Take This Pink Ribbon Off My Eyes…

Feminism.

I know, I know… My mind is exactly where yours is right now, picturing some ugly bird with a mole on her chin, in an unflattering outfit, holding a match to her bra, bitching about Playboy whilst simultaneously painting a picture of her vagina in a liberating expression of femininity.

Look, I am going to discuss feminism up in here. But… I don’t like that sanctimonious aul’ hag any more than you do. She’s extreme and impractical, either ignorant to or disregarding of the fact that she needs that bra to stop her boobies tippin’ down for a chat with her bellybutton.

Aussie Feminist, Germaine Greer said this about bras:

“Bras are a ludicrous invention, but if you make bralessness a rule, you’re just subjecting yourself to yet another repression. For some, the bra remains a symbol of restrictions imposed by society on women.”

Ludicrous?! I tell ya what Germaine, assuming you’re not quite a 32A, bin the bra and then go for an aul’ jog on the treadmill. Ludicrous still? Or proven essential?

Personally, I like to wear a bra most days. Not only that but I’ll take all the support they can offer me. Full-cup? Aye. Good, wide bone? That’s the ticket! Three clasps at the back? Sold!

But anyways, I’ve digressed. Feminism is an issue that makes most modern women recoil in horror and embark on a passionate denial campaign. That’s thanks to the stereotypical notions of feminists as cranky, man-hating, hippies striving to be artists, poets, scholars and feckin’ electricians.

I am not a feminist. I think women have come too far to still be playing victims. Modern feminism is little more than a justification for women to fight for something that is already ours, something that was given to us by women like Emily Davison, the suffragette who was killed in 1913 when she threw herself in front of the King’s horse at the Epsom Derby in a display of martyrdom for women’s rights, of which we had few.

But we no longer have few. The suffragettes of the 20^th century were the real feminists. The cause was real and the goal was immense. They changed the world. In the 1960s second-wave feminism exploded. The contraceptive pill was approved and a whole bunch of new issues arose. The hippies were ON IT!  They tackled sexism and workplace discrimination. Big things, you guys. Big things. The women of yesteryear made it easy for us. They fought the fight so we could reap the benefits.

Suffragette Emily Davison throws herself in front of the King’s horse at the Epsom Derby 1913

So why are we still whining?

We are currently in the centre of what is known as “third-wave feminism”. Now, under-informed and unenthusiastic about the movement, I can only speak from personal opinion. And my personal opinion is that these whinging broads would wanna take a step back and realise that women have never been so free. Neither have we ever been so powerful. 2012 is not the time to be crying about how difficult it is to be female.

Small yarn: My 20-year-old brother has been driving for five years. He passed his driving test first time. He drives a small but incredibly loud little Fiesta. And he is plagued by the guards. The kid is insured. He’s taxed. The car is NCT’d. He has a full-licence. He is, in all regards, completely within the law. Yet he is stopped by the Siochana frequently. His discs are checked. He is questioned. Sometimes searched. I, on the other hand, am 24-years old. I have been driving my little navy Yaris for two years. Like my brother, I am reliably law-abiding. Unlike my brother, I am left alone by the Guards. Rightly so. But the double standard, far as I’m concerned, seems to be gender focused. In the eyes of the Irish cop, a young dude like my brother has to be up to no good. Catching him on the roads provokes a full interrogation. I’ve been stopped on the roads once… Once… In two years. The guard made a bit of small talk, looked at my licence and sent me on my merry way. I’m a girl. Why would they bother interrogating me? It’s the lads they’re after.

Is not that sexism? Methinks so.

The fact is that we live in a time rife with strong women. Hillary Clinton. She came so close to being president that time. It’s gonna happen someday soon yo! A woman will be president of the United States. Lori Reynolds made headlines last year when she assumed the role of Commander of the USMC training headquarters at Parris Island. Julia Gillard became Prime Minister of Australia in 2010. More familiar faces like Oprah Winfrey, Ellen DeGeneres, Angelina Jolie. Women. Being. BOSS!

The music industry too is dominated by women. Gaga, Rihanna, Katy Perry, Lopez, Kelly Clarkson, Pink, Nicki Minaj and, my personal list-topper, Beyonce Knowles. Look at this:  Word. Don’t fuck with Beyonce. She brings it.

See, Beyonce’s got it right. Successful, beautiful, talented and savvy. She’s the biggest star in the world right now. She knows what she’s doing. Her priorities are set and all her ducks are in a row. She sang ‘Independent Women’ with Destiny’s Child and she meant it. Jay-Z has 99 problems but his bitch ain’t one. Beyonce shows us that you can have great strength and still be feminine. She voids the feministic idea that women should reject societal ideals; things like make-up, high-heels and embracing sexuality. Beyonce wears heels, she shows some skin and she runs the world (ish).

Women not to be fucked with: Clockwise L-R: First Lady Michelle Obama, President of the Indian National Congress Sonia Gandhi, First US female navy carrier-based fighter pilot Kara Hultgreen, Australian Prime Minister Julia Gillard, Oprah Winfrey, US Secretary of State Hillary Rodham Clinton, Editor-In-Chief of the New York Times Jill Abramson and (Centre) Beyonce Knowles.

We don’t need angry old dolls bitching about porn and maternity leave, born into the wrong generation and tardy to the party by about forty years. Women, in the 21^st century, well, we’re alright. I’m a firm believer that if one plays the victim, one will be the victim. If feminists could just quit the moaning and look around they’d see that they’re fighting a battle that has already been won. The audience has celebrated and moved on and they are left behind, full of resentment because they seem to now feel that women deserve superior rights to men.

I don’t believe that radical expression and lingering on issues past is doing anything for women. But I do believe in independence, in confidence and in doing and being anything you want, regardless of gender.

In Pink’s song, ‘Stupid Girls’, she comments on the abundant examples of unmotivated, under-achieving, conformist girls whose life goals include having bigger boobs and marrying into money. These chicks are everywhere. They wanna be WAGS, they love fancy handbags and they play dumb to make men feel more intelligent. They spend their childhood wanting to be vets and then, somewhere along the way, a lack of inspiration and/or proper guidance they come to believe that one’s goal in life should be marriage, money and children. The ambition of being a vet gets replaced with one of just wanting a husband who makes a decent wage. The sound of their dreams gets drowned out by the deafening tick of their biological clock. These girls do just about as much for women as the modern feminists do, reiterating clichés of women, setting us back and standing as utterly useless role models for the confused generation behind us.

Courtney Love may be crazy like a fox, but she took the notion of femininity, turned it upside down and owned that shit! 

Have you ever read any of the women’s magazines like Cosmopolitan or Marie Claire? I think they’re behind this conflict between being a Courtney Stodden or a Tracy Emin. It was actually an article in Cosmopolitan that inspired this article/rant/nonsense. It was written by a dude who was giving out about men having to pay for everything on dates. Is he right or is he wrong? I’ve no idea really. But it made me think. In the same issue of Cosmo there was an article about how in order to succeed, women need to be pushier, like men. Few pages ahead, there’s an article listing the three things that men look for in a girl (1. you don’t flip out if you lose your phone. 2. you can sense if something’s wrong with him. 3. you tell funny, interesting stories about your day). Few pages ahead there’s an interview with Olympic athlete, Jessica Ennis. An article on how to firm up your body. Then an article called (and I’m dead serious with this) ‘What His Penis Wishes You Knew.’ Then an inspiring interview with “An Alpha Female”. It’s just all so inconsistent. Of course, it’s all silly fucking fluff really, but there are women who read that shit and think, “yeah, I wanna know what his penis wishes I knew!” We all know idiots like that.

When your shitty personality just doesn’t cut it, good old Cosmo has the answers!

But look, I’m not saying that I’m any kind of brilliant, independent, gung-ho maverick woman. I bought that magazine. And I read it cover to cover.

A few months back, I wrote a blog here about my second year in college when I lived with four guys. It was awesome. I loved it. I loved them. We had a blast. When the year was up and third year rolled around, I was in an apartment with four other girls. It was not cool. They did not like me. I did not like them. We did not have a blast. When all was said and done I concluded that men have it right with their approach. They just don’t give a fuck. A spade is a spade. They don’t feel hard done by as men. And they don’t care if we feel hard done by as women.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, why can’t we just be let be. I like being a girl. I like having long nails. I like styling my hair. I like high-heels. But I also like Discovery Channel documentaries. I like roaming the countryside with my dogs. I like video games. I believe in romance too but it’s not my be all and end all. I think if you take care of yourself, indulge your interests, chase your dreams and be the best you can be, the rest will come.

Life is what you make of it. It’s not about oppression. It’s not about discrimination. And it’s certainly not about gender. It’s time to forget feminism altogether, let sleeping dogs lie and seize the opportunities that lie in front of us. If he doesn’t hold the door open for you, it’s just because he’s a prick, that’s all. And you’re a prick too if you don’t hold it open for him. That’s gender equality.

Lewd, Crude, Nude and Tweeting Some Dude…

Last week I read a story that, for no reason I can put my finger on, shook me to my core (lie). I was horrified (lie). It was one of those stories that you hear and then it lingers in the back of your mind for days after, discreetly bothering you at random interludes throughout the day.

The story was about Melanie Sykes and her new toyboy lover, Jack Cockings. They’ve been doing some very racy and public talking about their relationship via Twitter.

We’ve known Melanie for years. She used to do ‘The Big Breakfast’ on Channel 4 way back when. She did ‘Today With Des and Mel’ and ‘Let’s Do Lunch With Gino and Mel’. She did ‘The Vault’ on ITV. She did ads for ‘Head and Shoulders’. She’s done loads of crap. You know, the kinds of shows that tired, slightly overweight housewives watch at 12:30 on a Tuesday afternoon with a cup of tea and a packet of Bourbons while the kids are at school and before the washing machine finishes. Melanie is one of those people that have just always been there. She’s always been around on the telly, smiling, laughing and generally being far too hot to be someone we can all relate to (in the same vein as Myleene Klass). We know her. We like her. She’s a successful television presenter. She has two young boys aged 10 and 8.  Her physique is riDONKulous.

Awww look, it’s Des and Mel! We know them!

Except now Mel has gone and forever tarnished her lovely image by being a cheap, filthy, over-sharing tart on Twitter.

After going through a divorce in 2009, Melanie soldiered on. She got herself a Radio2 show with Alan Carr. She landed a gig hosting ‘Missing Millions’ on ITV. She posed nudey, nude, nude for Esquire magazine in December 2011. And then, in May this year, Melanie did something no self-respecting (and incredibly good-looking) celebrity should ever do. She hooked up with some nobody that she met on Twitter! WHATADUMBBUTT!

The guy is a 26-year-old investment, finance something-or-other whose Twitter handle is @bespokespartan. He’s 15 years her junior. So, what’s that rule for dating younger?  They say that the lowest age you can date is someone half your age plus seven. So Melanie is 41. Half of 41 is 20.5. 20.5 plus 7 is 27.5. Melanie can, therefore, unashamedly date someone who is 27.5 years old. Uh Oh…

Anyways, Melanie clearly is not familiar with this rule and is flagrantly parading her new love on the social media website.

Right, the dirt…

So they met on Twitter in April when Jack, having failed to attract the attention of either Jodie Marsh (“Do you need a boyfriend?”) or Cheryl Cole (“Love you.x”) with his tweets, turned his focus to our Mel. He tweeted her saying, “No way are you 41. Marry me?” He then proceeded, mortifyingly, to barrage her with photos of his kid and pictures of himself working out (awesome. How cool is he?!) until Mel, idiotically, started replying. She followed him. She told him he was “adorable” despite the volume of evidence pointing to him being a cocky, arrogant little prick who was chancing his arm with a celebrity, likely for the amusement of his equally pompous mates.

Jack Cocky, sorry, Cockings… What a stud!

Long story short, they’re now boyfriend and girlfriend and appallingly crude for all to see on Twitter. She’s calling it an incredible modern day romance. I’m calling bullshit. I’m also calling a decidedly short relationship lifespan.

Here’s one exchange:

@MsMelanieSykes: ‘Jack the rabbit I need some bunny love so hop to it!! Xxx boing boing!!! Loooooool xxxxxxx’…@bespokespartan: Only if I can bounce into your face! Xxx’ … @MsMelanieSykes: ‘Will you fill mine? Xxx’

Good. God.

Ahem, I continue…

@bespokespartan: ‘I’m ready and very hard! Bouncy bouncy xxx’… @MsMelanieSykes: ‘Me nips are up! tweak tweak!! Xxx’

@MsMelanieSykes: ‘Get off Twitter and get back in bed! Xxx’ God you are insatiable! I love it! Xxx.’

@MsMelanie Sykes: ‘My white jeans can’t take it anymore gonna have to rip these babies off! X’ and ‘my throat is inflamed can you help? : )’

I mean, you know what I’m sayin’? Tone it the fuck down you guys! I’m delighted that yiz are havin’ great sex and all but some of us are Catholics up in here! All evidence points to Ms Sykes not doing very well free from the constrictions of a daytime watershed.

I have drawn one main conclusion about their relationship…

Poor Melanie Sykes must having some kind of mid-life crisis. She’s the wrong side of 40 now, her kids are getting older, she’s been through a divorce, her career hasn’t panned out quite as well as Holly Willoughby’s and she’s decided “fuck it. Despite having the rockin’ body of an athlete, Melanie lapped up the attention of the brash banker, who, let the records show, has a tattoo on his ass of his mate’s name that he got for “banter” (well done on your life, son). She’s all consumed and flattered by the interest of a “hot” younger man and wants the world to know. She might as well hijack BBC News and announce, “I may not be Claudia Winkleman but I’m hot and young men still want me!” . I mean, I’m assuming that she’s just loving the notoriety that comes with having a toyboy and all the attention that her personal (public) exploits have garnered. Damn it, if she can’t be Kate Thornton then she’s gonna be a whole new Melanie Sykes. Fuck to being a responsible mother. Fuck to being a family-friendly TV personality. Fuck to being in any way respectable. Fuck to dignity. She’s gonna have at it!

See though, the thing is, I’m not saying that she’s out and out wrong. On one hand I’m thinking, good for you. Why not? If she wants to have a toyboy then have one. She’s clearly very satisfied. But Jesus Christ would ya shut the heck up about it on Twitter?!

Her older son is ten years old. No messin’, I know ten-year-olds who are on Twitter. Ten-year-olds today are not like ten-year-olds ten years ago. When I was ten I got on the ol’ dial-up very occasionally and when I did, I was looking up shit like, “horse grooming brush”. These days I’ve got eight-year-old kids telling me about the referendum and saying that Wayne Rooney is a bad man “because he kissed someone else that was wasn’t his wife.” Kids know stuff. They’ve got access yo.

In the days since the media picked up on her smut, Melanie has apparently gained something like 15,000 new followers (I’m one of ‘em!). Perhaps that’s all part of the plan. I don’t know.  What I will say though, is that if she continues down this line, destroying her respectability as a daytime TV figure, unconscientiously producing cripplingly embarrassing ammo for playground bullies to use against her children for years to come and categorically abandoning her sense of morality through her lewd messages, then that’s gonna be 15,000 horrified yet highly entertained individuals.

HOLY. SWEET. JAYSUS!!! She posted this in between bouts of “giddy knickers”.. Like, ya can almost see her.. YIKES!

By all accounts it would seems that @MsMelanieSykes is under the impression that this is a real relationship. This week she tweeted, “‘I’d like to formally announce that @bespokespartan is my boyfriend.” She is evidently oblivious to just how, ahem, whorey, she is actually coming across. See, it’s great to have a full and active sex life and all but there are certain things that just shouldn’t be said on a social networking site to thousands of people. You know, things like, “I’ve got the raging horn, please take me.”

All said and done, the fact is that any dude who tweets,”tweeting while hanging out the back of @MsMelanieSykes”  (yeah… I know) is probably not the man that you’re going to share a long and happy life with. He’s not likely going to be an honourable father figure to your two sons who, in just a few short years, will probably be big enough to give him the slap they’d be entitled to give him.

@bespokespartan: “Should I take @MsMelanieSykes in the ass tonight???” – Oh God! I dunno brother! Maybe just ask her! I don’t… Like, I just can’t… Ugh!

Sigh, and like, the fing is, yeah? I’m sure Melanie Sykes is a very nice person. Despite my scornful mockery, I do really believe that she’s probably as happy and fun as she comes across on-screen. And I s’pose I better also say that ’m sure she’s a great mother. She’s happy with this guy. Maybe he’s decent behind the swag (I said maybe).Maybe the whole sordid thing will do wonders for her career. Get her a spot on Celebrity Juice or something.  I mean, who the fuck am I to have an opinion, right?

But I just… STOP IT MELANIE SYKES! GO BE EROTIC IN PRIVATE!

Note: I began this piece without thinking. I subsequently got carried away. I have since come to realise how utterly irrelevant and fluffy it is… And I’m so very sorry.

The Solution To All Things…

Google is amazing. Google is the king of the search engines. I mean, how often do you hear someone say, “let’s Yahoo! It” or “let’s Bing it”. Doesn’t happen. Google offers us the answers to any question that we may have. It doesn’t care how ridiculous it is. It doesn’t judge.

Recently, my cat was looking a bit poorly. She was squinting and her eye was running. So, predictably enough, away with me to Google to type in “why are my cat’s eyes running?”. Probably an infection was the gist of the 783,000 answers it returned in 0.25 seconds.

But, in between bouts of helping the world find it’s answers and changing it’s logo to honour the anniversaries of things I have mostly never heard of, Google has questions of it’s own. Whether King G actually wants to know or if it’s asking on behalf of an anonymous majority, I’m not sure. But, it’s a beautiful day outside, so what else would I be at but doing my small part to get the answers?

In an awesome show of man and machine working together to educate the world, I started the questions, Google finished ‘em and then we worked together to find the answers. We did ten and then I got a sore back from being curled over this laptop and we decided to conclude. SO! Here we go…

When can a man… Hit a woman?

In short, never. But, that goes with the understanding that it is also never “legally” acceptable for a woman to hit a man.

According to wiki answers, “Hitting or killing someone is against the law, always, regardless of the situation. In some cases it is ‘excused’ by the concept of self-defense. Self defense is not a right. In certain situations it may be permissible by law.”

Now, I know what you’re thinking; What if she’s being an absolute, total bitch? What if she crashed your car? What if she wiped your itunes? What if she served you Greek salad for dinner? What if she says she doesn’t like your best friend?

Apparently… still not okay. Note that this piece is fixed exclusively on “hitting”. I can neither confirm or deny that it is okay to gouge, bite, headbutt or scratch.

Why do people… Hate Nickleback?

Nickleback, the Canadian rock band led by Chad Kroeger and responsible for the song, ‘How You Remind Me’, (Never made it as a wise man.” ‘member it?) have sold over 50 million albums over the course of their incredibly successful 17 years in the biz. However, despite undeniable success, people fucking hate them.

While Nickleback claim status as a rock band, many aficionados dispute this, criticising them for being “poppy”, commercial and repetitive.

Nickleback is the band that everyone loves to hate. Hating them, hating Chad Kroeger and his arrogance, hating the songs, it’s all a big, popular, communal way of saying what Kurt Cobain said way back before he shot himself in the face; “Corporate Rock Sucks”. Funny when one considers that everything about Nickleback and Kroeger (eh!) screams “WE’RE EMULATING GRUNGE!”

Except that while bands like Nirvana, Pearl Jam and Alice In Chains garnered success through luck and determination, Nickleback have ridden their coattails, emerging in 1995, and making every move in a calculated and very deliberate manner. Instead of distaining popularity, as the punks from the 70s determined is the cool thing to do, Kroeger embraces it and pretends to hate it.

So, to conclude, people hate Nickleback because they are corporate rock sell outs who stick to a formula and premeditate every fraction of their careers. Mind you, they’ve made a few pound.

How much does… An abortion cost?

It depends.

Here in good ol’ Catholic, God-fearing Ireland, abortion is illegal unless the mother’s life is threatened by continuing gestation.

But get this, abortion is FREE on the NHS! Who knew?! You need to have two referrals from the doctors and meet conditions of The Abortion Act 1967. Alas, “I’m just not a baby person” probably wont get you an abortion on the NHS.

Private abortions in the UK range from around £500 to £1000 depending on various factors.

A quick search tells us that in the US, “A 2001 study conducted by the Guttmacher Institute found that the average overall cost of an abortion in the United States was $468.”

So, you know, don’t just be running out and paying full-whack for your abortion. Shop around, get the best value, times are hard. Google wont judge you.

At what point does… CPR become necrophilia?

It doesn’t.

If we’re gonna be all anal about it (absolutely no pun intended so don’t even think it!), then I’ll tell you that, technically, necrophilia is an attraction to a corpse.

When we perform CPR on someone, compressing their chest, we are manually pumping that person’s heart, keeping oxygen flowing to the brain and thus, keeping them alive. Ergo, CPR is always performed on a living person. Unless of course, you start performing it on someone who’s already been dead for two hours. Then maybe I’d be concerned about your sexual tendencies. Otherwise, work away my life-saving friends!

Is it legal… To own a monkey in Ireland?

Ah the age old quandary. People have been wondering about the legality of pet monkeys in Ireland for generations.

The answer is yes. You can have a pet monkey in Ireland. You can even get them in the Buy & Sell.

What would happen if I ran… Over a ninja?

Another age old question. I’ve never come across a ninja on the roads myself personally. I’ve also never heard of anyone coming across a ninja whilst on a driving excursion ever. But who am I to say that it doesn’t or cannot happen?

Google brought me to Yahoo! Answers, and there, one very clever guy, who definitely sounded like he spoke from experience said this:

Basically, you laugh to yourself and think you succeed; but you don’t. A number of things can happen:

-If it’s a nice ninja, you just die. You just die right then and there. Just drop down dead.
-If it’s a spiteful ninja, you’ll die a long and painful death. This could take up an hour, a day, or just until you find a way to kill yourself (because you WILL want the pain to end.)
-If it’s a horny ninja, you will die of internal injuries after he rapes you in the *** with his giant blade-penis.
-If it’s a ninja who had some bad luck in a recent relationship, you will die of blood loss after he cuts your scrotum off.

I mean, that all sounds pretty awful. And that’s me taught to drive more cautiously and always, ALWAYS, be aware of crossing ninjas.

Do children… have rights?

Yes they do. Contrary to popular belief, children in 2012 do have rights. What’s more, they’ve got feckin’ loads of ’em!

Children have the right to a name and nationality. They have the right to adequate standard of living. They have the right to healthcare, education and services. They have the right to play and recreation. They have a right to a balanced diet. Children have a right to protection from abuse, neglet, exploitation and discrimination. They have the right to participate in communities. They have the right to be helped first in a disaster. They’ve got the right to have their best interests considered in decisions. They have a right to have a say in decisions. Aw man, there’s tons more.

Kids are so lucky!

What is wrong… With Zac in Emmerdale?

Zac’s got pancreatic cancer guys.

Back in December, Emmerdale did a storyline in which Cain Dingle was attacked. It later came to light that it was Zac who attacked him. Imagine! He attacked his own son. Anyways, it was all grand until Zac started getting really depressed and drinking heavily. Racked with guilt, he lost his job at Home Farm and started behaving very erratically and causing poor aul’ Lisa to become very worried about him. A few weeks later, unwell, Zac went to the doctor. He was sent for scans and it was subsequently revealed that he had pancreatic cancer.

Now… Isn’t that sad? Also, I’d like to clarify that I don’t actually watch that muck.

Is it okay… To eat my period?

I didn’t even hit “Search” on this one. I don’t want to know any more. I don’t want to know who asked the question in the first place and I don’t want to know why. Because the answer is no. The answer is no. The answer will always be no. No. It is not ever okay to eat your period under any circumstances. Period.

How do kids… Make money fast?

A video on youtube says that all kids need to do to make money fast is to click the link below. Says they could earn $100,000 in five weeks. I thought about clicking on the link but noting that “adding comments has been disabled for this video”, I decided not to bother.

In my own experience, seem’s the quickest way for a kid to make a FORTUNE is to make either their First Holy Communion or their Confirmation. I know people who save just so they can afford all the hand-outs that have to be given to children in this country every May.

I’m thinking the Catholic church should come up with some other passage for us to go through that involves everyone we know giving us cards with money in ’em. Like a baptism refresher in our mid-twenties or something. Be class.

Now. Don’t you feel educated? Next time your friend is worried that she wont be able to afford that abortion, next time you find yourself in a dispute with an 8-year-old over their god-given rights, next time you see someone hesitate before starting CPR or you consider getting a pet monkey for your niece’s birthday, be confident. You’re armed with the answers. And you’re there to help.

This Is Not A Political Post, Right!?…

Last Christmas, while doing the obligatory round of festive socialising and seasonal drinking, I found myself having a conversation with a United States army soldier. From California, based in Germany and with at least one tour in Iraq under his belt, he enquired, as many less informed than he do, about the set of military dog-tags that I wear around my neck.

“Well, you’ve heard of Bowe Bergdahl, right?” I replied expectantly, intending it to be a rhetorical question.

I was met with a vacant look, astonishing me and indicating rather clearly, that this guy had absolutely no recognition of the name.

Bowe Bergdahl is a 26-year-old US army soldier from Hailey, Idaho. On June 30^th 2009, in Eastern Afghanistan, he was captured by the Taliban-supporting Haqqani network. His version of the story says he fell behind on patrol. The Taliban version says he was ambushed while drunk off base. Regardless, today, three years later and in a pitiful display of the lack of burden his POW status weighs on the shoulders of the United States military, Bowe remains the only US soldier in captivity.

Bowe (front right) in Afghanistan a month before his capture, May 2009.

I can’t recall an exact moment I first learned of Bergdahl. But I can recall being struck by his story. This kid is just a little older than me, I thought. From a small town in Idaho, Bowe was just a young guy with his whole life ahead of him. He was raised by his religious parents alongside an older sister, Sky. He was described by friends as thoughtful, well-read and athletic with a talent for shooting and a love of skiing and martial arts. He had travelled Europe and worked at a local coffee shop in his hometown. He was just like any other young guy really. Everything about him was relatable. A son, a brother, a nephew. I found myself recognizing elements of my loved ones in him.

Bergdahl, in uniform, before his deployment.

In 2008, ready for a career and without telling his parents, he enlisted in the army. He was placed in First Battalion, 501^st Parachute Infantry Regiment, Fourth Brigade Combat Team, 25^th Infantry Division in Fort Richardson, Alaska. He deployed to Afghanistan in early 2009 as a machine gunner. His parents recall emails from their son, seemingly happy, describing the beauty of the country and the wonderful people.

On the morning following his disappearance Bowe was absent from roll-call at his outpost. Panic ensued as tracking dogs were sent into the surrounding area to locate him. Drones were also sortied in a vain bid to recover the missing soldier. Of course, they found diddly squat. Documents exposed on WikiLeaks in the aftermath of the incident, translate intercepted radio transmissions from the Taliban dated July 1st 2009, the day after Bowe’s disappearance. In the transcript, one voice apparently says, “I think he is a big shot. That’s why they are looking for him.” The second voice replies, “Can you make a video and announce it all over Afghanistan that we have one of the Americans?”. He is told that the video has already been made.

In the few years since his capture, the Taliban have released five videos of Bergdahl. One showed the American, bald and cross-legged on the floor, eating fruit. Another showed him in a pale shirt, noticeably thin and standing alongside a bearded middle-eastern man. As much as each video was riddled with propaganda, featuring Bowe, timid and obviously scared, deeming the war as “not worth the waste of life that it has caused both Afghanistan and the US.”, they also came as relieving proof that he was still alive and as such, were received with gratitude by those who cared.

Probably the most heart-breaking video, released in 2010 and presumably recorded in Pakistan, presented Bowe, wearing an army jacket, describing his life before his imprisonment and making a desperate plea for his freedom. He talked about his family and repented over not letting them know how much he loved them when he had the chance. “I love my family,” he said. “I haven’t shown it very well because, well, I’ve been pretty lost in my life and I don’t think I’ve given my family the love they’ve given me. But I love my family and I pray to God to see them again.” Described by his mother as, “the hardest video to take.” It was almost spine-chilling to watch.

 

In May of 2011, after almost two years of dignified silence, Bowe’s father, Robert Bergdahl released his own heart-breaking video. Stoic and composed, he spoke to his son’s captors, commiserating over their losses in the conflict and, astoundingly, thanking them for keeping Bowe safe. The video was affecting, not least for Robert’s grief-stricken message to his son.

“I pray that this video be shown to our only son. God bless you. We love you. We’ve been quiet in public but we haven’t been quiet behind the scenes. Continue to be patient and kind to those around you. You’re not forgotten. You are not forgotten.”

Last year I ordered a set of dog-tags. Stainless steel and encased in red, rubber silencers, one reads my details. The other reads as follows:

SGT. BOWE. R BERGDAHL.

06/30/2009

POW

AFGHANISTAN

The tags are not part of some political stance or even a means to try and convince myself that I’m making a difference. I’m not dumb. I don’t know this guy. He doesn’t know me. We’ve never met. I’d be very surprised if the news of some chick in Ireland wearing dog tags provoked the Taliban to reconsider the whole thing.

I guess I’m just attracted to the sentimentality of the idea that as long as this kid is alive, alone and thousands of miles from home in the hands of a terrorist organisation, at the very least it’s nice to think that someone, somewhere, keeps him in their thoughts. That’s all.

Bowe, here in an old family photo, describes his love for motorcycles in one of the released videos.

Like many, I’ve long been disappointed by the apparent lack of action from the United States to secure the freedom of their M.I.A. Regardless of the various different counts of the circumstances of his capture, Bowe is a Prisoner of War. He was kidnapped whilst in Afghanistan serving his country. And his country seems to have just left him there, attempting to make words speak louder than action.

I am signed up for Google Alerts on Bowe. It means that every afternoon, I receive an email with an assortment of links forwarding me to any recent mentions of his name online. I originally signed up in the hope that someday I’d receive notification of his release. Alas it hasn’t happened yet. As much as my breath is baited for good news, I am, instead, greeted with a daily plethora of links to stories summarising stalled talks between the US and the Taliban and word of remembrance events across the States.  The display of ignorance on the part of the American soldier at Christmas solidified my belief that Bowe Bergdahl, if not completely unknown to most, is viewed as just a tiny piece in a conflict much bigger than himself, and, certainly, just a small fish to fry in the eyes of the Obama administration.

Bowe, thin and anxious-looking in another propaganda video

Having said that, after a mild flurry of interest last year, when word spread that Bowe had escaped and spent three days on the run (apparently “fighting like a boxer” when he was found), awareness is on the rise again. This week, his parents have come forward in an effort to try and push the government into doing more to bring their son home. They revealed that secret talks between the US and the Taliban were recently brought to a standstill by the opposing side. The deal would have seen the transfer of five Taliban prisoners from Guantanamo Bay to Qatar under conditions of house arrest in exchange for the release of Bergdahl to the United States military. The Taliban rejected conditions of the deal and, in essence, walked away.

Five for one perhaps doesn’t sound like the fairest deal going but the bottom line is that as long as they hold an American citizen, the Taliban has leverage. While his captors might lack the sentiment that their Western opposition places on the lives of it’s soldiers, they’re not blind to it’s importance in this exchange. America wants Bowe back. The Taliban know that and it’s for that very reason that he remains alive today.

Speaking out last week, Bowe’s father, Robert, who has learned the Pashto language in order to communicate with Taliban members, said that he believed he was in email contact with an Afghan man who has information on his son. In reference to him and his wife’s growing frustration at the slow progess, he said, “we don’t have faith in the U.S. government being able to reconcile this. You don’t leave something like this to Government officials. Why wouldn’t a father do this? This is my job.”

The Government, however, is adamant that it is exhausting every possibility to secure Bowe’s release. Spokesman for the Defense Department, George Little said, “finding Bowe Bergdahl is a top priority, and we will not stop searching for ways to return him to his family and country.”

Another official said that as much as an exchange may sound like a straight-forward means to an end, “We’re not talking about real nice guys out there who are willing to let Sergeant Bergdahl walk.”

A poster of Bowe sits on display at the Defense Department Central Command Center in an apparent show of dedication from the US.

Regardless of the conditions under which he gets returned, the reprise in awareness of Bowe’s saga comes at a tricky time and brings with it a sense of urgency for two reasons, the first being the obvious. The 2012 Presidential Election in November. Bowe’s capture, imprisonment and attempted release negotiations have all happened under Obama’s presidency. Aside from the obvious fact that there’s a chance he may not get a second term in the Oval office thus throwing the proverbial spanner very much in the works, in the run up to the election, Obama is being careful. The last thing he needs is controversy. He doesn’t want to be seen to be entertaining the demands of terrorists. The second reason is the imminent withdrawal of troops from Afghanistan by 2014. Operation Enduring Freedom in Afghanistan has been ongoing for over 10 years now and is largely known as “the forgotten war”. Public interest had gradually faded and global focus has changed. The withdrawal of troops from Afghanistan can only serve to heighten ignorance on Bowe Bergdahl’s plight.

“Every day I want to go home. The pain in my heart to see my family again doesn’t get any smaller. Release me. Please. Bring me home. Please. Bring me home.”

One can only hope that the candour of Bowe’s loved ones and the consequent revival of public concern will push those who need to act into action to secure his safe return to the United States. I’m still waiting on the Google Alert in my inbox in the hope that I can, someday soon, put my dog tags into an envelope and send them to him in Hailey, Idaho.

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Bring-Bowe-Bergdahl-Home/105831760749

Handy Work If You Can Get It…

“Tell me about the health issues you’ve had recently.”

Staring blankly across the table at the man I was paying €40 to read my cards, I racked my brain.

“I’ve always been pretty healthy,” I replied, almost apologetic at having failed to come up with anything that had ailed me in recent months.

“No, emotionally,” he made a second attempt.

Again, I hit a brick wall. I understood his logic. It would be a fairly safe bet to assume that the majority of the usual suspects that graced the curtain of his “psychic’s lair” would have had some kind of emotional turbulence going on thus provoking their visit. Alas, I was not one of those people and, having been informed that I was incredibly fearful of rejection and that I cry a lot on the inside, I was now concluding that this man was nothing more than a very good con artist.

I would like to clarify at this point that paying €40 to have my future told by a chain-smoking medium down the back of a pub in Mullingar was not my idea. It was my mothers. Inherently trusting and full of faith, she wholly believes in angels, banshees and the ability of those few to see the future. She’d been to this guy several times. Swore by him. Many do.

I, on the other hand, am innately more sceptical. I have little time for religion, UFO sightings or ghosts. In general, if you can’t explain it to me, it aint getting past the door. I once read a saying on one of those funny signs you see outside churches in America. It went, “Faith sees God. Intellect does not.” Accurate and witty. I remembered it. That’s how this scribe sees it.

Having said that, at the encouragement of my ever compassionate, entirely trusting and kind-hearted ol’ Mum to accompany her, I found myself sat in front of one of Ireland’s most renowned psychics the other evening.

Having agreed on the reading and aware that it came at a princely cost, I decided to try and open my mind a little. Maybe I haven’t got it all figured out. Maybe I’m wrong. I’ve heard many people raving about this guy, how he’s predicted deaths and illnesses around them and gave them lucidity on a lot of things.

Driving down there after work, with my mother doing some Oscar worthy acting in her role as ‘most-nervous-passenger-in-the-world’ for the trip, I will admit that there was a part of me hoping I’d be told something profound. Something insightful. Something that I might be kept awake pondering that night. Even just some form of reassurance that I’m making decent decisions. No such luck.

Of course, the client themselves play a huge part in defining how good these guys are. As far as I can make out, the majority of clients at this particular dude are middle-aged women, house and duty bound and crippled with regrets.

That was way harsh Tai.

Point being that the best part of the people that go to see psychics go because they’re looking for some kind of emotional reassurance. They go hoping to emerge fulfilled, hopeful and enlightened. They go, so certain it will put their mind at ease, that when Mr. MoneyBalls tells them that he sees a wonderful future in store for them and that their dead dog wants them to know that he’s happy on the other side with Granny and Paws the cat, they lap it right up. I mean, he knew that Granny was dead! And you never told him! He must be legit!

Or perhaps he just clocked you coming in all positive and accepting, took in your age, your clothing, your immediate persona and he made some generic but fairly accurate conclusions about you. He sees health problems? Maybe you had a chest infection out last year. Death in the family? Perhaps your great-aunt died just before Christmas. Travel on the horizon? Who doesn’t have travel on the horizon these days?

Sitting in the dark room the other night with the tatty old cards laid out on the table in front of me, I was determined to poker face my way through the session. He was gonna have to do this on his own.

He asked about the animosity on my father’s side of the family, wanted to know why there’s a separation there, why we don’t speak very often. I took a moment to correct my raised brow and duly told him that we were actually a very close-knit family and had, in fact, all been away together the weekend before. Not quite on top form there buddy. Go again.

“What about the recent death on your mother’s side of the family?”  … “Well, my grandmother died 12 years ago.” Ouch. Strike two. It really wasn’t going all that incredibly well between myself and Mr. MoneyBalls here in his curtained cave. My inner cynic was utterly frothing at the mouth at the realisation that it had been right all along. The naïve, curious side of me, however, was a tad crushed in the knowledge that my life really was in my own clumsy hands.

With a mutual recognition that this reading was turning out to be far from the best show he’d ever done, he got a little more specific. He told me he saw travel in my future. Right. No shit Sherlock, but okay. Apparently Australia’s not for me but I’d really enjoy South America or Africa. He told me he saw marriage. Again, doesn’t take a genius, but all right, I’ll take it as a prediction. He wanted to know why I thought I wouldn’t have children. Fair play, you took a risk, thought maybe I looked like someone who didn’t have much time for kids. But FAIL nonetheless. He told me I’d always come back home and would end up settling within 30 minutes of where I currently live. Game over buddy. My definite (vague) and intended (hoped) life plan dictates otherwise.

I reckon that was about the time he gave up on me. He’d gotten it wrong so many times it almost seemed pointless to continue. I wasn’t buying it. He knew I wasn’t buying it. He told me to enjoy my travels and the session was brought to an abrupt and slightly awkward end with a shake of the hand and the exchange of what I’ve decided is a sufficient amount of money to justify scamming vulnerable, insecure housewives from across Ireland for a few hours in the evening during the week.

There’s a medium in the UK by the name of Derek Acorah. Some might know him from his work on ‘Most Haunted’ in which he became “possessed” by a spirit called Kreed Kafer. Kreed Kafer was subsequently exposed to be a total fabrication and a rather obvious anagram of the words ‘Derek Faker’. Clever. A while back I watched a documentary featuring Acorah. He was accused of being a fraud, cold-reading his clients, throwing out non-specific statements, gauging reactions and essentially just allowing people to make their own assumptions. He had hoards convinced. In reality it was all just years of honed fakery and showmanship. Acorah, of course, was enraged at the suggestion that he might be a liar and denied everything. But like, come on. I am, however, giving Derek one more shot at pursuading me. He has predicted that he will be involved in a plane crash between the UK and Canada in 2013. He reckons he’ll be one of three survivors and will consequently need a walking stick. So… Yeah… Look out for that news… I swear, if that happens I will eat your hat (I like mine)!

Derek Acorah under the influence of Derek Faker… Wait…

Anyways, feeling both disappointed at the lack of any kind of philosophical insight into my healthy, loss-lacking, socially acceptable life and decidedly smug at the confirmation that good old, time tested logic always prevails, we drove home, with me explaining to Mum exactly why I had deemed the man a fraudster, in between bursts of trying to reassure her that yes, I could see that the car in front of me was indicating and I wasn’t driving too fast.

Moral? I dunno really. Don’t go see a psychic. Instead, maybe just… get on with your life and quit being so darned scared of fucking it up. Be graaaaand!

Here’s a link to the art of cold reading. Why not set up down the back of your local and charge innocent old ladies a fortune to come and be cheated? http://www.wikihow.com/Cold-Read

PS: In case you’re wondering, my eternally trusting mother’s reading turned out to be a much more insightful experience for her.

I Hate It When That Happens…

Have you ever stepped on an upturned plug and cursed the brat who left it there? Or gotten frustrated by a group of teenagers blaring music out loud on a bus? Have you ever been annoyed by someone reading a newspaper over your shoulder? Or fumed at stepping in dog shhhh (mess) on the footpath? Have you ever griped about how unhygienic it actually is to offer the sign of peace at mass? Or seethed at the sight of someone throwing rubbish out the window of a car?

Pet peeves. I’ve got ‘em. You’ve got ‘em. Your Mom’s got ‘em. The postman’s got ‘em. You get the gist. Life is full of little nuisances and irritations. Unfortunately there’s very little do be done about them. There will always be something that just rubs you up the wrong way.

At the realisation that I haven’t posted anything here since March and with inspiration from a conversation I had with a 9-year-old after her shoe fell off when she was running, here is but a glimpse into the plethora of pet peeves that I battle on a daily basis…

 People Who Want The Red Sweet

Have you ever been eating a packet of Starburst (or Opal Fruits if you’re awesome) and someone asks can they have one? “No problem buddy, what’s mine is yours. Here ya go.”… “Oh, I only like the red ones. Can I have a red one?”

Excuse you?! Are you having an episode?! No shit you only like the red ones! EVERYONE knows that the red ones are the best ones. Matter fact, if Starburst did away with all the other colours and just sold packets of the red ones, that’d be juuuust fine. And it’d put a halt to those uncomfortable situations where people ask for the red one and you have to either shut up and give it to them whilst wishing you never made friends with them in the first place or rummage through your vocabulary to try and find a way to tell them “no” without sounding like an anal dickhead.

There’s only ever one or two red sweets in the pack. They’re precious and, least in my case, are always put aside to be enjoyed once I’ve grudgingly made my way through the poxy orange, green, yellow and purple ones. As far as I’m concerned there’s an etiquette to be followed if you want a sweet off someone: take what ya get and put some gratitude in your attitude!

Or just ask for any other colour but the red ones. Actually, here, you can just have all the other ones.

People Who Say “Ha Ha!”

I work with children. This means that on a daily basis I am subject to questions like, “are you getting a baby?” or comments such as, “My mammy says it’s rude to have a ring in your nose like you.”

It’s fine. You’re just a child. I’m not offended (I’m actually crying on the inside). It’s part of the joys of war. I’m not getting a baby, I just had a big lunch and eh, your mammy would wanna lighten the fuck up. Children are, by nature, explicitly honest. It’s what I love and loathe most about them.

There is, however, one phrase I hear more than any other that drives me up the wall and out the windows: “Ha Ha!”

I don’t mean “Ha Ha” as in that’s funny, I’m laughing. I mean “Ha Ha” in a mean, Nelson from The Simpsons kind of way. I forgot my purse! “Ha Ha!” I broke a cup! “Ha Ha!”  I tripped over a schoolbag and knocked my head off the radiator! “Ha Ha!”

Course, I’m not talking exclusively about children here. I love those guys mostly. Adults do it too. Immature, awkward ones who haven’t quite worked out who they are yet.

Thing is, when you trip or break something or fumble in some way, it can be pretty shitty and the last thing you need is some mean-spirited person making fun of you while ensuring that everyone’s attention is drawn to your mishap with a mocking, “Ha Ha!”

There’s no comback. Thanks for that.

Slow Drivers

To clarify, speeding is wrong. It’s against the law and 60% of the time, I never do it. But, and this is a big, Kim Kardashian but(t), slow drivers do my head in.

I’m late most of the time. If you tell me to be somewhere at 6 o’clock, I’ll be there at ten past. I realise that this is a pet peeve of a lot of people but I can’t help it. ‘Less it’s super important, I’m inherently guilty of punctual unreliability.

Anyways, as a result of this, I usually cannot afford to get caught up behind tractors and/or drivers who aren’t really sure where they’re going. When I should have been at work ten minutes ago, I need to be doing at least the speed limit.

It’s awful when you’re cruising along and you catch up with the old lady from down the road doing 40mph in 2^nd gear with her left indicator on since she left her house. She’s driving half way across the line and you can’t get past.

Fair play to ya for being mobile and independent at your age Mrs. Murphy but like, MOVE!!!

Texting While in a Conversation

Nothing says, “I’m not listening” like the clicking of the buttons on a mobile phone while you’re trying to talk to someone.

I appreciate that texting has to be done. I’m a habitual texter myself. But if you’ve ever been talking to someone and then you have to repeat what you’ve said because the other person stopped listening to reply to a text, then you know the frustration you feel.

Texting is a handy way to stay in touch with people, or to let your friends know important details of your day, like, that you just met their father in the shop. The texting itself is not what bothers me. What bothers me is when sending a text takes priority over having an actual real-life, face-to-face conversation with someone.

No, no, don’t worry, I’ll just stand here like a bolox while you smirk at your phone and furiously click in a reply while pretending to listen to what I’m saying. Matter fact, hang on, I’ll just text it to ya.

Odd Socks

In the words of Rivers Cuomo, “my fashion sense is a little wack.” I am perpetually to be found in a hoodie. My hair hangs loose. My shoes are often scuffed and my nails unkempt. I’m not exactly what one would call “put together”. It’s not that I don’t care. Actually no, that’s exactly what it is. I’d much rather spend my time ambling with the dogs or chillin’ with itunes than agonising over what I’m gonna wear or applying fake tan. Too. Much. Hassle.

BUT… No matter how baggy my hoodie, no matter how dishevelled my hair looks, no matter how chipped my nail polish or torn the bottom of my trousers, I will ALWAYS be sporting matching socks. Guaranteed.

Odd socks bother me. Can’t explain it.

In my house I operate a self-imposed “buddy box” policy. I have a box in the laundry room. Any socks that lose their buddy in the process of washing must be placed into the buddy box where they will remain unless and until a buddy can be found.

I aaalmost can’t believe I just admitted that. I know. Anality, thy name is me.

People Who Are Afraid of Dogs

A phobia is characterised as being an irrational fear as in coulrophobia, a fear of clowns (clowns are funny yo!) or triskaidekaphobia, a fear of the number 13 (thanks Nirvana/Friends).

If you’re afraid of dogs, look away now ‘coz we’re about to fall out.

Officially, a phobia of dogs is called cynophobia. Unofficially it’s called ridiculous.

Of course I’m speaking from a biased perspective, that of a lifelong dog lover. I currently share my home with two big pooches, both of who have a big bark and a non-existent bite. You call wool and pull and antagonize and generally fuck with them all day long and receive nothing but attempted licks and wagging tails in return.

There are certain animal related fears I can get down with. Bears, for example. Bears are massive and not near as cuddly as their teddy counterparts mislead us to believe. A fear of sharks is also fairly reasonable, thinkin’ we’re seals and chowin’ the fuck down with their 20 million teeth. A fear of apes is acceptable too. They’ll rip your face clayne off with their opposable thumbs while staring you down with their unnervingly human eyes.

I’ve never been bitten by a dog, ever, so maybe it’s easy for me to talk but I’m sorry, I can’t sit back and understand when someone runs terrified of an animal that has long been regarded as man’s best friend, an animal that helps the blind and disabled, an animal that serves loyally in both the army and police force, an animal that emotes and loves and obeys. I just can’t.

Yeah, yeah, every dog is different, yadda yadda. I’m about as immovable on this subject as North Korea is on the idea of being honest. A dog is as vicious as its owner makes it.

Tangled Ear Phones

You finish with your ipod. You remove your earphones and you carefully wrap them around the device and deposit into your pocket/handbag/glovebox. Two hours later, you retrieve the ipod for another private disco session and, hey whaddya know, the earphones are now an incomprehensible, tangled mess. What. The. Fuck?! I was so careful!

It’s one of life’s great, unexplained mysteries. The same thing happens with the wires at the back of the TV. Nobody’s touched ‘em since the TV was bought and still, it’s like a labyrinth of black wires back there. You need to change the scart from the dvd player to the playstation? You’re gonna have to just start at one end and work your way to the other to avoid fucking shit up. Just one of those things I guess but daaaaaaaamn it’s annoying!

Finding Just a Little Bit Left

Confusing title. What I’m referring to is when you come home from somewhere and you go to the cupboard to get a bowl of cereal and you discover that there’s only a tiny bit left. When you get up in the morning and you go about making the tea, you open the fridge and find two drops are left in the milk carton. When you go to use the bathroom and discover one sheet of paper left on the roll. When you take a shower and the conditioner bottle spurts out enough to do about an eighth of your hair.

To the person who uses all these things before me; just take it all. I see your logic. You don’t want to be the prick that used the last of the washing powder. But please don’t bother insulting me with the dregs. I have no use for the heel of the bread. Honestly, I’ll be less annoyed to discover there’s none left than to get excited and then realise it’s a useless amount. Just let selfishness prevail in this instance.

Being The First One At A Party

Noone wants to be the first one to arrive. You try and time it so you’ll be just late enough that there’s a few people there ahead of you. Problem being that this is a universal solution and thus, everyone’s late and you still risk being the first to arrive. My tip from the top is to wait until you’re late, and then just wait a little longer, then go.

Otherwise, you risk arriving while the “big lights” are still on, the music hasn’t been figured out and no one’s had a drink yet. You sit alone on the sofa, looking at the DVD collection while your host “jumps in the shower real quick”.

Being late isn’t about being fashionable. It’s about avoiding boredom.

Automated Answering Services

You know the ones.

A few weeks back I rang Vodafone. I was trying to unblock a SIM. I tried to do it online to no avail. I needed help. So I rang ‘em. For the life of me I could not work out how to get speaking to a real person.

Press 1 to do this. Press 5 to do that. Please log on to vodafone.useless to unblock the SIM. In the end I just rang the nearest Vodafone shop and got them to talk me through it.

If a company is going to use an automated answer service, an option to speak to a rep should always exist on the very first menu. That is all.

Trampolines

THEY’RE SO DANGEROUS!!!

Right, sure I s’pose that’s enough for now. Too many pet peeves and reading about pet peeves will soon become a pet peeve. Maybe another time I’ll get grumpy and moan some more. Or maybe I’ll balance the scales and regale you with a list of some of the best things ever (finding money you forgot you had/lists themselves).

There wasn’t even any fun pictures to look at this time. Fuck sake.

Irony, thy name is… Me?

I am your archetypal daydreamer. I mostly wander around with my head in the clouds carelessly minding my own bidness until something provokes enough thought that I feel like I have to come down for a minute to say something about it. Well today I read an article that roused me from my mental hibernation (the article was published on heckin’ Sunday like!). It was called ‘The Voice of The People’. It was in Sundays’ ‘Life’ magazine with the Independent and was written by a guy called Declan Lynch.

The subheading read: “There’s a reason why everyone doesn’t have a voice and a reason why bloggers are just bloggers.”

Now, usually I’m not one to give a shit about what’s between the two covers of a magazine that comes free with the Sunday paper but this dude implicated me. He implicated and he criticized me and any other person out there who has the audacity to flaunt freedom of expression in the form of… A blog!

The article wasn’t directly about blogging really. It was about how we have become a nation of uncertain nitwits who call for a referendum at the first hint of a political decision needing to be made. That’s all fair enough but Declan pointed the finger. A bold enough move when you’re pointing it at the majority.

Basically, Mr. Lynch griped sarcastically for a few hundred words about how blogging has become so popular in recent years and how it’s killing “real journalism”. He reckons that because anyone can write a blog, the integrity of the journalistic vocation is, essentially, being shit on by every Tom, Dick and Harry with a laptop and a basic ability to type/form an opinion.

The first conclusion to spring to my mind upon reading the piece was that there was no way in hell that the scribe was below the age of 40. You know that TV show that used to be on BBC called ‘Grumpy Old Men’ where people like Bob Geldof , Jeremy Clarkson, Rory McGrath and the like just sat there and grumbled about things that they didn’t understand? That’s what it put me in mind of. It was like listening to an old man giving out about how it’s far from blogging he was raised and things, of course, were better when he was a buck. And BINGO, further research tells me that Declan Lynch was born in 1961.

Here in Ireland, we’re terrified of change. Kind of the point of Mr. Lynch’s story in the first place. So it’s hypocritical enough to see the article pan out as the words of a middle-aged man who appears petrified that his job might be at risk to some, in his own mocking words, “desperado” with a blog.

The thing is, in one respect, I can appreciate where he’s coming from. I can see why he feels that his professional toes are being stepped on by the simplicity and freedom that the 21^st century and the internet culture provide. There is, no question, an abundance of personal blogs out there covering just about every topic you can think of and laymen with too much time on their hands are behind a vast majority of them.

In another respect, however, I feel that Mr. Lynch is an intolerant old stick-in-the-mud who has a dislike for modernism and the fact that it is now possible for everyone to have a voice regardless of whether they’re endorsed by a publication or not.

I have a degree in Journalism from Dublin City University. I spent three years earning it. About a year and a half into my studies I came to the realisation that, while I loved to write, I had very little interest in resigning myself to a life limited by word counts, deadlines, uninteresting subject matter and the brutality of editors. The reality of the profession was revealed to be a million miles from the idealistic reason I got into it in the first place. Where I wanted journalism to be a craft; something you could be creative with, an outlet for originality and flair, I was thumped in the face with a reality of ruthlessness, confinement and censorship. I finished my studies, graduated with the rest of my class and, while most of my peers ventured off into the cut-throat world of professional journalism, I ventured into the unexpected but wholly more gratifying terrain of childcare, where I today remain.

Point being? That not everyone who writes a blog is an uneducated imbecile who doesn’t deserve a voice, as Mr. Lynch not so discreetly implies. I take exception to the notion that just because a person chooses to write on their own terms it makes them less of a writer than someone who gets paid to roll out mundane “inverted pyramid” style news articles for a broadsheet paper. While a payroll journalist gets the freedom to write about whatever the editor decides, the blogger utilises initiative and crafts something. The blogger has the creative independence that the paid reporter can only hope to someday earn professionally and the blogger can generate as much attention for their work as any byline can for theirs.

The fact is that, as much as old school “I used to have to walk a mile in the snow just to get clean drinking water” grouches like Mr. Lynch are loathe to tolerate it, the internet is the future of communication. Matter fact, it’s not even the future. It’s the present. This month, Encyclopaedia Britannica announced that, after 244 years in print, it would now only be available online. I mean, I love books (I refuse to ever have a Kindle, for example) but if that’s not one of the final nails in the coffin of the printed word, I don’t know what is. Also, here’s a link to an article listing all the major news stories that were broken on twitter (by the layman) before anywhere else: http://www.techradar.com/news/internet/10-news-stories-that-broke-on-twitter-first-719532

In his tirade, Mr. Lynch alleges that “being good is not the point anymore.” Well, I respectfully disagree with that principle. Being “good” remains an essential component in any piece of journalism whether it comes in the form of an article, a column, a blog or even a tweet. Regardless of the encompassing accessibility of blogging to anyone with a notion to be heard in some way, good writers remain; There are people out there who are perceptive, creative, witty, outspoken and ingenious. They write, undiscovered and unappreciated. But doing it for one common reason: A love of writing.

And what’s wrong with that Declan Lynch?

Sure It’d Be Rude Not To…

So, it’s St. Patrick’s Day again. Yay for Paddy! Our patron saint. He drove the snakes out of Ireland like a boss! The only problem with it being that history suggests there never was any snakes in Ireland and eh, Saint Paddy was British. But let’s just sweep that one under the rug for the day that’s in it, shall we?

They say that we’re blessed with the gift of the gab here in Ireland. I dunno who “they” are or where they’re from but I feel they misread us. We don’t so much have the gift of the gab, but rather we have an unadulterated fear of awkward silences. Hence, we’re mad for the small talk.

Here’s a typical conversation, to be overheard at the petrol pumps of any Texaco around the country:

Paddy #1: Well boss, how’s it goin’?

Paddy #2: Ah, sure I’m alright. I’ll not complain. What about yourself? Any craic goin’?

Paddy#1: Divil the bit and fuck the hate now. Scrapin’ by.  

Paddy #2: Aren’t we all? Bad times.

Paddy #1: Bad times. That’s a fierce mild day.

Paddy # 2: Ah sure it’s great to see it.

Paddy # 1: It’s meant to get colder now from Tuesday though.

Paddy #2: Aw, will ya quit! But there’s some stretch in the evenings these days.

Paddy #1: Feckin’ sure. Where does the time go? Sure I’m still not over Christmas.

Paddy #2: And we’re into March now. It’s mad isn’t it? What’s the plan for Paddys?

Paddy #1: Ah, I’ll probably head to the parade, few pints to be had, ya know yourself.

Paddy #2: Yeah, same as. Sure what else would ya be at?

Paddy # 1: Exactly. Has to be done. Right sure I better go. I have to see a thing about a thing with the… yoke.

Paddy #2: Right, good man. Sure I’ll chat t’ ya again. Good luck.

And translated it goes:

Paddy #1: Well boss, how’s it goin’?

Paddy #2: Not great. I’ve my fair share of problems but I don’t know you well enough/have the time to go into it with you. What about yourself?

Paddy#1:  I’ve no money.

Paddy #2: Am I supposed to feel sorry for you? I’ve no feckin’ money either like.

Paddy #1: So shall we talk about the weather for a minute before I have to go in and pay for this petrol?

Paddy # 2: Yeah. I guess so.

Paddy # 1: I have nothing to say to you.

Paddy #2: I’ve nothing to say to you either.

Paddy #1: Soooo…

Paddy #2: Emmmm, Paddy’s Day! That’s coming up! We could talk about that…

Paddy #1: Yeah. I’m gonna go on the absolute piss from Saturday, spend all my money and probably not come home until Monday night at some stage.

Paddy #2: Me too. There’s absolutely nothing else to do in this country.

Paddy # 1: True story. Right, I’m gonna go ahead and make an excuse to go now because we’re out of conversation and shit’s about to get awkward.

Paddy #2: Thank god. See ya.

These conversations are unanimously accepted in this country. They’re reserved, not for your friends and family, but for those people that you just really don’t have that much in common with. Ie: people you went to primary school with and haven’t seen in about three years and you always forget what they’re doing in college, your parents’ friends (or your friends’ parents, for that matter), those people that you’d talk to in the pub but you’re not really friends with in real life and people who just recently added you on Facebook because maybe they know your brother and want to have a bit of a snoop through your photos. But generally they all culminate around one thing, and that’s whatever social event is next on the calender. And by social event, I of course mean; reason to go on the piss.

So, Paddy’s Day is the next upcoming reason to go on the piss and everyone wants to know what everyone else is going to be at for it. It’s a bank holiday. They come around rare enough. And Paddy’s Day itself actually falls on a Saturday this year. Couldn’t. Suit. More… Ach ní bheidh mé ag ól. Yup, I’m one of the sorry few that’s not going on the beer. I informed my brother of thisyesterday and was greeted with a baffled response. He’s got MAJOR plans. But see, the thing is, I don’t drink very often, but when I do drink I’m a DEAD CERT to overdo it. I mean, where one should stop drinking at 2am and go to bed, I’ll be the bolox scraping the dregs of a bottle of Mickey Finns, asking for song requests and trying to dissuade people from going to bed when 8am rolls around. It’s just not a good look. I mean, sure it’s the best of craic at the time but after a bit of a snooze and once the hangover subsides, all that’s left is utter, utter mortification. What did I say to yer one? Why did I say that? Who is that stranger in all my photos? How do I have more money in my wallet now than I had going out? And the inevitable, “Right, that’s it. No more drinking for me for a LONG time.” It’s for this reason that I drink only occasionally and will consequently be acting as complimentary taxi this weekend while the vast majority of my peers will  morph into drunken parodies of themselves for circa 48 hours.

Now, don’t get me wrong. There’s no judgement here. I’m not averse to a good session. Give me a group friends and some vodka Diet Cokes on a sunny day or a big family get together at Christmas and I’m SOLD. But the thoughts of going to a pub in Ireland on Paddy’s Day are enough to make me want to emigrate. The reason being that as much as we like to take offence at having a rep for drinking outrageously, akin to the uproar over those Urban Outfitters t-shirts (http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2108948/St-Patricks-Day-Urban-Outfitters-T-shirts-Irish-Americans-fury-disrespectful-slogans.html), it’s actually not a million miles off the mark. We drink if it’s someone’s birthday (ya have to celebrate). We drink if it’s Christmas (Irish coffee’s begin as soon as one wakes on Christmas morning in my house). We drink if someone dies (it’d be wrong not to exchange stories of the deceased over a few). We drink if it’s sunny (beer garden!). We drink if it’s a bank holiday (no work on Monday). We drink if someone’s migrating (for the big send-off valya). We drink is someone’s home from abroad (it’s the best way to reunite with the most amount of people in the least amount of time). We drink if we break-up with someone (drown the sorrows). We drink if it’s payday (coz we can). Summarised: We drink a fair bit of alcohol in Ireland.

Usually, Paddy’s Day in Ireland looks something like this: 

Everyone is bananas. The place is jammed. You’re getting pushed around. Ya can’t get near the bar (or the toilets). There’s vomit, broken glass and chips blanketing the footpath outside. There’s cigarette smoke EVERYWHERE. The floors are sticky. People are shifting in the corners. EVERYBODY is shouting and leering and staggering. Fights break out.

There’s very little actual patriotism in an Irish pub on St. Patrick’s Day. The gimmicky t-shirts are sported, the trad music is on the go and there’s probably some shamrock bunting strewn across the bar but it’s not really there in the spirit of honouring old Eire. Nah, it’s considered more of a “theme” for the party. Kind of like a fancy dress except the options are limited to green stuff… mostly.

I wouldn’t mind being elsewhere for the big day. Somewhere far away. Somewhere where St. Patrick’s Day is regarded as more than simple justification for the mother of all seisúns. I just figure, at least if you went away off to, say, Boston or Vancouver or Sydney or the like, you’d be graced with a slightly tamer, more eloquently patriotic and better organised version of what Paddy’s Day is in Ireland.

Listen though, I’m not saying I’m any form of pioneer. When I relent to a session, I fall as hard as any other gal (“Don’t be goin’ to bed! Bed is for losers! There’s Mickey Finns to be drank!”). There’s nothing wrong with it, you know, aside from for all that malarkey about binge drinking and liver damage and stuff. But Paddy’s Day is too much for me and my amateur persona to deal with. I guess I’m just in yearning for a more docile version. One that an “every-now-and-again” girl like me can keep pace with.

Hmmm… http://www.celticfestvancouver.com/

Still… Happy St. Patrick’s Day to all though! Enjoy yourself whatever you’re at!

Whaddya mean you’re not going to Australia?!

Here in Ireland there are certain traditions, rites of passage, if you will, that one must go through in order to be considered a proper person. Making your first holy communion is one. Drinking in secret before a youth disco is another. You have to go to the Gaeltacht for the summer before your Leaving Cert. You have to have the pockets ripped off your shirt on the last day of school. You have to go to Oxegen. You have to run from the feds at least once. And you have to go to Australia for a year.

I was late for my first holy communion (perpetual lateness runs in my family). I drank in secret down the road from my friends’ house before many a youth disco. I went to the French version of the Gaeltacht the summer before my Leaving Cert. I FELLTHEFUCKOUT with the guy who ripped the pockets off my shirt on the last day of school. I did the Oxegen thing thrice (never again). I ran from (and consequently was caught by) the feds in a Dublin park. But I have never been to Australia, nor do I have any interest. This is a revelation that is usually greeted with this face:

I don't know this dude but he wants to know why the fuck I'm not in Australia!

Allow me to explain…

#1. The Heat

Some people tan in the sun. Some people burn in the sun. Me? I just get gifted (plagued) with a whole array of new freckles. When I was little and hated my freckles my mam used to tell me that they’d fade as I got older. They never did. Just another lie to throw in the jar along with Santa Claus and that whole thing about carrots helping you see in the dark. I’d love to be a sun goddess like Megan Fox or Heidi Montag (but like, the old Heidi Montag. Not the new Jocelyn Wildenstein-esque Heidi Montag). Alas, I’m Irish and thus when I go in the sun, I’m more like Monica Gellar in that episode of Friends where they went to Barbados and she got into the intense table tennis match with Paul Rudd. My hair frizzes up, my mood turns sour and I sweat in weeeeeird places (behind the knees, anyone? No?… TMI?… Sorry). I mean, I hate the cold. I HATE the cold. But the heat hates me. And who am I to argue with nature?

#2. The Bugs

Listen right, I’m no wuss. I’m not afraid of the dark. I’m not afraid of heights. I’m not afraid of snakes. I’m not afraid of rats. But I am most definitely afraid of bugs. There’s this spider that shows up in these parts around late August/early September. He’s called the Harvest Spider. He’s fucking massive and I hate his stinking guts! I always make sure to have an Argos catalogue close to hand so that whenever the Harvest Spider breaks into my home I can launch it from a safe, elevated distance and promptly end its rotten little eight-legged life .

My friend was in Australia and said that, once, she left a chocolate bar out on the counter and during the night, the roaches invaded. Also, my brother lives there and told me that when he was working on a site, he was instructed to kick bricks over with his foot before touching them just in case there was a black widow lurking underneath… FUCK. THAT!!

I just wouldn’t be able to sleep at night if I lived in Australia. No harm, but how could anyone be comfortable in a country where you have to get used to lizards in your house because they eat the spiders. Nah, you’re alright thanks. I’ll take the devil I know. 

#3. The Sheer Vastness

I’ve got family in Perth. I’ve got friends in Sydney. They know each other. They see each other NEVER! Here in Eire, you can have friends in Cork family in Donegal and yiz can all hook up for pints after work on a muthafuckin’ Tuesday if ya want! It’d be a late one, but ya can do it.

But not so when you’re DIN UNDA (that’s my Aussie accent). Perth is like 3000 miles from Melbourne. Melbourne is like 1000 miles from Sydney. And Darwin is like 10,000,000 miles from anywhere. I just can’t even comprehend the vastness of Australia. I mean, I feel isolated when I’m in Galway so there’s just no way I could cope.

#4. The Irish

There are more Irish people in Australia than there are in Ireland. Probably a slight exaggeration but not fucking really either. I guess that’s because it’s an Irish rite of passage to go to Australia. But why go so far away to surround yourself with people just like the ones you’re trying to get away from?! You know how so many Irish people give out about foreigners coming over here? I wonder if that’s how the Aussies feel about us. Probably.

Wayhey! Pints on the beach! Classy as fuck lads!

#5. Nothing To Declare

D’ya ever watch that show? It’s heckin’ brilliant. I watch it on a regular basis. But it makes me not want to go to Australia. Mostly because it seems like they’re a bit egocentric. Like they want Paddy to show them just how much he reeeeeaaalllllly wants into their country. And maybe they’ll think about it for a while before maybe making a decision and maybe give Paddy a visa but then again, maybe not. First he has to go into a private office and tell them a super awesome story about how he has a job secured over the phone and that’s why he only has AUD$1000 with him.Then they go off to make a decision while we at home get shown bits like customs taking fruit of an old Chinese lady or them using what seems like some kind of primitive home HP testing kit to see if “this passenger on a German flight” has any traces of drugs in their luggage. Then we come back to see how Paddy got on and find out that they’re not be obliged to grant him entry at this time. And I’m at home shouting at the telly, “Ah for God’s sake, just let the lad go! Sure he doesn’t mean any harm! Poor Paddy just wants to do the Gold Coast with the boys!” And then sure enough, he gets turned right around just like the conveniently stereotypical poor sod, Damien, in the video below, god love him.

 

Now. Next time someone pulls that face at me and gasps, “Really?! Why wouldn’t ya want to go to Australia?!”, I’ll just give them a link to this here blog and they can get their answer in five bulleted points in a nice font.

Mind you, I wouldn’t mind taking one of those crocodile tours up in Darwin… Or seeing if the aborigines really are wild alcoholics… Or visiting the real Summer Bay… Hmmm…

PS: I googled “reasons not to go to Australia” and was led to yahoo answers. Props to Munchie 17 for the awesomo list of reasons. I particularly like number 2. Oh heck, I particularly like them all!

Hey! Don't hate on Skippy Munchie 17! Skippy was aaaaalright!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wikipedia, I Almost Love You Enough to Donate!

So I was just about to go on to Wikipedia there to look up Ryan Goslings’ filmography. I’m trying to work my way through his back catalogue, decide if I fancy him or not (I think I do).

So that was fine, except then wikipedia was all:

But.... No....

Blacking out Wikipedia? For 24 hours? But… I have so many questions…

I tried to “Learn more” but then it was really long and boring and all about legislation and crap I don’t really care about so I gave up.

I knew that I shouldn’t panic. “You can just use IMDb to get Ryan Gosling’s filmography.” I told myself. I’d be horrid resourceful like that. So I went to IMDb… ‘All Good Things’ (2010), okay, that might work for my next choice. Who else is in it? Kirsten Dunst. Kirsten Dunst still gets work?! Well good for her. She looks pretty haggard these days I thought, but no, good for her. She tries. But I wonder who she’s dating these days. Last I heard it was yer man from Razorlight (with the face… Johnny Borrell!). Aaaaand BOOM! I’m in a question trap! Wikipedia would usually tell me these things. I don’t have time to traipse all over google trying to find out who Kirsten Dunst is dating! I’m not that interested. My curiosity has a two click limit.

So then I got to thinking about how much I actually use Wikipedia. It was pretty eye opening. That is to say, it opened my eyes to all the ABSOLUTE NONSENSE I try to find out about. I made a list of some of the highlights of my Wiki travels. Then I got embarrassed about it. But then I thought, “You’re the only one who knows about this. You can’t be embarrassed.” So, for no other reason than to justify my shame, Imma go ahead and share the list with you. These are all things I legit looked up on wikipedia for one reason or another within the past month:

• Meet The Parents (One of my all-time favourite movies, no joke!)
• Eddie Murphy (I wanted to find out if he was still disowning Mel B’s baby)
• Pixar
• MoneyBART (Simpsons episode)
• Mongolia, which led me to Ulan Bator, which led me to Chinggis Khaan Airport, which led me to MIAT Mongolian Airlines (I had watched a TV show where they were in Mongolia)
• Street Art
• Compton, California – Crenshaw, California (I’d been watching Spike Lee movies)
• Staffordshire Bull Terrier
• Fugu (I can’t even pretend to have a proper reason for looking this up)
• Christmas Albums By Year
• Kevin Costner
• Afghanistan
• Academy Award For Best Feature
• Walt Disney Parks and Resorts (I was tryna find out how you can get a job as a Disney princess)
• Zooey Deschanel
• List of the Big Bang Theory Characters – Jim Parsons
• ZipRealty (I was probably pretending I was a millionaire and looking for real estate in the US)
• Michael Alig
• Uncontacted Peoples – Kombai – Sentinalese People – Autonomous Regions of India
• Harvey Keitel
• Bananas (Just how nutritious are they?)
• Human Penis Size (Okay, hear me out… My friend and I were talking about whether or not dwarves have regular penises or dwarf penises – they have regular ones, thank you Wikipedia)
• Recursion
• Tumblr – David Karp
• List of Medieval Weapons – List of Premodern Combat Weapons – Personal Weapon – Sword (I was thinking about getting beat up and I figured it’d be much better to get beat up nowadays than it would have been way back when, what with weapon and law evolution and that. Like, it’d be shit to die by the sword! I’d much rather get shot (DON’TANYBODYSHOOTME!!!)).
• The Mexican
• Air France Flight 4590 (Were any celebrities onboard? … No, thank god/damn!)
• Morphology (I have no idea what morphology is but it’s in my browsing history)
• Edwards Air Force Base (Do fighter squadrons operate out of Edwards? I can’t remember the answer… Prolly not.)
• Orchidaceae (I’d watched ‘Adaptation’)
• Milton, Massachusetts (I pretty much yearn to live in suburban America)
• Kelly Clarkson
• 2006 New York City Plane Crash – Cory Lidle – 2009 Hudson River Mid-Air Collision
• Beaver Falls (TV Series)
• 2010 Haiti Earthquake
• Low-Cost Carriers – Lauda Air – Jet Blue – Virgin Atlantic Airways – American Airlines – Air Canada – Al Nippon Airways – Emirates
• Aurora Borealis
• David Letterman – Jay Leno – Jimmy Kimmel – Sarah Silverman
• David Grant USAF Medical Center (No idea why…)
• Carrot (Do they really help you see in the dark? And just why do horses love them so much?)
• List of Fictional Mice or Rats (I got a mouse-themed Christmas decoration and wanted to give the included mice iconic names… I went for Fievel and Tanya Mousekewitz in the end).
• Keypoint, New Jersey (Again, dreaming the suburban dream)

So yeah, that’s mortifying. But it also tells me that maybe I should stop looking up pointless information online and go sort out my life. Maybe I should move to another country or something. I like the idea of Vancouver. I could go running along the seawall. I wonder how long the seawall is. DAMNIT!!!

Yeah, I’ve got a problem.

But then you’re the one who just spent time reading a list of things that someone else has looked up on Wikipedia. Sooooo, who’s the bigger eegit?!… (Prolly still me).