and my pal R's boyfriend let me crash in his super man-pad while he stayed over. Serious comfort. I caught up with some of my 'tribe' and discussed zombies (stay tuned for all this later...) and after a few days of hazy post-exam delirium, I found myself at 8.30 am at the architectural beauty-spot that is Dublin airport.

My parents, in one of my occasional telephone talk-conversations, had somehow gleaned that I was somewhat stressed and that I needed a break. When they suggested this, I had of course growled at them, but they were astute enough to realise that the exams were taking their toll. Thus, they gamefully paid for air tickets to the Czech Republic, so that my swashbuckling (quote hottie unquote) older brother, Ruairí could get a visit from...well, me.

What follows is a three-part attempt to chronicle what happened when I went to visit my brother...
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Day 1 - Monday: Homophobe-Baiting in Transit and Operation Anthropoid.

The flight was the typical affair. Ryanair doing their absolute best to treat everyone like complete shit in some weird form of Pavlovian conditioning designed to make us feel claustrophobic and greasy when we hear ice-cream van, funboy europop, but I was seated in an exit seat and there was plenty of space for my legs. I settled down to listen to my TERRIBLE TERRIBLE SECRET in comfort and watched Ireland zoom away, dreaming about someday meeting Ilyana Kadushin...

As I listened, lazily watching the beleaguered cabin crew telling us how not to die, I noticed the man sitting two seats away. He was one of those 50's-born midlanders, made mostly of devout Catholicism and fried breakfasts, and still high on the fumes of Brylcreem from his tame, agrarian youth. He sat, his bushy beard quivering, a look of puzzlement on his face as he stared at the tanned, toned and very camp steward. The 'how-not-to-die' class ended and soon the food was rolling up and down. The steward, a lovely guy (as much as over-worked, under-paid air staff can be lovely) who looked like the 'Hallo? Salut!' guy from Ozone (and possibly was him) bustled past us with his cart, when the bearded prick beside us muttered 'faggot'. I say muttered, but in the sense of someone trying to mutter during a gale, beside a rock concert, whilst riding a Vincent Black Shadow, and to an elderly relative, expecting to be heard clearly. The poor guy stopped, his shoulders dropped, he gave a shuddering breath, and then slowly walked on, clearly hurt.

Not cool.

I was pained to say (a brief) farewell to Ilyana, but a plan formed in my mind, and I was hell-bent on giving this guy the most uncomfortable flight of his life, so I had to stop listening. I dug deep inside, channelled my inner culchie-baiter and camped up:

-First of all; I thought that if I kept leaning across him, ordering lots of food and drink, getting things from my bag in the locker, going to the bathroom and loudly clearing my throat, he wouldn't get too comfortable.

-Secondly; I gently touched his arm, shoulder and, once, his knee, each time I did this.

-Thirdly; at the slightest shiver of turbulence, the horrible prick clutched the arms of his chair in terror and began to sweat, a lot. I began to giggle loudly everytime this happened, saying 'Oh my goodness me' in a slightly camper version of the carrying whisper which he had previously used.

-Fourthly; when the turbulence got really bad, I put my ipod up to full volume so that he could clearly hear me listening to (and harmonising and air drumming with) one of the few pop songs I actually have, 'Since You Been Gone', through my earphones. On repeat.

That flight was lots of fun.

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I arrived in Prague, got my stuff and walked to the kiosk for a bus ticket to Karlovy Vary (where my bro lives) and see if I could get a student rate. The first thing I noticed was the police. Most European airports now have the usual staff of part-gorilla neckless wonders, sharking about with submachine guns and suspicious eyes. In Prague, they seem to have supermodels doing the job too. Leggy blondes in high heels walking about with MP5s and Glocks, accompanying the brick-shithouse gentlemen and looking equally tough...but also a tad really sexy. Most distracting. It was my first induction to the Czech laws of how couples appear. The men look like bouncers, the women look like models...very unfair for a Casper-white cross between Gollum from LOTR and Shaggy from Scooby-Doo.

Anyway,I had been standing at the counter for about five seconds, looking at the kind assistant in a sort of post-security-babe daze, when I suddenly realised that I wasn't saying words. Also, that I spoke basically no Czech, and still wasn't speaking.

Somehow, i managed to buy a ticket, then went for a pint of (ridiculously overpriced) airport Pivo and a smoke to get myself relaxed before the bus. Bright yellow, it was a bit of a weird experience; watching 'Chicago' (I was having a very gay day) and sipping coffee in utter comfort as the Czech Republic zoomed past. When I reached KV, I was more interested in what was going to happen to Roxie than get off.

Big bro/Hugs/Skoda/Apartment/Shower/Drinking excursion.

Drinking with my brother is almost intimidating. He is one of those people who can drink beer...really drink it. He writes his own blog about Irish pubs abroad, and is a connisseur. I can go on the rip as good as the next bloke, but I was always more spiritsy and cocktailsy (NB: seriously, gayest blog post ever) in my drinks...and this was the Czech Republic, one of the birthplaces of our modern beers. The bro took me first to a small bar (that may very well have been the seediest place in the world) for our catch-up chat, then we went on a walk through the bars. We had tankards at a 'pour-your-own' bar, (apparently) ate a meal of meat and dumplings in a weirdly wood-pannelled bar. Took shots of Becherovka (the devil) then, inevitably, went to an Irish bar. We apparently went by cab, and I apparently insisted on speaking to the driver the whole way. FML.

We met Hannah, BigBro's girlf, in the Irish bar, along with her class. She and BigBro both are TEFL teachers, and I had the best crossed-wire conversation (with a bunch of frankly mental Czech forty-somethings) that I've had for a long while. Hannah (who I was meeting again for the first time in like six years) is a very sweet Welsh girl with the most amazing Valley's accent and a great match for the bro. Conversation flowed.

More Becherovka, more beer. I started a conversation with one of the class about the assassination of Reinhard Heydrich, that lasted for a few hours, and Ruairí wandered home. Finally, Hannah led me back to their apartment and (when I wasn't leaning out of the fourth story window, smoking and admiring the Soviet architecture) I dozed off.

Hell of a first day.

DON'T call me Jeezy Creezy!

 

'Blasphemy' comes from the Middle English word, blasfemen, which comes from the Latin word blasphemare, which comes from the ancient Greek  ‘βλασφημέω’ (which comes from βλάπτω = "I injure" and φήμη = "reputation") so it’s fair to say that people have been (or have been accused of) taking the piss out of their god(s) since the days that people thought casual pederasty and marathons were the way to go about business.

 

Yesterday in the Dáil, the Irish parliament, the Minister for Justice Equality and Law Reform, Dermot Ahern, proposed an amendment to the current Defamation Bill; extending the ambit of the proposed law to create the crime of criminal blasphemy. Mr Ahern is a qualified solicitor and has served with distinction in the Cabinet, but I believe that this law is very clearly a pile o’ wank.

 

The Constitution (Bunreacht na hÉireann) at Article 40, guarantees the right to free speech but qualifies it by allowing for the restricition of several types of publication:

“The publication or utterance of blasphemous, seditious, or indecent material is an offence which shall be punishable in accordance with law.”

The Court has said on several occasions that the crime of blasphemy is almost impossible to define, and in practice, speech relating to religion (such as the case of Murphy v. IRTC) has only really been restricted when there was a perceived danger of public unrest and  and only used with the utmost reluctance. Wee Dermy describes what'll happen to the blaspheming riff raff,

“A person who publishes or utters blasphemous matter shall be guilty of an offence and shall be liable upon conviction on indictment to a fine not exceeding €100,000.”

“Jesus, what a ridiculously vague and overtly broad piece of proposed legislation.” (I hear you all yell, angrily, and not realizing the irony) and you’d be right. The Minister does, however, try to placate our worries with a lovely, and not-at-all-fuckwitted, definition of blasphemy as language…,

 

“that is grossly abusive or insulting in relation to matters held sacred by any religion, thereby causing outrage among a substantial number of the adherents of that religion; and he or she intends, by the publication of the matter concerned, to cause such outrage,”

and establishing that a fine up to €100,000 may be imposed, upon conviction.

 

At a first glance, this could be seen as an attempt to allay fears that our print- and broadcast-media could inadvertently, by clumsiness or negligence, stumble into the kind of scenario that led to the “Mohammed Cartoon” controversy, and the ensuing tsunami of global rioting and hatemongering, and to protect religious minorities from persecution.

However, the “substantial number of adherents” and “intent to outrage” requirements of the above definition leave us in a position where one right is being created in the vaccuum created by the destruction of another. As the right to freedom of speech is being curtailed, the Minister hopes that those substantial adherents will feel that their religious convictions are being vindicated.

Whilst these sentiments of diversity and plurality are obviously commendable, and completely necessary in modern Ireland, the Minister’s ham-fistedness and short-sightedness may irrevocably damage our fundamental freedoms (or make for a painful wank). Instead of cauterizing the problems of disaffected minorities and religious intolerance, he is attempting to apply a flamethrower in the hope that the remaining charred wreckage will strike an elegant balance between the rights of religious liberty and free speech

 

I am NOT trying to say that speech and publication should never be restricted. There are times when certain types of speech needs to be restricted, or even banned. When radical Muslim cleric Abu Al-Hamza Masri was convicted, it was (amongst other things) for owning a copy of The Encyclopedia of Afghan Jihad, for glorifying terrorism, for stirring up racial hatred, and for soliciting murder, in contravention of Public Order and Terrorism Laws. His speech had been used, as Hughes J stated,

“to create an atmosphere in which to kill has become regarded by some as not only a legitimate course but a moral and religious duty in pursuit of perceived justice"

and thus he was prosecuted.

 

In the UK, there have been several attempts to lobby for stricter blasphemy laws, all of which have ended unsuccessfully. As with Ireland, the word ‘blasphemy’ is still enumerated in law, but not prosecuted in practice. This is, in my opinion much better than overly draconian punitive laws as proposed by wee Dermy.

 

SO HERE’S MY PROBLEM WITH THE BILL AMENDMENT:

1) This will not be the first time that Ireland has dropped the ball regarding censorship and restrictions of speech. Publications glorifying homosexuality, advertising abortions or suggestion the best brothels in Dublin have been all ripped from the shelves and on occasion (as with the Students Unions of Trinity, and University College Dublin, Dublin, Dublin) successfully sued. When the film The Cider House Rules was released the film was given an ‘18’ rating, as opposed to a ‘12’ rating in the UK, because of oblique references to abortion and incest. If this blasphemy shite is taken then we’ll be scrubbing the bowl for a long time trying to get rid of the smears, without or without Cillit Bang.

 

2) It is possible to have freedom of speech and maintain dialogue with religious groups who could potentially be offended. There are incredibly intelligent and articulate people from both viewpoints in this argument who want to find a way to appease both sides. The solution lies with rational conversation and mature debate, not by acting like the political equivalent of a horny teenage boy, trying to pop his cherry. By attempting to shoot his “we’re all cool here guys” load without any real thought, into any political orafice, at the first opportunity, and with poor...er...marksmanship; Mr Ahern’s spaffing a load of salty, bitter and potentially unconstitutional man-batter into our eyes, instead of being a good boy and waiting ‘til it feels right’. Pig.

(N.B. fucking overdid that metaphor!)

 

3) In 2006, Reporters Without Borders named Ireland as global joint first in terms of Press Freedom. However, a mere year later, the Press Freedom Index had relegated Ireland from the number one spot down to eighth. While 8^th is so much better than, say, 24^th or 48^th, it’s a worrying trend. For a young nation, but with an ancient and celebrated tradition of writers and scholars (think Book of Kells, an ecclesiastical newpaper, or the Annals of Ulster) it is fitting that we are one of the leading nations in the world of the arts and media. For a sophisticated and progressive democracy, it is also fitting that we follow and defend the social democratic model of press freedom with zeal. This proposed bill will not only damage our rankings in the Press Freedom Index, but will likely lead us down the Rupert Murdoch shit-slide of a bipolar choice between sensationalism and meekness. That bollocks, we do not need.

That’s the rant over, and I’m sorry for it’s length, but I’m massively worried about the potential that may exist for it to be criminal for me to raise issue like Yahweh doing lines of blow in the toilets in Coppers, or Jesus beating lepers with a bag of doorknobs, or yes, even Mohammed choking hookers with a bin-bag. If freedom to be a satirical wee bastard is threatened then I’m going to get my Blessed-Mother’s titsworth. Also, as a friend has pointed out, members of the Jain community are averse to eating meat and to do so would offend them, so for most of the BESS-girl community, and the rest of us carnivores, it’s the end of Steak n’ Oyster Thursdays, so we’ll ALL be humous-eating cunts like the Avoca posse.

 

One good thing, which is heartening, is the outcry that has sprung up in the hours since Mr Ahern’s facehole got the scoots. Bloggers and surfers of the blagonet in Ireland (from foul-mouthed misanthropes to clean-cut students) have all raised their voice. It's a good cure for overt cynicism to see the students, who the government constantly tries to shaft with a barbed-wire dildo, standing up for their freedoms. Also, look out for comment from some academic and legal heavy-hitters. They're sure to have a much more succinct, informed and reasoned approach to this bollocks than I could ever have. Or you could watch a funny satirical cartoon. Better hurry though, before the creator is killed for affronting Mu...

 

Again, sorry for the rant, but Ahern’s a prick.