Happy Star Wars Day!

May the 4th be with you all!

x

Raise your voice…no wait, don’t. Please don’t.

Shut the fuck up!

 

You can imagine my surprise when I first saw mention of Swine Flu (or “Swit Swoo”, as Saatchi and Saatchi have already branded it, aimed at the 14-18 year old teenybopper market) in the papers. Being somewhat a collector of old timey turns of phrase and such, I half expected the only people to be able to say the word to be tweed-wearing, shotgun toting gentry-chaps.

Not the case.

 I’ve overheard at least a hundred different conversations with the words ‘swine flu’, all of which were based on a ridiculous number of assumptions and half-medical know-nothingness.

I know what you’re thinking; “Why have you spent your time listening to other people’s conversations and not investing in a totally-necessary facemask?”

 Well, there are two possible explanations:

One is that I have a search tool in my brain so as to limit and filter what I hear or see during the day (like on gmail, when you search for ‘malehood enhancer” in your spam and get 27,000 results, or when you search for “you’re adequately proportioned” and the computer breaks the “inanimate object’ rule of technology and laughs in your face.) The other possibility is that people in Ireland never tend to believe in keeping their fucking conversations private anymore.

It’s something that really pisses me off, and not in an “It’s mildly annoying” way. Whenever I hear it going on, it really fucks me off.

 I thought it was just a student thing, going into a small space like a bus or a luas in a group and having a ridiculously self-indulgent shout fest of a conversation amongst your mates, or walking five abreast down the pavement, so that nobody misses the groundbreaking work the group is doing in the field of conversation. Who the fuck has something so important to say that they need to raise their voice when talking about “Oh my God, Thundercats was amazing, Cheetara was, like, my first crush” or has to wave their hand like a railway platform sweetheart so that ‘the group’ will hear about that . Whilst the above sentence (about Thundercats) is true, and applicable to me, I don’t need to hear that off some smug Fuck in hipster clothing when I’m trying to get home. I also don’t need to laugh insanely as we all remember the theme tune. Yes, we all remember it, there’s no need to…oh, okay…yeah, let’s SING the thing shall we?

 

 I don’t mean to overreact, but what sort of animal needs to constantly drop pop culture references into all his conversations? Why don’t these people think that the polite rules of conversation apply to them?

(That's massively hypocritical of me, because I love pop-culture references. It's just I hate these people, so when they do it, it kills me.)

It’s not even just in small spaces that it bothers me. In Trinity, we’re ridiculously lucky to have a beautiful amount of grass and garden, right in the centre of Dublin. If it’s a nice day, there’s nothing better than to sit with a beer and a coffee, reading the paper or trying to teach yourself Company law from the Nutshells textbook. It can be almost blissful. Until the groups arrive.

 

Now, before I go off on my ‘groups’ rant, let me be straight. I’m not in favour of some horrible boarding school environment of silence before tea-time or anything, and I believe that everyone should have the right to say (almost) everything, but it really annoys me when a group of preening, self-satisfied (I suppose ‘happy’ is the word I’m looking for) rim-wits sit near me and start to shite on. They all seem to dress the same (fucking hipsters or Avoca posse) and act in a slightly kooky, ‘I’m so individual’ way. All of them.

If it’s the fucking hipsters, and they sit near you, they immediately involve themselves in the gruelling process of rolling dodgy cigarettes with clove or chocolate paper, all the while cunting about how, like, Beaudelaire, is so overrated or how, like, nobody really seems to GET the plays of Brecht. Yeah.  Rolling cigarettes, even for a novice like me, doesn’t take that long. It’s not origami, it’s a simple exercise in packing just enough tobacco so that the paper can be rolled, thus creating the cigarette. Also, if you are so desperate for chocolate…buy some chocolate. A smoke that tastes like Nesquik when you lick it is just creepy. The hipsters are all smug actory types, in their very expensive “I just threw this on” (during a controlled period of ‘throwing on’ between 6am and 8 am this morning, in front of a mirror) clothing, lamenting the fact that they’re, like, so cultured. If they had wanted to be actors so badly, they should have gone to drama school. What’s that? Didn’t get in? Oh, well…I suppose you could…maybe…spend the four years of your degree swanning around calling yourself an actor anyway? Does that sound good? Yeah? The hipsters pride themselves on being slightly subversive, with a sideways view on life and generally being quite an outsider. The effect is lost however, by the need to be liked and appreciated by everyone. These Outies have one saving grace…their ignorance. They simply don’t know that everyone feels like this, and they generally keep their screeching mutually-masturbatory conversations to themselves.

 

The other group is the middle-class “In Crowd” types. With their putrid smelling garlic-based ethnic food and wholegrain focaccia  n’ butterbean baguettettes (even smaller and more expensive than baguettes) they sit, cliquing away like a bunch of festering ticker-takers, and making everyone around them feel excluded and bitched out. This is a really common group in Trinity (and I mean that in every sense) because they’re quite insidious. They proclaim themselves the ‘popular’ people in the class and ensconce themselves in a little bubble: equal-parts self-glorifying and self-loathing. It’s quite the phenomenon. The individual members of “Team England” or “the Lawyers” or “The Bess Crew” or “The Medics” or even “The Theology Massive” are all usually quite nice, lovely people to individually chat to or have a coffee with. But en masse, they’re worse than Dresden. (y’know, in that you wish you weren’t there…they don’t carpet-bomb or create firestorms or kill tens of thousands of people or anything)

When these ‘Innies’ are about, you know it. It’s the fellas, they act like chivalric heralds and have to announce to the world, ‘HERE IS A GROUP OF ARSEHOLES’.

 

These male hangers-on invariably carry an American football or a hacky-sack with them, and feel the need to show how well they can throw/kick it at every sunny opportunity. They’re the same sort of arse-trout who collect every bottle of liquor they’ve ever drunk in a pyramid above their bed/in the kitchen/in the living room and they need everyone to know about their J1 in San Diego last summer. They wish they were American, but they’re not.

The girls are usually just happy to chat (well, screech, and make people feel kinda diabetic-y with their magnificent Sunny Delight skin) about the things that are important to them:

1)   How drunk they were/are/is/am (NB- learn grammar)

2)   The Great Night Clubs they go to,

3)   How mental their friend Dearbhail is,

4)   How amazing their boyfriends are.

They start all their sentences with “Eeeh” like a patronising tuning fork, and tell the most inane anecdotes ever. I mean, fuck me, but these people should be shot.

[Sample Girl Conversation]

“Eeoh my God, Dearbhail is sooooo mental, she was like really drunk yesterday and puked into some other girls handbag- on the dancefloor in Coppers- then shat herself in the taxi home whilst shouting ‘go back to Africa’ at the driver. He, like, wasn’t even from Africa!”  (NB- Yowsers, help me get this monocle off,  you enticing minxtress!)

 

[Sample Boy Conversation]

“Like, Damo bought this ridiculoso expensive Beamer at the weekend. He’s already got, like, three. He’s mental! I can’t believe he’s only seventeen. Look there’s Dearbhail, she’s so hot, I’m going to pound this beer then you throw long. I’ll run and catch it then tell her the story about winning that beer-pong tourney in SanDiego. I’m sooo going to ride her.”

 

Maybe I just need to get out of Dublin…

 

I know I didn’t really get around to explaining about why this connects to Swine Flu. I suppose it doesn’t. I suppose I’m just tired of other people’s conversations having such an effect on me. When the Pork Crisis hit a few months ago I heard this conversation (the names have been changed for anonymity)

Dearbhail: Did you see the whole pork crisis thing?

Clíodna: Yeah, it was, like, in the news and everything!

Dearbhail: I’ve been thinking about McDonalds though, are they going to close?

Clíodna: Why would they?

Dearbhail: If they can’t use pork, how will they make hamburgers?

 

…I know.

 

Anyway, another rant over. I suppose that when I move away I’ll miss all of these things I’m complaining about, but then again, I’ll most definitely not.

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.

Yakka...and welcome

Grog.

I was trying to find a suitable word to describe what I was drinking last night and the only word that came anywhere near was 'grog'.

For those of you who don't know what yakka is, it's a punch made with vodka and lemonade, topped up with chopped lemon and ice. Sounds pretty innocent. The girl whose party it was had made 24 litres of the stuff and had kept it fermenting in her garage for two weeks beforehand. There were about 15 people at the party.

After about two glasses it began to be sneaky. It was ridiculously sweet, and very refreshing, like robinsons barley or something, with just a slight bitter aftertaste. Also, with the lemons and all the 'bits' that were in the glasses, we became lulled into a false sense of security. We all said "This has fruit and ice, it MUST be good for us". (We didn't really all say that, but the sentiment was palpable)

For some reason, we started playing the 'Roxanne' drinking game, where you stand and sip every time Mr Eight-Hour Tantra and his Policemen say the word...well, you get it. With the constant sitting and standing, and the fact that those motherfuckers say 'Roxanne' about 90 times in that damn song, pretty soon I had a hell of a sugar-rush.

Sometime between my body trying to combat diabetes from all the sugar, and my mouth trying to swallow endless slices of pizza, I became drunk. Not in a bad way, but sneakily. The yakka had been hiding in the attic like a Chechen sniper for three or four hours, and suddenly BAM! it unloaded a rocket-propelled grenade right into my cerebral cortex.

I looked round, petrified of the spectacle I had become, and the massive social faux-pas I was committing by having become the equivalent of a boy shaped life-size jelly, only to realise that I wasn't alone. People were sitting in their chairs, suddenly more subdued and talking with a world weariness not felt since the Fuhrerbunker in 1945. Conversation, once flowing, now trickled like a pesky nosebleed, and laughter came, unsolicited and wild.

I shared a cab home with my 'definitely not a date' and got to bed at about 5.30 or so, pretty confident that at least I hadn't been ballistically drunk and thus, would be wholly operational on the morrow. Not the case.

I woke up with a geriatric hangover, that's one where you essentially can't survive without the assistance of home help. I had such a case of the spins that I was afraid to leave my bed and the distance between my prone, shaking body and the bathroom was so great (four foot) that even the thought of going for a glass of water or an aspirin made me go foetal.

Eventually I came to my senses and was able to put on some music and sit up a bit in bed to see a barrage of messages and two missed calls. I hadn't heard anything, so I suppose this SAfrican punch (aside from diabetes and liver failure) can make you temporarily deaf too. For an insomniac, I slept like a baby for at least eleven hours. Well, I was in a yakka-coma for eleven hours.

If you'd like an audio representation of what yakka is like, then wrap your ear-hole around this sea shanty by A. L. Lloyd.

Was meant to have a guest today to watch Westerns, the Ennio Morricone ones. She knew I was going to this party but still wasn't too impressed when I managed to find my way out of bed at 4.40 and postpone. Words like "You said," and "Typical" were thrown about (and still are) with the wrath of Shiva, but I'm secretly impressed that I was able to work my phone, let alone type.

So, I bid you welcome to my blog. I happen to know a few people who keep pretty extensive blogs, and lots of my friends are into journalism, law or broadcasting -- writery types and whatnot -- so I'm joining in too, let's see what comes up.