In the distance...

Jogging along the bank of the Dodder this morning I was relatively happy with the state of the world. True, it was windy and I was up to my flank in mulch, dog shit -people don't bother picking up after their dogs in autumn because they reckon the fallen leaves hide it- and slime, being blown about the place like a piece of not very heavy paper, and gently easing the odd leaf, dead bird and old lady out of my way. LIke I said, I was happy enough.
Then, developing a bit of a stitch-as is my wont, I have been ill you know- I slowed down a spell and walked, pausing only once or twice to lean over and hack up all manner of crap that still is refusing to vacate my lungs, like Anna Nicole Smith in that Barbados house.
Still... I was happy enough. I was minding my own business, I was considering what I might have for breakfast. It had to be a substantial breakfast for I am going to the Troc for dinner tonight and I don't want to be messin' up my appetite, yo.
When suddenly I spied an ancient dog amble out from the trees a few feet ahead of me. He was a alsation cross, stiff legged, wall eyed, carrying a log in his mouth.
I blinked at it, too late I remembered that normally this particular beast was accompanied by that most frightful of foes.
The personal space invader.
I went to gallop off back the direction I had come, but it was two late.
'Hello there, you don't have himself with you today, do you?'
'Oh hello, no har, all alone today.'
She is referring to Country Gay's tireless dog, this is how I am known to this terrible woman, it seems once you join the dog owner club you can never leave. I tried to get out but they keep pulling me back in.
'Very windy today isn't it?' She approached. I stood my ground, maybe my sweating mucky slurmy self might deter her.
I was wrong.
'Forecast is for terrible rain.' She stops exactly one and one half inches form my face. I can see her pores and a bit of gunk she has in the corner of her left eye.
Blee.
'I was just saying to Melly this morning that it looked like there might be a storm coming.'
I don't know who Melly is. Perhaps she is Melly and she was talking to herself, or she is used to talking in the third person. I cannot help it, I take a step backwards. She advances. Urgh, not velly velly good at all.
'Where's himself then?' She peers about as though CG's dog might actually appear in mid air, the trickster. The Romulan dog that he is, uncloaking and giving us all a good laugh. Oh what fun, look I had him all along!
'I don't have him. He's not actually my dog. ' I remind her. 'I was just caring for him that week.'
'Poor thing, does he get out much at all?"
'I'm sure he does.' I take another step backwards and am dimayed to find I am close to the path ledge. If I step off it I will be in a small culvert that is filled with brackish water.
'They do love a good run, come hail or shine this old boy loves to go out.' She takes another step closer to me, I am sure I can smell what she had for breakfast and I can see she does not have teeth at the back. Oh dear god. I prepare to leap into the culvert, or push her in. The dog is old, I can take him.
'Yearp yearp yearp.'
The old dog has dropped his log and is doing that stiff legged semi-bounce old dogs do when they bark.
She turns to him. 'Oh now, hold on there misterman, I'll throw it for you.' She takes a step towards his log and as she does I slide past her.
'Well now!' I cry, for the sun has come out again, not really but it might as well have, 'I'd better keep moving, har, don't want to stiffen up! Take care, good to see you.'
'Oh' she turns back to where I was, but it is I who have mastered the Romulan cloaking trick, for I ain't there no more now am I?
'Cheerio!' I slap her-quite hard actually- on the shoulder, wink at the old dog and hightail it down the path. I don't look back and resolve to alter my running times.
Around the next corner I am confronted by an angry hissing swan. I don't invade its space at all, in fact I pretend I can't see it and eventually it stops flapping at me and we go about our merry ways.
Civil like.

Allen Carr has died.

"An anti-smoking guru who has helped millions of smokers kick the habit has died from lung cancer died in his home near Malaga in Spain.
Allen Carr, 72, quit his 100-a-day habit 23 years ago, before going on to become a millionaire by advising people on how to stop smoking.

His books, about the Easyway method, have become international bestsellers and he ran clinics all over the world.

When he was diagnosed with the disease, Mr Carr said he saw his illness as a way to encourage more people to quit.

Talking at the time of his diagnosis, Mr Carr said: "Since I stopped smoking more than 23 years ago I have been the happiest man in the world. I still feel the same way."

Me too Mr Carr.
This man is the reason I don't smoke today. I went from a thirty a day habit to none overnight having read his Easyway for Women to stop smoking nearly four years ago. I never touched another cigarette since. I didn't even finish out the pack I had. Incredible, especially as I LIKED smoking-or so I told myself.
Sorry to see him go and I am eternally in his debt.
Go n'eiri an botháir leat.

That is not an abortion.

That is murder.
This story has by blood up this morning.
"A woman, pregnant and under huge financial pressure, told an inquest how she paid for an illegal abortion and gave birth to her full-term son in a field.

The Lithuanian woman (26) said the baby was not breathing and was blue, and that she held him in her arms for a long time.

An autopsy was unable to determine if the infant, of around 36 weeks gestation, had been born alive. The baby's remains were found in a disused farm shed at Ballybrittas, near Kildalkey, Co Meath, on May 2, by a builder who had taken shelter from heavy rain.
An appeal by gardai for the mother to come forward eventually led to the Lithuanian woman living in the nearby town of Athboy and working as a barmaid.
Recalling the day she drove out to Kildalkey, the woman, who has a child in national school said: "I held the baby in my arms. It was a boy. He was not breathing, his eyes were closed. I was crying as I held the baby. I touched his face, which was light blue. His nose was cold. I wiped his face clean with my shirt. I was looking at him and holding him for a long time. I was in pain. I don't remember what happened next."
The woman was present at the inquest in Navan last Thursday, accompanied by an interpreter.
Through her solicitor, she did not dispute the verdict of the inquest - that the baby had died "of undetermined causes, following a self-induced miscarriage". The jury had been dismissed by the coroner, John Lacy, before the case was heard.
The petite Lithuanian previously admitted to gardai she was in a desperate financial situation when she realised she was pregnant. Her partner - whom she refused to name - put pressure on her not to have the baby.
She was expected to send money home to her parents in Lithuania and then a brother arrived who could not find a job. She had to support him and was working in two jobs to make ends meet. Then her partner left. "Everything went into one - it all happened in a short space. I was in shock. If not, I would have kept the baby."

She asked around among her female friends to see if any of them knew how she could procure an abortion and was put in touch with a man who spoke Russian.

He visited her at her place of work early in January. The cost of the abortion medication was to be €500 to €800.
The woman said she had to sign "legal papers" promising she would never speak about the abortion to anybody, including her family, and absolving this person of all responsibility if things went wrong. Medication was duly provided and the next day she began to bleed.

Gardai said a file had been sent to the DPP, who declined to press charges.'

It's actually the last past of the story that pisses me off most. The DPP have declined to press charges. WTF?
I have sympathy for women who find themselves pregnant and alone, I really do. But this woman was 36 weeks pregnant. This woman would have felt her baby's ever move and kick, this woman could have easily waited a few more weeks and given bitrth to her son, and then, if she still didn't want to have him she could have given him up for adoption. She could have gone to any hospital and asked for help, maybe taking into account her alleged mental state they might have helped her deliver early. But she didn't, she spent nealy 1000 Euros (even though she was under 'huge financial pressure) on getting a late term abortion and then dumped the poor little thing in a barn.
That just makes me sick.
She should have been charged. I have seen cases where people are charged with murder of two when thery kill a pregnant woman. So should this woman be charged with killing her child. And so should the 'Russian' who provided her with the 'medicine'.
At 36 weeks, and yes it is that the age that bothers me most, that little boy had a chance and the one person he should have been able to rely on most took that chance away from him when she murdered him and abandonded his little corpse in a filthy shed. I don't think she should have gotten off scot free.

Eeek a test.

And I failed it miserably!

Okay. Read the follwing and count the Fs.

FINISHED FILES ARE THE RE-
SULT OF YEARS OF SCIENTIF-
IC STUDY COMBINED WITH
THE EXPERIENCE OF YEARS.

Well how many do you see. Answers in the comments.

Watch out... radio active man!

Well now, this one had be scratching my head in puzzlement.
RIOT police had to be called to a court hearing yesterday after a murder accused arrived naked.

He later appeared before a judge wearing only an oversized t-shirt.

The riot gardai were deployed to Cloverhill District Court in Dublin for a bail appearance by Warren Dumbrell who, along with his brother, is charged with murder.

Members of the public had to evacuate the courthouse after an altercation at Cloverhill prison where Dumbrell has been in custody awaiting trial.

Officers with riot helmets, bullet-proof vests and batons cleared the courthouse, home to the High Court bail list each Monday, and asked the public to vacate the building.

Earlier this month, Dumbrell (32) and his brother Jeffrey (26) were charged with the murder of a father-of-six near his home in a Dublin flats complex.

Last night, the Irish Prison Service confirmed that Dumbrell, who was refused bail by Judge Butler, was transferred to Cork prison as punishment for the disturbance at Cloverhill.

Dumbrell was due to attend a bail hearing yesterday afternoon at the nearby courthouse but prior to his removal a major row broke out at the remand facility.

It is understood that Dumbrell refused to dress himself for his court appearance and was brought to the courthouse naked before being clothed in an oversized t-shirt.

Earlier this month the Dumbrell brothers, both of Emmett Road in Inchicore, Dublin, were charged with murdering Christopher Cawley near his home at Tyrone Place in Inchicore."

The riot police? So what were they worried about exacatly, concealed weapons? That he might get a stiffy and baton charge them? Radioactive farts? Did he have a laser in his winkle? Lethal exploding dingleberries? The public demands to know!

I am SHOCKED!

4 months after getting married, Pamela Anderson has filed for divorce from husband Kid Rock citing winkle rot or beaver fatigue or sheer boredom or some such. I was stunned to hear this. I mean sometimes you just don't see 'em coming, you know?

Pan's Labrinth.

I was going to attempt a review, but I am crap at that and I feel I would not do the film justice. So, if you like films that are scary, touching, evil, upsetting, thought provoking, glorious, dark, edgy, heartstoppingly beautiful, upsetting again, triumphant, and you don't mind subtitles....then go see this film. Go alone, enjoy it. The fact that there were only five other people with me in the cinema while Tenacious D The pick of Destiny was jam-packed is something I will never understand.

We'll have no trouble here...

Typical.

"ONLY locals living in one of the country's fastest growing counties will be able to apply for planning permission to live there.

A new County Development Plan for Wexford is to be on public display in the coming weeks. But restrictions being imposed in Wexford town mean that while someone living there could apply for planning permission for a house in, for example, Rosslare, another person looking to move there from Dublin will be unable to do so.

In Gorey, the restrictions involve a large area of land, including Courtown.

The restrictions will affect Gorey, New Ross, Wexford, Enniscorthy, Ferns and Bunclody.

Wexford has a population growth of 13 per cent, one of the highest in the country.

The plan, approved last week, will go on display for 10 weeks."

I was alerted to this a few days ago from a gleeful friend of mine who has been waffling on about 'blow-ins' pushing up prices for years now. This same friend has seen her own business treble from said blow-ins' money, but never let reason get in the way of a countrygal's sniffy dislike for out of towners.
My mother will be on next. Let the bellyaching begin.
First, I can't imagine why anyone would WANT to move down the country, but if they do they should be allowed live where ever the hell they like/can afford to. The reason most people move is because they can no longer afford property in the city, and not everyone wants to shell out half a million for an ex council house in Inchicore or crumlin- solid though they may be. Folk are being vilified for wanting bigger homes and maybe a bit of space for their kids and sneered at for not 'fitting in' (although how the hell can you fit in someplace where unless you go back two generations you're still not local?).
I'm a country girl myself, I have lived away from my village since I was 16 (as long as possible). The thoughts of going back there to live makes me come out in goose bumps. But that's just me. Lot's of people move away from home in their early adulthood, will they be allowed move back and apply for PP? And if they are why not someone else?
It all sounds bogey to me.

I hope I die laughing.

I am most poorly. Too poorly even to peruse the papers and grow outraged over something or other. Too ill to be bothered giving out about drunk drivers, or lax gardai, or any of the other news my bunged up head paid scant interest in this morning. I don't care about stuff. Proof positive that I am fucked.
The cold thingie I have been crossing swords with all week has skedaddled, unfortunately it skedaddled straight down onto my chest so that it might fight me from closer quarters. We're blunderbussing each other over stacks of hay as I type.
So far it seems to be winning.
I want to go back to bed. I want to laugh mindlessly to myself. I want to stop coughing up that radioactive green stuff but apparently it's ' good that's it's coming up.'
Right.
I have discovered a way to do this however that doesn't involve much effort. I simply watch something I feel is hilarious and then cough and splutter with laughter, thus freeing my lungs for a quick slug of air.
So far this morning the following clip is the hands down winner. So in a spirit of real generosity I bring you Ratboy.
Have a good weekend y'all.

Dogs and children.

I've said it before and I'll say it again, dogs and toddlers do not mix.
"A GIRL of three was scarred for life yesterday after being mauled by her grandparents’ Doberman guard dog.
Little Hope Dew had been playing in their back garden when the dog lunged.

Neighbours rushed to help and managed to pull the girl free in the village of Claverdon, Warwicks.

One, farmer David Burman, 58, said: “The dog had something in its mouth — I thought it was an animal — and was shaking it ferociously like it was a rag doll.”

Last night Hope was “very poorly” in intensive care after being airlifted to Birmingham Children’s Hospital, with serious neck and facial injuries.

Hope and mum Emma, 26, lived with grandparents Kim and Martin Dew. Last night all the adults were at Hope’s bedside.

Warwickshire Police were investigating. The dog, named Slynn, was destroyed."

There has been a spate of toddlers attacked by dogs recently and in some of those cases the children have died.
Is it really so difficult for some people to understand that children that small should not be allowed near a dog, ESPECIALLY a guard dog.
That it was a doberman that carried out this attack is terrible and bad news for the breed as now everyone will once again associate them with being dangerous animals, which they are not. I had a doberman for years, he was a lovely, well trianed highly socialised animal, quick, intelligent and fiercly loyal. I loved him comletely and trusted him.
But I wouldn't have left him alone with a child for love or money.
Kids have no concept of animal tolerance. Kids will be kids. They can't read sign of distress in a dog, they pull ears, poke, run around making a lot of noise. In short they make dogs nervous. And even the most placid animal can bite if hurt or distressed in any way.
I hope this little one pulls through, but really it is time for all dog owners to come to terms with one thing, he might be your baby, but he is an animal at the end of the day.

Alcohol and cold medicines.

They don't really mix now do they?
Not only that, but I seem to have lost some of my tolerance to booze. You see I've more or less given up drinking during the week, but last night, due to general mingosity and in a fit of self justification, I had myself some wine, a bottle and a glass to be exact.
Now, that wouldn't make me too drunk, but I notice it did wake me up a five, I mean Ping! Wide awake.
It was about this time I discovered my head was stuffed to the gils and I really couldn't breathe at all. I mean seriously...
Not feeling very good I got up wandered into the kitchen, took some more tablets, drank some water and wobbled back to bed.
I lay there half breathing until about eight then I drifted off into sleep again.
And that's where I had a very realistic and frankly unwanted dream that me and Judi Dench- fine actress- were having not very hot lesbian sex in the back of this sort of van that was up on a platform and over looked by a hot tub and a restuarant. I mean it. Me, Judi Dench, naked as jaybirds, going at it.
Naturally I only woke up after this dream. Too late to rid myself of the images, and if you can't rid yourself you might as well share them.
And no, neither of us came either. Judi was very kind about it, but now I'm double worried.

Oh dear lord, please don't let it be ...

It was a cold and bitter night. I had been working late. I had been feeling poorly. I had run out of milk.
All these things had troubled me, made me careless... but it was Footeater's poetry that finally sent me over the edge like a lemming on a skateboard.
'Weeelll helluuuu there!'
It had to happen. I had been busted. My cover blown.
Years of having a street face now lay in tatters. Years of being oh so careful, of moisterising and plucking, of preening and perking. Years of brushing my hair and keeping it neat, years of wearing heels and fitted coats and matching scarves and hat. Years of tailered pants and high heeled sandels, years of long leather boots, Wolford tights and velvet, years of earrings, eyebrows pencils, chockers, diamonds, watches, expensive handbags and casuals that were not casual at all, years of never really being caught looking like I had fallen backwards through a privot hedge into a chicken farm before rolling down a grassy hill and into a sillage mound while suffering froom the pox had suddenly and ruthlessly been blown sky high
I had been so careful. I had perfected the street look. Not for me the greasy hair pulled into a scrunchy, not for me the juicy tracksuit and over sized runers, the tattered jeans and round neck jumpers or quilted jackets.
I knew no one other than photoshopped models could really pull off the 'just out of bed look,' I knew brushed hair always topped not brushed. I knew a light dusting of powder prevented nose shine.
Why am I telling you all this?
Because after years of careful grooming, last night I let the side down so spectacularly I might as well go now and live in Nenagh. Sheeeet, maybe even Dunboyne.
Last night I outed myself...as a secret fleece wearer.
There are some people in life who criss cross your social circle. They are not your friends indeed they seem to have no friends of their own, and yet you always know them. Everyone knows them. And worse, they know everyone else.
Scary Mary and the Slimy Andy. Two bloated prigish gossipy old whores, hairdressers, mahogany, primped, preened and vicious. Oh how I dispise them.
But as a goodly number of my friends are gay I have developed the 'moawmoaw' chops necessary to navigate the fatmammcat boat through vicious snipy overly tanned oil slicked waters, and one of these ways is to never get caught with your guard down.
If they smell blood they will attack.
And I never do...except for last night.
LIke I said, I had read Footeater's poem. I had laughed a little. Then- feeling dirty and unclean-I had a shower. Not long afterwards, feeling sufficiently recovered I decided to make hot chocolate, only to discover Puddy had-inexplicibly-drank all the milk.
A quandry, but so shaken was I from my earlier reading, I threw caution to the wind and this is where my nightmare became reality.
My hair was damp ergo curly-ish, terrified of 'catching my death' I plonked a striped wollen hat over it. I was wearing pink fleecy booties and grey and pink fleecy jammies...there were rabbits on the jammies, I had the paramour's overcoat over the whole ensemble and I was make up free. I also had streaming eyes, a runny red nose and chapped lips.
I left my house like this to 'nip' down the road. After all, I reasoned, the shop is near by and it was unlikely I was going to meet someone at this hour.
I should have known better, I should have changed. I am an idiot.
'Wellll hellluuuu there!"
Three of the evilest most foul words in the English language.
'Hello.'
'Moaw Moaw.'
'We thought it was you. How are you?'
'oh fine fine.'
'Are you...going out?' This is accompanied by disbelieving looks and snickering delight as Slimy Andy bends down and peers at the one of my rabbits. He is looking at the happy one, the one dancing with a carrot.
I am bereft.
'Hahah, no I"m a bit sick actually.'
''You do look a little...under the weather.' Scary Mary smiles and a thousand volts of white teeth blinds me, hiding the gleeful expression on his mahogony/crypt keeper face.
'I have a bit of a head cold actually.'
'Oh poor thing.' Slimy Andy straightens up. He and Scary Mary exchange a glance and take a step back. They don't do headcolds, it isn't in the bitchy queeny hairdressers list of aggreed upon illnesses. Too common and unexotic.
"Well I'd better get going.' I say, waving the milk feebly.
'Oh don't let us keep you from...'
'Making hot chocolate.'
'Right.'
I lean in for a moaw, but the look of sheer horror on Slimy Andy's perma tan tree bark reminds me.
'Oh right, the cold.'
'Well, can't be too careful. Toodleloo Darling.'
'Bye.'
I am fucked. Do you hear me, totally fucked. You can be sure news of my bunnies are all over the place. French gay will dine out on this one for years. Stupid colds.
And yes it is MUCH worse today.

Oh Kramer! Beneath the surface...

is just a little piece of pond scum. Bellow is the linkidink of Seinfeld's Kramer or actor Michael Richards, totally losing his shit and losing his cutesy 'I'm a goofball' image. I wonder if Mel Gibson has any advice for him on this one.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QgmCBKPHnSY

Super fast update: The apology is worse and yes, my toes curled right up!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fWMtADDAiUw

Late late late,

and no show. God damn it. The first cold of the season is here, sore throat and aching limbs. I blame Country Gay and all his spluttering the other night. Now I must clipity clop off to get my stitches out and then head the opposite way back across town to meet someone else for a work related lunch. Yack!
Anyhoo, seems Fox news saw some sense-either that or they were worried about losing advertising revenue- and have dropped OJ's 'Murder most horrid, it wasn't me guvner' interview. And Harper's have dropped the book too. Huzzah, finally some good taste.
In other amusing news today A "CAT" comment has landed a man with a €10,000 fine.
It all started with an apparently derisory snort by another man as the President of the High Court spoke from the bench yesterday.
Mr Justice Joseph Finnegan had indicated his intention to jail John Gill, who is allegedly involved with a controversial website that invites people to rate their lawyers, when a snort was heard from the well of the court.
Mr Justice Finnegan, sitting on his bench at Court 6 in the Four Courts, asked who made the noise. Charles Farrell, who was among a group of 20 apparent supporters of Mr Gill in court, replied: "The cat."
Asked by the judge whether he would apologise, Mr Farrell of Roebuck Castle, Clonskeagh, said: "For what?" The judge asked: "Where's the cat?".
He said he was imposing a fine of €10,000 on Mr Farrell for contempt and directed him to leave the court. Mr Farrell responded: "Is this a public building?" and also asked what authority the judge had. The judge asked him if he proposed leaving.
' You're not the boss of me.' Mr Farell may have said, pouting furiusly.
'You better do what I say, I'm prefect!' The Judge said, pink-faced.
'I"m was going home anyway and I'm taking the ball with me.'
'Fine, we don't want to play this stupid game anyway.' The judge shrieked flinging his wig down and sobbing uncontrollably into his arms.
It was later reported Farell rode home on his Raleigh Bike, using his Clark shoes for brakes. Judge Finnegan remained on the play shelter roof, lobbing those beady things from conifer trees and unsuspecting girls until it was time for dinner. 'The cat', well she tossed her red hair over her shoulder and made her own way home sniggering and jumping streams with carefree abanndon. She demanded Angel Delight upon arrival and all was right with the world again.
('cept the 10,000 fine, but that's up to the boys to sort out)

If wishes were horses...

I'd be knee deep in horse shit this very second.
I wish I had an extra two hours in bed.
I wish I didn't have to meet my mother later on to day for lunch.
I wish the 'thing' I'm working on right now would somehow mysteriously do itself- but brilliantly.
I wish when people say, 'I'll call you with that information' they follow through.
I wish when people then say 'Right sorry, I'll get back to you in five' they actually do so.
I wish the Harpy would stop timing her comings and goings with my post weekend trips to the bottle bank.
I wish I somehow never gained a single pound and stayed toned and fit from eating lashings of buttered toast and marmalade.
I wish I had a natural love for running like Finn, instead of it sometimes being a real struggle to haul my ass out the door.
I wish the paramour had never told me about the horse spunk swallowing scene in Jackass 2.
I wish people who eat fish would stop calling themselves Vegetarians.
I wish the little Goth Kid would give me back the boot she borrowed from me.
I wish she didn't think Paris Hilton is funny.
I wish I knew where the hell my other dangly earring went.
I wish Catherine Zeta Jones woud stop wearing hideous smock styled dresses made from sofa material.

Dear Ouzo...

I like seafood. Your restaurant serves seafood. It was recommended to me so I went. And in fairness it was Saturday, busy and warm.
The starters were fine -can't really go too wrong with mussels. The crab claws were more than yummy, succulent and tangy. The bread was fresh and flavoursome, the wine delightful. But oh Ouzo, what the hell happened with the main course?
Lobster chops wrapped in bacon? Bacon?
Why Ouzo? Why?
Lobster has a delicate flavour, it's lobstery. Bacon has a strong flavour, it's bacon. When ya wrap bacon around lobster and roast it the lobster gets very tough and tastes like bacon.
Now I like bacon, I like it in the morning with eggs, I like it on white bread smothered in pepper and ketchup. I even like it with pasta. But what I'm not too keen on it bacon flavoured lobster. I like lobster to be...well...lobstery.
When I poured my broken heart out to your very fine waitress I was pleased to discover that I was not the only one confused by this conflation of two tastes. See, Ouzo, when customers say...'golly, this doesn't work at all, ' they are not being meanies. They don't want to make the chef cry, but what they probably do want is dinner that tastes nice. If my dinner was Ronseal paint it should do exactly what it says on the tin, but it ain't paint, and that wasn't a dinner that tasted nice.
So anyhoo, I might be return some time in the future, but I might not as I'm a fickle sort. The paramour's cod wasn't yummy either, but that's his business.
I was so disappointed I had to have many rums afterwards to feel better and two glasses of Baileys.
Yours, with a really terrible headache,
Fatmammycat.

Working on Saturday...

is completely and utterly vile. I have spent my so called day off, scraping all manner of crap off walls and carrying rotting stinking mouldy lino out to a skip. I am filthy, my back is sore and if on more thing scuttles across/ over/ towards/ down my shirt/ up my pants leg/out of my bra, I will most surely scream. The stitches in my shoulder are REALLY itchy and I can't scratch them
To top it all off, the paramour seems to think this 'house' will be fit for co-habitation before Christmas. And when I scoffed at this he fixed me with his eye and said...
'Well? You tell me? When are we going to move in together... properly? '
'Sheeet, we spend most nights together as it is.' I say.
'That's not the same thing at all.'
'I'm not moving in here until it's ready.'
'You know you haven't even looked for someone to rent the apartment yet.'
''So, it will go quickly when it's available.'
'Oh yeah? And when might that be?'
'I don't know.'
'You're stalling.'
'I am NOT! How can I be stalling? I don't actually have anywhere else to live.'
'Harumph.' He said and went back to yanking the rotting skirting board off the wall of what he laughingly refers to as the sitting room.
I shake a spider the size of a small dog from my sleeve and head back to the landing, pausing to watch my future husband work for a mo. He looks hot and serious...and a bit fed up.
He is totally right, I am stalling.
On the plus side, if Etheline makes up her fucking mind if she really is leaving that Kevin or not, I can rent it to her.

OJ Simpson has some bloody neck.

Is this some kind of messed up joke?
The two-part interview, titled "O.J. Simpson: If I Did It, Here's How It Happened," will air Nov. 27 and Nov. 29, the TV network said.

Simpson has agreed to an "unrestricted" interview with book publisher Judith Regan, Fox said.

"O.J. Simpson, in his own words, tells for the first time how he would have committed the murders if he were the one responsible for the crimes," the network said in a statement. "In the two-part event, Simpson describes how he would have carried out the murders he has vehemently denied committing for over a decade."

The interview will air days before Simpson's new book, "If I Did It," goes on sale Nov. 30. The book, published by Regan, "hypothetically describes how the murders would have been committed."

Let me get this straight, ths man muders his wife, the mother of his two children, and her friend, he gets away with it due to the most fucked up trial ever, and now he is going to benefit from his crime?
Has this man absolutely no sense of shame?
I'm dumbfounded.

Fault.

Remember I blogged a while back about how new legistation says that pubs are to be held responsible if they serve a drunk person booze? remember I said it would be difficult to police considering that some people don't look drunk when they are, and others might not be drunk at all and still be refused? Remember when I got thick about the idea that someone might refuse me a drink? Remember? Nanny State? Personal Responsibility out the window? Remember? Well come with me through the magic door...(bloody Kav)
....
FATHER-of-four, William Nash (43) died after allegedly drinking 18 brandies in a competition with a friend in a pub.

Yesterday, his family settled a High Court action against the pub owner for €100,000.

Builders' labourer William Nash (43) was with a friend when he allegedly imbibed the shots of brandy at The White Horse Inn, Main Street, Mountrath, Co Laois. Mr Nash's friend was the first to fall down, a lawyer told the High Court, and Mr Nash fell down then and died later that evening in hospital.
The men, said Declan Doyle, SC, had gone for a few drinks after work on August 28, 1999 and started a drinking competition about who could down the most brandy after drinking a few pint of beer.
Noting the settlement and approving the payment in court of €15,000 for Mr Nash's youngest son, Kelvin (11), Justice Philip O'Sullivan expressed his deep sympathy to the Nash family "in this particularly tragic case".

Mr Nash's widow, Diane, of Kennedy Park, Roscrea, Co Tipperary, had sued Anne Fitzpatrick, the owner of the The White Horse Inn.

It was claimed that Mr Nash, with the alleged knowledge and implied consent of Anne Fitzpatrick, then engaged in a competition to see who could drink the most brandy.

It was alleged Mr Nash and his colleague were served about 18 brandies each within the space of 90 minutes.

It was alleged that at 5.l5pm on August 28, 1999, Mr Nash's colleague collapsed and that shortly afterwards Mr Nash became ill. Both were taken to Portlaoise Hospital, where Mr Nash was pronounced dead at 6.35pm. Mr Nash, it was alleged, died from aspiration of vomit due to alcohol intoxication.

Mrs Nash claimed that the pub owner was negligent in serving and continuing to serve alcohol to Mr Nash to the extent which they knew, or ought to have known, would cause serious damage to his health and render probable his death.

It was also alleged the pub owner was negligent in failing to intervene in the drinking competition.

Mr Nash, it was claimed, was a loving husband and father and his wife and children had all suffered great mental distress as a result of his untimely death.

Ms Fitzpatrick denied Mr Nash was served 18 brandies in 90 minutes, or at all. It was also denied that Mr Nash, with the alleged knowledge or implied consent of Ms Fitzpatrick, engaged in a competition to determine who could drink the most brandy.

Counsel for Mrs Nash, Declan Doyle, told the court that the case had been settled out of court for €100,000 and costs.

Mr Doyle said the action against the pub was quite an unusual one and, if it had proceeded, would have been a test case in the jurisdiction.

Mr Justice O'Sullivan said it was clearly a high-risk form of litigation and a first for the country.

If it had gone ahead and if Mrs Nash had succeeded in the action, there would have had to be a finding of a very high degree of contributory negligence, the judge said. "

This kind of thing bugs the absolute crap out of me, it really does. Leaving aside the pain and grief the loss to the family must be, William Nash was the rider on a horse called Stupidity.
He was 43, not18 or 21. He was a grown man with a family of four, he was not mentally hadicapped in any way shape of form. Ergo we have to suppose he might have known that drnking 18 brandies in 90 minutes after consuming pints of beer could have a dangerous or possibly fatal effect on his person.
Right, in this case the pub probably should have called a halt to the stupidity too, but really, if a 43 year old man wants to drink himself into a grave, is it their job to stop him?
Would we be reading this today if Nash had gone on a pub crawl? Drinking one or two brandies per bar? Who would have been responsible then? All the pubs? The last one? The one before that?
There is no accounting for the stupidity of folk, and I include myself in that sweep of the tar brush. WE all do daft things from time to time, but really, in this sodding day and age, it's getting to the point when it's NEVER our own fault.
I"m going to start looking into setting up an agency where folk who might do something stupid can hire somebody per day to wag a finger at them and say 'ah aah ah!" Because clearly that is what is required. I mean, that way we can always blame someone else when we go right ahead and act like an idiot-despite warnings.
I'm going to call it CULPA.

Doctor Doctor, I'm pregnant!

And you're going to be paying for this for the next eighteen years...
BERLIN (Reuters) - A court ruling which ordered a gynecologist to pay child support for up to 18 years as compensation for botching a contraceptive implant was condemned by the German media as scandalous on Wednesday.

The Karlsruhe-based federal appeals court ruled on Tuesday that the doctor must pay his former patient, now a mother of a three-year-old boy, 600 euros a month because she became pregnant after he implanted her with a contraceptive device. "A child as a case for damages -- this perverse idea has now been confirmed by one of Germany's highest courts," conservative Die Welt daily newspaper wrote in an editorial on Wednesday.

The device is meant to protect against pregnancy for up to three years, but half a year after the operation, the implant could no longer be found in the woman's body, the court said.

While it should be welcomed that a doctor can now be held to account in the same way as a shoddy plumber, the newspaper said, how could a child whose parents had sought damages for its birth ever come to terms with the situation?
In addition to the highly private inkling that he was not wanted by his parents, he now has official confirmation that he was born by mistake," Die Welt also said.

The award covers the first years of the child's life and also subsequent costs to the age of 18.

The parents, who had known each other six months at the time of the conception, were no longer together, the court said, ruling that the father should also be compensated for the maintenance he was paying toward the child.

The ruling could spark a flood of similar claims against gynecologists, Stern magazine wrote on its Web site."

This rulinng is bizzare, I didn't realise contraception was supposed to be 100% fool proof.

Plastic Surgery, it ain't all that..* click*

Ladies and indeed gents- yeah I mean you Kenny Rogers, blink, go on, blink- there is a an awful lot to be said for growing old gracefully. Behold the awful price Jocelyn Wildenstein has paid in the search for eternal youth. I saw a terrible photo of her and her equally frightening ex-husband years ago and thought it was alarming then, but sheeeesh...

The curious incidents of the children of Ireland.

It has been a strange old week in Ireland. Consitutions bandied about, adhered to, hidden behind, followed to the letter. We have seen one child being removed from her adoptive parents of two years and returned to her natural parents, we've witnessed a court rule that frozen embryos cannot be ruled as 'the unborn' and now we see another case involving a child, a child who also lived for a time with foster parents and was returned to his natural mother, a child who was subsequently snatched back from the mother and spirited away to Ireland.
I'm talking of course about Tim and Ethel Blake. For those of you not familiar with the case Tim and Ethel Blake from Cobh, both aged 60, are alleged to have deceived their own daughter and kidnapped their grandson in the US before bringing him back to
Ireland in July 2004.
The couple were on holiday in the US when Tim told his daughter he was dying of cancer and wanted to spend time with his grandson.
His daughter, although suspicious allowed her parents to meet the boy in a restaurant for two hours on condition they surrendered their passports to her.
But they took the boy out of the country and the passports they had handed over turned out to be duplicates.
Although the boy was returned in November 2004, the US authorities want Mr and Mrs Blake extradited to face charges of aggravated kidnap, which carries a maximum sentence of 30 years.
Their case on the extradition warrant is to be decided today. If they are extradited they will serve and minimum of sx years inn an state prison.
Six years is a hell of a long time when you are sixty.
But this is a messy case as it involves family. The boy's mother had forgiven the parents and pleaded for clemency, it would be fair to say all parties love the boy deeply. But kidnapping is still a crime. If they are not charged and allowed to go free what precedent does this set?
And is extradition even legal in this case? Their lawyers have argued that no official request for their extradition had been made by the US and that they were acting on an order of the Circuit Court here, which gave them custody of the then nine-year-old boy.
Mr Justice Michael Peart is set to decide on whether they should be extradited this morning.
In a strange week like this I just couldn't even guess how this is going to go.

UPDATE: The Irish High Court has ruled the pair, both aged 60, should not be sent to the US to stand trial.

Blow up Dublin airport.

Ooops, sorry about today's post title, it was typed completely out of context, I just meant to type...blow up Dublin airport...ooops, I don't know why I keep doing that. Let me try that one again...'Blow up Dublin airport!' Bugger it, I don't know what's going on, every time I try to say blow up Dublin airport, I just keep saying blow up dublin airport.
Alrighty then. Lemmie just back peddle on this a little...

Omar Bakri Mohammed, founder in the UK of the now disbanded al-Muhajiroun movement, has allegedly been broadcasting via the internet since his exile to the Lebanon and, in a chatroom conversation, appeared to advocate an attack on Dublin airport.

A group called Vigil Network, established last year to monitor and transcribe the online jihadist movement, said it discovered Bakri Mohammed talking to supporters and recorded the discussions.

Asked by one of its undercover operatives whether Dublin Airport should be a terrorist target because US troops transit there on the way to Iraq, Bakri allegedly said in response: 'Hit the target and hit it very hard, that issue should be understood. Your situation there is quite difficult therefore the answer lies in your question.'

He is reported to have said of Jews: "You have no choice but to hate them. How do you fight the Jews? You kill the Jews."

The cleric was using a pseudonym, but according to the BBC Newsnight programme broadcast last night, he was identified by a voice recognition expert.Bakri, who was banned from the UK last August, apparently praised the July 7 bombers and, in a chatroom conversation, appeared to advocate an attack on Dublin airport.
In one recent broadcast, he said the 7/7 suicide bombers were 'in paradise'.
He also reportedly said: 'How can you condemn those great men - it's not something so bad, something so good.
'Something so good to be involved in.'

Naturally when confronted with this the good cleric, spiritual leader and all round good egg said his words were 'taken out of context', what he said was 'hIt the target, hit it very hard and that the issue must be understood, the situation there is quite difficult...but don't come over here and bother us by saying what you are planning to do.' ( he said this on the radio this morning)
Sooooo, see how he did that? Nice. Do it if you want to, but don't be bothering us about it, we're studying and I"m getting my beard trimmed.
I try very hard to stay out of the affairs of Muslims, I don't like religious intolerance or hysteria of any kind. But as a frequent flyer, and a lot of us are these days, this man threatens my safety. As a Cleric, Baki can perhaps influnce some weak minded individual to commit a murderous act and maim or kill countless innocent people n my own country, and it is very worrying. People like Bakri have the ear of a great number of people. It matters not a jot if he now claims it was taken out of context. The fact is what he originally said is an unleashing of sorts. 'Hit the target, hit it hard.'
In a religion where young men take the word of clerics to mean the word of their god, this kind of rhetoric is the worst kind, the whipping up of emotion in an alreadly faught time. If Clerics like Bakri unleash hatred with ever word how long do you suppose it will take for those words to become sanctioned action?
'Hit the target, hit it hard.'
I wonder what context he was aiming for?

de-moled and considerably poorer to boot.

Because I am a healthy sod, the occasional concussion not with standing, I don't have VHI. I just never got round to getting it. So it came as no real surprise to me to be charged 302.50 Euros today for the eight minutes it took my cheery dermatologist to cut out a mole and stitch me up. I especially like the cheery way he told me to come back next week for the biopsy results and that 'don't worry stitch removal is free' (just as well or I would have done it myself)
Neither did it shock me to pay 175 Euros for his consulatation the other week, where he cheerily informed me he would be spending eight minutes cutting and stitching, shook hands and sent me on my wave with a cheery wave.
But the fact that it has cost me half a grand for one sodding mole to be removed has made me VERRY cross indeed as I had rather planned on eating something SOMETIIME this week.
And when this local wears off I suspect my mood will NOT improve very much at all.

How convenient.

In what other country does a man guilty of downloading child pornography get to have his crimes thrown out of court and his full salary paid in the four years a tribunal tries to bring him to justice and then- just to days into the legal zone of state pension- step down from his contentious position to claim his full state benefits?
Step up step up, slainté, go raibh máith agut suckers agus welcome to Ireland. Home of the the free (perverts that is).
Judge Brian Curtin the former star of Tralee amateur dramatics has a neck like a jockey's bollocks and a great actor‘s sense of timing: he resigned yesterday four and half years after Gardai led a botched raid on his house, but just two days after he was eligible for a disability pension.
For those of you who don't know the case, Curtin was arrested when gardai raided his home and seized his computer during Operation Amythest. There was clear evidence that he had been downloading child pornography.
However a judge later asked the jury to dismiss the case against Curtin as the search was illigal due-suspiciously to me at least- to the fact that the gardai were operating with an out-of-date search warrant.
A tribunal was set up to investigate. Judge Curtin never sat on the bench again, although he continued to draw his annual salary of nearly €150,000. And with Judge Curtin‘s medical history of heart problems and alcohol abuse, an annual €25,000 pension is virtually certain to be granted.
Curtin now 'just wishes to be left alone to enjoy whatever days god has granted him'.
How touching.

I heard someone say at the time, 'ah sure, all he did was look at pictures.'
That has to be one of the single most stupid things I have ever heard in my 33 years on this planet. When people like Curtin download child porn and pay for it with their credit cards, they are feeding a monster. Without the sadistic and base appetites of men such as Curtin child porn cannot exist. it is not a charity, it is run and operated on the most part byt scum who make vast sums of money abusing children for the sexual delight of men like this 'Judge'. That these men get sexual pleasure form the systematic abuse of minor is a whole other can of worms I have no wish to delve into this Tuesday morning, but the fact that this man, this abuser, can now draw a state pension and was paid in full for the last number of years by the tax payer, ME, makes me very angry indeed.
It is an outrage. Where is the justice for the children this man paid to witness being humilated. Where is the political outrage? Where is McDowell? How was this allowed to happen on his watch?

Solomon's choice.

I blogged about this case back in October, but today the supreme court has overturned the high court's decision to let Baby Ann remain with her adoptive parents.
In a fraught and emotional case it seems to me that emotion has won out.
Baby Ann was offered up for adoption by her natural parents who were unmarried students at the time. They got married earlier this year and changed their minds about the adoption and withdrew their consent. At this stage Baby Ann had been with her adoptive parents for almost two years.
The reason the judge gave in the high court was that baby Ann had bonded so firmly with her adoptive parents that he felt it would be cruel to take her from them...
"Two-year old baby-girl Ann should remain in the care of her intended adoptive family as returning her back to her natural parents would damage her psychologically.' The hig court ruled a the time.
So now more time has passed and the bond between the baby and her adoptive parents will have deepened. What makes the courts rule like this?
I would question the thinking of the natural parents in this case too. What is best for the child? Their wants aside. This little girl does not know them, she does not recognise them as her parents. Ann is three or almost three now, she will be bereaved if wrenched from her parents. It could affect her for the rest of her life.
And waht of the adoptive couple, will they return to their home, sit in their daughter's bedroom, surrounded by her toys, her photos, her memories? Can you imagine the hearkbreak?
It is a tragedy and I feel very upset for the adoptive parents who adopted that little girl in good faith and loved her. They are now faced with the devasting task of handing over their daughter- who they have loved and raised as their own for two years- to another couple.
Their hearts must be breaking and I think this decision is disgusting.

UPDATE: Thinking behind the ruling can be found here...
http://www.courts.ie/Judgments.nsf/09859e7a3f34669680256ef3004a27de/0831da41e2

Racist idiots are annoyed at being filmed being...

racist idiots. Out of the mouths of drunks.
This tickled me today...

Two frat boys who were filmed in Sasha Cowen's film the toe-curlingly mortifying Borat, are having a bit of a meltdown over the release of the film and their now well known remarks. Listed as John Doe 1 and John Doe 2 -- that two idiots were allegedly assured the film would not be shown in the U.S. and their identities would not be revealed.

They were both selected to appear in the movie and, according to the suit, taken "to a drinking establishment 'to loosen up' and provided alcoholic beverages." They claim they signed the movie releases after "heavy drinking."

The suit claims both men were then taken to a motor home where they were filmed, all the while "encouraged to continue drinking."

The movie features a scene in a motor home where Cohen gets drunk with three frat boys who go on a racist rant about how they wished they had slaves and how minorities in the United States "have all the power."

According to the lawsuit, the frat boys only received $200 for the controversial appearance.

The plaintiffs claim they suffered "humiliation, mental anguish, and emotional and physical distress, loss of reputation, goodwill and standing in the community..." because the movie was indeed released in the U.S."

Hahahahhahah, fools. If you're going to hold revolting views at least have the balls to stand up and be counted, don't start whinging afterwards that you were duped.
Huzzah for Saturdays. I'm off now to scrape wallpaper for the afternoon. Huzzah....ah crap.

Bridal wave.

Holy moly...I am flumoxed, more flumoxed than ususal even.(Snaglepuss)
Last night I was out and about. Having finished a particularly hard day of most tedious work, I was busily downing the nectar that is rum with some delightful company, Country gay, my good friend Tara and my brother, who also was good enough to come out of a Thursday and play pool and sup pints...
Half way through the night, while the booze was flowing, insults flying and the pool tables full of scars and scuffs, my brother receives a phone call on his mobile.
His good lady wife I thought, chalking my cue and offering to shove it where the sun don't shine to a laughing Tara.
But no.
'Yeah, she's here.' He says, before pulling a puzzled face and handing me his phone.
Terror folks, terror filled me. Why would someone track me down unless something was wrong?
'Hello?'
'You've got to get- '
The terror increased.'Etheline?'
'-a fucking mobile. Where are you?'
'Ranelagh, playing pool-'
'Meet me in Rath....'
'What?'
'Rathmines! I need to talk to you.'
'Etheline, I'm in the middle of a game.'
'Please Cat.'
Yikes. That floored me.
'What's going on? Where in Rathmines?'
'Meet me in Toast.'
'What's wrong?'
Click
She had hung up on me, the preppy gee bag. I hate when people do that too.
'She okay?' My brother asked.
'How would I know?'I said helpfully.
'Are you okay?'
'Dandy.'
Then, like a common News of the World "journalist" with a 450 a night hooker, I made my excuses and left.
I walked to Rathmines, grumpily yanking the heads off flowers as I did so and refusing to give way to couples walking the opposite direction. I entered said bar bar and found Etheline viciously guarding a whole table, alone.
'You came.' She said, eyeing me, weeply, mistily, pisstily.
'Of course I bloody came.' I plonked down in the seat beside her. 'What's up?'
'I can't do it Cat, I can't do it.'
'You can't do what?'
'Marry him.'
'That Kevin?'
'Yeah...him.'
'I don't understand. What's happened? Did you have a fight?'
'He brushes his teeth funny.'
'He does what?'
'Brushes his teeth funny. You should see it sckikkkkskkikkis scrikkk, siiiiirrkk skiiiirjk.'
'Etheline stop doing hand actions.' I say dragging her hand away. People are looking.
Man, my sister is plastered.
'I can't live with that forever.' She looks at me wild eyes, 'I'll go crazy.'
'OK.....ay.' Go crazy I'm trying to think.
'Whatcha wanna drink?'She waves at the floor girl who has walked past twice now without making any eye contact.
'Nothing I'm fine.'
'Yeah right.'
'Okay, rum then, Havana.'
She finally orders two rum and cokes.
We talk some more. It appears it's not just the teeth brushing -not that I thought it was. She has been worried about marriage for some time, then I had lunch with my mother and in a disgusting attempt to stop my mother from asking about me and the paramour, I set my mother on Etheline. Etheline deserved it a the time, but my mother has been going on about 'setting a date' like some kind of rabid lavender wearing pitbull, thus pushing my hardly stable at the best of times sister clean over the edge.
'It's your fault,' she says, spilling rum on me.
'Probably' I say. 'Etheline, lets go home. You can stay in my house tonight.'
'Lets get chips!'
Man, she is drunk. Etheline probably hasn't eaten chips since...I don't know actually.
We go to Burdocks and get chips. We walk the 2k back to my apartment.
By the time we get home she is tired AND drunk AND full.
I make up the spare room.
'G'night.'
'Good night daring, don't worry, everything will be okay.' I say, for I do love her, desperately. I want her to be happy, she doesn't look happy tonight.
Twenty minutes after she falls asleep my brother calls. He is downstairs.
'I just wanted to check that you were okay.'
'Come on up.'
He comes up, we crack open a bottle of wine. I tell him everything Etheline has said, well, not everything, some things are not for others, right?
'Is she serious?'
'I don't know.' I say tickling Puddy's pink belly with my toes. The bigger of the cats is lying sprawled on my brother's lap, the old attention seeking whore.
And it's true, I don't know. Nobody ever knows with Etheline.
'What are you thinking?' He asks.
'I'm hoping I get to be the one to tell Mam.'
'Jesus.'
'I know, I'm a bad person.'
'It's not that, I'm thinking how she's going to react.'
We pull identical faces and hastily pour more wine.

So here I am this morning, confused and twitchy. Etheline was up and gone long before I opened an eye. But she left me a note saying thanks and ordering me not tell anyone about last night. I have called my brother and sworn him to silence.
What does it all mean? What's going on? Was she serious? Will she change her mind? Should I have toast or Wheatabix? Too many questions too early on a Friday.

They're flyin' low captain.

Did anyone see the TV3 news last night? A man has taken a doctor to the high court because he claims he suffered some pain in his testicles after his vasectomy. He says the doctor did not fully discuss all the side affects with him and his good lady wife. The docter refutes this. He did however mention that there would be very little pain after 'the initial prick'.
I'd say the initial prick was the problem in this case.

Speaking of pricks, I was most heartened to read that Kevin Federline is going to fight Britney for the custody of two of his four children, the two he has with her that is. The two he had with his former girlfriend Shar Jackson- you know, the heavily pregnant gal he left so that he could take up with Mizz Spears- are not going to be fought over.
Clearly money has nothing to do with this whatsoever and we were all wrong to have every doubted a hair on his previously corn-rowed head.

Dear Ryanair...

I have never had the pleasure of travelling with you before yesteday and today so I just thought I might pen you little letter of thanks. First of all thanks ever so much for being the furthest gate away in the airport. Thank you also for taking my very expensive and obviously deadly shampoo because the bottle it was in was over 100ml OF SHAMPOO.
Cheers especially for not having designated seating, I do like to sit in the middle of a plane. I also like to sit behind families with very small infants who begin to cry the moment the plane takes off, and whose idea of calming said infant is to repeatedly shake a rattle at it. If it didn't work the first eighty six times chaps chances are...
Thank you also for playing starters orders and scaring the beejaysus out of the old man sleeping beside me, his drool moistened my face considerably. It was soooo funny the way he pretended not to notice as your Transylvanian Airhostess loudly exclaimed that 'Ryan Air is alvays un time!" I notice you didn't do this on the way back, I also know why, but I'll get to that in a mo.
Thanks for having me traipse around Gatwick for TWO AND A HALF HOURS before my flight, thanks also for not posting the departure time on ANY of the televisions and then flashing 'LAST CALL FOR BOARDING' making me run eighteen miles of corridor in very high heels. Thank you then for telling my breathless sweating self that it's 'airport policy' to do this, even though this was clearly a BIG FAT LIE.
Thank you for removing my deadly bottle of sealed water. I know I was thirsty (after the run) but sure what the hell.
Thank you for that baldy fuck of a hostess. Dave I think he was called, thanks a WHOLE BUNCH for him. I'm sure he wasn't cheap, the MIlitia must miss his winning ways. I like the way he insisted I take my head phones out, even though my ipod was off, and when this was pointed out to him he got all pissy and said, ' Well you still have to take them out.'
'Why?'
'So you can hear instructions.'
'I can hear you perfectly, it's not switched on.'
I like the way he squatted down and in delightfully menacing way said, 'You NEED to take them out.'
Only for the fact the new old man beside me looked like he was going to have a heart attack any second made me do as I was told. But that Dave, he's a keeper, and probably a leather wearing tea-bagging gimp in his spare time.
About the new old boy, he was fine...I only had to give him his lung back once.
Thanks for having Dave check that I had A-my seat belt on, not once but twice, B- ask me if I wanted food, not once but twice, and C-Did I have any rubbish left over from the food I did not order, this was only once.
I'm super glad that tired and a mite touchy, I had to walk a further mini marathon to get back to the airport on my arrival in Ireland land of my fathers.
All in all a swell time. The scratch cards for charideee are a nice touch, and the lovely lass who anounced she was about to sell them at decibel 1000 was a hoot, I'm sure the stain will come out of these pants.
Cheers Ryan Air, until next time.
Fatmammycat

How to turn sexy...

into a freaking mess in two easy steps.
1st dye hair colour of marmalade.
2nd- wear horrible shapeless lumpy dress
And voila you have... Oh Scarlett, frankly my dear I do give a damn.
Back tomorrow. Ciao. Hope the bloody M50 isn't backed up...

I hate going places.

Jesus, that was close. Apparently it's London Business week this week, and being a seasoned travel-cat I left it last minute to book a hotel. Normally this results in cheaper rooms, but this time I nearly left myself roomless as every business dude and dudette seems to be in the capital.
So basically I have a hotel the other end of the city from where I need to be. Gah.
HOWEVER, I will not complain, although I hate to travel, it is a bright and sunny Monday here in Dublin, I am about to go for a run and I haven't been cheating on my wife with a gay meth using prostitute resulting in my losing my high powered religious job, becomming the butt-har har- of every joke and my five children don't think I am the biggest fucking hypocrite this side of Christmas.
See, happy days.

London.

I will be in London on Tuesday, round Kilburn/Islington. Does anyone know of a good restuarant for dinner in that area? Preferably seafood?
Cheers.

An irritable sort of morning thus far.

Friday is sort of my favourite day of the week, or rather is should be, but here I am, cranky as cat with a clothes peg on her tail.
You know what I dislike? Rude people and girls who spit.
I really for the life of me this morning cannot decide which of them I would axe kick in the forehead faster.
Dunne Stores in Rathmines-where I was this morning buying fleecy hoodies and slippers- has a stupid system for queueing. It has one long cordened off line directly in front of five checkouts-also in a line. What it needs is a little sign say 'queue starts here' on one side or the other.
Today I reached one end of the line just as a girl reached the other end. We both looked at each other but she smiled and then came down behind me.
'Sorry' says I, 'but you could have been right, I'm not sure which side is the start.'
'That's okay,' says she and we did that polite smile strangers do and waited for the SINGLE Cashier to finish up with his customer.
As soon as he had finished I was about to step forwards when lo, some woman and her lumpy teenage daughter appear from nowhere and wander down the line. The cashier -who is clearly a moron- looks like he might indeed serve them instead of pointing out that a small, yet orderly queue has already formed.
So I did.
'Excuse me, we were queueing here.'I call out politely.
The teenager gives me a dismissive look, the mother pretends like she can't hear me. Maybe I'll give up.
HAH!
'Excuse me! WE were here first!' I say in a very loud and firm voice, a voice that brooks no nonsense and will not be ignored. For good measure I step forward and plonk myself to the right of the cashier.
A stand off.
The mother gives me the eye. My nostrils flare. My eyebrow is acting imperious.
The cashier looks like the bar owner in one of those Westerns when the gun slinger rolls into town and pushes open his swing doors.
The Pianeeeeee stops playing.
Go ahead bitch, make my day.
Her fingers inch closer to the counter, mine tighten on my pink fleece slipper booties, I will use them if necessary.
The tension is palpable.
Then...
'Next there please.'
A second till has been opened, it is behind me. I won't be the one to turn. Oh NO, as God is my witness I won't.
By rights that till belongs to the wooman who was behind me, but I know her type, she won't make a move, and if she doesn't want to defend herself against rustlers that's her look out. Meanwhile more gringos are lining up, their hands bulging with control panal knickers and cheap leather gloves they will lose on buses.
What's it to be Lady? You like that teenager daughter of yours? Will you still like her when I plant one of my heels into the bridge of her shoddily clad feet? Your call.
'Next there!"
She called it. Gathering her things closer to her chest she bustles past me and on to the next till.
Triumphantly I fling my goods onto to the MDF counter.
Victory is mine.
Victory is short lived as the clown working behind the till takes forever to ring up my few items and I wait furiously as little miss queue jumper and her mother clear their things and toddle off.
Argh.
Finally I am free. I mutter grumpy thanks and snatch the brown paper bag from his clumsy fingers. I wander around the Swan Centre for a few brief moments before pushing out into the frigid air...
'Whahahahchchchhchc thweet.'
I stop, stunned as a girl in a brown tracksuit spits on the pavement inches from my feet.
'That's disgusting!" I say.
'So?' she says, giving me the eye.
There's a new gun slinger in town, and this town is only big enough for one of us. I take my pearl handled derringer from my bustier and shoot her in her minging face.
Well, in my head I did.
In reality returned to my home and ate a sausage and a slice of toast.
One battle at a time.

Censorship.

I'm against it!
There is an Irish blog I read regularly, http://www.sarahcarey.ie/ and last week Sarah wrote a very astute piece on the Monaghan road crash, where five young men from the village of Threemilehouse lost their lives following a horrific road crash.
Sarah raised pertinent questions and queried why it was so many people lost their lives on our roads.
The Road Safety Authority says one-quarter of the 305 road victims this year have been young men aged between 17 and 25. It is a highly charged issue in this country and everyone has an opinion on it.

Yesterday Sarah got this email...


"Angry Threemilehouse Resident said,

November 1, 2006 at 5:23 pm

Speculation is not helping anyone!

Please leave the Garda to complete their investigation and leave the families to grieve.

You should to be ashamed of yourselves."

Discussing a fatal accident on your own blog is tantamount to abusing the families it seems. We bloggers are not to discuss it. No matter that the crash was widely reported in the news and media, no matter that while we feel nothing but great sypmathy for the families involved, we shouldn't discuss it for fear of offending them. We should be ashamed.
Sarah removed the article from her blog. I don't think she should have.
We bloggers discuss all manner of things, family friends, our lives, currant affairs, scandals, gossip, Tom Cruise, food, weightloss, heartbreak, exercise, joy..the little details that make up our worlds. In Ireland the death toll on our roads is a very public, currant and emotive issue. As I said in Sarah's comments yesterday, when disaster strikes it is human nature to discuss it, to mull it over, to open up and question and ponder why?
It is not to cause upset, nor to ride roughshod over the grieving. It is to better understand and deal with events.
I have nothing but sympathy for the family of anyone who has been bereaved, whether it be through an accident, illness, murder or just plain old age. But in a spectualar case such as this of course questions will be asked, hard questions about cause, safety and culpability.
We who write our blogs should be able to discuss issues that interest us. Most of us will do so in a humane way. We will voice our opinions, we will speculate. Most of us we will leave our comments open for those who agree and, just as importantly, for those who do not. Debate is welcome in most cases. We are not infallible.
I cannot speak for Sarah, but I will write what I want when I want on my own blog. I will do so in the manner that I see fit. Though I use a pseudonym I try to be as true to my voice as possible.
My views are my own, my opinion is my own and I will be ashamed of nothing I write.
This is my blog, people can read it or not. That is the great thing about having a choice.

Pizza, turns out it's not lettuce, shock.

By now you know how I feel about Nanny State activities in this country.
I'm against it!
I think people -by and large, there are always total idiots- know that smoking is not good for them, fireworks might blowup too soon and cost you a finger, shooting people in the back might result in you going to jail, driving drunk as a lord and too fast might get you killed and buying two packets of painkillers in the supermarket does not a sucidal lunatic make.
Therefore it was with great mocking, mildly outraged snorts I read the following this very early morning...

"Domino's Pizzas, the world's biggest pizza delivery chain, is advertising its products on Irish television with alcohol-style health warnings.'

Jesus Christ. Read on and weep.

"Homer Simpson's adage, "If it tastes good, it must be good for you", is being reconfigured by the firm, which is encouraging customers to eat pizza "in moderation".
The company, which sponsors 'The Simpsons' on Sky One, has begun an Irish TV campaign which also says that pizza should only be eaten as "part of a sensible, balanced diet"."

Really, part of? You don't say...

"The chain, which has 12 stores in Ireland (its Tallaght branch sells 200 pizzas an hour - more than at any of the 8,000 other outlets around the world), began running the adverts last weekend in a campaign that mirrors those being run by the drinks industry, which urges consumers to drink the products "responsibly".
Pizza contains significant quantities of salt and saturated fats, which critics say can contribute to obesity and encourage a junk-food diet, among children in particular.
However, Domino's is also running the ads after the 9pm watershed when many children are no longer watching.

A spokesman for the Broadcasting Commission of Ireland said the ads were in line with plans to stop fatty, sugary and salt-laden foods being aimed at children.

Earlier this year, health promotion bodies called for a total ban on the advertising of junk food before the 9pm watershed to tackle Ireland's soaring child obesity problem.

No ads for foods high in fat, sugar and salt should be permitted on TV before 9pm, the Irish Heart Foundation and National Heart Alliance told the Oireachtas Committee on Health yesterday.

The marketing of unhealthy foods to young children is "on a massive scale" and increases the risk of obesity, the organisations said.

In 2004, Domino's was criticised for introducing a double-decker pizza called Double Decadence in an ad campaign starring US actor Leslie Neilsen.

A medium-sized Double Decadence contains nearly 1,800 calories and more than 60 grammes of fat - almost the total recommended daily calorific intake of an average woman.

International studies show that junk food ads seriously undermine recommended diets, encouraging children to seek unhealthy products and to use "pester power" to get what they want."

Let us look at that last little line for a mo, shall we?
'Pester power?'
WTGDF?
Since the dawn of time kids have asked for things, 'can I have a new puppy?' 'Can I stay out half an hour later?' 'If I do my room will you give me a lift to the stables? Whatcha mean no? It's ten miles away... bike? Bike? That's it! I'm adopted, aren't I?"
It was never given a snazzy tag line such as 'perster power', I thought it was just kids asking for stuff. And you know the great thing about kids asking for stuff?
YOU CAN SAY NO!
It's not the bloody kids watching ads that we should be worried about. It's stupid inefficent parents that cannot say 'no' to kids that we should be twitching our eyebrows over. Why can't we have adverts for delicious junk food before nine? Watershed? For food? Give me a god damn break!
'Mom, that looks yummy, can we have it for dinner?'
'No, we're having potato, gravy, peas and chicken.'
' Well I'm not eating that.'
'Okay, but it's all you're getting.'
'Aw.'
We should run ads showing that! We should run those ads twenty four seven. Look parents, John is throwing a tantrum, he wants that, what are you going to do? ZZZZZZZZPPPP! That's right. JUST SAY NO! Kiddie's looking a bit chubby round the old chops? What can we do? Blame the advert? ZZZZZZZZPPPPPP! Well in, take responsibility, cut back on the calories and spend some time walking, playing football, biking, whatever it is that gets them moving. Did ya really think he was losing a ton of fat playing pro evolution soccer? Did ya? Slap. He wasn't.
The rise in obesity is nothing more than people eating too much ready made food and not being active enought to burn off the calories they are ingesting. It's not offensive to point this out. It's not rocket science either, it's not pollution causing obesity, it's not 'your glands' it's not junk food and it's not adverts. It is our inability to say no, either to ourselves or to our children.
Change the way you eat -personally I think diets are a load of crap and a blight on people's bank accounts- and exercise more. Or don't, stay chubby, get larger.
It's your choice, that's democracy for ya.