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.

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.

My College Meme Wars…

It’s a funny thing, pop culture. It’s the one thing that binds generations but can divide cultures.

The core of any pop culture is the meme. If we’re gonna be all fancy pants about it I’ll tell you that a meme is defined as follows: “a cultural item that is transmitted by repetition in a manneranalogous to the biological transmission of genes.” Riiiiiiight. In other words, a meme is a reference that is spread through society by recurrence and popularity.

When I was but a naive young teen the height of pop culture was ‘Jackass’. Man I loved that show. I loved Bam Margera. Scooter was all the rage too. My friends and I spent many a Friday night youth disco drunk on Bacardi Breezers, throwing some serious shapes on the dancefloor to ‘The Logical Song’. We also listened to a lot of Linkin Park (who I still believe to be awesome), Eminem and The Red Hot Chili Peppers (By The Way had just come out) and we thought Von Dutch trucker caps were the biz!

I was perfectly happy in my simple adolescent world of copying friends’ homework and knowing all the words to ‘It wasn’t Me’ by Shaggy (TUNE!), but, as is always the way, life was to interject. The Leaving Cert loomed and university beckoned. In the space of three months I was launched into a whole new spectrum of pop culture; college memes.

College is a place full of new discoveries for all the young country cubs like me. We come from the land of GAA and letting your dog roam free (coz c’mon, there’s plenty of land and rabbits to be chased and everyone knows he’s your dog so he’ll be alright. He’ll show up when he’s hungry and done exploring). We’re skilled at things like blocking the gaps in the road when the cattle are being moved, knowing what the weather’s going to be like tomorrow by assessing how it is today and getting people to recognise who we are by mentioning our fathers name. We’re not so adept when it comes to adapting to urban life. We come to the Big Smoke from the Serengeti and we have to deal with shit we aint never had to deal with before! Stuff like, how much does it cost to get the 13A bus from O’Connell St to the Ballymun Road?, like remembering not to walk down Talbot St with your valuables in your hand and like all the John Player Blues. No self respecting country native smokes Johnny Blues! They’re not right!

The college meme is a sub-category of this whole new young, metropolitan culture I was thrown into at 17 years old. A meme is also defined as “an idea, behavior or style that spreads from person to person within a culture.” An example of one “college “meme” that I picked up in my first year of college is ‘Family Guy’. I had heard of ‘Family Guy’ before, but not in any major context. I had lived my life in a world where television consisted of seven channels. And now, Comedy Central!? Paramount!? MTV?! (my four guy roommates and I had a dedicated routine of ‘Next’ and ‘Date My Mom’ every evening on MTV. We used to bet on the outcomes. I mean, we skipped lectures for those shows. It was serious.) Of course, ‘Family Guy’ is one of the many things I picked up in my college years that stuck. We all know what it is these days. It couldn’t be more famous. So, I’m not going to focus on the ones we all know. Imma concentrate on the ones that somehow slipped into the peripherals of our knowledge… The ones we used to know so well…

RODRIGO Y GABRIELA

Rodrigo Y Gabriela actually inspired me to write this piece. It’s not really right to refer to them as a meme but sure anyways, we’re here now. Recently, I was asked about concerts I’ve been to. I realised that I went to A LOT of gigs when I was in college. I got to thinking about the good old days. The Dropkick Murphys at The Ambassador (which no longer hosts music), Velvet Revolver at The Point (which is now the O2 Arena), Iron Maiden at the RDS (which is still the good ol’ RDS), Rodrigo Y Gabriela at The Olympia. And then I remembered how awesome Rodrigo Y Gabriela were and realised that I hadn’t heard anything from them in a very long time. So I saw to it that I got them into my itunes pronto.

Rodrigo Y Gabriela, for anyone who is unfamiliar, are a Mexican guitar playing duo and they are AMAZING! They used to have a heavy metal band in Mexico and then they moved to Ireland and started busking to make a living. Their music was this incredible blend of Spanish guitar with rough heavy metal influences, executed with precision and passion and just obvious years of practice behind it.

They hastily gained a cult following and got bigger and bigger until everyone was talking about them. I went to see them in 2005 at The Olympia Theatre and it was phenomenal, the real idyll of what an intimate acoustic gig should be. 

Mad props! So why did Rodrigo Y Gabriela fall off my radar? Rediscovering them recently confirmed that I had good reason to appreciate them in the first place. To be fair they do have the skills to pay the bills and genuinely deserve success. I can’t recall the moment where I stopped listening to them. It most likely came around the time my trusty block of a ‘Creative Zen’ mp3 player gave up and I came over all hipster with a shiny new ipod.

Anyway, the point is, upon further inspection, Rodrigo Y Gabriela did not fall off my radar at all. In fact, I fell off theirs. As it happens the pair exceeded this little isle of ours with great success. They got a feature on MTV and did what many have tried and failed to do before them and broke the US of A. They were on Jay Leno. They were on Lopez tonight. They even performed for ‘What’s The Craic’ Barack himself! They did some of the score for ‘Pirates of The Caribbean’ and ‘Puss In Boots’ and they just released their 5^th album ‘Area 52’ in January.

So… Shame on me, I guess. Rodrigo Y Gabriela ya’ll. Word!

BEBO

In 2005 I was talked into joining Bebo by a friend of mine who went to college in Maynooth. She said it was a great way to stay in touch. I thought it was just an NUI thing and thus assumed the username, ‘DCUGirl’ to assert my allegiance to my own side. Pretty soon, the whole country and its dog was on there.

Of course, these days we have Facebook and, in comparison, it’s blatantly obvious how juvenile Bebo really was. The site allowed us to choose our own skin (mine was a Snoopy theme). You could upload photos. You had your friends all there on your profile. You could update your status, write a blog, create a poll, draw a picture or “share the luv”. You could even write a story about how you knew people you were friends with. In fairness, Bebo had a lot to offer the young and impressionable it was aimed at. But somehow, for some reason that I can’t quite put my finger on, Facebook is just better.

I will admit that I wasn’t an easy convert. I didn’t understand Facebook at first. I didn’t know what you were supposed to do on a “wall”. The concept of “poking” someone just baffled me and I kept getting notifications telling my that my cousin was sending me shots and that I should send her some back when, in fact, I never received any kind of tiny beverage. I didn’t like it. But that just was the Cancerian in me. In the end I had no choice. None of us had a choice. If social networking sites were a movie trilogy Facebook would be ‘Jurassic Park’, Bebo would be ‘The Lost World’ and MySpace would be ‘Jurassic Park III’ (you can use the ‘Look Who’s Talking’ trilogy either, if you prefer). They’re all decent enough, but you can’t argue that one is significantly better than others.

Face it. Bebo is dead. Facebook is king. Resistance is futile.

Or maybe we should just get off the internet and go get a real life…. Hahahaha!! Nah, I’m just playin’ ya’ll!

HOME AND AWAY

During my college years, my schedule was a lot busier than it is now. Horse-riding on a Monday, €3 drinks in the Old Bar on a Tuesday, Tae Kwon Do on a Wednesday, €3 drinks in Fibbers on a Thursday, rushing for the 109 back to Cavan after lectures on a Friday. But rarely were any of those things permitted to get in the way of me being in front of a television at 6.30PM every evening for ‘Home and Away’.

Now, I do realise that ‘Home and Away’ is not just a college phenomenon. It’s a nationwide phenomenon. ‘Home and Away’ has been shown on RTE since its inception in 1988. That’s a long time. My whole life, in fact. Kind of mental considering it’s like the Aussie version of ‘Fair City’. Regardless, we lapped that shit right up like shimps on a barbie.

Perhaps that’s the very reason it remained a staple throughout university. It reminded us of home (and away?). It was a constant in our otherwise changing lives. It didn’t matter that it was absolutely and completely ridiculous in its’ storylines or that the characters seemed to come and go at lightening speed. They were beautiful. Summer Bay was beautiful. Just like always. The Bay was there to make us feel at home. Just hearing the intro makes me want to go back and live in that time again.

You know we belong together… (You know the words!) You and I forever and ever! No matter where you are, you’re my guiding star. And from the very first moment I saw you, I never felt such emotion. I’m walking on air! Just to know (Just to know!) You are there! HOLD ME IN YOUR ARMS! DON’T LET ME GO! I WANT TO STAY FOREVER! CLOSER EACH DAY! HOME AND AWAY!!!

 

The good news is that ‘Home and Away’ didn’t go anywhere. It’s still right where it should be; on RTE2 at 6.30PM every weekday evening, after ‘The Simpsons’. 24 years. God bless you Ireland and your awesome, silly ways.

CYANIDE AND HAPPINESS (ET AL)

Cyanide and Happiness is a comic strip. I can’t remember who brought it to my attention. I can’t remember why it was brought to my attention. But I do remember finding it very funny.

Cyanide and Happiness wasn’t like anything else that came before it. It was a very specific humour. One that was created by and for Generation Y. Simplistic in its presentation and dark in nature, it managed to be offensive and massively funny without being blatant. It was certainly the first time I’d ever seen an awkward silence translated into a drawing.

And today it’s still just as popular. A new strip is uploaded daily at http://www.explosm.net

Around the same time that Cyanide and Happiness was popular, another meme crept onto the spectrum: Salad Fingers. Salad Fingers was not funny. Salad Fingers was creepy as fuck. Like the infamous, ‘Two Girls One Cup’, it wasn’t something that you showed someone out of love (Not that I would ever inflict ‘Two Girls One Cup’ on anyone!). No, you showed ‘Salad Fingers’ to people to give them the creeps, just like they were given to you. ‘Salad Fingers’ spread through the student community like wildfire, making the hairs on the back of everyones’ neck stand to attention as he passed, caressing rusty things with his… *shivers*…. salad fingers…

CHUCK NORRIS

Chuck Norris doesn’t need a paragraph justifying his place on this list. The facts started appearing around 2005. They’ve been appearing ever since. Here’s some personal favourites:

• Chuck Norris can slam a revolving door.
• The chief export of Chuck Norris is pain.
• Chuck Norris once won a game of Connect 4 in three moves.
• Chuck Norris can delete the Recycling Bin.
• Ghosts sit around the campfire telling Chuck Norris stories.
• Chuck Norris once punched a man in the soul.
• Chuck Norris does not have hair on his testicles because hair cannot grow on steel.
• Chuck Norris does not flush the toilet. He scares the shit out of it.
• Chuck Norris eats the core of an apple first.
• Chuck Norris can lead a horse to water and make it drink.
• Chuck Norris leaves messages before the beep.
• Chuck Norris counted to infinity… twice.
• The only time Chuck Norris was ever wrong was when he thought he made a mistake.

THE RICKROLL

It’s 8pm. You’re in the library, “working on an assignment” (aka: checking bebo and patrolling the web for… anything, really). It’s quiet. Others are at computers around you silently focusing on their studies. The bad-tempered woman behind the desk is stamping books and peering out over the top of her glasses, looking for anyone she can apprehend. The only sound is that of the printer in the corner, faithfully spitting out notes that will give someone a few hundred extra words on their 2,000 word essay. You see a link to something that catches your interest, I don’t know, “Top 10 Most Badass Grand Theft Auto Moments” or something of the like. “Oooh,” you think. “I am interested in finding out what  the top ten most badass Grand Theft Auto moments are.” You click on the link. 

BAM! You just been Rickroll’d! Daaaaaaamn! Now everyone’s looking at you and you can feel the eyes of the bad-tempered woman glaring at you from behind her desk. The only solution is to turn tomato red, ‘X’ out of the video as fast as possible and pretend it never happened. How could you be so foolish!? You should have known better. Stoopid Rick Astley and his sneaky ways!

 

I’m four years out of college now. My little sister is now in her first year in good ol’ DCU. And from what I can see, some things never change. They just evolve. Trolling is all the rage. ‘Know Your Meme’ refers to trolling as, “any behavior that is meant to intentionally anger or frustrate someone else.”  I can see the humour in that. Angry people are funny. Especially when they’re angry over ridiculous things. Here’s Aziz Ansari demonstrating just how amusing trolling can be: 

 

Inspired by posts on sites like ‘FailBlog’ and ‘I Can Has Cheezburger?’ as well as all those goddamned Facebook groups, the memes we see these days looks something like this: 

 

We had Rodrigo Y Gabriela, a Mexican guitar duo. Now we have The Rubberbandits, an Irish comedy hip-hop duo.

We had ‘Bebo Stunnahs’, a group of young girls, caked in make-up and doing “sexy” poses for the camera. Now we have ‘Facebook Wetsers’, which is pretty much the very same thing except with better grammar.

We had ‘Home and Away’ and we still have ‘Home any Away’ (LIKEABOSS!).

We had ‘Cyanide and Happiness’, a comic depicting dark humour and offensive situations. Now we have ‘Rage Comic’, a comic that depicts normal shit with a sudden mad face thrown in.

We had ‘Chuck Norris Facts’, a meme stating incredible facts about the man. Now we have ‘Fuck Yeah! Ryan Gosling’, a site that depicted things that Ry Goz would say to you if you were his girlfriend, usually beginning with, “Hey Girl,”.

We had RickRolling and sure, poor Rick Astley’s been paying the rent off the back of it since!

The world of pop culture and the societal memes that come with it is fluid. Ever changing. It would be impossible to keep up with them all (and a bit sad, probably). Mark my words that if you remember Rick Rolling, someone three years younger than you likely would not. That’s the way of the ipod generation. It all happens in the blink of an eye. The key to staying down with tha kidz is the same one for keeping on top of the housework; little and often. Get yourself online every now and again, have your little sister show you videos on youtube. You’ll be a’ight.

Chuuuuuuuch!

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mass… It’s Quare Boring, No?

Sooooooo, watch out! I’m not tryna be PC here. I’m just tryna be funny… Mmmmkay?

There are three main types of people in Catholic Ireland:

– Those that come from a good Catholic family and who have been in a pew in the church every Saturday night for as long as any of us can remember. The dad regularly gives out the communion. The granny has keys to the chapel. For this family, mass is still a social event and thus, they still make a bit of an effort, sporting their “good” clothes and the FULL make-up.  They also all have their own individual set of rosary beads. They bring them to the blessing of the graves for the Rosary valya.

– Those that come from a family that tries to be a good Catholic family and can be seen at mass every now and again, the mother takes occasional notions and decides to go to confessions. This family mostly still goes to mass so that they don’t get excluded from more important community things like football or The Legion of Mary. Although they’re not always at mass, they always pay their dues and the dad does the collection sometimes.

– Those that come from a family that doesn’t even try to be good Catholics. They don’t even get the envelopes for the dues anymore. This family is never at mass except for those few select occasions where if you don’t go to mass you’re for sure going to hell. Like Christmas, for example or Good Friday. But that’s fine because when they do go to mass, they just talk the whole way through the sermon and watch the clock. They’re not sure that God even exists but they still feel like they should go to mass now and again juuuuuust in case. They usually go straight to the pub after a long one.

I come from the third type of Catholic family, I’m afraid. For a while I was thinking I came from the second coz my mam, in fairness, does like to try. She’d be lighting candles for people doing their driving test and shit like that. But I couldn’t lump us all in there based on the actions of the matriarch. The rest of us make absolutely no effort whatsoever to ensure passage to heaven. We mostly prefer smut and offensive humour. I mean, it’s pretty hard to like, not sin ever.

It’s just that mass is so feckin’ boring. It wasn’t so bad about two years ago. We had a priest who obviously shared the opinion of mass being horrid long and tedious. He’d get ya in and out in around half an hour, skip the offerance of the sign of peace (my most loathe part of the whole thing) and not bother hangin’ around after for small talk with the local old ladies. Last Christmas he outdid himself when he said a mass in 15 minutes flat. His justification was that the roads were very icy and people needed to just be at home. Shhyeah, whatever! No need to apologize Father… Right, pub?

I had a discussion with a friend a while back about mass. This person comes from our first category up there. They’re at mass every week without fail. So like, they know their holy shit. We were talking about how insanely crummy it is going to mass and trying to come up with ways to make it fun. We weren’t making a mockery out of the Catholic religion, we were just trying to bring it into the 21st century.

BIG SCREENS

I’m always disappointed when I go to a concert and there’s no big screens. Sure ya need them to see what’s a haps on the stage. It’s the same with mass… Kind of.. Just, hear me out right. The chapel is always packed at Christmas (I don’t have a lot of examples to go on here) and we always arrive late. It can be tricky enough aul craic trying to find a pew. You might find one and yiz go about filing into it as people shuffle down but then find that three of yiz aren’t gonna fit. Daaaaaaamn, reverse, back-up, we’ll just stand at the back, see yiz after. But then aswell, there’s always better music at the Christmas mass. Problem is though, I never have any notion where the French it’s coming from and it’s bad manners to be twisting and tryna look all round ya at mass. If the church had big screens either side of the altar then we’d be able to settle comfortably at the back without having to worry about not being able to see Gerry McPaddyface’s reactions as he recites the 2nd reading from the Book of Isiah to the Christians or whatever. They could show the musicians on the screens so you could identify who’s doing the singing. Also, the screens could be used for like, advertising purposes. I’m not tryna commercialise mass here yo, but you could at least display the community announcements up there, you know, who won the GAA Lotto this week, what time the car boot sale will be on at on Sunday, who’ next weeks mass will be said for, that kind of thing. It’d eliminate the need for the leaflet and thus, save both paper and precious trees (Catholicism: Doing it’s part for the environment since 2012!).

COMFIER SEATING

Now, I’m not dissing the pew. The pew is… functional. You can fit like six thousand people on one of those things if everyone shuffles a little bit. But, let’s be honest, the pew is not the most comfortable seat ever. It’s cold and hard and flat and that’s tough on the butt when you’re on it for the guts of an hour. The solution? Recliners baby! How awesome would that be?! I mean, sure you’d fit less people in, but the chapel is never full anyways. The only time it poses a problem is for the special occasion masses, but don’t worry, I’ve got the answer for that too! Ticket the special masses! The church wants money off us every time we go to mass anyway, so maybe we’d give more willingly if we thought we were “buying a ticket” instead of just handing over. They could make a ton of money doing that. You could book your seat online, pay in advance. It’d be exclusive.

WEBSITE

http://www.yourlocalareamass.com

Don’t try click on that. It’s not a real link. But what I’m saying is, if mass had a website…. That’d be cool.

You could log on and see what readings are gonna be on, who the celebrity guest is gonna be (see below). It could have photo galleries called things like, “Arriving For Mass – 24th November” or “Christmas Mass Spectacular 2011”. It could have profiles for the priest and the acrobats (um, see below also). It’d just be wild handy. People would be able to plan better. Like, “No, I can’t go out ’till later ‘coz I saw on the mass website that Mickey Joe Harte’s gonna be giving out the communion tonight.” 

REFRESHMENT SERVICE

I don’t mean like in the cinema or something. I’m not suggesting that we’re served nachos and Fanta during mass. But like, it’d be nice if there was ladies going around serving tea (and scones). No priest anywhere in this country can argue with tea (and scones). It’s only natural. You know what I mean though? Like who’s gonna give out to ya for having a wee cup of tea (and a wee scone)?! No-one is! Coz it’s just never inappropriate.

ACROBATS

Imagine this. You’ve bought your ticket to mass. You’re in you’re recliner. You’ve got a cup of tea (and a scone). You’re ready to go. Suddenly, the lights go down, the generic holy background music stops, as does the chatter of the mass-goers and then… ACROBATS APPEAR ABOVE YOU ACTING OUT TODAYS READING IN A SPECTACULAR DISPLAY OF STRENGTH, AGILITY AND GRACE! Yeah, this is why you’re a Catholic.

CELEBRITY GUEST APPEARANCES

It doesn’t even have to be anyone super famous or anything. Just like,

Today’s guest Holy Communion Hander Outer, fresh from his third place finish in the X-Factor four years ago…… It’s Eoghan Quigg!!!!

And then Eoghan comes out, waving and smiling, his favourite hymn blasts out of the speakers. Cameras flash. People applaud. And then he helps hand out the communion.

Or like,

The Reading from the prophet Jeremiah will be read, via satellite, by Samuel L. Jackson

That’d be awesome.

LANGUAGE UPDATE

A Reading from the Book of Genesis: “The Lord God said, “It is not good that man should live alone. I will make him a helpmate”. So from the soil the Lord fashioned all the wild beasts and all the birds of heaven. These he brought to the man to see what he would call them; each one was to bear the name the man would give. The man gave names to all the cattle, all the birds of heaven and all the wild beasts. But no helpmate suitable for man was found for him, so the Lord made the man fall into a deep sleep. And while he slept, he took one of his ribs and enclosed it in flesh. The Lord God built the rib he had taken from the man into a woman, and brought her to the man.”

Becomes…

“God was like, “It’s weird that a dude lives by himself. I’ll make him a chick. So, from muck, Lord made all the animals. But he wasn’t sure what to call ’em. He asked man what to call ’em and yer man gave ’em all names. But none of ’em were good enough to be mans chick. So Lord knocked man the fck out. Then he broke one of his ribs and wrapped it in flesh (gross). Lord, basically, built a woman out of it and brought it to Man.”

I understand it better…

 

Look, these are tough times. People have very little. Some only have their faith. And your faith needs you. It just needs to like, try harder.

But you know, these are just ideas. I’m just throwing ’em out there. But c’mon, you know you’d go to mass more often if they were implemented! I DEFINITELY would! Like, acrobats, are you kidding me?! It’d be so awesome!!

Mr Pope sir, if you’re reading this, I mean, they’re open to interpretation. I’m available to talk about introducing them to masses around the country. Soooo, you know, page me…