Change.

I'm against it!
Not an auspicious start to the new year then. It's not even the new year and already I am curiously bereft.
The horror that is Memnoch is leaving Ireland's greenish wet soil for fucking Hamburg of all places.
Hamburg? I mean why would anyone go to Hamburg? I'm sure it's lovely and all, but why would you go there?
Earlier today, full of Christmas dinners and up to the gils with booze, I pinched more than an inch, shrieked and took myself post haste off to Memnoch's gym for a swift kicking about. There were not many of us there, but Claire was there, muttering darkly about her scales being wrong and her mother's cooking so I felt better.
Memnoch was there, looking strangely serene.
We got changed and warmed up, groaning softly as the sweets and cakes and biscuits clung desperately to our thighs and guts.
We sparred one on one, and did some mild conditioning using star jumps and squats with the lighter kettle bells. Hard after a few days of gluttony, but overall the class was was easy, too easy. Claire and I exchanged nervous glances as we cooled down.
Something was afoot.
And lo. It bloody well was.
'I have something to tell you.' Memnoch said to our terrified febrile faces.
We waited for him to speak again. The Canadian-who must surely live there- leaned forward.
'I have been offered a post teaching Muay Thai in Hamburg. And I'm going to take it up.'
We gaped at him.
'Hamburg?' I said,
'You?' Claire said.
'Hamburg?' I said again.
He laughed and we gasped collectively.
Memnoch laughing with us, not at us, unthinkable..
Anyway, he's off to Hamburg in Februrary, for a bloody year no less.
'I got my first black eye here.' Claire said wisfully.
'He gave me concussion.' I said mournfully, hoisting my bag over my shoulder and unstrapping my hand.
'Fancy a drink?'
'Might as bloody well.'
We went off and had a Mojito. We toasted Memnoch and his nefarious ways.
'Guess we will have to look for another club.'
'But where?' I wailed. 'And with what style?'
'Kickboxing.'
"Pfftt.'
'Fuck. Back to the belt system.'
'Back to fucking minimal contact and wanky stylised moves.'
'Shit. I can't believe he's going.'
'Did you ever consider that we might be masochists?'
Claire didn't answer. She didn't need to.
I am depressed.

Happy Christmas!

I was standing in the kitchen this morning dyeing the Little Goth Kid's hair. In the spirit of Christmas we were listening to christmas songs on the radio while I coated her bonce in Clairol 01. Suddenly that most favourite of christmas songs came on, Fairy tale in New York. At the end of the song I sighed and said, 'Poor Kirsty.'
The little Goth Kid said, ' What happened to her?'
'Poor woman was practically decapitated by a speed boat.'
The little goth kid thought about this for a second, then,
'Did she die?'
'No Gothy, she had a fucker of a headache though.' I said peering at the bottle. 'Are you sure you want to go any blonder?'

Anyway, happy Christmas, y'all. And a very happy New year to each and everyone of you.

Blame.

Holy sweet merciful lord, I wish I hadn't woken up. I wish I didn't keep singing 'they tried to make me go to rehab I said no no no.' I wish I hadn't defiled my body with the most delicious dinner plate sized smokey bacon double burger from Burker King.
I blame Twenty Major.
I think he could be evil.
Happy Christmas!

Well?

Why the hell do people call when you're sittting in your jammies, hair mussed, no make up on, hungover, grumpily listening to Depeche Mode while glaring at the computer screen, waiting for your wasted smooshed useless brain to stop feeling sorry for itself and get on with some fucking work.
What part of the universe decreed it wise to disturb the bleak vicious guilt riddled world of the fat cat?
If you stab me do I not bleed? Isn't that enough.
Well? Any takers?
I'm never drinking again either. Never.

You want a slap with that sigh?

Okay, I'm typing with one hand while I busily squeeze lime into my rum and coke with the other. The first possible future renters (PFR) have just gone and I'm trying VELLY hard not to get all mad and shit. I will however have a drink-well I was going to do that anyway, but you get my drift.
She was blonde and gorgeous. He was not. That's all you need to know. I'd say he had plenty of money, you might need to know that actually.
He said, 'oh you have cats.' in the same tone as most people say ' Oh your lady patch is simply infested with lice.'
She didn't do this at all. She scratched Puddy under the chin. If she had a small dog with her Puddy would have loved her long time.
He swung his car keys around and around and around in his hands the whole time I was showing them around. He was driving a merc, I know because the Merc sign was on his keys, the keys he was swinging around and around-Merc sign out.
She liked my suede wallpaper. He wanted to know was it coming furnished. He then wrinkled his nose when I said 'partly'
She said , 'wow, nice kitchen.'
He said, ''you'd need to put a security gate up on the doors to the terrace.'
I said, 'why to stop the magpies breaking in?'
She laughed, he didn't.
He humed, he hawed, he tapped things, he sighed. My eyebrows got lower, the paramour tightened his grip on my hand.
Eventually they left after giving me a squillion references.
I don' t care what his references say, I didn't like him.
He won't be getting the apartment.
The evil smelling gimp.

Panic shopping.

Is there anything worse than panic shopping?
I've spent a goodly part of my morning hungover and panic shopping. I can't find a present for Etheline and I'm seriously beginning to think I might just abscond to Barcelona for christmas anyway. My mother is doing my head in, I've got my first set of possible future renters (PFR) coming to the house this evening and I can't find a damn present for my damn sister.
What do you get for someone who has everything anyway? I can't get her anything she doesn't already have as far as I can see. If I get her something for the house she'll probably exchange it, and anyway she doesn't like it when people do that, she likes 'thoughtful' presents. She'll be looking out for panic bought presents, she will cop straight away that very little thought went into a vase, or a set of china napkin holders. Her nose will wrinkle. She will use the word 'interesting'.
I'm screwed.
Right, back to it. I think I saw a chess set somewhere, hand carved and made from something hideous and possibly extinct. I might get that. Does Etheline play chess? No she does not, but she can appreciate hideous and extinct.
I'm really screwed.

Massage...

I'm against it!
What the fuck is it with massages. I hate them. I hate the idea of them. I don't like head massages or 'holistic' massages, or Reiki -spit spit- or any of that bollocks. I think the only massage worth while is the deep tissue masssage give by sport folk who actually know what they're doing.
Other than than fuck off and keep your hands to yourself.
Ireland has suddenly turned into the kind of touchy feely type of country that makes me want to reach for the Savlon. Between Pat Kenny kissing folk and people giving gifts like 'a day at the spa' to each other....Grrrrrr. Bleee, yack! Stop it.
Fucking hairdressers are the worst. I know I've given out about this kind of thing before, but really, can't a person go and get a haircut these days without being molested?
I was in the hairdressers early this morning, attempting a pre Christmas cut that will hold its own until sometime late in the afternoon on January the 8th. I went primed and armed as I always do with a book, all the better to cut straight through the boring, so, 'any plans for the holidays' chat. My usual hairdresser dooesn't go much for the small talk anyway, but people have been known to get muddled around this time of year, so a preemptive move usually saves one.
I was on time and my coat taken. A blonde petite girl of about seventeen ushered me to a sink and swaddled me in towels. I lay back and closed my eyes.
'That water hot enough?'
'Um. Fine thank you.'
'Are you getting a colour in?'
'Not today.'
'Most people are getting a colour in for the Christmas.'
'Right.'
'And you should see the...'
Off she went blather blather blather. It was pretty disturbing how she could talk so much without the need to draw breath. It was aslo pretty disturbing how she managed to wash most of my carefully made up face during the time she was supposed to be washing my hair- and I really hate that.
But it was the massage that tore it.
'Do you want a head massage?'
'No thank you.'
'Here, I'll just do a small one.'
'I don't want one.'
'Yeah? Most people LOVE them. My mam always falls asleep when I do her. I'm really good at it. Here, just close your eyes for a second-' She proceeds to dig her thumbs into the base of my skull 'and relax.'
I yanked my self upright, spraying water everywhere. 'Look!' I said somewhat louder than I had planned. 'I don't want a bloody head massage. I don't want to hear any more about Christmas, I don't want my face washed. I just want you to wash my hair. Okay?'
'She does this thing with her face, and for a horrible moment I am afraid she will cry. I will be the Grinch who spoiled Christmas for Barbie like wannabe hairdressers everywhere.
'Okay.' She whispers.
So we proceed. She washes, rinses, shows me to my chiar in near silence.
Exhausted and bothered I sit there, grinding my back teeth together. In the mirrors I can see her talking to another of the 'washers', they both look my way. My ears are burning as I open my book.
Finally my hairdresser arrives.
'Good morning.' I say. 'Busy?'
'Christmas.' She says, and shoots me a withering look.
I beam at her.
She cuts my hair too short, but I don't mind. She did it in silence.
Bliss.

Vegetarian soapbox needs solid kicking.

Although talking to my vegetarian friends frequently makes me want to kill Bambi and smother her in gravy, I have been considering reducing my meat intake for the new year. It's not because of any highbrow concern for animals, but rather because I am not a big fan of red meat and am slowly but surely going off pork too. That still leaves fowl and fish and sea food.
So I'm not being a afflicated by rampant vegetarianism.
'Or ammmm I?' (please read this is Spongebob Squarepants sotto voice)

Yesterday on my way back from Dundrum with the paramour, we were listening to Sean Moncrieff on Newstalk and up popped Dr Catherine Gale who has recently completed some 'research' that suggests vegetarians are smarter than the average bear, or me and quite possibly, you.
'We know from other studies that brighter children tend to behave in a healthier fashion as adults — they’re less likely to smoke, less likely to be overweight, less likely to have high blood pressure and more likely to take strenuous exercise,” Gale said. “This study provides further evidence that people with a higher IQ tend to have a healthier lifestyle.”

'My God Paramour, listen to that. Smart people tend to make better choices than the not so smart. Why it's genius!'

In the study, Gale’s team collected data on nearly 8,200 men and women aged 30, whose IQ had been tested when they were 10 years of age.

“Children who scored higher on IQ tests at age 10 were more likely than those who got lower scores to report that they were vegetarian at the age of 30,” Gale said.
Okay so far so good.'
The researchers found that 4.5 percent of participants were vegetarians. Of these, 2.5 percent were vegan, and 33.6 percent said they were vegetarian but also ate fish or chicken.

Schrrreeeecccccchhhhhhhh! Say fucking what now?

'There was no difference in IQ score between strict vegetarians and those who said they were vegetarian but who said they ate fish or chicken,' the researcher added.

So it transpires that many of the 'vegetarians' eat chicken and fish.
'But surely they aren't vegetarians?' Moncrieff cried.
'Well they preceive themselves to be.'

So there you have it, vegetarians ar so clever and smart they don't even have to be vegetarians at all, they just need to close their little beady eyes and 'perceive' it. And then said vegatarians who actually eat meat can become smarter than people who also eat meat but don't claim to be vegetarians.
In other words some people are smarter than others.
I'm surprised the world still turns this morning.

I'm not with stupid.

Jesus Christ.

"KATE HUDSON has revealed she's obsessed with pole-dancing.
The You, Me and Dupree actress took up the raunchy dance classes as a fun way to exercise - and now can't get enough of the sexy moves.

She said: "I recently started this really fun pole-dancing class.

"Well, every woman, when they take this class - and they should - realises pole-dancing is one of those things you don't know you're capable of until you try.

"You go with a bunch of girls and have the best time. Every person who's ever taken the class walks out with their hair bouncing, gets in their car, puts on music and is like, 'Wow! I love life'."

The daughter of Goldie Hawn added: "You can get obsessed with it - you're doing all these tricks on the pole and you want to practise them - but I've never been stronger. Now I can climb a pole without using my feet."
Bravo, your feet you say, oh my.
Oh my God, I can just imagine old Kate here and her buddies next 'sporty adventure'...

'So like me and Brandie, Candi and Lashelle recently started this new cool sport called, 'streetwalking' It's totally hard. Every woman should try it. You go with a bunch of buddies and stand about on street corners somewhere waiting for cars to stop by. It's not easy, and you get extra points for endurance to cold and stuff. Women everywhere should totally try it. Last week Candi made almost 100 dollars! Well that was just before that guy punched her in the side of the head and tried to rape her. But 100 dollars! We all helped her into her car bleeding and stuff and put on the radio, ohmigod, we all laughed, guess what came on, no guess, now guess no really guess....it was 'I will Survive.' How freaking ironic is that? We just all started laughing and screaming about how much we love life and how bouncy our hair was! hahahahahaa. What? Do I think what? Bad example? To women? Sexualisation? What? I don't get it? 100 dollars is like you know, just...hey it's just innocent fun, stop talking to me, you're totally ruining my chi. I'm going to go ride my butterscotch stallion for a while now. At least Owen totally thinks I'm worth it.'

Brussel Sprouts.

I posted this a long time ago somewhere but I feel that at this time of year I should impart my wisdom on y'all.
The correct way to cook Brussel Sprouts. Pay attention now, this is very impportant...

Heat large pan of water, copper bottom is always best, no matter what anyone tells you
add salt.
Add brussel sprouts when water is boiling.
Cook for ten minutes until sprouts soften slightly.
Mutter the words 'al dente' under your breath.
Turn off water.
Open bottle of chilled white wine, drink bottle of chilled white wine, watch film, have sex, whatever tickles your fancy.
Continue to ignore sprouts.
Drain water and throw sprouts away following day.

Absolutely foolproof.

Beer and Chips.

What is it that would make a gentle weight watching soul such as myself decide lots of pints of Carlsberg and then-horror- salty chips from the 'chuppor' was a veeery good idea?
I blame my brother. Oh yes I do. I also blame various other people. This way I can absolve myself of any responsibility and carry on living a carefree and blameless life. At least I work from home, my dear brother is probably lying across his desk in a puddle of slurm right this moment.
Tee-heee....oh who am I kidding, the back of my head might fall off if I laugh too hard.

Anyhoo on to the news. So Padraig Nally has been set free. I blogged about this at the time, I believe any man has the right to protect himself and his property, but I also believe when Nally followed an already wounded and fleeing John Ward out onto the road to shoot him a second time, he crossed the line.
Last year, the bachelor farmer was handed a six-year sentence for the manslaughter of Mr Ward. But in October the jury verdict was overturned and Mr Nally was freed from jail.
He was freed after the Court of Criminal Appeal ruled that Judge Paul Carney, the High Court judge at the original murder trial, had erred in law by failing to allow the jury the opportunity to return a verdict of not guilty.
Well now, he's a free man. It will be interesting to see what precedent this sets for future cases of trepass.

And to the three chaps who refused to be airlifted by a coastguard helicopter after getting into difficulty in rough seas could be facing fines of up to €2,000 each.The three men, who were part of a larger surfing group, got into trouble in dangerous conditions and were washed onto rocks at Aill na Searracht, half a mile north of the Cliffs of Moher.

They had used jet-skis to travel almost three kilometres from Doolin to reach the notorious surf location, which is not accessible from land because of the 100-metre cliffs.

Forty people took part in the rescue effort off the Cliffs of Moher on November 24 after the men's situation was reported.

But when the Shannon-based Irish Coastguard helicopter was scrambled to the scene and a winch man descended to rescue the men, they refused because they did not want to lose their jet-ski and surfboards.
'You're drowning. Hang on lads. I'll have to take you up one at a time.'
'No thank you.'
'What?'
'Were just gonna stay here, with our stuff you know? This board is hand tooled and Bri paid like, you know, a total fortune for his ride. Didn't you Bri?'
'Gurgle gurlgel guegelee?'
'Yo, Diarmid, I totally told you to keep his head above water?'
'I am man, but I totally just nearly hit this rock? And then I had like, to let go?'
'Sucks.'
'Totally.'
'Bri, like swim?'
'Garghgheeegrgllef.'
'Oh no way, hey winch dude, could you just like move? I've gotta get Bri up there before he totally drowns?'
'Idiots! You're all going to be fined.'
'Whoa, neg man, like nobody asked you to come here, right Diar?'
'Right. Oh man, check out Bri, he totally gone down for the third time?'
'barbel....
'Awesome.'

This is an odd one. Is it against the law to refuse to be rescued? If my car breaks down on the side of the road and I refuse all offers of help am I breaking a law? How can they be fined for not being rescued?

Chewing gum...

I'm against it!
Chewing gum, is there anything more vile? I'd rather have dog shit on my shoes than chewing gum, at least shit washes off.
I hate chewing gum, I wish to god it was banned. I hate the smell of it, the look of it, the way people stick it under seats and tables, letting it grow hard and tooth marked. I hate the way people spit it out-Dublin is COVERED in greasy black spots of it, I hate the way every time Britney Spears opens her mouth there's a giant wad of it on her back teeth, I hate it when people pull it into string and wrap in around ther fingers, DISGUSTING!
I hate it when some TOTAL BASTARD leaves it on a bench thus ruining the velvet coat of moi, I hate the fact that mr cat hating fatneck on the third floor chews it in the lift every day. I hate it when on a wet day I'm forced to use on a bus and while I sit there steaming gently, the girl opposite -who really look like she wasn't raised with fucking bears-sits chewing and smacking and looking vacant and vapid and-smack smack smack- like a cow chewing the cud. I want to rush across and grab her by both ears screaming 'MOO MOO!"
Bovine, stupid, empty headed, common, disgusting.
I hate the way it used to be a bad thing to chew gum and now it's not a bad thing, I liked it when people thought it was made from ant eggs and spider pieces, for all I know it could be, I like that people thought it 'stuck to the lining' of your stomach.
I hate the fact that dentists have bought into the shit and are now recommending it for your teeth, I hate that this gives bovine fatheads more excuses for going chomp chomp chomp smack.
I super really very hate it if someone next to me blows bubbles with his chonger. I will very probably give whoever that person is a bit of a dig.
Chewing gum, I am so fucking against it I can scarcely type.

Anthony Campbell, a life robbed.

Anthony Campbell was a young man. He was 20 years old, a happy go lucky, mad about football young lad. He worked as an apprentice pumber.
Anthony was working downstairs in the house at Scribblestown Park, Finglas, around 9.30am when he was killed yesterday.He was out working, learning a trade, trying to make a few bob for christmas when he was shot dead. He was working in the house of gang boss Martin 'Marlo' Hyland when a gunman burst in into the house and shot him in the head.The hitman then dashed upstairs and shot Hyland at least four times with an automatic pistol in the head and back as the drug baron lay asleep in bed.
Close associates of Hyland (39) are thought to have been behind the crime boss's murder as they feared he was about to turn tout.

I'm not particularly bothered one way or another about Martin Hyland's death. I mean, I think it's awful and I feel sorry for his family, but he was a drug dealer and thought to be behind any number of killings himself. He was-to use a tired cliché- living by the sword.
But I am horrified that this young man was so brutally murdered, that no mercy was shown. That no compassion or even a shred of human decency entered the heart of the killer who killed Anthony Campbell. This is a whole new low for the 'gangland' crowd.
What kind of bastard does something like that?
I was just listening to a member of his family on the Orla Barry show and the shock and grief and disbelief is almost unbearable. I cannot imagine what they are going through, I can't imagine how they are going to make any sense of this callous act.
But something has to give.
When the journalist Veronica Guerin died the outrage and fury of the ordinary people on the street caused huge ripples in the criminal underworld. The pressure began to mount and the media were relentless. Garda muscle was finally flexed and the CAB formed to hit the murdering scumbags where it hurt them most, their finances.
This needs to happpen again.
There should be no shrugging and wringing of hands, there should be no apathy. There should be intense investigations, there should be pressure put on the gangs until someone shakes out a name. I don't believe that this gunman worked alone and I know that someone knows who he was and who hired him.
Anthony Campbell was a law abiding hard working young man, he deserves justice, his family deserve justice. I'm sickened for them today, I can't even remember the last time I felt this offended by my own kind.
Poor Anthony, R.I.P.

Posting comments.

Is anyone else experiencing problems posting comments today?

Bah Humbug.

Let the games begin.
'Where are we having dinner this year?' My paramour asked, quietly pulling his socks as though he was felling trees and blowing up buildings with Semtex. Any minute now he's going to over flip his van by driving it up a bank of clay.
De dit de, dit de de, diddle de dutt dit de, da de diddle du!
'Dunno.' I replied, grabbing piggy and diving deeper under the duvet.
Dive! Dive, periscope down!
Eek, tapping on the submarine walls? What's that, Morse code? Dolphins? Bees? Beephins? It better not be a whale shark, we're scared of them piggy, oh yes. They only eat crill my arse.
Suddenly a great flash of light, and cold, sooo veryyyyy coooold.
The hull capin' she cannae take it!
'You must have spoken to Etheline about it.'
'Who?' I say squintingly, wincingly, sqincingly.
'E-t-h-e-l-i-n-e.'
'No, no conversations.' I inch away, back into my fox hole. If I move fast I can catch up. The dark swallows me. Warmth. I close my eyes. There! In the distance. Look piggy, an island. Ohhh, a hammock. We like them piggy. Say, I like the way you've suddenly turned into a Polly Pocket Pony. Let's ride! Hi-ho Piggy Pony awayyyyy!
''Because your elder sister mentioned something the last time we were out there.'
Sigh, damn and blast.
Oh gossamer sleep, fingers fading, drifting away back to the underworld. Goodbye! I will see you later. Wave good bye piggy! Bye! We love you!
Wap!
'Paramour I don't know. The lilac One wants us to go to her house, that's the last I heard about it.'
'Humf.' My future husband says, fastening his watch, shooting delph with a blunderbuss. 'Why don't we have it?'
'Say what now?'
'Why don't we have it?'
'Oh I don't know, too many people for here.'
'Not here, at the new house. I mean the kitchen's in.'
Suckered in, pushed around, no sir, not at this door, not even if there's a thud and one week later the smell is so bad you need a hanky across your mouth to keep from passing out, don't come knocking, not for any reason, not on this door, do you get me sweetheart?
Oh Jack.
'Erm.'
'Just think about it. Our first Christmas dinner. Might be nice.'
He kisses me on the top of the head and leaves to make coffee.
The bigger of the cats joins me as soon as the door is open.
'Mi-narp?'
I dance piggy across the bed to him in a tippity-tap fashion. 'I've got something in my front pocket for you...why don't you put your hand in a give it a squeeze...' I sing in a 1940's wobbly voice, waggling piggy's feet.
The bigger of the cats bashes piggy's poor head twice with blinding speed and razor sharp claws. I stop tormenting him immediately.
Oh if only Paramours were so easy to train.

Great Intentions.

I was going to do this yesterday...

MORE than 10,000 people yesterday travelled Dublin's Port tunnel by foot - something that will never be repeated.

In what was billed as an agoraphobic's delight, a once-off 10km charity race to mark the opening of the tunnel attracted people from all walks of life to the tunnel's entrance in the East Wall area of Dublin's Docklands at 11 yesterday morning.

Just over 30 minutes later, the first of the competitors had reached the finish, having run the length of the tunnel as far as Santry and back again.

"It was a very fast and competitive race right from the beginning," winner Robert Connolly, of Dundrum South Dublin Athletic Club, said. "Everybody was going pretty hard but it was a good even surface.

"Most of the light down there was coming from the lead car and traffic signs, but you can certainly tell there's light at the end of the tunnel. As you go through it you can see the sky in the distance. It was definitely an unusual running experience."

I said I WAS going to do it, but the truth is I'm still not 100% over my cold/virus/thingie and there's no point in pushing the body if ain't ready.
So-not wanting to waste a Sunday sitting about reading the papers and watching telly- what I did instead was go to a 3 hour yoga workshop thinking it would be better and less physical.
The teacher was an older lady from Australia. She looked like a librarian until she stripped to her leotard. She was about thirty years older than me and twice as fit/strong/flexible as I am now. She could do slow handstands and lunges and poses that...well it was like watching an acrobat.
I am a relatively new convert to the powers of yoga, but already I can see it's benefits. And this lady was a walking endorsement to its properties. Imagine reaching your sixties and being in better condition that most people in their twenties?
Honestly, if anyone is thinking about a new years resolution, taking up yoga might be one to scribble onto the list.
Naturally I cannot feel my own arse today and when I stretch I scream.
I'm so glad I went.

Poor old SpongeTed gay pants.

They are going to straighten him out but good.
"Disgraced pastor Ted Haggard this week formally begins his long journey toward recovery from a drugs-and-gay-sex scandal that forced him to step down as one of the most influential evangelical leaders in the nation.

Haggard, 50, has turned himself over to a team of counselors who are "assessing his spiritual, emotional and mental condition," said the Rev. H.B. London, who is helping to guide Haggard through the process. London and two other pastors will then set out a rigorous "restoration plan" requiring Haggard to spend hours each week in counseling, Bible study, prayer and soul-baring talks — by phone or in person — with his mentors.

The team's first task will be to push Haggard to acknowledge any addictions and come to an honest understanding of his sexuality. "Ted is not in touch with reality," said the Rev. Mark Cowart, a friend. The mentors can confront Haggard or rebuke him forcefully; they may also ask him to submit to a polygraph test.

"Ted says he's not a homosexual," said the Rev. Mike Ware, a good friend. "The restoration team wants experts to evaluate that."
His restoration team largely shares this theology. It includes two veteran pastors of evangelical mega-churches: the Rev. Jack W. Hayford, 72, of Van Nuys and the Rev. Tommy Barnett, 69, of Phoenix. Both pastors — like Haggard — draw on the charismatic tradition, including speaking in tongues.

The third member of the team, London, 69, serves as vice president of Dobson's conservative ministry Focus on the Family, which promotes therapy to help gays and lesbians change their sexual orientation.

As director of pastoral outreach for the Colorado Springs-based ministry, London has counseled hundreds of clergy with admitted moral failings; up to half don't make it through the rehabilitation. "They grow weary of the regimen and drop out," he said.

Of course they do.
Well now, Country Gay and I had chat about this and we reckon that ol Ted might be really quite gay indeed. Initially I laughed when I hear about this scandal, but this restoration gig sounds super iffy.
The fact that these folk think they can 'change' a person's sexual identity is worrisome. That somehow they can iron Ted out. Does anyone else find this development down right weird?

For your viewing pleasure...

Dear Lord, it just takes one's breath away.

Ouch

Thanks for the birthday wishes. Most sore today. But at least no one threw a pig at me. Although I may have been trampled by a herd of wildebeast.

"A US man in West Point, Mississippi, has been fined nearly $300 (€220) after throwing a pig at a hotel receptionist.

Kevin Pugh (20) admitted breaching the peace by tossing a pig over the counter at the Holiday Inn Express.

In a series of pranks, police also had reports of three other 'animal throwings' the same night, one featuring a pig, the others featuring possums.'

Ah yes, the heady delight of pig throwing, Rusell Crowe can keep his phone throwing, real men throw livestock.

Crying.

Maybe men won't get this, but perhaps some of the ladies will.
All three of us fatcat siblings are champion criers. We like crying and can do so at the drop of a hat. This gift precludes my mother because to cry one needs tear ducts and a bit of a heart.
I am not convinced she has either.
Anyhoo, as dedicated criers we think nothing about it. We cry about happy things (passing exams/having children/finding shoe sales) sad things (loss of fathers/beloved pets) annoying things (losing keys/forgetting mobiles phones/ being constantly reminded that time ticks on and our wombs won't last forever) sore things (catching thumbs in door/ twisting ankles in highheels) cute french bulldog puppies(that would be me) Credit card bills (Etheline) children flushing jewellery down the loo (eldest sister).
Basically we cry about pretty much everything. Not for ages, just microwave bursts that soothe us. This used to annoy the fanny off our mother who would throw her hands up and go 'Oh great, here come the waterworks!' We would then cry at her heartlessness and so on until she wandered off in disgust. Then we would cry in delight at our victory over the great lilac beast.
Really, we see no shame in it. We can, of course, not cry when it suits us. And not cry very well. But that's a whole other thing entirely.
I myself an an ambi-crier. I can cry over two separate things at the one time, totally independent of each other. Etheline can do that too, my eldest sister says she can but we have our doubts.
My point?
Well, sometimes we are inclined to forget that some people don't have this gift. And might be...oh say, perturbed by it.

Last night while the paramour sat in a pub somewhere watching the Arsenal, Etheline-who still has not left her womanly hipped fiance- and I cracked open a bottle of wine and sat down to watch Terms of Endearment, a sad film and one of our favourites. Cue much tears and sniffling. Especially that scene where Shirley comes down the hall to the nurses station screaming about her daughter being in pain and why won't anyone help her...
So any way, at the end of the film, there we were, curled on the sofa, hugging various cats and sniffing and talking about shoes in Brown Thomas and what to get our mother for Christmas when the paramour arrived home, a bottle of plonk under his arm.
He opened up the sitting room door, stepped in, took one look at us and froze.
'Hello.' I blubbered.
'Hello.' Etheline sobbed.
The paramour looked stricken. He took a deep breath, put the bottle down and said. 'Okay, what's happened? What it is?'
Etheline and I exchanged watery glances. 'What?'
'What's going on, you might as well tell me out straight.'
'On?'
'Why are you two crying.'
'Oh, Terms of Endearment.'
'What?'
'Film.'
I can't say he looked relieved, he managed irked however and a bit pale. He said. 'Jesus Christ' under his breath and 'I'm going for a shower.'
'Okay.'
Then he looked at us again and shook his head. I think he might have said 'Jesus christ' once more.
'What's his problem?' Etheline said wiping steaks of mascara from her cheek.
'Dunno.' I said, reaching for a tissue to blow my nose. 'I wish people would stop wearing open toed shoes with tights.'
'Oh that reminds me, I saw-'

Poor old sausage, he's really going to have to toughen up.

For Maroon.

Sqeeeeeeeeeeseriously, if you were jogging along a woodland path and this guy stepped out from the trees you'd start running much faster wouldn't you? Possibly babbling about giant leprechans or ginger orcs or something. Hoots man, put it away!
Maroon, this one is for you baby...you know why.

Male contraceptive.

Well now, and how do we all feel about this?

"Scientists have developed a male contraceptive which was 100% effective and side-effect free in trials.
The hormonal treatment is a combination of an implant under the skin and injections - meaning men do not have to remember to take a pill every day.

Researchers from the Anzac Research Institute, Sydney, Australia, gave the treatment to a relatively small sample of 55 men for a year - and none of their partners became pregnant.

However, it will be some time before the treatment is widely available.
'We welcome any advance in contraception, and particularly those that broaden the options for men to take responsibility'
Liz Davies, Marie Stopes International
The treatment is a combination of an implant containing the male sex hormone testosterone, which was replaced every four months, and a three-monthly injection of a progestin, a hormone used in female contraceptive pills.

The reversible treatment works by making use of the body's own natural system which is involved in initiating puberty.

The combination of the two hormones temporarily turns off the normal signals from the brain that stimulate sperm production.

But the process also turns off the man's own testosterone production - so he needs to be given extra doses of the hormone to keep him healthy and maintain his sex drive.

In the study, none of the couples used any other form of contraception, and no serious side effects were seen.

Once the treatment was stopped, normal fertility levels returned within a few months."

Well? Is this a break through. Would the men take it? Would women trust men to take care of their birth control? I think I would have reservations leaving my womb and its rental space in the hands of any man.

Joe O'Reilly.

I'm going out for a run in the rain now. Normally this would piss me off, but I don't mind today, why? Because finally the book of evidence has been presented in the case of Joe O'Reilly. He is going to trial for the murder of his beautiful wife Rachel, mother to his two children, battered and left bloody and destroyed for her poor mother to find.
'She's asleep now' Joe said on that famous night on the Pat Kenny show. Asleep.
Is she fuck Joe, and I hope you can hear her calling for justice every time you close your eyes.
Laters.

Worst Christmas present ever.

Well, how about it? I was over at http://www.thefullstop.blogspot.com/ sniggering and tittering at Kieran's gifts and then it struck me. What is the very worst present you have ever gotten?
I've had a few, but when I was 7 my aunt_mother's sister naturally- gave me a clown, a clown of unimaginable horror. It was life size- for a 7 year old- it had bells on it it had a big slash for a mouth and it appeared to be following me with its eyes. I was terrified of it, so scared I still have it. It's up there in the attic, waiting, listening. It knows I'm thinking about it.
I'm afraid to get rid of it in case it gets offended and comes back to slit my throat in my sleep some night.
I was also given a jumper from my mother one year, a scratchy round necked jumper, a scratchy round necked with a big stick- on flower the size of a dinner plate on the front. I was thirteen and trying to be Robert Smith. I don't even have the words to describe my utter resentment when I opened that monstrosity.
Oh, and I'd like special mention to go to the girl I did Kriss Kindle with in school in forth year. I should have shoved the plastic bangle up your arse, you freckle-faced geebag. It didn't even fit over my hand. I think you found it on the way to school.

Big fat...

Gardai?
A few weeks ago a police chief America was fired for suggesting his officers should shape up, http://articles.news.aol.com/news/_a/police-chief-fired-over-jelly-bellies/20061101145809990008. I remember reading about it at the time and doing a spot of head shaking. Ridiculous.
I was reminded of that story yesterday. As I wandered out of a book shop I was astounded to see a young lad tear past me and some considerable time later, a ban garda, came huffing down the street in search of him. She went past me, then stopped. She took of her hap, wiped her forehead, spoke into her radio and then carried on down the street-slowly- looking for her quarry, who at that stage was probably getting a cup of hot tea and some buttery toast from his ma.
Fat gardai?
At the risk of sounding non PC here, surely being a garda is one of those jobs that demands a person be physically fit. You need to be alert to the possibility of danger, you need to be able to chase suspects, you need to be able to subdue those who might not want to be subdued. You need to dal with drubnk possibly aggressive people. So what the hell is the point of a short overweight officer who gets winded easily. Even if this lady had caught the suspect I doubt she was much of a match for him.
Certain jobs demand physical excellence and I think being a Garda is one of them. If I am an accountant in a firm I don't need to be able to lift anything heavier than a calculater. But a fireman-for example- should be able to lift an unconscious body and carry it out of danger.
Gardai must initially pass a physical, but who keeps an eye of the waistlines afterwards and is this acceptable?

I hate grocery shopping...

on a Saturday. It's awful. Screaming tired children, pink faced tired mothers, bored irritated looking fathers and lots of pensioners looking a bit scared of being knocked over.
Why the world and its mother should suddenly charge Superquinn on a Satdee evening I don't know. And what the hell is it wil all the stuff folk buy? Is there a famine coming? Are all the world's food stocks plummeting? MIles and miles of panting, desperate shoppers, crashing and leaning and apologising for bumping, trodding on toes as the christmas jingles deafened us all.
There I was, bottle of wine in one hand, roses in the other and four fillets of chicken in the crook of my arm, surrounded by people buying vast trolleys of stuff, in some cases two trolleys! What's going on? I've never seen anything like it. It made me want to rush off and grab a trolley and buy three for twos and fabreeze and giant packs of Petit Yoghurts.
Is there something coming that I don't know about?
I was in the express line- a line for around ten items and the chap ahead of me had at least twenty in his basket. Did I complain? No I did not, I just stood there wondering why the woman behind me kept muttering obsenities every two seconds. The toddler in the next line was screaming blue murder and the man behind her was fighting with his wife really LOUDLY.
I'm telling you, there was an air of panic about the place.
I"m off now to make cous cous and drink a few glasses of that wine, my nerves are shot.

For Monty!

Jude law...

seriously, I mean really, what the hell is it that women see in him? I am hungover to hell, the VELLY last thing I want to see is this. So I'm making you lot see it too. Bleee.

Updated because Monty is right!

That's a rum one.

'...no way, is it really?'
'I mean you'd never even know it was new.'
'Did it hurt?'
'No not once they pulled it out.'
'Sky high, she actually rang me to say I'd better get my ass back in there.'
'Here, do you want to share this baked potato?'
'Thanks you, peas?
'Yes please, please to peas.'
'Fatcat you simply have to go down there and see the house, it is out of this world.'
'I heard they have a lake.'
'Well more of a big pond!'
'Do they have fish in it? Koi? or-
'If I owned a pond I wouldn't put fish in it. I'd...hic, put a walrus in it.'
Silence.
'A walrus?'
'Yeah, the one with tusks. Warlrussssess, heh, dadidbe cool. Fuck fish.'
'A walrus.'
'Walruses are awesome.'
'CG, see if you can prise that bottle of wine from his hands would you, there's a love.'