For Finn! And possibly Andraste too.

"Mulligans of Poolbeg St is one of Dublin's most famous drinking establishments.

Mulligans is a traditional pub that remains at the heart of the Dublin's vibrant pub culture. A meeting point for all kinds of Irish life, the bar has hosted punters from the world of acting, literature, horseracing, journalism and Gaelic sports for over a century. Mulligans encapsulates all the best aspects of the authentic Dublin drinking experience.

The Mulligans started their long association with Dublin publore in 1782 in Thomas Street moving to Poolbeg Street in the mid-19th century. James Joyce immortalised the pub in his book of short stories The Dubliners with the characters, O'Halloran, Leonard and Farrington. Mulligans became one of Dublin's most popular drinking haunts and never considering 'modernising', retaining the bar's Victorian décor and furnishings.

Mulligans has two different entrances that lead you to a traditional style pub with a wooden bar, tables and chairs and a low ceiling that gives the bar a cool, shaded and relaxing feeling. As you follow down the right side of the bar, you will come to a large lounge filled with a younger crowding imbibing and chatting.

Their pint of Guinness is legendary in Dublin and there is very little in the way of food which reminds you why your there, to drink and engage in pure conversation. Experience all the different currents of Dublin life in the revered drinking haunt that is Mulligans."

In other words it is a bit of a dump but the pints are pure ambrosia. If ye are ever on the ould sod...

Moving House!

And so it has come to pass. Contracts signed, tenents vetted, bank accounts checked, lease drawn up. Done and dusted.
All that it is left for me to do is start packing up my shit, my cats, my clothes and my shoes and my books, and begin the process of moving my life from this, my haven, home, most beloved abode, to the new house.
I'm going for a drink.

Right of reply for Stiletto Workout.

Remember a while ago I wrote piece about the 'Stiletto workout.' Where ladies went along to a gym and did their 45 minute work out in high heels. I bemoaned the stupidity of it, questioned the point, mentioned how bad it was for your spine, you know the drift. Well hold up, from the comments...


"zoe mcnulty said...
Hi Fatmammycat, this is Zoe McNulty, the instructor responsible for the Stiletto Workout. I was a bit concerned reading your blog as it seems you may have taken a look at Dulcie's article and assumed many things and quite rightly so.
As lovely as Dulcie was, there were many reasons as to why the article should have been scrapped and re-written. For a start she didn't actually come along to do the class, merely spent 10 mins in heels posing for photos, which is fine as I understand that she then had someone else to interview of a more urgent nature and a whole lot more newsworthy than an exercise class.
Had she had the time to come along and take part in the 45 minute class she'll have understood that the majority of the class is performed in trainers and only 10 minutes at the most is spent in the heels, so it will probably be difficult to form bunions and do damage to one's spine and postural alignment in my class- especially as at least half of the class is spent addressing postural issues and performing toning exercises for the core, strengthening techniques for joint stability and the muscles around the joints and lots of work goes into improving balance, something that all adults should think about focusing on as they grow older and bones become more brittle.
On another issue, you mention that men are obviously not a part of 'everyone' who is invited to take part. This isn't true. Although I'm not entirely sure (and it's non of my business) what their sexual persuasion has been, I've actaully taught quite a few guys in the Stiletto Workout. Part of me wishes I hadn't called it the Stiletto Workout as heels, although beneficial, are not essential. And I am well aware that the word "workout" suggests all sorts of images that could disuade people like yourself from trying it out.
Another thing that I think you wrongly assume is that as an instructor I am stick thin and bursting with confidence. THIS IS SOOO FAR FROM THE TRUTH! I'm a healthy, busty, completely insecure and wobbly size 16 working in an industry of stupidly slender and buff people and it is through learning how to disengage my brain from acknowledging this fact that I can actually appear to be bursting with confidence. And this is the whole point of my class. Yes, you're going to tone up, yes you're going to burn some calories but most of all you're going come out of the class feeling empowered!! You'd be amazed at the change that I see in people from the start of the class to the finish- they can completely come out of themselves and loosen up- how fantastic that they've relaxed and allowed their bodies to move more freely- all without the use of alcohol!!
It's not a striptease class, it's not pole dancing, there's no exposing of flesh, licking of lips or suggestive facial expressions- it's just a bloody good giggle! Now, Fatmammycat, Finn, Fat Sparrow, even you Kim Ayres, I urge you to give it a go cos I promise you, you'll have a good time. And hey, if we're going to exercise, and unfortunately we do have to- it may as well be fun. I wish you much health and hapiness in 2007."

"And I am well aware that the word "workout" suggests all sorts of images that could disuade people like yourself from trying it out.' Zoe, I'm a great believer in fitness, almost fanatical in fact, so it wasn't that I was raising an eyebrow at. I also hate the word 'empowered' but that's just me.

Now, never let it be said that I am not a woman who can doff a cap if I am mistaken. I will say in my defense that Mizz Dulcie of The Sun never mentioned trainers once and in fact said...' I actually started to enjoy myself. If it hadn’t been for the searing pain up my calf muscles, I would have forgotten all about the stupidly high heels I was prancing around in."

However this is The Sun and 'quality paper' such at it is I suppose one should expect it to be full of error and spin (total lies). So Zoe McNulty, mea culpa, I still feel high heels have absolutely no place in a gym, and no one will convince me other wise. I would question the point of spending any time dealing with core strengthening and stability if you are going to throw it all out the window two second later altering the core structure by putting on high heels and throwing the body completely out of alignment.
But then I am an absolutist. I am tying to imagine suggesting to Memnoch-my kick boxing master and all round bollocks- that we do a stiletto work out. I would be laughed clean out of the dojo, or firmly placed outside.
However, your class sounds like it is a bit of a laugh and as you say 'it may as well be fun.' so good luck with that.

LIttle Miss Sunshine.

I saw this film at the weekend and I loved it. The ending is an absolute riot. If you don't want a spoiler moment, don't look at this clip. But if you are like me, snuffly and bored with work, click on, sit back, tap your feet and laugh. I always hated those po-faced events and she's a doll!

Drugs, Teenagers, Stupid Ideas.

All rolled into one.
Taken from this morning's Independent.

"Two teenagers arrested for running a cocaine factory were merely acting as "minders" for a drugs gang, it has emerged.

The two 15-year-olds were found carrying €15,000 of the drug while walking on the street in Clondalkin, and a follow-up search of a house uncovered a cocaine-mixing factory containing €55,000 of the drug.

According to garda sources, the two teenagers were not responsible for the factory but were looking after it for a drugs gang.

The two boys, one from Tallaght and the other from Clondalkin, were detained overnight by gardai last Saturday and were released into the custody of their parents the next day.

A file on the case is being sent to the DPP.

The cocaine-mixing factory was located in a house in the Newlands Manor Estate, a gated development of townhouses and duplexes which was only built in 2001. It is located beside the Green Isle Hotel and is around one mile from Clondalkin village.

Local Labour councillor Robert Dowds said he had received reports in recent months of people being asked to store drugs by pushers.

"When their houses are raided, they are the ones who actually have the drugs. It can have appalling consequences for individuals."

Some people may have been intimidated into accepting the drugs, while others were doing it for money, he added.

Mr Dowds called for a national debate on drugs to examine ways of reducing the demand for them, including the possibility of legalising some drugs.

"I hate the idea of people taking drugs but I think everything should be looked at," he said."


I was shocked to read this, 15 is the same age as the little Goth Kid.
What the hell?
Mr Dowd must be smoking the old weed himself if he think legalising 'some drugs' are going to do anything at all to reduce the demand for them. Which drungs are okay? Coke, Heroin, Grass? Will it be decided by weight? Purity? Personal use?
If it is legal to, say, carry a gram of coke on your person-for personal use, how convenient does that make it for the dealer? Now suddenly his product might be legally carried, in the right dosage of course. He can divide his goods up among a whole slew of young lads, to sell. Hey, it's legal right?*
If the shooting of poor Anthony Campbell has shown us anything, it is that people dealing in drugs don't respect any law, any right, not even the most basic right to life. And because of that they should be hounded until they have no place to run and no place to hide. Driving a Lexus? Where did the money come from? Living in a nice apartment, who pays the rent? Go abroad four times a year? Who's paying for it? Living a great life on the dole? Bring in the CAB, check just who or what is paying for the lavish lifestyle.
Use Rudy Giuliani's 'broken window' as a starter. Don't ignore the small stuff, start with it. If the dealers step out of line, even by parking in the wrong zone, act. Step up the pressure. Make it so uncomfortable for them to ply their trade that they wonder is it worth it. You will always have the men and women who just don't give a shit, but maybe you can effect the thinking of those coming up, the kids who see these fuckers driving around in their swank cars with gobs of cash, and are impressed and want to be part of that life.
It is not hard to impress a teenager. We need, as a society, to stop letting our youth see the criminal life as a viable option to escaping poverty.
The last thing this country needs is a Councillor like Dowd softening his stance.


*before anyone points out that they might be a slight whiff of the hypocrite from this post. Any and all drug taking I did in my misspent youth is firmly shuddered over and I reserve the right to have grown the fuck up and hold different opinions now that I am in my thirties. Even then I didn't think it should be legal, If I was caught It was my own stupid fault.

The baby whisperer.

A new incubus has strode cock sure into the cross hairs of this fatcat! Vive le fury, vive le howling winds of derision. Bestir my loins of contempt! Hullo there contempt, good to see you back actually, ah you brought disdain with you. I was worried that you had left us for good.
Wot folly wot?

Hung over and bunged with cold I was morosely perusing the Sunday papers, snuffling and minding my own business when I read something so outrageous that my fever spiked and I almost scalded myself with hot Mexican chicken soup.
'Sud of a bidge!' I remarked loud enough to make Puddy open her eyes for a nano second.
The paramour, huffled low in his chair, awaiting the Arsenal match to kick off, glanced over. 'What?
I carried on reading, disbelieving, rigid with dismay and outrage.
'What?'
'Look at this! I don't- I mean it- that's...'
But apoplexy had rendered me uncharacteristically- and temporarily- speechless. Overcome I could only manage to wearily/feebly/weebily shake The Culture section of The Times at him.
'What is it?' He said, taking the magazine from me with some alarm.
I jabbed at Liam Fay's television review.
'Look, it's unspeakable.'
The paramour read, '...Derek Ogilvie is a Scottish psychic who claims to be able to communicate telepathically with infants...'

The paramour glanced up, but by then I had collapsed into a shivering near faint.
Ladies and gentleman and Maroon! There is such a thing as a baby whisperer.

'... Unlike Doctor Dolittle the fictional character-'
'Oh yeb,' I sneered, 'becaube old Derek is clearly the real deal!'
'-who could speak to animal in their own mewling languages, Ogilvie does not have to decipher the ba-ba babble of advanced baby talk-'
'Jebus kill me now.' I blew my nose.
'-on the contrary, he says, he receives messages from the minds of babies in impeccable grown-up English.'
'How very convenient! Why not in Urdu, or Italian!' I shrieked getting up and stumbling half blind about the room, my streaming eyes frantically seeking out something to put me out of my misery.
The paramour read on silently, before tossing the Culture aside. 'Why do you read such tripe? More importantly why do you get so worked up about it?'
'Mountebanks, charlatans!' I dry swallowed two tablets that may or may not have been for the cats. 'Quacks! Fuckwittery! And they have him on television...I'm going to have to watch the Afternoon Show now.'
'Why?'
'To see this abomination for myself! WOOSH! Did you read what he told one mother, separation anxiety! Fuck me! That's what one year olds worry about, not nabby rash or toobbache! But if mobby goebs shopping or not!'
'Honey, you're listing to one side.'
'I can't take it, the Reiki, the cranial manipulations, surgery without opening the skin! Don't you see, it's a conspiracy to-whoosh- to- hack hack woosh...To drive people like me insane! Faith healers! Spiritual mumbo jumbo! Ke phooey! WOOSH!'
'I think you should lie down. Do you want me to make you a Beechams hot lemon?'
'Yeb pleabe.' I said forlornly.
So I went to bed, clutching my copy of The God Delusion to my chest, with the bigger of the cats tucked under my other arm.
Dawkins is messing with my ill head and I feel sort of mildly confused about my previously held view that God might exist and if he does he surely wouldn't approve of my dissin' him or reading Dawkins. I wish Dawkins would turn his high powered beams on the likes of this Ogilvie fucker and all those 'faith healers.'
When I am queen I will have Ogilvie horse whipped and then salted. I will whisper to him while he's being salted. I will whisper, 'sore I'll bet, isn't it?'
Until then I suppose I will keep the deeper well of scorn and bile for this kind of creep much tended. This vile creature I never knew existed, a man who would make a hungover cold sufferer lose her will to live on a cold Sunday afternoon.
Baby whisperer, ugh. A pox be upon him. Can there be any life form lower?
Baby whispering! I'm against it!

Extreme Chedder!

I bought this cheese in Superquinn earlier called Extreme Chedder. It comes from Mitchelstown Cork and it is wrapped in black plastic with a big red X on the front with the words 'For Adults Only' blazing across it. Naturally I said 'nah nah ni nah nah' to the nearest kid and then plonked it into my basket.
I have just had a chunk of it in the kitchen with a glass of Astrolabe and it is VELLY delicious. Chedder can be as dull as dishwater sometimes but this has real bite to it.
Try it, buy it, put it on toast with brown sauce or with garlic salami, grate it over pasta or onto a baked potato or just eat it on its own, it's yummy!

Goldfish conversations.

I was stuck behind two ould ones in the butchers earlier.
'When did he say he was coming?'
'Wednesday.'
'Wednesday?'
'I think he said wednesday.'
'Which day were you talking to him?'
Friday week.'
'Friday week?'
'Friday week. I ran into him in Kavanaghs.'
'Kavanaghs?'
'I think it was Kavanaghs.'
'I doubt he'd be up this way on a Wednesday.'
'Who?'
'Yer man.'
'Yer man from kavanaghs?
No no, the other one.'
'Which one's that now?'
The butcher eyes them. 'What can I get you?'
'A pound of that stewing steak and a ring of black pudding please.'
'Anything else?'
'No, a bone for the dog if you have one.'
'I don't have one I'm afraid.'
He goes away to get their stuff.'
'He has bones all right.'
'Course he has, keeps 'em out the back. Sure how could he not have bones. Isn't this a butchers?'
'What were we talking about?'
Silence.
I so wanted to tap them on the shoulder and say, 'Whether or not someone who may or may not have been in Kavanaghs will be able to attend something on some wednesday in the near future. Proceed.'
But I didn't and after a while they started talking and repeating each other again, but on a different topic.
I used to do that kind of shite back in the day when we all took E. Everyone would forget where a conversation started and they would look to me and I could-without fail- back track from one meandering subject to another until I reached the source. I could usually do this within eight or nine moves and once -after a Leftfield concert and two doves- I backtracked to the source through almost twenty different strands.
Very impressive when you consider none of us could tell if we were actually wearing glasses or not.

He's baaaaaaaccccckkkkkkkk!

Not exuberating this time but something much much worse! Heeeeee, I love this loony.

Rachael Ray mouths off.

I sub title this, For Andraste, because I know how much Andraste loves her some bubbly kooky Ray Ray.

"We're told Ray became "extremely loud and aggressive," and began dissing Oprah. Sources say she told the group about a portrait of Oprah that sits in the lobby of Harpo Productions in Chicago. It's from the movie "Beloved" and shows Winfrey's back, enhanced with scars. She's also wearing a skirt from the slavery era. Back at the table, sources say Ray launched into attack mode: "Why is she wearing slave drag? She obviously has problems being black." But Oprah wasn't Ray's only target. Sources say she told the group how much she liked Jennifer Aniston and then called Brad Pitt a "pussy boy." But her harshest comments were reserved for Angelina Jolie, calling her "a skanky, backdoor cunt."

Ahhh, she's just so gosh darn cute!
Have a good weekend y'all.

It wasn't me! Politician claims ignorance, shock.

I watched Mrs Lynch, mother of mudered Rob Lynch taking on the news last night and honest to God, her anger, tears and broken heart nearly made me cry. This poor woman said she was not going to accept Minsiter of State Tony Kileen's ridiculous statement that he didn't know or hadn't personally signed off on a letter asking for the early release of her son's muderer. And indeed why should she? Rob Lynch died when Chris Cooney used a stanley blade to slit open his throat. Her son died within minutes, her pain lives on.
The following is taken from today's Irish Times...

"Minister of State for Labour Affairs Tony Killeen made four representations for the temporary and early release of a convicted murderer, it has emerged. Liam Reid and Gordon Deegan report.

The Clare TD indicated yesterday he would stop the practice of making representations on behalf of convicted prisoners and their families. However he said he had no intention of resigning over the affair. "No, not at all," he told The Irish Times. "It was entirely within the political system, which is the way things ought to operate." There was no constitutional implication regarding his actions, he added.

According to Freedom of Information documents, Mr Killeen's office wrote two letters seeking the temporary release of Chris Cooney, who was convicted in 1992 of murdering Rob Lynch in Ennis. These are in addition to two other representations revealed in recent days, where Mr Killeen sought Cooney's early release. The latest letters to emerge were written to the Minister for justice Michael McDowell in 2003 and 2004 and signed by councillor Pat Daly, who is an adviser to Mr Killeen.

Government members moved yesterday to diffuse the controversy. In Co Cork, Mr McDowell said Mr Killeen was "a competent and decent minister" who had taken steps to change procedures at his constituency office."

What is it with the shower of crooked politicians that run this country? If just once one of them stood up and said 'yes it was me, it was my fault' we might have some respect for them, but between Bertie's tears and dinner money, Harney's mother, McDowell's everything and now this, one has to wonder is there a spine among them.

shaved pussy.

Shaved pussy

I know, I know, but who among us could resist the title?

Nifong Charged in Duke debacle.

RALEIGH, N.C. — Former Duke lacrosse rape prosecutor Mike Nifong has been slapped with additional ethics charges by the state bar association, which has accused him of withholding DNA evidence and making misleading statements to the court.

The new charges by the North Carolina State Bar against Durham County District Attorney Mike Nifong were announced Wednesday and could lead to his removal from the state bar, according to a copy of the updated complaint. Nifong last year indicted three men from the Duke lacrosse team on charges that they raped a stripper at an off-campus party in March of 2006.

Since the players were indicted, the rape charges have been dropped — although sexual assault and kidnapping charges still stand — the accuser has changed her story about what happened that night multiple times, and Nifong has come under heavy fire for his handling of the case, withholding evidence from defense attorneys and not coming forward with DNA evidence that may have exonerated the players."

This man is going to pay a heavy price for his desire to dance in front of TV cameras. Deservedly so.

Kirsty Alley is not Jade.

or as I should have called it, for Conan!

Most gruesome photo ever!

This post is for Finn, in total retaliation for the horror of watching Celine Dion do air guitar to ACDC. I still have not recovered and I hope to make her go bleeeeeee.
I must therefore warn the rest of you lot NOT to look at this photo, it is probably not safe for work, might get you fired/make you sick/ make you cry and wince/give nightmares/make you clench.
DON'T look at it! I"ve given you fair warning.
Now:
For finn, my little fitness bunny, I give you..... reasons to be super careful doing squats.....

Click here for the pic!

Fuck you Cherry Picker!

To the person who emailed me and said I "ought to amen (sic) my fag hatn (sic) ways and return to The LORD Christ...' I just want to say a few things before I head into town and go shopping for high heeled shoes.
1-I will like whomever I choose and no redneck fuckwit will ever make me waver on that one.
2-In the ten commandments sent by GOD to MOSES there is no mention anywhere about 'hating fags'
3- in the list of 7 deadly sins there is no mention of homosexualtiy in any way shape or form, although it does mention being being greedy, being lazy oh and also pride, so you might want to check yourself there buddy.
4- you don't know me from Adam, I might be the biggest Bible thumper ever and then where do your 'therories' (sic) get you. I might be rapture ready for all you know. God might be on my fucking speed dial.
5- you so called Christians give me a pain in my ringpiece- as I said somewhere else the other day- sure Leviticus mentions homosexuality, but other than that it is not mentioned a whole lot in the bible. Leviticus also mentons not eating shellfish and I don't see lots of 'Christian' folk yelping on about 'God Hatn Lobster Eaters!' Or 'Repent! Put down that CRAB!" or ' God surely do look down on Folk who wear Cotton with Polyester!"
6- do you keep holy the Sabbath? Ever do an odd job about you house Mister on a Sunday? mister 'Sayeth the LORD!' If so then you too might be 'BURNING IN HELL COME JUDGEMENT DAY!'
7- I hope you have never had a wank dude, 'spilling the seed' is mucho frowned on too. Verbal wanking might get you a pass though. And no divorce- although how any woman could bear to leave you is beyond me.
8- you don't speak for God, I know this might be super duper really hard for you to understand, but you are not-despite your best efforts- God's chosen voice.
9- If I am to toe the party line, then I must abide with 'God created us in his image' That means me, you, the gays, the lesbians and all the other folk in between. He also-according to y'all- gave us free will. I am going to go out on a limb here, but that suggest to me that free will mean I can like who I like and not be burning afterwards. It means you can decide to to email me with your drivel.
10- Did it ever once occur to you that you just might be ...wrong? Again, check pride.

I'm going to not publish your stupid fucking website because it offends me, and the great part about having one's own blog is that one can address the loons without publicising them. So there you go Buddy, shove your bigotry, hatred, fear,
faux concern and intolerance where the sun don't shine. Your kind of 'faith' I can do without.
FMC

Jade Goody.

For all my 'merican chums and folk who just don't really see what all the fuss is about, may I present to you the Sun's 'Face of Evil!' more eviler that Pol Pot, more racist than Stalin, less vegetarian that Hitler, more cruel than Cruella De VIlle, stabier than toothache, more nasty than chicken pox, more itchy than rosehips down a jumper, colder than a dog's nose on your bare arse, frostier than Prince in a titty bar, shallower than a puddle, messier than a co-eds dorm after spring break, viler than all the mass puppy shavers in Asia, stealer of babies' lolly pops...the one the only.......
JADE GOODY!

Free Time.

Somewhat inexplicibly I find I have some free time on my hands. The project that has taken up so much of my working hours over the last few months has now been finished, agonised over and sent-as of yesterday. The next one does not start until the following week. So now look. Free time.
I should probably be very pleased about this, but frankly having free time at the end of January is not up to much. Everyone else is working, and I feel like I'm playing hooky.
So far today I have dribbled about, read some of the papers while listlessly munching wholewheat toast, played with Puddy, pondered lunch and pondered why anyone would think Jane Goody has a career to begin with. Then I pondered what to do between now and lunch. So far I have come up with nowt.
The paramour has suggested I take this time to relax, kick back, maybe start packing. Right ho.
But apart from that.
I hate daytime television. I could read I suppose, I have a ton of books to catch up with. Then there is the cinema. I don't mind going to the cinema alone, I quite prefer it sometimes, but a quick glance through entertainment.ie shows nothing I would get out of my jammies to go and see.
There's the gym, that should take up a good hour of the day, shouldn't it?
Maybe I'll go into town. I can ring the Spaniard, she's a lady of leisure. Go for lunch, that takes care of lunch. Then there is only four hours or so until knocking off time anyway left to fill. Rinse and repeat until Februrary 1st.
How does Paris Hilton do it?
Ennui, how are ye?

Baby Names.

Apropos of the comment sections on Saturday's post and my new found willingness to rent out my womb to my future children i decided to do a little checking on names. I like old fashioned names like Arthur and Alfred and George or Jack. I like the name Kitty and Molly too.
I was feeling midly shocked to hear a girl from down local had called her baby girl 'Destiny' when Sam Bride mentoned that in her pre-school group there were an abundance of odd names, like Lake and Sabine and there was a Caydon. But then Fat Sparrow came alone and blew it all out of the water with some of the names of her daughter's school chums, Chlorine and LaTrine!
Destiny Lynch. It has quite the ring to it, does it not?
What are the weirdest names you have ever heard bestowed on a person, baby or other wise?

I'll start with 1 and 2.
1-Pilot Inspector
2-Germajesty.
I leave the floor open to you.

Darling, meet darling.

"A WOMAN called Darling has been told she cannot become a Spanish citizen — because her name is unacceptable.
"Darling Velez, 33, was told the country’s law prohibits names that do not clearly indicate gender or could expose a person to ridicule.

A public registry office rejected her application — suggesting she adopt a saint’s name instead.

But Colombian-born Ms Velez, who lives near Madrid, is battling to stay Darling.

She said: “It’s part of my personality. They can’t force me to change it.”

Quite Right! If Jesus is a perfectly good name is Spain then so is Darling.

She'd fit right in with our crowd. We the biggest cowd of Darling users and abusers you'd every have the misfortune to meet . Even at that thingie the other night everyone was mwah mwahing and saying 'Darling how are you?' 'oh Darling, I want you to meet this Darling couple' and 'Darling I just love that your comfortable with your shape, so liberating darling.'
Sure some people think this is affected poppycockery, but it really isn't. The reality is far less pompous and more to do with the fact that there is always alcohol involved at these things. None of us can remember each other's names and having possibly been introduced more that once over the years, we are all too embarrassed to say, ' Oh good to see you for the fifth time this year, what the hell is your name again?'
So everyone becomes 'Darling'.
Really, it makes perfect-.
I smell brownies.
Have a good weekend y'all.

Gays, faggots, homophobes and cowards.

In the middle of a furious argument with Patrick Dempsey last year Grey's Anatomy's Isaiah Washington, lost the head, peeled back his thin veneer and unleashed the not particularly hidden homophobia he suffers from. He called co-star TR Knight 'a faggot' causing the mild mannered Knight to out himself publicly and ponder why his sexuality was really any one's business.
Quite so.
In October, Washington apologized for an on-set incident and things appeared to being allowed to die down.
But on the red carpet at Golden Globes Isaiah took his foot out of his mouth long enough to belch up...
"I love gay. I wanted to be gay," he said. "Please let me be gay.'
As tediously bad as this was, he super confirmed his idiocy at a group photo call when he rushed to the microphone and said 'I didn't call him a faggot! Never happened! Never happened!' This outburst embarrassed the cast and crew and upset the
apple cart once more. TR Knight again pondered why he might say this considering every person on the set heard him utter those very words. The denial rather negates the apology.
Okay then.
So today, with his job under fire, Washington has come up with this carefully scripted contrite beauty...

"I can neither defend nor explain my behavior." Washington also says "there are issues I obviously need to examine within my own soul, and I've asked for help."

Washington also said he welcomes the chance to meet with gay and lesbian community leaders "to apologize in person and to talk about what I can do to heal the wounds I've opened.

Here's a hint Isaiah, shut your yap and keep you homophobic utterings to yourself.

Naturally we have the cry of the homo hatin' fucknut, 'He shouldn't have to apologise, he didn't do nothing wrong.'
No? If the mild mannered Knight had called him a 'nigger' in the middle of an argument he would have been rebuked hard and possibly have his contract terminated.
'It's been blown outa proportion'. Maybe so, but then again maybe not. If someone in the public eyes is spanked every now and then it serves as a a reminder to the rest of us that we should maybe watch our 'p's and 'q's. If the actions of Michael 'Nigger' Richards, Mel 'Suger tits fucking jews' Gibson and Jane 'everytime she opens her gob' Goody have shown anything it is that the public in general is fed up of witlings, racist, bigots and now homophobes.
Good.

As a woman with gay friends it never ceases to amaze me that people who don't know or have never met my friends, feel they can use sweeping and often derogatory generalisations to describe them.
Isaiah Washington's verbal wanking and cringing backpeddle have delighted me because it just goes to show how barely under the surface hatred is and how quickly twats like him will try to wiggle out of trouble by pretending to be horrified by their own words. Sheet, I would have more respect for him if he stood up and said, yeah this is how I feel, so sue me.
Suck it up big fella, as Gamma used to say if you're tough enough to dish it out you gotta be tough enough to soak it up in return.
Yah boo sucks!

Bedtime.

Can I just say that 2:48 Am is no time to be going to bed on a Thursday, no, wait, Friday morning.
Really, it isn't.
G'night!

Pain.

Son of a bitch! Stubbed toes! I know it's not fatal, but Jesus it is painful! For that split second it must be the equivalent to being shot.

Drink driving.

From the Indo.
"ONE-in-five drivers killed driving to work in the morning is over the drink-drive limit.

These findings are revealed in an unpublished Health and Safety Executive (HSE) report. They completely undermine claims that gardai are annoying drivers going to work by giving breath tests.

The new research was commissioned by the Road Safety Authority (RSA) in a bid to establish the truth about claims that no one is dying on our roads during the morning because of drink driving.

These claims are being aired almost daily in the media as the debate rages about whether drivers should be forced to take random breath tests on their way to work.

The latest research, due to be published later this week, is based on the blood alcohol levels of every driver killed last year. It found that 21pc of fatal road crashes between 6am and noon were alcohol related.

The report concludes that "the 'morning after' is a danger zone for drink-driving related death and injury on Irish roads".

It identifies Monday morning as a particularly high-risk period for "morning after" crashes. It also reveals that drivers who drank alcohol the night before and do not have a good night's sleep are twice as likely as others to be involved in a crash.

Risks are high in the morning because there are large numbers of schoolchildren, other pedestrians and vehicles on the roads.

Dr Declan Bedford, an HSE specialist in public health medicine, said yesterday that the high number of alcohol-related crashes in the morning proved that compulsory breath tests were justified.

"Mandatory alcohol testing in the morning time is saving and will continue to save lives," he said.

Transport Minister Martin Cullen said: "This research should end the debate that it is okay to have alcohol in your system and drive. This is a nonsense."

Mr Cullen said the random breath-test campaign, credited with reducing road deaths by 30pc since it was introduced just five months ago, was a 24-hour enforcement issue, "not just for a few hours"."

It should come as absolutely no shock to anyone that an increasing number of road deaths are caused by drivers the morning after a night's drinking. If you're out until four in the morning knocking back the booze, chances are when you get up at eight or nine you're still drunk.
And even if you are not, you could still be a danger. If you have ever been hungover -and I'm sure most of us have- you can probably attest to the fact that you are more clumsy, slower to react to things and prone to groaning and keeping your eyes closed.
Hardly the best condition to be in charge of something as powerful as a car.
It is not really rocket science, if you want to drink, don't drive, have a designated driver, take turns in your social group. Do like a few of my friends do down the country, they organise a minibus taxi for Saturday night, (driven by a madman, but a sober one).
If you are a bit of a sot- like me- and must get sozzled, then drink plenty of water before you go to sleep and eat breakfast the next morning, even if the thought of food makes you sick. Try to give yourself a few hours to clear the alcohol out of your system before you head off. One unit of alcohol takes about an hour to break down, so every hour you add not drinking helps. Not always easy I know, but if it keeps you safe it's worth doing.
Oh and Martin Cullen should be slapped up side the head for using 'a nonsense.' Nonsense is a perfectly good noun, no need to fucking with it by adding 'a'.
That is all.

Strange happenings....

Something is going on. Something odd and weird and most unusual. You all know I am a self-centered high flautin' bit of a mé fein-er right? I like shoes and makeup and reading the papers and going to the gym, lounging and so on. I like eating out and drinking rum and complaining about things that make other people want to bash me over the head with their copy of 'Real Problems volume 8'
Right?
Well yesterday something very peculiar happened to me. I was in a shop, waiting patiently from my handmade pasta to be weighed. I was thinking about UGGS and whether or not I would ever buy a pair, I was mildly bored, a pleasant state I regularly find myself in, when suddenly I felt eyes on me.
I looked to my left.
And there, sitting in a buggy, wearing a pink furry sleeveless singlet and bright pink tights was the cutest baby I have ever clapped eyes on.
I was transfixed. She was transfixed. Her eyes were huge and deep blue, her cheeks chubby and pink, she had a tooth.
I tried a smile. She grinned back at me. My smile widened and she did this kind of...gurgly laugh. My hands twitched. I wanted to bend down pick her up and squeeze her like she was a French Bulldog Puppy.
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!
What the hell?
Somewhere deep inside me a mechanism began to grind slowly to life. I felt it as clearly as I would feel some yob kick me in the shin. It was a very definite and-to my mind- audible, 'PING!'
I am...............I'm broody.
Oh I know I waffle on sometimes about my future fake sons and dogs and what not, but in my mind that's as real as Cabett Cove in Murder She Wrote, a cloudy daydream about some cloudy stuff in the cloudy future.
Then I go right on drinking rum, working long hours and going to tedious art gallery openings.
But this! This was different, I still feel it today. That little gurgling pink thing with the tooth, I want one!
Jesus Christ.

Duke Lacrosse Rape update.

I blogged about this last year and I want to post an update about it.
For anyone unfamiliar with the case, last march two strippers were hired to perform at a fraternity house in Durham NC. One of the woman later made an allegation of rape. She claimed she was assaulted, held down and rapped by at least three members of the Duke lacrosse team.
MIke Nifong, a prosecutor handling the case, became very vocal and media friendly almost immediately after the claim was made and Duke university and different racial and feminists groups became involved. It was a media storm as folk weighed in against white rich fratboys who feel they can use and abuse black female stripper. It got very ugly, with groups on Duke's campus calling for the men to be castrated at one point.
The three men accused denied the charge from the word go, and while there were discrepancies in the alledged victim's case from the outset-including the woman picking a man from photos who was no where near the scene at the time- MIke Nifong aggressively pursued this case, mostly in front of a bank of television cameras.
But things started to fall apart for Nifong early on. The men all gave DNA samples. DNA from five men was found on the accuser, but none of it belonged to the three defendants. Mr. Nifong knew this before he indicted the trio.

Nifong and Brian Meehan, the director of the lab where the DNA testing took place, concealed the exculpatory test result from defense attorneys, a violation of procedure and perhaps of the law.The victim self changed her story several times, and the second stripper who was there on the night in question also threw cold water on the rape claims.
Nifong carried on with his charge, never wavering publicly.
However, facing ethics charges that could lead to his disbarment, the Nifong, the Durham County district attorney quietly asked to be removed from the case on Friday _ faxing a letter to the state attorney general asking for a special prosecutor to take over the case that is sure to define his nearly three-decade career.

And what of the students? What of the woman who accused them? What happens next? Was this simply a jump the gun case? Who is the real victim here? The students who had their faces plastered all over the media? Are their charges to be held? What did happen that night?
We'll have to wait and see how this plays out, won't we? Maybe that's what we all should have done from the beginning.

Porche driver.

Sorry for the late post, but busy morning so far.
I haven't even glanced through the papers yet and I know nothing except that Angelina Jolie wore a grey dress to the Golden Globes and looked cross and Brad Pitt is turning into Robert Redford, that is the sum total of my news knowledge thus far.
But it has been an amusing day.
Country Gay and I met for a rare breakfast together earlier to discuss a project.
We were walking past the gates of Dublin of Dublin castle at the crack of dawn this morning, freezing and complaining about cobbles when a car approached us going in the opposite direction. Imagine my great annoyance and irritation to see it was a former boyfriend of mine, and he was driving a Porche.
'Jesus is that-'
'It is.' I said, out of the corner of my mouth.
Naturally FB spotted us and slowed right down so we could see his vehicle in all its glory. The he did 'surprised' and gave us a huge wave, before revving up and tearing up the road in a roar of horsepower.
'Remember that time he headbutted a fire alarm.' Country gay said, ''Nice car though.'
'Hmmph' I said, adjusting my hat, 'it suits him too.'
'Yeah?' he looked at me.
'Of course Darling,' I linked arms with him and we proceeded on down the street, 'small and fast.'

Shawn Hornbeck.

Shawn Hornbeck was 11 when he vanished in October 2002 as he rode a bicycle to a friend's house in the town of Richwoods, Missouri.
A major search failed to find him at the time and he was not found in the four and one half years that followed. However last last Friday. Police, searching for another teenage boy, William Ownby, who had been missing for days, discovered both boys in a tiny apartment 65 miles away in St Louis. The apartment was owned by Michael Devlin. Devlin, a pizzeria manager and part-time funeral parlour worker, has been charged with kidnapping. Shawn has been reunited with his delighted parents.

Does anyone else find it a little strange that Shawn Hornbeck the now fifteen year old kidnap victim made no attempt to escape, despite having access to phones and the freedom to come and go as he pleased, even to the point of being dropped off by the police on a number of occasions for breaking curfew?

Bad idea.

I hope Professor Steve Bloom realises this is a very bad idea indeed. I hate chewing gum more than I care to admit. I hate people chewing gum, I hate finding chewing gum stuck to my shoes and clothing. If this comes about I am going to find Steve Bloom, drug him and superglue his fingers and toes together and yell 'Howdja like them apples!" at him until he gets frightened.
The following piece of horror is taken from today's Sun.

"Fatties could be helped to lose weight — with a new hunger-bashing CHEWING GUM.
The gum makes people feel full-up.

And healthy volunteers given its active ingredient ate up to a fifth less.

The gum contains pancreatic polypeptide (PP) — a hormone released after eating which tells the brain it’s time to stop.

It is released naturally in humans — but some have more than others.

Professor Steve Bloom, at Imperial College London, made the discovery. He said: “PP can be given by injection but we are looking at other means, such as a gum or patch.

“This has the potential to be safe and effective.”

More than a third of British adults are overweight or obese — risking killers including diabetes and high blood-pressure.

The gum could be available within seven years if full trials are successful."

How to avoid hangovers.

Simple really. Go out, have some rum, some wine, mussels, seabream, crushed potoato (wanky restuarant, it was mash) Bailey's coffee, walk, meet friends, more rum and -somewhat inexplicably-two pints of carlsberg. Get cab home, drink water, feel funny, go to bathroom and vomit compiously. Now not a mini vom either, a full force gale spray of a puke. See mussels again. Wave at them if you wish.
And voila, no hangover the next day. Nada, zip, feeling positively dandy. About to go for a scamper in the park.
Huzzahs all round then!
Alcohol in, alcohol out.
It astounds me how often I come up with simple and effective remedies to day to day problems.

Fatcat! No relation, I swear.

Fights with my mother, part...

Oh who am I kidding, I don't know which part this is. Is gazillion a real word?
So the panoply of lilac has flounced out on a whoosh of eau de outrage.
We had dispensed with the small talk pretty quickly- weather -windy, house- not ready, Newstalk- patchy and so on, when the Lilac One fixed a beady eye on me and said-
'How do you find Etheline these days?'
'By phone normally.' I say before I can stop myself.
She gives me a look that suggests I couldn't fall out of a boat and hit water.
Thus the battle commences.
'Did she say any more to you about the wedding?'
'No.'
'I tried to talk to her yesterday about it and she was being very vague.'
'Really?'
'I told her she'd want to be thinking about booking a church if she's planning it this year.And a hotel, some of these places are booked up years in advance you know.'
'Right.'
But I have made a tactical error. I only use monosyllabic answers when I know something and the Lilac One knows this.
She cocks her head and pretends to read the spines of the books on the shelves next to her head. 'I know Kevin's keen, he told me so at Christmas. He's a good man, Kevin.'
'Mmm..'
'Oh now, I know you don't like.'
'Fortunately I'm not marrying him.'
'You don't like anyone.'
'I like plenty of people.'
She stops pretending to read and glares at me. 'I hope you didn't say anything to your sister to make her change her mind about getting married.'
'Like what?'
'Because time and tide waits for no man.'
I wrinkle my forehead at her. 'Time and tide waits for no man?'
'Oh,' she says throwing her hands up. 'it would be just like you to say something. No doubt sneering at him the way you do me, behind my back.'
Your very broad back provides excellent cover, I think to myself.
'I don't sneer at him, I don't anything him.'
'He's a good man!'
'So you keep saying!'
I take a deep breath. 'Look, I don't run Etheline, Etheline runs Etheline and if she doesn't want to get married-
'OOH, are you saying she doesn't?'
Bollocks.
'No, I'm saying whatever Etheline wants to do if up to Etheline. And no amount of bullying her to provide a fucking fairy tale 'day out' (and to my horror and deep resentment I actually used my hands to make imaginary air quotes) will make her think differently.'
My mother does her excellent impersonation of a pufferfish face. I watch the levels of temper develop in her skin tone. Pink, deeper pink, salmon, cerise, red, maroon-
'I knew it!' She squawks, 'I knew something was up.'
'For God's sake nothing is up!' I cry, for Etheline will surely kill me for setting this dog loose.
But my mother won't be stopped. She gathers herself and her bag and hoists herself to her feet.
'Where are you going?' I say to her.
'Home. And you listen to me Missy!' She waggles a finger at me and I resist the urge to snap it off and ram it up her nose. 'I don't know what you and that other one think you're up to (I don't actually know who she is referring to here, it could be my brother, my older sister, the paramour, Etheline, the woman in the corner shop)but Etheline has been very happy with Kevin before someone started putting notions in her head.'
'What the hell are you talking about?' I stand too, I"m taller than her and it makes me feel better. 'What notions?'
'Harumph!' She says 'There is always something with you.'
And this is where we came in, and she went out.
So there you have it. There is always something with me.
Who knew?

The Happy Harpy.

Today is going to be one of those days I can just feel it. I have a mountain of work on and my mother has already phoned to say she will be 'dropping by for a chat' later in the morning. My work load pleas fell on lilac ears.
I was bringing the rubbish down to the bin this morning, dressed fetchingly in grey jammies and a black pashmina when disaster struck. I was half was to the bin when the bag split spilling countless coffee kernels and plum stones and other assorted crap all over the bottom stops. This forced me to go all the way back up stairs for a dust pan and brush. As I began the easy but irritating job of cleaning the crap up I was accosted by the Harpy.
Normally The Harpy and I do very well avoiding each other and grunting the odd greeting, pretending not to see each other on the rare occasion we meet in the street. I would say we flourish this way. But today I sensed it wanted something as it hovered around.
'Good morning.' I eventually said when she cleared her throat in a stage manner for the second time.
'Oh good morning!' said she, falsetto surprised, as though I had just materialized in front of her.
'Those bags must be made of the thinnest plastic.'
'Yes.' says she, twitching her way closer. 'Em, it is true what I'm hearing?'
I straighten up. 'What?'
'You're selling up?'
And now I see it, she's beaming at me, her eyes are shiny with glee and hope.
'Nope, I'm only renting it out.'
'But you ARE moving?'
'Yes, when the new house is ready.'
She contains a whoop and a twirl, a clap and a leap. Somehow she does not rip open her shirt, dance wildly and begin to slaughter chickens before my very eyes.
'Well, I'd better let you get back to it.' She says, gleaming, beamingly, bleamingly. She turns and -for an ould one -makes a gallant effort of taking the steps three at a time.
'I'm thinking of renting it to students!' I yell up the stairs after her.
But she is gone. I have made the Harpy happy.
Can this day get any worse?

I hate Reiki.

I'm against it!
Phooey, bosh, chicanery, poppycockery! Panacea for the idiotic, mumbo jumbo bollockology, healing for the unhealable. Spit spit, hack cough, spit! We hates it, oh yes.
Reiki.
There are very few words in use today that can instill a greater sense of rage and loathing in me than reiki. Typing it makes my back teeth clench, my brow lower and my nostrils wrinkle in feral rage. Even the words 'child abuser' don't make me as incensed.
For some reason reiki, the snake oil crappola wankfest that it, is very popular in this island. I don't understand how this can be except to ponder that many fools and their money are very easily parted.
Frankly I think the practicioners of this shite should be taken to a public square and horse whipped to within an inch of the miserable charlatan lives. After which, when they complain of the pain, they should be told 'channel some fucking energy and heal yourself you snake oil peddler!' and perhaps have salt flung on them.
The fact that anyone can set themselves up as a 'healer' should alert people to the fact that reiki- spit spit- is a load of old hooey. As I said to someone yesterday, I can set myself up here, buy a massage couch, incense, a chart of the human body locating the 'chakras' (glossy naturally) and perhaps a CD of fucking whale sounds or water running (to save money I propose leaving a tap on somewhere) and hey presto changeo I too am a reiki practicioner. Now I can 'heal' folk without ever touching them by locating their 'chi' and unblocking their 'chakras' and 'channeling healing energy' towards any ailment that my dupe, no, wait scratch that, client might have.
If I pay some money to someone else I can become a 'master reiki' in less than a month, then I can teach other charlatans to become 'Masters' and whop di friggen do, we're all rubbing our hands together- but only to awaken our inner healing heat you understand.
Now you can also do 'distant healing' this negates the need for an office at all! You simply send me a list of your problems and I send healing energy, for a small fee of course. How cool it that? I can be painting my nails on a Saturday while sorting out your back pain and colon cancer or gum disease. Feel the power rubes, feel it!
It enrages me that this shite is considered 'complimentary medicine'. Complimentary suggests it goes hand in hand with traditional medicine, boosting its powers and providing much needed assistance.
It isn't.
It's a leech. It latches on to the sick and the infirm, sticking its filthy suckers into them, filling their head with hogwash and twee terminology, content to trick and pilfer the funds of people who are either A) foolish enough to fall for it, or B), so ill that they will desperately try anything.
I don't care at all about A, but I care a very great deal about B.
Reiki is the pilot fish of medicine, content to trail in the wake of real healing, nibbling like a parasite on what it finds, content to bottom feed because it know it can do no more than that.
Reiki, I'm against it!

Hollywood tat.

While waiting for the supposed tornado to strike I realised-astounded- that it has been some time since I did a Hollywood round up of tat. So without further ado...
Britney Spears continues on her quest to spend as little time with either of her children as possible. She succeeds.
Paris Hilton dents expensive car, nobody seems surprised, especially car.
Jennifer Anniston wins 'People's choice award for favourite actress' Across the globe millions of BAMZS (Brad Angelina Maddoz Zahara Shiloh) fans screech and gibber while sacrificing chickens and sticking wooden pin in blonde Bratz dolls.
Matthew McConaughey has a shower and puts on a shirt again. People don't recognise him and he is refused entry to the Ivy.
Beyonce Knowles didn't write any of the music for Dreamgirls, nobody is surprised, least of all her.
Justin TImberlake continues to be boring, but is supposedly dating Harlot Johanson instead of the the Joker.
Marilyn Manson dates Evan Rachael Woods (19) some of us wonder if Dita found him to serve divorce papers yet. Some of our sisters wonder is ERW blind and on xanex or Lithium.
Donald and Rosie continue to trade Barbs, Barbs herself tries to wiggle out if it but the Donald aka the Combover Bunny, hangs her out to drip dry, straightening her neck in the process. Nudie pictures of Bunny's wife Melanie appear, said photos were taken back in the day when she could still blink.
Hilary Swank gets a holly wood star, she whinnys in delight and prances off to kick her ex-husband Chad Lowe, lovingly and with the greatest of respect, in the head. When Studio execs find out she made a film version of PS I LOVE you, she is rounded up and sent to the glue factory. The star is then given to Ed Norton, because he broke his back falling off Hillary while filming The Painted Veil.
NIcole Kidman continues to shine, no really, her skin is so stretched and shiny tired ducks keep trying to land on her.
Carmen Electra finally comes out, she admits she was Ray Liotta all along. World congratulates her on stellar preformance in Goodfellas. Dennis Rodman proposes again. Carmen blows him off. Well, maybe not off.

Fat cat, fat dogs, fat fatty fat fat.

If the park newbies and their pristine runners are anything to go by, a lot of people over indulged during the christmas break(myself included), and a lot of folk are starting off the new year with good intentions.
Huzzah I say! I applaud anyone with the gumption to get up and do something about their fat instead of eating their body weight in jelly babies and compaining about thyroids and water retaining medicine, (hear that mother!)
I have little or no patience with lardy ass folk who complain about being fat but do nowt to change or alter their lardiness. Conversely I have all the time in the world for lardy ass folk who are just that, lardy and happy with their look. Well done, if you're happy, I'm happy, the world still spins.
Screw it, life is short.
But lately it's not just folk that are getting chunkier. There is a growing number of chunky pets, and now the powers that be are starting to sit up and take notice. Perhaps they smell easy money in the air. Naturally the States are leading the charge.
Observe.
"WASHINGTON - Is your hound round? Too much flab on your Lab? Is your husky, well, husky? A new drug may provide some help. The government approved the first drug for obese canines on Friday. Called Slentrol, the Pfizer Inc. drug is aimed at helping fat Fidos shed extra pounds."
Dog Obesity, it seems is on the rise.
"A dog that weighs 20 percent more than its ideal weight is considered obese. That takes in about 5 percent of the nearly 62 million dogs in the United States. An additional 20 percent to 30 percent are considered overweight
The liquid drug appears to reduce the amount of fat a dog can absorb. It also seems to trigger a feeling of satiety or fullness, according to the FDA.
The prescription drug also can produce some unfortunate side effects, including loose stools, diarrhea, vomiting, lethargy and loss of appetite."

Sigh. I mean sigh, seriously, sigh.
Okay, for the cheap seats at the back, here is a fool proof way to stop your pets becomming obese without the need to subject them to drugs that might be a danger to their health, are you ready...
MAKE THEM EAT LESS AND EXERCISE THEM MORE!
Most dogs by and large will eat just about anything you give them, cheese bread with lashings of butter, chips, curry, pasta, anything at all. That doesn't mean you have to give it to them. You're just killing them with kindness. Dogs, especially as they get older, do much better if they are kept fit and lean. It takes the pressure off their joints and keep their hearts in good nick.
My mother's dog, Bobby Ewing, is a fat bug-eyed spaniel, who snores, wheezes and is rather...farty. He can't walk far because of his tremendous girth and spends a great deal of his time asleep on the end of my mother's bed. He eats what he wants and turns his nose up at 'real' dog food. He has arthritis. Bobby Ewing is eight. He's a gorgeous little chap, playful and good natured, but exhausted and aged from carrying around the extra weight.
No amount of us telling my mother that she is harming her beloved pooch with all the biscuits and crap she feeds him makes the slightest bit of difference. Bobby Ewing turns those bug eyes on her and she give in, immediately, if not sooner.
I can see it now, people will turn to these drugs to 'help' their dog's weight, rather than say, 'well sheet, maybe I should walk him an extra mile every evening.'
It's a quick fix world we live in, always with the quick fix.

High Heel fat burning.

As a frequent wearer of high heels let me just say that it takes YEARS to train feet to get used to them. YEARS! And even then somewhere in the back of my mind a small but vital past of me is whispering, 'what about loafers, or flats, I bet they'd be more comfortable.' Or on angrier days (these are tools of the patriarchy! Stop wearing them, let your leg hair grow, wipe off that lipstick damn you, what do you mean you want to look your best? You shouldn't have to torture yourself to do so, what do you mean you don't accept them au natural either? What about beards? What? Who's Hugo Boss?)
But while flats would indeed be more more comfortable, certain ensembles require a decent heel to tie it all together. And on days when I pull out the higher of the heels you can be damn sure I am, A- going to where I am going by car, B- doing a lot of sitting down when I get there, and C- getting a taxi back. Even then it will be with a certain amount of relief when I get home and kick said heels off, and my feet are FAR from beginners.
So there, I have said it, I am a heel wearer, a good heel wearer in fact. An EXPERT heel wearer.
Which lead me to my post this gloomy wet day. (screw you rain!)

'Stilettoes are the new gym accessory!' Scwwweams The sun.
Reporter Dulcie Pearce goes to her local gym to try out the new 'rage'
Let the foolishness begin...

"DUSTING off my gym bag, I entered the changing rooms with a familiar fear that comes from being surrounded by super-fit people."
(Ah yes, because remember folks, everybody who goes to the gym, esecially in January are super fit triatholons, just sitting buffly in the changing rooms waiting to point at your gutsy and laughing like this 'mwaameaaahhhh!' Perpetuate myth one straight out the gates)

'After pulling on my slightly dated tracksuit and squeezing into my highest heels, I hobbled to the dance hall which had shiny floors and 360-degree mirrored walls."
(Sweet Jesus)
"My instructor, Zoe McNulty, who was stretching with the usual suppleness of a dancer, explained: “It doesn’t matter if you’re thin or fat, short or tall, old or young – this workout is made for everyone to enjoy.”
(I assume most men are not going to join up, so the 'everyone' bit has me puzzled)
"She continued: “Wearing the stilettos changes your centre of gravity, forcing you to pull in your stomach, while improving your balance and making you feel sexy and confident.”

"Then Zoe took me through a succession of complicated lunges, squats, spins and wiggles that were quickly put together to make a ten-minute dance.

“It’s time to release your inner kitten and become the master of your stilettos,” Zoe said, turning up the music.
Following Zoe’s every move to the beats of Britney Spears’ Toxic blasting out of the stereo, I actually started to enjoy myself. If it hadn’t been for the searing pain up my calf muscles, I would have forgotten all about the stupidly high heels I was prancing around in."

Quite.

Okay then, as actresses flogging shampoo the world over say, here comes the science bit.

'When you wear high heel you are immediately throwing your body out of its natural alignment. It affects your posture, as well as putting pressure on your back, knees and can negatively affect your feet as well.
Generally, we're not built to wear high heels for everyday walking, and the position you are forcing your feet into is unnatural (and normally worse the higher the heel), can restrict blood flow, cause cramps give you backache and lead to severe posture problems.
As for your back, it's not so much a matter of affecting the backbone, as causing problems for your disks as they have to support your vertebrae in a completely different way to when you're wearing flats. It can those lead to malformations and joint pains.
And your poor feet suffer such conditions as bunions, swelling of the joint at the base of the big toe; hammertoes, a permanent bend in the middle joint of a toe; neuromas, nerve problems that cause shooting pain into the toes; ingrown toenails; and even stress fractures. Australian Podiatry Association (NSW) vice-president Brenden Brown claims high heels wear likely to increase the risk of foot and ankle injury and pain. "Your tendons claw up, so your toes are clawing up. Your calves may look fantastic, but your feet are going to look like a 90-year-old's," he said.'

Okay, so heels are not great for the body as a whole, most of us know that and limit our time and endurance in them.
Right? Right?
SO why in the name of God would some eegit go exercising in them?! We have great things for exercising in, they're called runners. They are comfortable, lightweight, shock absorbers. You can run safely in them. You can jump and bounce and turn and do all sort of things that burn the old calories.
This kind of flummery gets my dander up, almost as much as 'poledancing class' or as I call it, 'How to emulate a stripper' class, I mean give me a bloody break.
Stilleto shoes do not belong in a gym, and seeing a bunch of women hobbling about in them wearing tracksuits would make whole parts of my womanhood shiver in despair. I might hand in my membership badge in disgust and go off deep into the woods to try my hand at rearing dalmation sheep.
High heel exercise, I'm against it! And so should you all.
I'm off now for a run, rain be damned.
I won't be wearing heels.

Tellymeals.

The paramour and I go for Sunday lunch. Naturally we return with a 32 inch flat screen television.
We are slowly but surely turning into a pastiche of footballers' wives. I don't know whether to laugh or cry.
I think I'll change into jammies and watch a DVD on our new monster screen.

Dita Von Teese...

has come cleanly to her senses. She is divorcing Marilyn Manson a year after their lavish wedding here on the ould sod. I was shocked. No really stunned indeed. Gorgeous burlesque intelligent woman, marries a man who wears more make up then her? It was never going to last. I bet he used up all her Deep Red no 6 too.
Oh well, another one bites the dust.
Or was dusted.
Who knows, shrug.

Squirrels.

I have a question on these bushy tailed chaps. Don't they hibernate? Bushy Park is full of them at the moment, scampering thither and yon, practically running up the legs of yours truly as I galloped/wheezed/fallomped my way past them to day-one ran up the tree until he was eye-level, a bit disconcerting.
It is the mild winter? Or do Irish grey squirrels not hibernate?

The pillow angel.

This story disturbs me, on the one hand I understand the logic behind the parent's decision, on the other I question the moral and ethical reasons used to mutilate a child.
I have no doubt they love her and I read their blog...but I don't know. Like I said, I am disturbed.

Books...

and the mild obsession I have with them since I first discovered I could read. ( very early on actually, while following the pictures of the 'four Marys' in Mandy comics)
Ever since I was a child I have been a complete hopeless bibliophile. I love books, I covet books, they are my friends. I reread constantly, I like collecting first editions, I like organising my books, I like the look of their spines on my shelves, the feel of them as I run my fingers along them. I like discovering books I had a a child and could not keep, it is like welcoming home a prodical child when I come across them mouldering away in some second hand books shop or market. I must have nearly 1000 books here now, most in shelves but some stacked thither and yon.
By my bed right this second there are,
The Zahir- Paulo Coelho- not yet read.
Theft-Peter Carey- not yet read.
The killing kind-John Connolly- finished.
For one More Day- Mitch Albom- not yet read.
Pegasus Descending- James Lee Burke- half way through.
Talk to the Hand- Lynne Truss- finished.
The LIttle Book of Scientific Principles, Theories and Things- Surendra Verma- finished, but deserves to be re-read on a regular basis.
The Book of General Ignorance-John Lloyd and John MItchinston- perused through.
Hannibal Rising- Thomas Harris-gasped at and sniggered over, but read.
And last but by very no means least-A book Addict's Treasury- by Julia Rugg and Lynda Murphy.

It is the last book that tickles me rosy pink. The paramour bought it for me for Christmas and I am absolutely head over heels with it.
It is a delightful timely book for people who love books. With snippets and paragraphs from other book lovers all collected between its covers- the sections on 'booknesting' had me wincing with laughter as I recognised my own foiblles.
"Some friend of theirs had rented the house for several months to an interior decorator. When they returned, they discovered that their entire library had been reorganised by colour and size. Shortly thereafter, the decorator met with a fatal automobile accidnet. I confess that when this story was told, everone around the table concurred that justice had been served.' (Anne Fadiman, ex libris: Confessions of a Common Reader, 1998)
Can you imagine!

'Bookish Behaviour' -Leigh Hunt (1832)-- 'When I speak of being in contact with my books, I mean it literally. I like to lean my head against them.'
Mee too, I like to spend most of my day surrounded by them. I can find a book with the greatest of ease, despite their number. I am happiest sprawled out on my bed, with Puddy or the bigger of the cats, with whatever tome I am reading inches from my nose.

Eeeee, there are descriptions of studies, best reading positions, best light, burning your hand as a child while reading under the covers after lights out, the best time of day to read, whether to curl up or lie flat...it's all there. It's a masterpiece. It's for book lovers. If you are one, run, go buy it, open it, breathe it in, recognise our species, be proud, we are not alone, we are legion!

Let the hysteria begin.

Initially I wasn't going to blog about this story, as it had been pretty well written about, but having perused a number of papers this morning I felt I should say something on the rising and tpyical hysteria in the meedja.
Ellie Lawrenson, five, bled to death in minutes after being mauled at her gran’s house in St Helens, Merseyside, on New Year’s Day, where she had been staying as her parents rang in the new year. At around 4:30 her grandmother heard her screaming and rushed to her. She found Ellie being savaged be a pitbull, Rueben, owned by Ellie's uncle. The grandmother, suffering sever bites managed to drag the dog off and lock him outside, but it was too late to save Ellie, the litte girl died at the scene from her injuries.
Right so. Horrific, disturbing, heartbreaking for the family.
But what have we got?
The sun- voice of the people that it is- comes charging with the screamer...'The dog that killed little Ellie Lawrenson WAS a banned pit bull terrier type, police revealed last night."
Okay, what does this mean exactly? A pitbull 'type'. Which type? Type usually indicates mutt to me. I.e not a pure bred dog. Are the sun advocating destroying all mongrels?
In the comments sections we have folk screaming for 'all' dangerous dogs to be destroyed.
Okay again, aren't all dogs dangerous in some way? If you annoy a Yorkie will it bite? Ever been been chased by an angry Westie or those vicious Kerry Blues? For that matter as I have said often here, I run in the park and am chased and snapped at constantly by Jack Russells. Should we destroy them as a breed? What about Dobermans? Are they 'dangerous' I had one, he wasn't. What about collies? I was savaged by one of them as a child, will they be listed?
Cippity clup, hot on the heels of the Sun come the Daily Mail...
"The owner of the pit bull type dog which killed five-year-old Ellie Lawrenson is a convicted drug dealer
Kiel Simpson, uncle of Ellie, was jailed for 21 months in 2003 for possessing 44lb of cannabis worth £24,000 with intent to supply."
OOOOOO, see, now we've got it down pat, he was a drug dealer. His niece is dead, his family bereft, what exactly has this got to do with the price of tomatos in Guatamala?

Then we have Lord Baker offering up his opinion. Lord Baker said the Dangerous Dogs Act, which he brought in as Home Secretary in 1991, had been watered down in 1997 to give some dogs a "second chance" without being automatically put down.

"This dog had a second chance* and I don't believe that should have happened at all," he said. "I think it is absolutely tragic that 15 years after the Act was implemented there are still pit bull terriers in our country."
(*this is in dispute, there is no record of the dog attacking any one before although he may have had a go at another dog)

Lord Baker called for the law to be tightened, with other breeds, including bull terriers, Alsatians and Rottweilers, registered and muzzled in public places.

I think a pitbull is a terrible choice for a family pet because at the end of the day they are bred to be fighting dogs, aggression was and is prized in them, as is fearlessness and tenacity. A very dangerous combination. Put this into the hands of a young man- and it is frequently young men who own them- who wants to be seen as a bit of a tough lad and you can have a real problem on your hands.
Most larger breeds of dogs need to be trained properly. They need obedience, socialisation and to be treated with a a firm kind hand. Any sign of aggression need to be addressed immediately and dealt with accordingly, and that includes food aggression and aggression towards other dogs.
But it is folly to think that it is only the 'dangerous breed' dogs we need to watch for. All dogs can be dangerous, most dogs can over power and seriously harm a child. I have always said toddlers and dogs don't mix and I will say it until the day I give up the ghost and go to the shoe shop in the sky.

For what it's worth I agree with registering dogs, I think it is a sound idea. I think people should be held resonsible for their dogs and their actions.
I think all dogs should be microchipped, spayed and neutered too, unless they are a show dog, or owned by reputable breeders. Maybe then our pounds and shelter would not be filled with unwanted animals.
But what I don't agree with it the hysterical bullshit that comes after every single dog related tragedy.

Nero Wolfe

I am back to work, I am inexplicably hungover.
Plus ça change.
Engorged, as I am from drinking copiously and from eating my own body weight in christmas dinners: gravy-two kinds-mashed potatoes, mushy peas, roasted parsnips, carrots, roasted spuds, sprouts from the vine, stuffing-two kinds-oh yes, and turkey annd honey glazed ham, prawns, smoked salmon, soda bread and Marie Rose sauce, I vowed, most port-ily to my newer retund self that I would stop eating meat and eat yet more delicious veggies. I also proclaimed loudly that I would cease drinking as much as a sailor or sailors...on shore leave for the first time in many months at sea.
And I would have no problem with this at ALL! Had not a certain man with browny/greeny eyes and excellent arms not gone out of his way to provide me with the 'complete Nero Wolfe box set' as part of all things presenty.
Days of watching Fritz the Swiss cook create meals of tender veal and roasted starlings, of rich well seasoned game, of fennel and garlic and oil and rosemary rubbed pork, drip droolingly described suckling pig, of sweet crackling crubeens and sweetbreads doused in mild french mustard and aromatic spices....
For God's sake!
What is a fat cat to do?
I immedatiely raced my less than nubile body off to WILSONS BUTCHERS in Rathfarnham.
'Please sir,' I cried, 'a ring of your white pudding, a pound of your smoked maple backed rashers, some of those hand reared organic pork sausages, stuffed with sage and herbs, what do you mean stop drooling on the glass? Bah! Give me five of those tender lambs chops and eeeeeeeeeeeee, some of those YELLOW breasts of organic fancy assed chicken!'
Tonight I am making a dinner of peppers and chicken. And I will ENJOY it.
Paramour had better like 'more' of me.

All is quiet...

on New Year's Day
A world in white gets underway
I want to be with you
Be with you,
night and day
Nothing changes
on New Year's Day
On New Year's Day

I will be with you again
I will be with you again

Under a blood red sky
A crowd has gathered
in black and white
Arms entwined, the chosen few
The newspapers says, says
Say it's true it's true...
And we can break through
Though torn in two
We can be one

I...I will begin again
I...I will begin again

Oh...
Maybe the time is right
Oh...maybe tonight...

I will be with you again
I will be with you again

And so we're told
this is the golden age
And gold is the reason for
the wars we wage
Though I want to be with you
Be with you night and day
Nothing changes
On New Year's Day
On New Year's Day

Sorry, I meant to add, this song and House of Pain's 'Jump around' were played mercilessly last night at the greatest gathering of fuckers, witlings and alcos the world has ever seen. Yes yes you weeping folk, the house of pain is in effect yo...

Wishing you folk a very happy New Year's day.
Kissy Kissy FMC!