Have a lovely...

weekend y'all, Germany have just equalized and all is dandy, no pain and even though I have dealt with a ferocious slagging from all and sundry today, it was worth it. Heading out for a caiparina after the match, don't wait up.
Kissies,
Fatmammycat.

Drugs, Opera and phone calls.

I could also call this post 'The Great Shame.'
I was in agony yesterday, not too long after I posted my last comment I had what can only be described as a spasam, or the devil poked me in the spine with his tri-thingy.
I don't have the word to describe the pain, ouch doesn't really do it. Perhaps giving birth to a walrus might be as painful. Naturally to combat this I-in a fit of cursing and swearing and agonising self pity -decided to self medicate. So I crawled to the kitchen, swallowed a few Spanish pain killers and decided I"d drown them with a bottle of rioja.
I hauled my ass back to the sofa, settled in to watch The Sopranos, drank a glass of wine... and after that it all becomes a bit of a blur.
But apparently I put on some opera and in the middle of Vide Cor Meum-
Rang the Paramour, professing deep love and a willingness to bear his children that I have not previously professed-including descriptions and names of said children.
Called Etheline- professing a great love for her and all our family I may have snivelled something about that Kevin not being good enough for her...
Called my mother and profesed a great sadness that we can not get along and that I understood all her horrible ways deep down, more snivelling and I believe I 'forgave' her' for being a terrible mother
Called my brother and said I loved him and his new wife and that even though I was miffed at not being asked to his wedding I totally understood.
Called my eldest sister and professed a deep love and understanding of her and announced that she was probably the best mother on the planet and -weeping - said she was sooooo luckey to beeeee soooo happy-sniff sniff- and I reallllly loved the children and planned on having some with the paramour who I also loooooved more than life itself.
Called Country Gay, professed deep love and eternal friendship and wept over the futility of his search for love and said that no matter what, 'I'd alway love him' Lucky him.
Called lifelong friend professed deep and eternal love for her, claimed she was a sister in every other way other than blood, snivelled, dribbled, took another slug of wine.
Called French Gay-mercifully he was out, but I'm fairly certain I left a message professing deep and unadulterated love. Dropped phone.
Then I hugged the bigger of the cats, weeping into his fur, professed deep love for said cat-who was eyeing me suspiciously- lay back down, admired roof, trollied off my face, listened to opera, marvelled at purity of voices, pondered life, hugged self, drained last of wine, said to bigger of cat-who at this stage had given up trying to get away- 'hey, you know what buddy? My back doesn't-
and that's where I woke up this morning at 7:20, stiff, but free of back pain!
A miracle!
My cyber friends, only for the fact that I could not sit up, many of you would have opened your blogs today and witnessed a stream of witless offerings of love from me. My phone has rang here a few times this morning and I'm fairly certain if I check the messages I will blush eighteen shade of puce. The wost of it is I seem to have apologised to my mother and insulted her as well, so who knows where the hell that will lead.
I am a tool, but at least I am a tool sin dolor! Huzzah.

Back Pain! What the hell?

I need some advice, nursy type advice.
I think I have pulled a muscle in my back, but I'm not sure how.
I went to the gym yesterday, ran 5k, did free weights for my arms and lats. Came home, decided to clean out that stupid wardrobe of horror in the hall-which I've been threatening to do since last year, I mean do I really want fish scale pants circa 1994 or a bag of moudly old dish cloths? Or eighteen yards of paisley fabric-dont ask. Brought the unwanted crap to the bin. Put on a wash, cleaned out the old cat's ears, watched Dog the Bounty Hunter and went to bed. So far so dandy.
So how come when I got up this morning I feel like someone kicked me in the kidneys. It hurts if I turn, it hurts if I lean, it hurts sitting here in my chair...right hand side, in the dip, you know, below the ribs just above the waist line-I know, so technical.
Anyone have any experience of back pain? I've never really had one before, what might have caused this? Etheline says not to take pain killers as they might mask the pain and I might do more harm. But that doesn't make sense and I suspect Etheline is a masochist. I have Spanish painkillers in the kitchen that are so strong I could amputate my little finger and grin about it. I want to take two of them and lie down, or at least numb the pain so that I can work for a while. Anyone know what to do? Me love you long time if you do!

The great fur debate....

rumbles on. Follw this conversation if you will.
...'she just sat there like a fool.'
'Oh Christ-'
'Who?'
'Beyonce Knowles, she's an idiot. The PETA crowd totally got her.'
'What was she supposed to do? She's a singer and she thought they had won a dinner with her. Okay she uses fur in her collection and maybe she needs to be able to defend her choice in-'
'OH my God, defend! Don't start. Fur is totally wrong in this day and age. It's cruel, there is no excuse for it.'
'Ooof, mon dieu, I'm going to ze bar.'
'Lots of things are cruel. You eat meat don't you? You think all the animals you eat died of old age? You wear leather and suede, think the cows shed that like snake skin?'
'Have you ever watched any of the videos?'
'I have, and I've also witnessed animals dying in a slaughter house, don't forget I grew up on a farm. Do you think being hauled into a crush and having a bolt put through your head is a fun way to go?'
'That's different.'
'Is it really? Not for the cow I'm sure. Perhaps you'd better educate yourself a bit more to the practices of slaughter houses before you go on a rant about the fur industry. Trust me, next time you eat a bacon sambo, think of the pig. I bet he wasn't happy about dying. Are those shoes leather?'
'Leather is a by product of the meat industry. There's actually no need to wear fur.'
'There's actually no need to wear leather or eat meat either. There are plenty of other options.'
'But you wear leather too!'
'Yes, but I don't bleat on about fur being cruel, frankly I think cows are a whole lot nicer that minks.'
'Hi Honey, what are you two talking about.'
'Fur.'
'Fur.'
'Hum, I"m going to the bar, ladies, anybody want a drink?'
'I'll have a gin and tonic.'
'You?'
'No thank you. Look I'm not saying that meat is completely right either.'
'Right, but it's easier to pick on a person wearing fur than a person eating a Big Mac, it's reverse snobbery. Everyone can afford a Big Mac, ergo it's okay, not everyone can afford a fur coat, ergo it's cruel and they deserve our scorn.'
'For -you have cats! Imagine someone skinned them.'
'I'd be very upset, I like the cats, especially the big one.'
'Well then!'
'Well then what? You know PETA don't appprove of people having pets either.'
'What?'
'PETA, they don't agree with companion animals, for god's sake, if your going to sing their praises for hounding Beyonce Knowles you should at least know something about their so called 'ethics.' They have a kill policy, they don't re-home. What's her name, Newkirk, the boss in the states, she against companion animals, pets to you and me. She'd put my cats down in a heart beat.'
'Oh, I'm not sure I believe that.'
'Look it up.'
'I wlll.'
'Good.'
'I still think fur is cruel.'
'Nobody is saying it isn't. But unless you are a vegan, you don't have a high horse to hurl abuse from.'
'I don't know why I talk to you.'
'Me neither.'

and in other dog...

related storis, Moose the dog that played Eddie on Frasier has died, aged 16 1/2.
Thank Heavens I'm going out tonight to some stupid launch or other, I really need to get out more.

When good dogs go...

stupid.

Sigh, the dude-ette abides!

Last night while- watching and laughing hysterically to The Big Lebowski and snarfing down a rum and coke, my bare feet dangling over the paramour's bare legs, our filthy, sweaty bodies entangled- I remember thinking, golly life really is yummy.
Then the doorbell went.
I turned to the paramour. 'I'm not answering it.'
'Okay' he said, nakedly.
Seconds later it rang again. Persistent buggers.
When the paramour's mobile phone rang seconds after that I groaned.
He located his pants and phone and answered.
'Lo?' He glanced at me, surprised. 'Sure, she's...right here.'
He passed me the phone and mouthed the horribliest (new word) of words.
'Etheline.'
I took the phone from him. 'Etheline?'
'Are you up there?'
Where?' I sit up. 'How did you get this number?'
'You gave it to me.'
'No I didn't.'
'Well, I stored it when you called him from it one day.'
'Etheline!'
'What, he could have been a mass murderer!' She snorts, 'look, are you up there?'
'Where?'
'Your apartment.'
'No' I lied. 'What do you want?'
'I want to talk to you about our mother.'
'Oh no Etheline.' I grab my kimono and put it on. 'I don't think so.'
'Well tough shit, I've had her over at my house all day, going on, complaining. She's driving me up the walls. You've got to make up.'
'What if I don't want to make up? We're not kids, what are you going to do, drag us together and make us shake hands?'
'Give her a ring, tell her you're sorry, that's all she wants.'
'I'm not sorry at all.'
'Just tell her you are.'
'No.'
'Cat!'
'Don't Cat me, and mind your own business Etheline.'
'It is my business!' She yells. 'I'm sick listening to her going on about you. Ring the bloody woman. Tell her you're sorry.'
'I'm not sorry! She drives me up the walls too.'
'Look,' she changes tack, wheedling now. 'I know you, you'll let this drag on and next thing you know it will be another five years' and then straight back to real Etheline- 'and let me tell you lady, I"m not spending the rest of my days listening to her go on about you. You're going to apologise -even if you don't mean it.'
'I won't do it.'
'You will.'
'You can't make me!'
'You're apologising.'
'I am not apologising to that woman.'
Paramour sighs and begins to look for his clothes. He put his pants on, picks up our glasses and carries them out to the kitchen.
Sunday is officially over.

One ticket to the gates of hell please.

Travel, I'm against it!
Oh how I wish I could just click my heels together like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz and just travel that way. Or even own a bright red phone box that I could step into and BAM KAZAMMMM I arrive at my dest-, oh no, ooops, sorry yer honor, I was looking for, well never mind, I can see that orange ball...say, is that ribbed? Looks very nasty, unguent, you might need it, anyhoo I'm just gonna climb back in here now, lemmmmie see, what did I dial, ah yes here it is. I didn't want actual Time travel. I wanted travel travel.'
But no, I have to rely on planes, those festering germ riddled over-airconditioned claustraphobic tin boxes that fly very fast and high up and only my sterling good faith that I'm wanted around a bit on this Earth is the only reason they don't crash. But what joy.
Madam, that baby of yours is so funny, I really love the way it managed to not only rip my hair from my scalp but also smear baby slurm all down my shoulder. You know I was just saying to absolutely nobody the other day that when I paid all that money for this suit I said to the sales person, "Golly, I hope this suit is baby slurm resistant" I suppose I should have listened to the guy when he said he didn't think it was, I mean really madam, it's my own fault that gummybaldy there is intent on destroying it. Course, at least now that gummybaldy is happy knawing away it has silenced that funny and hilarious shrieking thing it was doing, my what a pair of lungs it has, even over my ipod, remarkable. I love your toddler too, I love the way she 'haddagopee' nineteen times on one short flight, I mean, good for her flush out the toxins I say. I really like the way that despite the fact I stood up and moved out of her way she managed to kick me each and everytime she climed in and out. It was...well she's gonna be a star some day isn't she? I like you husband best of all, he's such a cutie patootie, all the way down there at the back of the plane. I imagine he was gutted to discover he wasn't seated by you and his lovely brood. Naturally my offer to swap seats with him was made with you and yours in mind, and I really appreciate the way he turned me down like that, he's a keeper that one, isn't he. You know he's going bald right, probably where shittybaldygummystickyhands, gets its good looks from. Ah, what's that sweetie, you 'needagoppoopnow?' Here, here don't get up, take my handbag, it's real leather, here ya go, take a little dump there, I mean you've already spilled Ribena toothkind- and that's the least of your worries sweetie trust me, the lazy eye thing is not exactly rinkydink-on it, but here, I insist. NO? Don't wannapoopthatbad after all? What do you mean the scary lady is scaring you, what scary lady, what? You can't surely mean me can you? That's a lot of snot honey, here, there's a dry spot on my hem.
So I"m back, I'm going out now for lunch. It's not even lunch time, oooooooohhhh, get me. Worra lorra rebel.

Work work work!

Away until Friday babycakes. Filthy work, interrupting my blogging time, the cheek of it. Muchoo smoochioes! Hasta Viernes!

How to create the perfect hangover.

Ah Saturday, the roar of traffic in the distance, the absolute necessity of leaving the house to get shopping.
But first, dear friends, allow me to impart-with much trembling fingers- the knowledge, nay, the source, the well from which all pain stems from. Friends, readers, Barry from Dublin, I present to you the receipe to create....the mother of all hangovers.(MOH)
First, take one Martini Rosso, add ice. Drink.
Scoff slowly one prawn and crab salad
Mix liberally three glasses of Vino Sol
sprinkle with lamb chops and slightly greasy chips.
Dampen down with another glass of Vino Sol, leave ten minutes for maximim effect.
follow that with a Baileys in coffee, this should be rich enough to repeat on you the next day.
cleanse palate with two, not one, two, shots of apple liquor. Tell youself nothing that sweet is really alcoholic, it is imperative you do this. Repeat as necessary.
Take short taxi ride, make sure driver goes fast around the corners, nothing mixes ingredients better.
Arrive at funky bar, most be loud and choca block with people to heat ingredients.
Have Martini
deem it more reasonable to switch to Mojitos...oh here are some people, blah blah, add mojito two and three to the mix. Mmmmtoothpasty.
Leave bar, golly, late, what should a cat do? This is where the fragile among you should take heart, do not be afraid of the next step, I know it seems scary, but it is not, for the sake of the receipe you must say... 'I know, let's go to club!'
Go to club, dance about to Moloko, jiggle jiggle, whoooo, now you're mixing it, have two gin and tonics.
Leave club, walk home. splish splosh.
Boounce around bedroom with paramour, bounce bounce. Weeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
Fall asleep!
And voila! Here it is folks, writ large, in all it's malignant glory, I present to you, the mother of all hangovers.(MOH)
Please allow for odd tastes and quirks, you can, naturally, substitute some of the ingredients as you see fit,( example, the paramour had rum in his coffee) it's quantity that counts darlings, quantity.

Friday, foibles and the down right strange.

I posted some time ago about eating stuff mixed up. I'm against it!
I don't mind different things on a plate, I'm not mad, but I like to eat stuff one thing at a time. Like if I had a breakfast of sausages, beans, rashers, mushrooms, fried eggs and toast, I would start with the eggs-making sure to not touch the yolk which I hate- then mushrooms, then...well you get the picture.
I have eaten like this for many years, so I don't find it remotely odd and am inclined to forget it looks strange to others.
I also have a serious phobia about ink and newspapers. On Sundays when I get the papers, I bring a big bag so I can put the newspaper in it (cuts down on the handling) And I never read them until seated at a big table where in I can peruse at leisure, opening and turning each page using the tiniest tip.
I have another few, but I don't want to appear loopy so I"m not telling you.
However last night I was called out on the food thing. I was mocked and ridiculed by a so called 'friend' -you know who you are, you French Twat- and my paramour, my so called would be husband did nothing, except to say, 'relax honey' and 'Why are you getting so mad?'
Caesar salad. I like it, but not with crutons. There, what's the big fucking deal? I don't like crunchy stuff mized up with slimey stuff. I don't mind crunchy stuff on its own, but not mixed. How can people eat like that? One second your tongue is going ummmm, slimy, and next thing you know its slithering to a complicated stop over a gravely rough surface.
Impossible.
So I said to the waitress, 'I don't want any crutons on mine.'
And she goes, 'Oh but it is a ceaser salad.'
And I go, 'great, but no crutons, and no anchovies please.'
Then Frenchy-the great buffoon- sort of snorts through his big Gallic nose.
And I go 'What?'
'Notheenng, you are beeeing silly.'
'I don't like crunchy stuff in salad.'
'Zen is not Caesar.'
'It is, but without crutons.'
'Pffffp'
I smile stiffly at the girl and she gets the message and high tails it.
Then the stupid Paramour laughs because FG is rolling his eyes like he had parvo-virus.
'She eez ze only person I know zat put gravy next to ze food, snoff snoff snoff'(that's his french laugh).
Normally I would let this slide, but because of the week I've had and the humour I was in I didn't.
'Is it okay with you if I order my food the way I like it?'
This last line must have accidently come out louder and with more vehemence than I had anticipated, (didn't Freud say there are no accidents?)
They gawp, and Tara, who makes up the foursome glances at me in surprise. She hasn't really been following the conversation because she is trying to catch the eye of some squat bloke with arms like Popeye standing at the bar.
'Are you all right?'
'Yes-' I actually hissed that word. 'I don't see what's so fucking weird about not wanting crutons in my god damned salad.'
'Honey relax.' The paramour says.
Allright, actually, this is another one of them. I really hate to be told to relax, like I've had an attack of the vapours or something, it's so patronizingly dismissive. It's like poking me with a pointy stick.
'You relax.' I snarl. (you see how impossible I am in a snit)
'Why are you getting so mad?'
'I'm not mad, I just don't like crutons in my salad!' I yell, madly.
There is a distinct silence, the same sort or silence you'd expect if you walked in and found your parents having sex on the family sofa. A stunned sickening shocked silence.
Now I have a choice, I can carry on in a normal voice, or rack the hysteria up to another new level. Years ago I would have flounced off home, years ago I would have pulled FG across the table by his long sideburns and stuffed a breadroll into his big yap.
The ball is in my court.
I clear my throat, take a sip of wine and say.'Sorry, I don't know what the hell that was about.'
I force a laugh, Tara smiles at me, the paramour visibly relaxes...and the French Gay?
'Mon ami' He pats the paramour on the forearm, 'ooofff, such high maintenance zis one.'
I resist the urge to kick him in the shin. I'm a grown up, see? A grown up.

Exuberating fantasticismssssss.....

This is one of the cringe-iest yet hilarious things you will ever watch, curl your toes in advance.

"I exuberate fantasticisms"

What planet is this chap from? Seriously, I mean seriously...what?

Necessity, the mother of invention.

Reading Andraste's post http://horsesasspub.blogspot.com/ of yesterday I began to ponder. Do girls who can't do a damn thing for themselves really exist in this day and age? What is their excuse? So I called the girliest girl I know to ask her opinion. She's 43, Spanish, elegant and not in the slighest bit interested in stuff that doesn't involve shopping, food and wine. Or if she is I can't tell, well wait, she likes the cinema.
'Sí?'
'Hey Darling, I've got a quick question? Can you change a plug on a lamp?'
'Of course. Why ju ask?'
'I'm checking something. Do you know how to take the S bend apart if your sink is blocked? Or change the rubber if it's leaking?'
'K?'
"The S bend. Under your sink.'
Silence, then. 'I don.'
'Okay, what about replacing the stop-cock in the toilet?'
There was a longer silence this time, in the background I could hear conversation and laughing, then. 'Stop cok? Wat is dees?'
'The plastic ball that regulates the water levels in the cistern.'
'Ah, no.'
'Do you know what a dowel is?'
'No.'
'Can you use a sander?'
'For wat?'
'Sanding floors.'
'Tut, why are ju asking thees?'
'I'm testing your girlieness,
'My-?'
'Girlieness, do you own a tool box?'
'I have screwdriver.'
' Okay good, and?'
'And wat?'
She sounds genuinely confused. Glasses clink.
'Where are you?' I ask.
'Wine tasting class, we do Rosé today.'
'Oh, well you should have said. Look I'll get out of your hair. Call you at weekend. Moaw moaw.'
'Are ju okay? Ju sound fony.'
I don't tell her abut my current orange-milder today- state or the fact that I am sleeping badly this week or the fight with my mother.
'No dahling I'm fine, bye.'
'I call to ju later.'
'Okay okay. '
Now I know I've worried her for no reason. I feel a bit daft. I was going to ask her why she can't do stuff, but it occurred to me mid way through that she doesn't need to know, she simply hires someone to do whatever needs to be done. Leaving her loads of time to do the things she likes, like learn about wine.
I used to not know either, but when I moved in here I waas next to broke so I couldn't afford to hire anyone, I could barely afford to eat. Throwing my hands up and saying 'I can't do it.' was not an option, so I bought the Hamiliton Book of DIY and read it.
I took the shutters down and stripped them of fifty years worth of gloss paint by hand. I took the internal doors down and sent them off in the back of a friend'a van to be dipped. I rehung them myself with that friend. I replaced all the hinges and handles with a Tudor style hinge-they look great. I sanded, varnished, painted, fixed blockages, grouted, replaced taps, changed locks, rewired lamps, replaced putty, scrimed holes and plastered over them, hung shelves and mirrors, planed windows that were sticking and pretty much most stuff that didn't need a professional. When the wardrobes and stuff arrived, I read the instructions and built them, I put my bed together and hung curtains.
I reckon I saved myself an absolute fortune. And it wasn't really all that difficult, oh I made some mistakes along the way. Like not turning the water off when plumbing in the washing machine and getting sprayed in the face and a few other little things, but all in all the sense of satisfaction was...well irreplacable. The only thing I made a complete bags of was trying to hang wall-paper. That I cannot do without bubbles, lines not matching up and more paste on me than on the wall.
I don't think knowing all this stuff makes me less girlie either. I like cooking, floaty dresses, opera, crying over films, puppies, flowers, jewelery and having a man hold the door open for me.
My heels are high and my toolbox floweth over.

aiieeeeee! We've been tango-ed!

Oh no, the horror the absolute horror. Disaster most horrid has befallen me (and my stupid sister Etheline). Oh foul fate, why must you mock me so? What have I done to deserve this...this abomination? I know I was rude to my mother, but she deserved it Fate, she did, I swear.
Etheline arrived over last night, all hee hee and ha ha, sightly tipsy, carrying Poppy's Big Surprise in one arm, (does that dog ever walk anywhere?) and a bag of goodies she got from some stupid avon/makeup party thingie in the other
'What's in the bag, hag?' I said, doing my best 'Jack'
'Mystic tan, and eyelash tints and other freebies. Come on, we're going to try them out.'
'What, I'm not-'
'I brought wine.'
'Alrighty then, now we talkin' girlie girl. Git yer ass in d'house.'
Well between the heel and the hunt -wine bottle one wine bottle two-and the bitching about our mother and her fiancé, the watching of Constantine and so forth, we left the bloody tan stuff on too long and this morning when I woke up it looks like...it looks like I've been tango-ed.
I look ridiculous, I glow. I've had two showers and still I'm orange. I can't remove any more epidermis.
I AM ORANGE!
I called that other wretch. And guess what, she ain't in work. Apparently she called in sick. I called her house.
'H-e-lucough cough.'
'Stall the ball you filthy heifer, you're not sick.'
'Oh, it's you. God my head.'
''Are you orange?' I demanded.
There was a suspicioulsy long silence. I tapped my foot.
'Well?'
'More a deep apricot.'
'Etheline!'
'What, don't shout at me. We must have left it on too long.'
'I knew we didn't need that many layers.'
'Well...last time it didn't seem that strong.'
'I'm fucking orange Etheline. I'm an orange minstral!'
'It should wear off in a day or two.'
'Etheline, ' I say with exaggerated, over-the-top patience, 'I have to go to kickboxing in half an hour, how can I get tone this colour down?'
'Oh, hate that.' She sighed then, a sound that sent shivers of unease down my orange spine all the way to my orange feet, 'You know what I'm thinking Cat? there must have been something dodgy with that batch, my John Rocha sheets are covered in it too. It had better come out. Did you notice the smell? Kind of like burnt copper. I don't think that's right. I'll call Carmel.'
'Oh Jesus.'
The smallest of the cats, the nervous nelly comes stalking in. He stops and stares at me, I smile. He flees.
'Oh Jesus.' I repeat.
Memnoch, be merciful, for I know not what I do half the time.
Most of the time, make that most of the time.

Heather Mills McCarthney.

I'm not a big fan of Heather, Paul McCarthney's second wife, she has always struck me as a rather cold individual. I could of course be completely wrong, but that is just my impression of her. But regardless, I think the tabloid vilification of her and the vicious caustic gleeful way they have gone after her since her split with McCarthney is absolutely disgusting.
The Sun-a piece of slime at the best of times- are reallying doing a hatchet job on her, calling her Lady Mucca, printing old photos of her in what they delightedly call porn shots- despite the fact that most of the photos published are less offensive than their own page three 'honeys'. The are running a banner on their website proporting to show her 'X Rated videos.'
The news of the World ran a front page article that alleged she was a former prostitute and had toe-curlingly lurid descriptions of what she is alleged to have gotten up to.
It has been a long while since I witnessed such a ballyhoo, the last time the tabloids got this frenzied it was over Princess Diana, another woman they mocked endlessly until her sudden and tragic death turned her into a saint.
But so what? So what if Heather Mills McCarthney was a soft porn star, so what if she was a porstitute? Is she not entitled to a past the same as the rest of us? Is she a moral guardian and as such deserves out sneering ire when we see her clay feet? What has she done that is so terrible that makes these tabloids so vindictive and almost personal in their attacks. So she married a Beatle, she supports animal rights, she had a little girl, so she's not the most bubbly cheery person in the world, does that give us the right to tear her to pieces? What is with the double standard here?
Magazines like Maxim and FHM glorify sleazy behaviour and dubious sexual practices, Big Brother sleaze TV, and you couldn't throw a rock in Westmininster without hitting a politicion busily stuffing skeletons back in the closet. People like Hugh Hefner are regarded as loveable old rogues, and footballers are almost expected to be involved in some kind of scandal or other, (dogging roasting cottaging, you pick).
People do things during their lives that they regret-or not as the case might be- the difference is they are allowed to get on with their life. Going back twenty years to drag up something that has no bearing in this day and age is a slimy scummy thing to do.
I don't buy tabloids and I don't read them, I had to dip into their websites to see for myself was the holier-than-thou attack as bad as I'd heard. I love a bit of gossip, I really do, but to viciously smear someone simply becasue you can reeks of bullying.

Mothers!

Can't live with 'em can't batter them to death and bury them in the back yard.
It is no great secret that my mother drives me nuts, but sometimes I want to stab her in the hand with a compass/large kitchen knife/swordfish.
Etheline says we are too alike, I would agree up to a point, we are both a touch outspoken and both of us hold the unfailing belief that we are right, naturally this leads to conflict. As Duncan McCloud might say in Highlander, there can be only one.
Yesterday however, she surpassed herself in annoying the fuck out of me.
I like Sunday a whole lot, I like getting up late, faffing around, getting the papers, deciding where to have brunch, toddling off whenever it suits me. In general it is a fabulous day and -having spent a pleasant evening beheading Jelly babies in an effort to understand why Americans say the things they do, and rinsing the taste away with vodka -I had hoped this sunday would be like any other.
Then she came along and ballsed it up.
Firstly she buzzed my doorbell, uninvited, at nine-fifteen.
I answered it-bleerily. Discovered too late it was her and buzzed her in.
'Oh', she said, breezing in past me on a cloud of Estée Lauder, 'I thought you'd be up.'
'Why would I be up? It's Sunday.'
'On your own?' She said peering into the sitting room with all the subtly of John Cleese in the Don't Mention the War episode of Faulty Towers.
'The cats are here.'
She did that sniffing thing she does when she doesn't like the 'tone' I use and held her handbag in front of her like a shield.
'I thought maybe you'd come with me to a furniture showroom.'
I gawp at her. What stinking cock rot is this? Why 'maybe' would she think that? I drag my kimono tighter around my body.
'I'm going to turn your brother's room into an office.'
'Why?'
She shrugs. 'Well, it's not like he'll be using it anymore.'
'Right.'
'So you'll come?'
I try to think of an excuse, but for once nothing come to mind, the only thing I can think of is the theme music to Spongebob Squarepants.
ooohhhh he lives in a pineapple under the sea-
'Sure, I'll just grab a quick shower.'
'I'll make us a cup of tea.'
This makes me grit my back teeth. For some reason my mother disapproves of my drinking coffee, but I let it go.
'Right, you know where everything is.'
I go shower and get dressed.
By the time we are in the lift I suss something is up, she has her pinched face on. The lift doors close. She launches.
'I was looking for milk in the fridge, there's not much in there, what day do you do a shop?'
'Every day really, I buy fairly fresh.'
'Ummph, 'she says, then, 'lot of booze.'
I do a mental scan. There are two bottles of wine, white, a bottle of Smirnoff orange, eight cans of diet orange, an actual orange, a bottle of tonic water, orange juice, a head of lettuce, cheese, garlic, mushrooms, fish (Perch and salmon), yoghurts, bacon, turkey, cured ham, water, milk, balsamic vinegar and some peppers.
'No wonder there's not a pick on you. You must never eat.'
Now this bogus crap is designed to annoy. 1, if I never ate I'd be dead, and 2, I'm not skinny, I"m not fat like she is, and true I weighed more before, but I'm not actually skinny. I'm fit, but not rake thin.
'I eat plenty,' I say testily.
'You should think about cutting down the amount you drink.'
'Right.'
'It's not good for you.'
'I don't actually drink that much.'( Was my nose growing?)
'Oh now, sure every time I see you you have a glass in your hand.'
This too is bogus, mostly my mother and I meet at dinners and lunches. I glance down at my hands and raise them in an exaggerated manner.
She eyes me, her nostrils flare, 'you're so sharp you'll cut yourself someday.'
I sigh heavily. I hate that expression, there is never a sword fish handy when you need one.
'I never drank at home.'
'Right.'
'Never saw the need.'
'um.'
'That's how trouble starts.'
'um.'
'I'm only telling you for your own good.'
'You should eat less.' I say, rather sharply. 'Get more exercise, try bring your weight down before your blood pressure causes you to have a stroke.' I put a lot of emphasis on stroke as it is her favourite most likely to happen senario.
She snaps a look my way. 'Oh, well that's easy for you to say, you know ever since I started taking those tablets-'
We hit the ground floor, the doors open and she steps out- 'I've been retaining water like the billio and it's not like I haven't tried. But it's hard when no one supports-'
I press the button and to the doors close on her blather. I rise to the top floor in serene silence.
I let myself back into the apartment. The bigger of the cats is sitting on the book case in the hall-almost as thought he expected I would return.
'Narp?' He says.
'Indeed.' I say and scoop him up.
She buzzes the buzzer. I answer.
'Are you coming or not?' She asks icily.
'I don't believe I am.' I say equally as frosty.
'There's no talking to you. You always take everything the wrong way.'
'Is that so?'
'yes.'
'Okay then, once we know that I'm at fault.'
I hear her snort angrily and then the clip clop of her shoes as she stomps off.
She's lucky I don't have a sniper rifle.

Fie! Fie! batten the hatches, run for your very...

lives cats.
My sister, the eldest one, has just called me in a bit of a panic. I am to mind her chldren while she gets her hair done. The original babysitter-her delightful mother-in-law-has woken up ill and her delightful husband is away playing golf, Etheline is no where to be found-ooohhh she's so clever that one- and no one in their right mind would ask my mother at this late notice because they would never hear the end of it. My brother and his wife are also out because she claims she doesn't know Grace well enough to 'land the kids on her'.
So she's coming here with them.
I must jump in the shower now and plan my morning around my charges. Will 'Hide and no seek' be as successful this time round? And yes it's hide and 'no seek' The first one decided that's what it is called years ago and so that is what it remains.
What of the baby? Last time I had her the only game she liked was that I put something on my head let it fall off and then pretend I didn't know where it was and twirl about going 'What? What? I don't see it.' Where upon she would fling her head back and howl with laughter.
And then there is the boy.
He will immediately search out the cats-who will be huffled under the bed, yes huffled. He might catch the old one, but it's as if he senses that there is no sport in that,(he is right of course, a Lincoln Rhyme could catch the old one) no no, my nephew-the big game hunter- sets his sights on a higher prize, not the biggest of the cats- oh no, but the smallest one, the one-eyed nervous nelly, the one with the sickle like claws and needle point teeth, the one my vet likes to knock out before handling, yes that one.
Do I have time for another trip to the hospital for a tetenus shot? No, I bloody don't! Sponge Bob Squarepants, he will be my ally. But I shall put the hospital on speed dail none the less.
Let the games begin.

Hair today, gone tomorrow...

Sometimes I get so ping- ping-pinged by a story that it gives me a headache and I find only a quick 'arrgghhh!' gets my blood flowing again. When I heard this story yesterday my initial repsonse was, 'my god, ridiculous in this day and age, has he not more to worrying about?'
But then, this morning having read more, I'm all, 'hummm, he's bloody right! After all if he lets that slide, what's next, nose rings? Anarchy! That's what. Good for you sir."
I may even have sneered. Naturally this was all before I heard about Monstee's tongue, after I read that I haven't been able to construct a single useful thought.
What do y'all think of the following?


"The decision to refuse three students entry to a Junior Cert exam hall, because it was claimed their tight haircuts did not comply with school rules, has been condemned by youth organisations and parental bodies.

Following a decision by the principal of Tullamore Community College, Co Offaly, to refer three students to another school for the second day of exams yesterday, organisations such as Youth Work Ireland called on the Minister for Education to intervene and ensure that no student is denied the right to sit an exam.

A spokesman for Youth Work Ireland, Michael McLoughlin, who described the schools' decision as "ludicrous and possibly illegal", last night said that if the Department of Education failed to take the issue seriously, a complaint to the Ombudsman for Children might now arise.

This is what I thought was terrible but then...

The parents of the three boys - Enda Carroll (15), Seán Treacy (16) and Andrew Kelly (15) - accused the Tullamore school of employing "one rule for one, another rule for others". Ann-Marie Treacy and Pamela Carroll acknowledged their sons had been warned and suspended about the length of their hair in the past, adding however that their sons simply preferred a tight haircut.

Principal Edward McEvoy said the three students had not been singled out for particular attention and explained that the school employed high standards of discipline and behaviour and could not accept "wilful challenging of the school rules".

Mr McEvoy arranged for them to sit the remaining exams six miles away at Árd Scoil Chiaráin Naofa, Clara. Two students availed of this option while Enda plans instead to resit the exams next year in another school."

Bada Boom! So, even though they had been warned before they carried on regardless and are now bleating over their punishment. The sentence 'Their sons simply preferred a tight haircut' is the real clincher.
When I was in school I had to wear a really terrible uniform, I mean it was awful...and I'm fairly certain I would have simply preferred to wear jeans and a t-shirt. But I didn't because the school had a bloody rule about it, the filthy beasts. Had I turned up in jeans they would have sent me home. Ergo, I wore the uniform.
Rules are rules, sometimes rules are made to be broken, but if you do then you've gotta roll with the following punches.
What message are these parents sending to their kids? Do what you like son and then when you get punished for it, go to the papers and complain about being singled out. Don't accept any responsibility what ever you do, it's not your fault that you were suspended for breaking the rules, it's the school for not letting you do what you like.
Another bunch of kids with in built victim mentality. Yeah, way to go Mom and Dad. Woooo, you sure showed them boys how to be men. Can't wait for, 'they simply preferred drinking and driving', or 'they simply preferred shooting heroin,' 'they simply preferred robbing banks.'
Dopes.

Culture my arse....

I was at a art gallery last night, eyeing up some rather fetching-and expensive pictures, mingling, and -I am not ashamed to say it- giving folk my card. Panhandling for work, the social butterfly. French Gay was there and so was one of my girlfriends.
There was a good crowd in attendence, wall to wall nobodies like myself, so it was a while before I noticed something was up with French Gay. He was standing rigid, his back to the wall wearing a look of muderous contempt and swiging from a bottle of South African wine. I excused myself from the group tax dodgers I was talking to and drifted over to him.
'What's wrong with you?'
'Alllorrrsszz, so boring.' He said in what seemed like a really shouty voice.
'Let me guess, ' I whispered, 'property prices, inflation worries and...'
'Ze price of fuel and ze fucking sex-ed scandal' He raised an imperious eyebrow and gave the room a flilty sweep, 'Borrring Pigzzz, 'ow can they keep talking always about zez things, why is no one looking at ze pitcures, ze should stay in ze home or ze pub, fucking idiot monkeys. Sooo borring, pft, money! I don't want to talk always about such shit. I am sick of eeet, so sick of eeet, all day in the office, mon dieu, oh zis one, she buy-ed her 'ouse 'ere, and zat one, he pay ziz in the mortgage...pffftt,' He waved the bottle wildly slopping wine about the place, 'It make-ed me seeek. Sheet, talk about somthings else-ed please.'
I took a sip of my drink. 'Like what?'
He rolled his shoulder like only a french man can do.
'Like art, like culture, like books, like life, not sheet, always sheet, fucking 'ouses, ten years I am talking about only 'ouses, every party, every opening, ever where, I don't want to talk about 'ouses any more.'
We stood there for a while in silence, me wondering whether I should leave some cards by the door, him glowering at the room and no doubt missing the culture of the one shop fucking village he came from in France.
After a while our other friend joined us.
'All right darlings?'
'According to Pepe le Pew here,' I said, 'we're bereft of culture.'
She looked at him and grinned. 'Guess what Frenchy, Andy's here.'
'Andy?' ( hairdresser, worked in LA for about eight months, and 'apparently' worked on every major star in that short time. Or he could be a big fat greasy liar. You pick).
'Really?' French Gay perked up, 'Where?'
'I'm going to get another drink.' I said, I don't like Andy, he's sweaty and he creeps me out.
Off they toddled, French Gay complaining loudly, my friend trying to shush him. I got another drink chatted to to ould lads at the bar, had another drink to gird my loins so to speak and went in search of my companions.
I found them, deep in a heated/spirited/animated conversation with the slimy Andy. At last, I thought, French Gay is 'imsself- his arm waving, eye rolling, shrugging snorting self.
I was surprised, so surprised I went back to the bar for another drink before I rejoined them. Who knew Slimy Andy could provide the much sought for culture? Perhaps I had misjudged the walking vat of vasoline. I drew closer.
Ah.
'Angelina Jolie...blah blah balh.... Brad Pitt...waffle, you know when I worked in LA... teehee.... the baby... Shiloh what a name? Do you like it, better than Suri surely...pffttt, ez ridiculous! No no, eeee left-ed her- Jennifer Anniston, so thin, but those legs, really? I think he looks like the undead, or is it the dead...You know when I worked in LA...''
Culture, in all its glory.

Keanu Reeves...

wants to get married! He finally wants to put down roots and settle down with a woman, and this not a few weeks after I already said I would to a different man! OH the tragic timing...dammit to hell.

Sorry, body duty.

Sorry 'bout tardy blog. But I had to drag my meat and booze saturated body the gym for a ferocious workout. 5k run, slightly uphill for legs, 20k bike, tricps biceps, lats, gluts, stretching (ouch) quick swim and then shower-lots of conditioner in sun frizzled hair.
Now I feel dandy. So I'm going to have a yoghurt, slat and pepper praws and work my arse off for then rest of the afternoon. Golly exercise makes a gal feel good.
Anyho, the leaving cert and juniorcert exams started today, the little goth kid doesn't do hers til next year, but I saw a load of her peers heading off to shcool this morning, pale and nervous and loud and giddy alike, poor little things, sometimes it really is great to be an adult and know that all that shit is behind me.

Guess God was busy...

either that or he's not one to be tested.
A lion killed a man who climbed into its enclosure in the Ukrainian capital's zoo, police said today.

The lion attacked the 45-year-old Ukrainian late yesterday after he used a rope to climb down into an enclosure with four lions, said Kiev police spokesman Volodymyr Polishchuk.

He said the man, who was not identified, was acting aggressively and the lion seized him by the throat. The man, an ethnic Azerbaijani, died at the scene.

Ukrainian TV channel NTN broadcast interviews with witnesses who said the man told them that he wanted to test God, believing that God would not allow the lions to hurt him.

Zoo officials could not immediately be reached for comment.

awkward moments.

Yesterday was divine, sunny and warm, lots of meat, beer and good company. So it was such a damnable shame to have topped it all off by going out last night and meeting up a warring couple.
'Todd and Jessica'- not real names, I would like to post real names but Todd is a net surfer and the type who would google himself daily- have been dating for five years now, Todd words in IT and Jessica is a freelance photographer-very gifted and leaning more towards Art. They are well off, good looking and-inexplicably-always miserable and lately they seem like they are always at each other's throats.
Last night was no exception.
It started out peaceful enough, catching up on the gossip, telling them all about the bar-b-cue and Country Gay's new hair and single status and the vicious slap in the chops Cherry got in the George when Tara finally came across him...blah-blah -blah.
They were describing the new apartment they bought for an astronomical amount of money and how they probably couldn't go on holidays this year becasue they were up to their tits in debt, when suddenly the temperature dropped about fifteen degrees.
I'm not really sure how it happened but Todd did some kind of snort when Jessica mentioned some job she was going on, and muttered someting about 'feast or famine' the Jessica said something like, 'Excuse fucking me?'
Then Todd leans across to the Paramour and says 'Look man, you know how it is, we're mortgaged to the hilt and I was just saying the photo stuff, it's great, don't get me wrong, but you know sometimes the arty shit's gotta take a place on the back-'
Wherein Jessica said, 'Hey, I'm sitting right here. Don't fucking talk about me as if I'm not here.'
'Jess I'm just saying-'
'I know what you're saying and you can shut up.'
Eeeepppp.
I can't say it improved really, they stopped talking about money, but then it was , 'Hey Jess, what was the name of that guy we-'
'I don't know, dont ask me, you're the one who knows everything.'
Or.
'Todd told him to...'
'No I didn't. That's not what I said, you always do that Jessica, you always exaggerate.'
I sat there with this tight pained grin on my face, clutching my glass and wondering if I could claim sun stroke. Then Todd said, 'right my round, same again?'
I opened my mouth-
But champion, my champion, the paramour looked at his watch and said, 'Oh, sorry folks, but I can't, I've got an early start tomorrow. I'm driving down South, got to be on the raod by six.'
'OH.'
Both Jessica and Todd managed to look suspicious. But the paramour was unmoved, he drained his drink and slapped Todd on the shoulder- all manly like- 'we're having a friendly next saturday, why don't you come along? Bring your boots.'
Todd nodded, 'Hey yeah I wouldn't mind a-'
'You can't next Saturday!' Jessica snapped rolling her eyes. 'The tile-man is coming.'
'So, you'll be there won't you!'
Jessica leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with malice. 'Todd sometimes all that football shit has gotta take a place on the back burner.'
We left sharpish and walked home, the night was warm and we held hands. We didn't talk until we reached the apartment.
'Let's not fight over stupid stuff.' he said.
'Okay.'I said.
Then we went up in the lift, snogging like teenagers.

Bank Holiday!

Is there anything better than a bank holiday? If there is I don't wanna know. The weather is nice, and I'm taking a guilt free day off work. I'm off to the gym now and this afternoon I'm going to head down the country with the paramour for a bar-b-cue (where I'm going to eat my own body weight in meat). Hope y'all have a great one!

Spanish Omelette versus martini.

Time for a mini rant before my guests arrive.
I like cooking on Saturdays, and on occasion-at very short notice- I will lose the run of myself and ask people to chez fatmammycat for food. Like I did today. After I found a very nice dress down town, I was such in good humour I thought, eeee, why not share the love. I'll cook and see if anyone wants to come and have a scoff.
What should I make? Something easy but yummy. I know, feta cheese and olive salad, pan con tomate, Spanish Omelette and plain but nice vanilla ice cream for afters with wafers- ice cream sambos. What could go wrong?
Well nothing really if I'd stayed off the sauce while cooking. Somehow while peeling and dicing ten spuds, three onions and three cloves of garlic I have managed to break a nail, burn my thumb, splash grease on my shirt, mix and in fact drink, three martinis (all while dancing around my kitchen to Madonna/petshop boys's mix of Sorry)
Injuries aside, now I'm in a quandry, to flip the omelette I need to slap it onto a big plate and turn it over, but because I have five people coming I made a bigger omelette than usual and I don't have a plate larger than the pan I'm working with. I'm half thinking to slice it in two but that could get messy...I suppose I could divide it up, but I wanted to put it all on a big plate and let folk help them selves, stupid delicious martini and shit there's the doorbell.
Adieu! XX

Bad Idea, number 1

I read this and whole sections of my eyebrow twitched.

Michael Jackson is reportedly planning to adopt a Japanese orphan.

The eccentric singer - who already has three children, Prince Michael, nine, Paris, eight, and four-year-old Prince Michael II - is alleged to have visited a number of Japanese children's homes during his current visit to the Far East.

Fox News TV reporter Roger Friedman said: "His trip to Japan was not all about publicity. He toured orphanages. I'm told he's looking for children to add to his current collection of three."

Holy shit, surely being on trial for child abuse and molestation might put a dampner in his chances, on the other hand who the hell knows.

Late rape update.

Mr A is back where he belongs, re-arrested and in prison, and-
Both houses of the Oireachtas have passed the emergency legislation to the replace the law on statutory rape which was struck down by the Supreme Court last week.

The Seanad voted to accept the legislation this evening, while the Dáil passed the bill with some amendments from the Opposition this afternoon.

The bill was signed by President Mary McAleese at Áras an Uachtaráin tonight, enabling it to become law.
Maybe now we can close this stupid loophole and ensure that child molesters and filthy perverts get some of what they deserve. I say 'some' because really they deserve to have their balls cut off.

I, murderer.

I stared at it, confused at first, bewildered, fearful. Who had done this? I glanced around, half expecting to find someone waiting, sitting like a villain in a B movie, laughing, mocking. But there was no one and gradually it dawned on me, a terrifying creeping realization, there never was.
It was me.
I forced myself to say it. 'It was me!'
Somehow I had done it again, somehow-even though I had tried to resist, fought against it, consulted others, tried to still my baser instincts, somehow, despite all my best efforts, somehow...I had killed again.
There it lay, the proof of my nefarious deeds, dull, lifeless. My hands reached for it, but the moment I brushed against its limp form I snatched my fingers away. What was once a velvety soft thing of beauty, now lay filthy and rotting.
'I'm sorry. 'I said, aloud, dropping to my knees, feeling the tears build in my eyes. 'Im sorry. I'm so sorry. You were so young. So pretty, so...perfect.'
Perhaps that was it? The perfection? I professed to love it, but did I?
A cloud raced across the sun, plunging the room into shadows. I shivered. I stared at the lifeless thing before me. It hardly seemed possible that this was all that remained- this terrible husk- from what was once so majestic, so full of hope, wanting only to live, to survive, stretching always for the light...
Dead.
Mea culpa.
Wake up Cat!
I had to do something, I couldn't leave it here like this, someone would see, someone would notice, they would look at me and know that I was to blame, that I was at fault, that I was a...
Don't say it.
Murderer.
Who could I blame?
I chewed my lip in consternation. My scalp prickled. There had to be a scapegoat, but who? No, there would be time for that later, first I had to dispose of it, hide the evidence, quick quick, think damn you!
I got up and stumbled blindly for the kitchen. Scarcely breathing I found the tools I needed.
It took a while, these jobs always do. I scrubbed the spot on the floor where it had fallen, spilling its essence on the cool hard tiles. There there, I said to it as I worked, my voice soft as a lover's whisper. I dismembered it, hacking furiously through its limbs, hurrying now. This last stage, when the decision is made, is always fraught with danger. I couldn't risk being caught now.
I lugged the plastic bag downstairs and staggered to the bin, only a few more steps. Come one come on!
Heave, one last Herculean effort.
There. I dusted my hands and stood, my chest heaving, in the sunlight. I was free, I had made it, no one could pin it on me now.
Satisfied, I made my way back to my apartment. I stepped inside the door and listened. Silence, no witness, nothing.
I mixed a drink and wandered into the sitting room, just one more thing now, the seal, the final nail. I did not look at where it once stood.
I dialled a number and rearranged my voice. I must sound convincing, harried, upset and yet mildly angry...
'Etheline? It's me. No I'm not all right, you know that beautiful plant you bought me for Christmas? Yeah, one of the bloody cats destroyed it last night. I don't know I think it was-' I paused, shit- 'the little one, you know he's not right in the head. Hum? Oh I know, it was a beauiful plant, such a shame. Bloody cats, I can't have anything with them.'
There, it is done.
I was free to kill again.

Holy Gaucamole!

Etheline has just phoned with the astounding news that Sinead O'Connor (lesbian/straight/bi/straight/singer/priest/rasta/popepictureripperupper) is pregnant by Mary Coughlan's (blues singer, cool as shit, tired and emotional/alcoholic) ex-husband and that said baby is due on Chrstmas eve!!
I am too shocked for words, and I don't even know why. I love Mary, great voice and Sinead is an amazing singer,if as nutty as a loon. It's its... I'm flabbergasted.
It's like the whole Angelina/Brad/Jennifer thingie, only with wellies.

Mercy.

Mercy, but one has quite the head on one this morning, and painkillers and Andrews Liver salts don't appear to be helping. I may have to try a bacon butty.
I was ut last night at the first birthday of a bar I frequent. The party was a rip roaring success, stacked to the gills, met lots of folk I haven't seen for a while, chat chat. French gay was hugely miffed when he saw people turn up that did not altend his last party. 'Aloooorrsss, ze people, they come to ze opening of a can of soup, but not my sorieeeeszzz. Pfft,' And so proceeded to sulk most of the night.
I, cocktail in hand- found the owner's mammy, a lovely squishy woman almost seventy, a little bashful at being surrounded by all the 'darlings' Now I love mammys-nice ones- so in I swooped, plied her with drink and we balthered away with gusto, later she described me as 'that lovely girl with all the hair.' I've been called much worse.

Other news, in light of Mr A the chld rapist skipping free, this guy should have nothing to worry about, an application to the High Court today for the release of another man convicted of sex offences against a young girl will add further to public outrage and the sense of political emergency. The State is expected to argue today that this case should be adjourned, pending the outcome of tomorrow's Supreme Court appeal.
See, all the cockroaches are scuttling for the light.
And while I'm at it...
.-A 48-year-old Co Donegal priest has been found guilty of raping and sexually abusing a teenager in the 1980s.

Fr Daniel Doherty, with an address at Derriscleigh in Carrigart Co Donegal, was found guilty of two counts of rape and two counts of indecent assault at the Central Criminal Court. The abuse took place in 1984 and 1985 when the girl concerned was aged 12 and 13, and both rapes took place in the church sarcisty.

Fr Doherty was charged with three counts of rape and one of sexual assault.

He has been released on bail, pending sentencing in October.
Now I have a question here too. This man has been found guilty, why then is he free? Why will he not be sentenced until October? Maybe I'm stupid, but when you're found guitly of raping a child don't you go to jail? Oh no wait, I forgot, this is Ireland.