Do you really want to hurt me?

Oh oh! Boy George has been arrested after allegedly imprisoning a male escort in his flat.

Auden Carlsen ran from the singer's East London home in sheer terror, after he claimed George and another man had grabbed him and chained him to a wall.

Carlsen - who claims he had agreed to pose for photos for the 'Do You Really Want To Hurt Me' singer and was not working as an escort - said: "I walked into the bedroom wearing my white underpants and a T-shirt and then I was jumped on by another man.

"George handcuffed me to a hook by the bed as they held me down."

Carlsen then claims the other man left the room before the former Culture Club singer produced a box of sex toys and told him: "Now you'll get what you deserve."

Eek. Naughty George.

Cocaine, drugs, robots, porky-pies, mmmmmmpies.

Is it too early in the morning for this I wonder?
Bah, nope, let the mockery begin.
Not that I would doubt the veracity of a paper like the Sindo,(Sunday Independent for all you non Irish). Not that I think for one tini-tiny second it would make up sources, steal stories from innocent bloggers or use hyperbolic tactics to sell its delightful paper, but, and there is a mighty big 'but' blowing in the wind this very morning, the lead story from the Life section yesterday had me falling about the place laughing and shaking all over.
Well I wasn't but I might as well have been.
'The end Of The Line' was a story of drugs, cocaine (the champagne of drugs), to be exact and how it is rampant in Irish society and how it's... DUN... DUN... DUN, sorta addictive 'n stuff.
In a less than shocking expose, Niamh Horan goes on to interview some addicts about their experiences.
Except well, who knows if she did or not? Niamh Horan might have interviewed a pigeon outside her bedroom window and her teddy bear Walter (not his real name) for all the sense her 'interviews' made.
First up was the complete and utterly stinking rich Ian (not his real name) He started on the old coke at 19, pretty soon he was hooked and (shaking all over) spending up to 600 and 700 euros on the old coke a week. Like most 19 year olds, Ian ( not his real name) seems to have had an almost unlimited supply of money. But fortunately Ian (not his real name) got help. He told his Mammy (possibly not her real name) and she wasn't too pleased. Then he 'put more cocaine into his body' and his friends weren't too pleased, they took him (shaking all over) off to hospital where Ian (not his real name) was "put on a blood-pressure machine and a heart monitor. Then my family came in. They were very concerned, but I was on a lot of medication at the time, so the rest of it's kind of a blank."
Indeed.
He then attended (shaking all over) the Rutland Centre* and after a few false starts he stopped 'putting cocaine into his body' although no one will employ him -possibly due to the shaking- and he reckons his 'airwaves'are a bit blocked.
But before he returned to the hinterlands he had some words of wisdom to impart. 'At the moment there's an epidemic in Ireland, and it's like America was in the eighties. Nobody knows the dangers of it. People think that it's the champagne, the Rolls-Royce, of all drugs, but I can tell you first-hand that it's probably the most dangerous of them all.'
Quite.
Next up Philip! (not real name) Come on down dude! You're older right? Cause we're trying to go cross the boards here, last dude was 19, what are you? 27? Awesome!
Okay, so Philip, (not his real name) was working in "a high-profile computer company when he reached rock bottom" (those damn high-profile computer companies will do that to a person, heartless they are)
Philip (not his real name) had it worse than Ian, he 'turned into a robot' from taking cocaine. (at least he wasn't shaking all over).
But after missing a few Mondays at work and going beep-beep-beep when reversing, clippity-clop, off to the Rutland Centre* Philip (not his real name) went and despite worrying that he might 'have to live on a mountain" (clearly a fate worse than death), Philip was finally free of the dreaded drug and he returned to 'playing sport' (robots make terrific golfers)
Onwards dear readers!
Next!
Connor (not his real name)was "nearly addicted after the first time". At a mere 26 Connor was spending the 'guts of 300 Euros a day on cocaine' . Fortunately Connor (not his real name) told his family, made his Mam cry, skippity-hopped into The Forest rehab treatment centre (a place I cannot find) and before you can say 'wait, how much money were you-'he was cured.
Huzzah!
Next up Marie Byrne, (possibly real name) founder and director of the Aisling Group and she says, 'It's at epidemic proportions now, we knew it was going to happen more than 13 years ago.'
Marie talks a lot of talk, most of it anecdotal, but my personal favourite line was, 'I find that the scale of it is astronomical. Even with the schoolchildren (not real people-that was me) it's not a small number of them doing it, it's a lot. We can see that it's being used in house parties all over the country and in toilets in every pub in the country".
(Man that woman and her spies get everywhere, this is going to play havoc on my bladder, I don't even like to pee when someone can hear me)

Now like I said I simply could not accuse the Sindo of hyperbole, that wouldn't be right, but sources shaking all over, robots, epidemics, everyone's doing it in every toilet in the land? My word! Who knew? Did you? I was out and about this weekend not doing it and the people I was with were not doing it too! What's wrong with us?
You're probably doing it right now, aren't you?

Cocaine! While I don't give a rat's ass about it, I find I'm against it, purely on the grounds that I don't want to turn into a robot (unless it's a robot like Bender, that would be way cool)and I want to pee in peace.

* The paramour pointed out that the article in question might be a spoof and just an ad for the Rutland Centre. He might be correct.
There was a model used throughout said article and despite the fact that they had tried to gussy her up to look like a 'user' she was impossibly glamourous. I super especially liked the crotch shot, nothing says 'cocaine' quite like it.

UPDATE, using the power of his fingertips, Major has found The Forest rehab centre, it's in Wicklow.

Bad Idea number 3

Don't go running hungover. Nothing good can come of it.
That is all.

Whinging waffle on a sunny Friday.

All is not well in the land of the fat cat. Words are being typed arseways, jobs ignored, ennui is rampant, a hollow feeling of lacklustre nowtniess persists.
It was there when I went to bed, it was there when I woke, it's here now.
It's nothing grand, no large scale blow, just a sense of, "meh"
Whence did this malaise come?
Wither the funk?
Too much law and order? Too much CSI? was NY too much?What's going on with Gary's face?
It can't just be me. Surely all of us at some stage have patted our contented bellies and sat back to soak up the relative peace of our lives only to suffer a spike or jab, a whisper of, 'something's missing.'
I got up today and wandered down stairs, I made coffee and, as it is another beautiful day, I went out to the newly shorn garden to drink it. A small pride of cats followed me.
'Puddy.' I said, for she was the only one who sat under my feet. 'What is it? What's wrong with me? Is it because there's nothing wrong that I feel so out of the loop?'
Puddy considered my words most carefully, but in doing so fell asleep -she is old- so I was left to figure it all out for myself.
In my ridiculously mis-spent youth I lived on my nerves a lot, I left home in a rage at 16 and was forever on the cusp of being a total and utter fuck-up. Many a time I tipped over the edge and swam about in the pool of fuckupidyness, but somehow I always clawed my way out.
Now here I am, thirty-four, content, happily ensconced with a good man, I have a good job and yet I'm sitting about like a twat, pondering the unponderable, naval gazing.
Maybe it's because there is no more danger to be had. With Memnoch off foreign the weekly terror is gone. Oh I know that sounds over the top and dramatic, but really, I feared him, we all did. And going to that sad excuse of a class last week just reminded me that not only did I fear Memnoch I respected him. It was a one or twice a week lesson in rage, terror, pain and triumph.
'Oh thank you' we'd cry, picking ourselves up and wiping the sweat from our eyes, checking ourselves for cuts, limping from his class, beaten, but alive. Thank you!
Or maybe it's because I'm getting sensible. I don't drive too fast anymore, I don't smoke, I don't take drugs, hell and this might shock you most, I don't even like to get drunk! (although I do like to drink, don't get confused).
Or perhaps it's the fear. You know, when you're waiting for the other shoe to drop. Stuff going well? Don't worry, something will happen, just you wait and see.
Maybe that's it, maybe I'm just the suspicious sort. Maybe the good weather is getting to me. Where's the rain and the clouds? The biting wind? Why can I sit outside in a t-shirt drinking my coffee in April? Why have I got a tan?
Meh, I don't know. Perhaps I just need to give myself a good boot in the arse, actually that's probably it.
Now if you'll excuse me I'm off to ring my mother. I'm going to tell her that I'm considering becoming a Wiccan.

Jobs I hate/most cranky.

All righty then, We all have them, the little jobs we do that no one else seems to do. These things are essential and they fall to us and we do them. Normally we do them unasked and under appreciated. but what are they?
Well I"m gonna give you my top five most FUCKING hated jobs that I do on a regular basis.
1-Cleaning out the litter trays. Bleaugh!So minging it is monk to the core.
2-Washing out the kitchen bin- Bleaugh.
3-Hoovering- I hate the sound of a hoover. It drives me nuts, but at least the one I have now doesn't fall apart like my last one, which used to drive me into spasms of rage, until I dragged down many flights of stairs threw half way across the street one Saturday, this was after the head fell off it for the one millionth time.
4-Having to ring people about stuff. Any stuff, especially work related stuff, I just hate it. I have email for a reason. I hate phones.
5-cutting hedges.


The last one is new, and I didn't realise I hated cutting hedges until I was forced to don gardening gloves the other evening and go out into the wilderness we call a garden and try to reclaim some of it. The warm weather, sunshine and abundance of green mature bushes has caused an explosive amount of growth and something had to be done. Three hours later and I could no longer lift the secateurs, but a vast mountain of chopped stuff lay about the place. All that remained then was to rake it into a pile and dispose of it.
I raked it up, then I went in for a drink and a think. How the hell am I supposed to dispose of a mountain of branches and hedge? It is illegal to burn it, and leaving it piled like a green sugerloaf in the middle of the lawn/meadow is not the way to go about it.
Right, I called on my neighbour-who has a wonderful garden, complete with actual lawn and raised flowerbeds, with FLOWERS!!- and he informed me I have no option but to chop it all into tini-tiny pieces and bag it up and transport it to some recycling place down in Crumlin somewhere.

Great. It's going to take forever and that pile is FULL of spiders and bits of nettles.
So that's today's plan. I'm refusing to work because for some reason I"m typing everything backwards. I typed have as ahve and later as alter and, well I ALWAYS make a haymes of because-becasue. But it seems especially bad today so I'm not doing it.
Also, while I'm having a rant, I do not see the point of people who hit the snooze button on their alarms more than once. Just fucking sleep the extra half hour and then get up when the alarm goes off, waking and hitting snooze and waking and hitting snooze is VELLY annoying and creates shadow sleep, where you're neither one nor t'other. It's totally pointless and really cross making.
And another thing.
Let me just say this because this is my blog and I can say what I want.
What happened to that family is Wexford is very sad. It is always very sad when two innocent children are killed by those who should offer up their lives to protect them.
But If I hear one more middle-class angst riddled wanker waffle on about how 'it's society's fault' and how 'we don't care for others we only care for material things' or my personal favourite, 'we are all to blame', I will implode and explode at the same time.
Fuck off with yourself, gobshite. Who the fuck do you think you are kidding? Do you think people didn't kill themselves before now? Do you think us being supposedly wealthier is the fucking cudgel you were all looking for to beat yourself over the back with. 'OOOH we're so wealthy, mea culpa mea culpa, my faux memory of a simpler time, a picture perfect Ireland from days of yore leads me to believe that we-as a society- don't care any more.'
Don't care anymore about what? You po-faced moss licker. Fuck off, you're sitting there on your computer talking to bloggers from all over the country and the world but you're wringing your hand about isolation and 'the change'. If anything people are less marginalised now. And you know what? Even if every person was living up every person's own arse in a compound, some people would still kill themselves. Its fucking sad, it's fucking tragic and it's fucking unstoppable. But what it's isn't is 'all our faults' and like I said the other day, YOU don't get to talk for me. And if you're so worried that your kids are not 'mixing with people from different socio economic groups', yank him out of Gael School, drive little Dymphna of Rocco down to The east wall or Limerick or where ever the fuck and enroll him/her in there. Let the kid mix freely and learn a whole new set of skills. You can call it something wanky like 'organic self awareness' or some other trite shit like that.
But if you're not going to do that-and we all know you're not- shut the fuck up with the bleating and the hand wringing.It's boring as hell and hollow as a length of Wavin pipe.
There. Now I"m off to have toast and chop wood.

War.

There is an ugly war being fought, life or death, a war of terror and brutality. An epic battle of good versus evil.
I try to stay neutral, to keep my mind balanced and fair. It is the nature of the beast I tell myself, war is ugly.
But I cannot. I'm rooting for the little guy. There, I freely confess it, I want to see the guy defending his patch win. They didn't ask for this hostility, they're just trying to 'be.'
But they have no choice. They must fight. This is a war in which one force, mighty, arrogant, ever watchful, are threatening to destroy everything they stand for.
So they have risen to the challenge. It will not be a case of roll over. Yes the invaders are massive, better equipped. but the smaller force is determined and dug in.
There have been skirmishes, field battles, snipers and open combat, and yet they-the aggressors- have not gained the upper hand. They fight and regroup, stunned to find that their might is of little use to them in the difficult conditions in which they must fight. But they persist, for they know they will win, they have superior strength on their side and they will brook no defeat. To lose now would be disaster, they would relinquish ground and in the end lose their hold over the zone.
But foolhardy warriors. They have underestimated their enemies' knowledge of the terrain, underestimated the kamikaze nature of the beast, the fight or die mentality.
The enemy will fight to the death, they will protect their loved ones at all cost, they will not be driven from their homes no matter if the crushing weight of the invaders comes to bears. It is win at all cost.
All I can do is watch with breath baited.
I just wish the fuckers would do it quietly.
'Shut up Birdies!' I yelled out my window this morning as the day's round of insults and chatterwoking started at the crack of dawn.'Shut the bloody hell up or I'll ruddy poison the lorraya!'

A mister and missus Blackbird have a nest in on of the dense bushes in my garden where they are raising a brood. The magpies- and they seem to be legion- are trying to find that nest and destroy it. But the blackbirds are some of the most ferocious brave fighters I've ever seen.
Yesterday I sat peering over the top of my computer at them, transfixed for almost twenty minutes as an aerial battle was fought before my very eyes.
A huge magpie had landed in the branches of the sycamore tree, close to the thick bush wherein lies the nest, when missus black bird spotted him and cried a warning. Within seconds an ear splitting 'skree skree skree skree' alarm started and BAM! mister blackbird exploded from the foliage and dive bombed the magpie, flying so close the bigger bird had no option but to drop back to the branch below, a smaller branch that did not support his weight and threw him slightly off balance. Before he had even a split second to settle, mister B had spun and dived him from the other side.
The magpie leaped to soar only to be cut off by a black blur. Pinwheeling, he crashed into the cherry tree with a whump, blossoms scattered across the evening air like snow flakes.
Then came missus B, screeching and beating her wings as though the hounds of hell were beneath her. She is slighter bigger the mister B, but still tiny compared to the magpie, but he is no match for her. She screeched once again and they commenced battle.
Enraged the magpie attacked, flying and turning, leaping from branch to branch but there are two of the little black spitfires and they work in tandem, the bigger bird tried to lure them higher up the branches where his wingspan and strength could come into play, but the blackbirds are clever, they drive him into the lighter tighter twiggier parts of the trees, twisting and turning swooping inches from his face, disorienting him and causing him to chatter with fury.
Finally the magpie broke free from the sticks and targeted Mister B. Mister B dropped a wing and headed for the evergreen flying at an incredible 90 degrees, I felt my heart pound as the magpie tilted to cut him off.
I need not have worried. Before the magpie has flapped twice Missus B came roaring up from holly bough and the black and white beast has no option but to wheel hard to the right. He skimmed the conifer branches and made a haphazard emergency landing.
He was given no time to regroup, Mister B, zoomed past him on an updraft and turning at the last minutes to drop down. He flew so close the wind of his glossy black feather caused another outraged chatter. The magpie gave chase, but in his rage he had been duped to dropping once again to the lower branches where his power weight and wingspan are more hinderance than help.
He was on their turf now, and the black choloitos knew it. With 'skree skrees' rising and speed on their side, they upped the stakes. The attacks were relentless , swooping and whizzing by again and again.
It was over.
With a flurry of wings and a thermal hitch-hike, the magpie rose and flapped to the roof of the house. He chattered and his chatter was answered by his kin. They did not come to his aid and I"m sure he probably thought they are all beak and no pants.
Underneath the holly I saw a black and white flash and I knew the bigger of the cats has been waiting on the sidelines, eager to see if any of the injured might need some 'clearing-up'
Tough shit cat, it was not your day.

Domestic bliss.

The paramour has a back ache, naturally this mean he's going about the place, being disagreeable and creaking a lot. I was at my desk a while ago when he drifted by.
'What are you doing?" he asked.
'Looking at pictures of charred corpses.' I replied.
'I see. Why?'
''To see what kind of accelerant a person would need to cover up a muder. How high would the temperatures need to be to completely destroy any and all evidence of foul play. And how could such a blaze be considered an accident in the first place. It's tricksy with accelerants, they're too easily traced.'
'Remind me never to cross you.'
'Don't worry Sweetie, I wouldn't burn you.'
'Good.'
'I'd get you drunk, take you night swimming and drown you.'
'That's comforting to know.'
'Do you want a green tea?'
'Sure, that would be nice.'
'I'll make you one in a few minutes.'
Thank you.'
He then wandered off to gobble painkillers, the bigger of the cats yawned and I went back to looking at corpse photos.

Ireland, my Ireland.

'FIRE FIRE! Look Look, that house is on fire!'
'Don't worry, I'll call a priest?'
'A priest?
'Sure.'
'Dont' be stupid, call a fire brigade. Look, it's hasn't fully caught yet, a fire brigade might be able to put it out.'
'No no, I'll just call the Parish Priest, he'll know what to do.'
'But he's not a fireman.'
'He's as good as one.'
'You're not making any sense and the house is burning to the ground!'
'Hold yer horses now, it will be all right.'
'But the flames are reaching the upper levels!'
'Hold on will ya! Hello father? HOwya doin'? Could you come out and have a look at something for me, I think there's a house on fire out here, burning to the ground by the looks of it. When? Next monday. Grand father, see you then.'
'He's not coming?'
'Not until Monday.'
'But it will be too late then.'
'Sure what can you do, lets go for a pint.'

That's how we do it here, old school. It's the best way.

London Marathon.

I signed on for the Flora women's mini-marathon today, it's in June. So naturally I was browsing all thing runnery. Then I read the following and I said 'eeeek.' but is a very low voice. I plan to do the Dublin City Marathon this year. Reading this kind of story scares the crap out of me.
Taken from today's UK Independent.


"A 22-year-old runner who was taken ill after completing the London Marathon has died, race organisers said today.

The young man, who has not been named, collapsed after successfully finishing the 26-mile course around the capital.

The marathon's organisers said the runner died peacefully this morning, and offered their "deepest sympathy and condolences" to his family and friends.

A spokeswoman for the organisers said a second runner, who had been in a critical condition in hospital last night, was better today and had been transferred to a normal ward.

Sweltering heat left scores of contestants needing medical treatment.

Temperatures hit just below 21C at midday, almost equalling the 1996 record, and rose slightly higher later in the day.

Runners reported "nightmare" conditions as ambulance staff said they dealt with a higher than usual number of patients.

London Ambulance Service said this year's event, which attracted a record 36,391 runners, was "busier" than usual, with participants and spectators affected by the heat.

A spokeswoman said some people were suffering heat-related problems such as dehydration as well as sprains and other injuries.

A London Marathon spokeswoman said 57 people were taken to hospital.

St John Ambulance said it treated 5,032 people.

Celebrity chef Gordon Ramsay, who was running his eighth marathon, said the conditions were "extraordinary".

He said: "It was like running in a desert today. I stopped to help one guy. It was quite bad. They were dropping like flies."

Another runner, Michelle Dewberry, who won the BBC television show The Apprentice, said she saw someone being resuscitated after about four miles.

She said: "I have seen lots of people passed out and being resuscitated. It is scary, scary stuff."

Champion athlete Liz McColgan, who won the marathon in 1996, said some runners were in trouble.

She said: "I saw a lot of people walking with cramps and things. I think a lot were suffering."

England rugby World Cup team member Matt Dawson said he saw other runners pass out in front him.

He said: "You could see people just burning up in front of you, as I was.' "


Eek, I say.

Limbo has danced its last dance.

Ahh, this is yet another reason why I'm a strict non-religious sort. Goalpost moving you see, cherry picking and just plain old bollockology has wrung every last scrap of tolerance out of me.

Observe, from Reuters.


'VATICAN CITY (Reuters) - The Roman Catholic Church has effectively buried the concept of limbo, the place where centuries of tradition and teaching held that babies who die without baptism went.

In a long-awaited document, the Church's International Theological Commission said limbo reflected an "unduly restrictive view of salvation".

The 41-page document was published on Friday by Origins, the documentary service of the U.S.-based Catholic News Service, which is part of the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops.
Pope Benedict, himself a top theologian who before his election in 2005 expressed doubts about limbo, authorized the publication of the document, called "The Hope of Salvation for Infants Who Die Without Being Baptised".

The verdict that limbo could now rest in peace had been expected for years. The document was seen as most likely the final word since limbo was never part of Church doctrine, even though it was taught to Catholics well into the 20th century.

"The conclusion of this study is that there are theological and liturgical reasons to hope that infants who die without baptism may be saved and brought into eternal happiness even if there is not an explicit teaching on this question found in revelation," it said.

"There are reasons to hope that God will save these infants precisely because it was not possible (to baptize them)."

Yep, forget the guilt and the worry and the anxiety limbo caused. Forget the grief it caused parents who had infants die before they got a chance to let some priest sprinkle water over their child's head. Forget it all. It doesn't suit any more so let us just go right ahead and put that one to bed.

A Monday Morning Experiment.

Or, If you will allow for whimsy, all roads lead to Kevin Bacon.
Remember that weird thing popular a few years ago? The degrees of separation thingimebob, where no matter what film was named somehow it would always lead to a Kevin Bacon connection?
Well yesterday I was astounded to find not only films, but random comments also lead directly to his fated self.
Coincidence? I think not.
Observe.
On Sunday morning the excellent Primal Sneeze suggested GGs as a name for those t-shirt wearing toughies who seem to feel no cold. I nodded sagely when I read this and then immediately thought of horses, which make me immediately think of Hilary Swank, which in turn lead to The Black Dahlia (film) which brought me to The Black Dahlia (book) which made me think of dudes who took uppers, downers and bennies which make me think of going into the kitchen to take some panadol for my hangover which brought me quick smart to the idea that since I was going in there I might as well have coffee, bacon and eggs, which- quite shockingly- led me to Kevin Bacon (actor) and this post you are currently reading.
So as you see GG=Breakfast=Kevin Bacon.
So what I want y'all to do today is get someone to say any old word to you, any word at all and allow you mind unfettered access to whatever it throws up. See what you get.



Disclaimer. No acid was harmed during the writing of this post.
Further Disclaimer. If I am proven correct I will be Oprah waffling on about how I've discovered the 'Law of Bacon' and I will call my book 'The REAL Secret' I will then become a mega hella super rich Cat and start on my queenly plans. I will order ten foot bull whips and blunderbusses by the crate. You gum chewers and whale-tailers best be on your guard, and psychics? Time for you lot to move to an island somewhere.

Hiking.

Right-ho, off I go. Just me and a teenager and some sambos wrapped in tinfoil, lovingly made my a sleepy paramour. Five hours with a teenager, three of them climbing hills, with a teenager, a talkative teenager who says 'like' a lot.
What was I thinking?
At least it's sunny, which means nothing, as it was sunny the last time I did this too, and that turned out like the following.
http://fatmammycat.blogspot.com/2007/03/finn-fatmammycat-and-mountain-s.html

But no matter, that won't happen to day. It just wont, if I keep saying that all will be well. Laters.

Clown Horror.

Or, as I like to call it, a Finntacular Friday.

Van Morrison.

I need a straight answer, you see Etheline says, well, I don't really believe it, but I-wait, let me get a drink first, I know it's early but I need it, steady my nerves. Right, right, fine now.
Okay, right.
No, I'm fine. I SAID I'M FINE!
Is Van Morrison...well is he considered, urgh, I can't, I- Fuck it...


IS VAN MORRISON CONSIDERED JAZZ???

Daddy Dearest.

Have you guys heard this?

I picked this up on TMZ earlier. Alec Baldwin and Kim Basinger have had one of the ugliest breakups in Hollyweird and I'm not sure which of them is the looniest, but even I was gobsmacked to hear this. She's a bitch for releasing it, but he's a bitch for making the call. Loonies. Poor child, at least there was only one warlord in my home growing up. Must be horrible to be used as a pawn by warring parents. Just horrible.

Oh, and before anybody asks, last night was terrible. Half way through the class I wanted to go home or to a bar. It was nonsense. No real warm up, lots of poorly executed swings and misses and no heavy bag work, no timed reps, no conditioning, terrible. Claire-who may or may not be a Jedi- looked over at me at one point and mouthed 'sorry'. But we stayed and we did not roll our eyes as we are not ignorant fuckers. But we both agreed, leaving a class not covered in sweat and feeling like we need to puke is a complete waste of time.
The search for a new dojo continues. I think we're a bit scuppered actually as Memnoch didn't really teach a particular MA, he combined styles, he wanted us to concentrate on punching and kicking and he didn't give a fiddlers for style as long as the form was correct.
Well, we'll check out a few more places, or I'll stop answering the phone.
Whichevah.

Exercise.

'Oi you!'
Can there be more frightening words in the galaxy? Well, apart from 'Your mother's here.'
Last night I was lounging, my legs kicked over the side of an armchair, my feet bare, a cat and a book on my lap. I was sipping a vodka and in general I was blissfully happy.
Then the phone rang. I hate phones. Not as much as jazz, it has to be said, but close enough.
But because the paramour was off 'doing stuff' and it was by my elbow I had no option but to answer it. And ' Oi you!' Is what I got for my troubles.
'Hello?' I said, nervously, scarededly, scarvously.
It's me, you idiot. Claire.'
'Ah Claire!' I cried in relief. Claire, sparring partner and champion beeeeatch, also hints of ginger. 'What ho.'
'What ho my hole.' Said she, rather crossly I thought. 'Have you joined a new dojo yet?'
And I was off, waffling...running you see, 10k, got a medal, wearing it right now, velly busy, sunny weather, gym...
'So no then.' She said when I paused to draw breath.
I don't like that about her. I admire it, but I don't like it. She's a bloody narwhal when it comes to poking through layers of crapology.
'Well, no. I haven't, yet. But I have been thinking about it, a great deal in fact. I was just thinking about it the other day, there I was in Superquinn when I said to myself, Cat, you really must-'
'Right. Well I'm going to check out this new place tomorrow night. You can come with me.'
'Ye.........sssss, tomorrow? I think I might be-'
'I'l swing by and pick you up at half six, the class doesn't start until seven.'
'Ah, Thursday, tricky sort of day Thursday, I might-'
And she was gone, poof, just like that.
I put the phone back and digested this information. Puddy snored contentedly on. I tried to go back to my book, but it was no use.
Bah, and very possibly, ouch.

Books that affect you.

Shebah, Kav and I have all read a book called, 'We need to Talk about Kevin' by Lionel Shriver and been moved to tears/shock by its reading. I'm currently reading 'The Lucifer Effect' and it's giving me nightmares and making me question humanity and my own place in the loop. A fortnight ago I read 'For One More Day' by Mitch Albom and I cried too. I tried not to, but the sniffles escaped nonetheless.
(I do like crying over stuff it has to be said, especially if something is poignant, I have no weapons or shields against poignancy, none)
But it made me wonder.
In a world soaked with visceral images, with immediate information, with blanket coverage of every horror imaginable, only books still have that power over me.
I suppose it is because you become invested in a book. They take time to read, they hold you up. You need to slow down to read, you need to digest what is before you, to think on it. You can re-read a book and get a different perspective than the first reading, they can blindside you when you least expect it.
With the recent death of Kurt Vonnegut the interweb has been flooded with nostalgia, normal toughie bloggers have spoken wistfully of reading Slaughterhouse Five and The Cat's Cradle. Ask any reader about a book they read in their youth and they get that look, that faraway gaze when days were ephemeral and the summers always hot. Famous Five, Secret Seven, Silver Brumby books all mean something to us now. I remember reading Beat of the City when I was ten or eleven and just being blown away. I wanted to be there, I wanted to be in that life. I lay in my hideout with the dog and I wasn't there at all, I was in a hot town in Australia, clicking my fingers, wearing a purple shift and too big shoes and being too cool for school( as a matter of fact I got that book last year, original copy, read it again and was still impressed)
I would like to know what is is that moves us to bittersweet memories, or disturbed sleep, laughter or tears. Or maybe I don't, maybe I want to carry on, loving the shit out of reading, transporting myself from this plain to where ever the next page takes me.
Well? Books that made you feel, have at it.
I'll go first,
1-We need to talk about Kevin (Lionel Shriver)-tears
2-The Lucifer Effect (Philip Zimbardo)-despair/nightmares
3-The Throwaway (Tom Sharpe)- helpless ridiculous laughter.
4-It (Stephan King) Fear/ revulsion.There is one image in the book I still get the colliwobbles over.
5-The Wonder Boys (Michael Chambon)- sheer rainy-day, sprawled in front of an open fire with buttery soldiers of toast sort of bliss.
6-The choirboys (Joseph Wambuagh) -all of the above.
7-Beat of the City (HF Brinsmead)-nostalgia.
8-The Rum Diaries (Hunter S Thompson)- Urge to get up and go somewhere with nothing more than a suitcase.Also urge to eat hamburgers.
9-Fear of Flying (Erica Jong)- Sexual awakening and belly laughing.
10 World According to Garp (John Irving) -Eye-opener and glimpse into the lives of others, tears too.

Oh my goth!

I was walking out of the gym a while ago, freshly washed, my hair damp, my bag slung over my right shoulder. T'is a mild evening, so I thought I might amble back to the house. I had run a steady neddy 6k to ease the kinks out of my BUPA legs and I was feeling slightly peckish. When,
'Why hello there Little Goth Kid.' (for it was she)
'Fatmammycat!' (for it was me) She cried in such a high pitched happy cry that I feared for my wardrobe.
'Where are you off to then?'
'Skate park' said she, and indeed she was channeling the very spirit of an early Avril Lavine. I also should have taken notice of the skate board in her hand I suppose, but like I say, I was hungry.
We waffled for a few minutes and were about to part when I said,
'Doing anything Satdee?'
'No!' Said she all smiley and gleeful. 'What do you want to do? Shopping? Cinema? Shopping? Shopping?'
'Hiking' sez I, 'Glendalough, if the weather stays fine.'
'Oh...well, sure.'
'Excellent, we'll go down early, see if we can't do the 3 hour hike that me and my 'merican chum went on.'
'Right.'
'See you then!'
I waved and she trudged off with herself.
Poor child, I imagine she'll be doing little rain dances all about her bedroom to Korn this week.

Virginia Campus shooting.

“Today the university was struck with a tragedy that we consider of monumental proportions,” said the university’s president, Charles Steger.

There were two shootings on the campus in Blacksburg, Va., and in each case fatalities with “multiple shooting victims,” he said.

The shootings started early in the morning and as they unfolded, many of the details emerged from witnesses who recorded images on their cellphones or described fellow students jumping out of campus building windows. The university has more than 25,000 full-time students on a campus that is spread out over 2,600 acres.

Up until today, the deadliest campus shooting in United States history was in 1966 at the University of Texas, where Charles Whitman climbed to the 28th-floor observation deck of a clock tower and opened fire, killing 16 people before he was gunned down by police. In the Columbine High attack in 1999, two teenagers killed 12 fellow students and a teacher before killing themselves.

A police official at Virginia Tech, Wendell Flinchum, said there were “at least 20 fatalities,” and that some of the victims were shot in the classroom. News of the number of the fatalities sent up an audible gasp in the news conference, said one television reporter in the broadcast.

At least 22 people were injured. At least 17 Virginia Tech students were being treated for gunshot wounds and other injuries at Montgomery Regional Hospital, and four of them were in surgery, according to a hospital spokesperson. At Lewis-Gale Medical Center, in Salem, Va., four students and a staff member were treated. Two were in stable condition, and the conditions of the other three were described as "undetermined."

Officials said there could have been more people who were injured and taken to other medical facilities.

President Bush was “horrified” at the news of the shooting, and expressed deep concern for the families of the victims, said Dana Perino, a White House spokeswoman. President Bush said he would make federal assets available to the school and to the community.

One student captured partial images, broadcast on CNN, using his cellphone video camera showing grainy dark-clad figures on the street outside of campus buildings. Popping sounds from the gunfire were audible.

“This place is in a state of panic,” said a student who was interviewed on CNN, Shaver Deyerle. “Nobody knew what was going on at first.”


Jesus, the above story is just breaking over here and I can't believe it. The death toll is believed to be 22 and rising. What the hell makes people do something like this? What possible reason could a person have for shooting down so many innocent kids. It's is just beyond me.

UPDATE Fox News is reporting that 32 fatalities have been reported and up to 18 wounded. What the hell kind of weapon was this person using?

Question. Why were there two hours between the first two shootings and the rest of this madman's rampage? Why was the school not evacuated when there was clearly an armed killer on the loose?

UPDATE, the murderer is not from China, he is South Korean called Cho Seung Hui.

What ho ho ho,

and a bottle of ouch. Nah, not really, slightly stiff shoulders but nothing too achey.
Well now, the run was terrific good fun. The weather was fabulous and 9000 people filled the park.
I made a bit of an error at the start and went too close to the back of the pack (thinking I'd best let the seasoned runners go first) Er, no, it took almost 1 and 3/4 Kilometres before I managed to break out of the crowd. I didn't realise so many folk walked it. I was jogging on the spot in several places waiting for a gap to scamper through, I even had to jump onto the grass now and then. But not to worry. I'll know for next time.
I had my usual laboured run until I hit 4K and then everything slipped into place and I started to gain a spot of ground then, The sun was high at the back of the gallops and by the time we'd hit the Furry Glen-which is a long incline, not especially steep, just long and tiring on tired legs- folk were falling back and I was able to creepy crawl my way ahead.
I bopped home at the 70 min mark, not exactly speedy, but feeling good, and considering my slow start I'm quite pleased.
I got my first ever medal for running, which came on a charming green ribbon, sunburn, and a whole new found love of something I really didn't like at all a year ago. When I passed the 8k mark, I was grinning like a loon. I actually sped up in the last K ( after waving a the brass band).
There is something deeply satisfying about making a demand of your body and it responding to the challange. I can't explain it any better than that. You don't think about it in the gym, and you don't really think about it when you're training, but then when the day comes and you're in your race-or whatever, it could be a fight or a football match, anything really- and you have nothing to fall back on except the work you put in. And that is enough. It's a terrific feeling, a truly sublime moment when you know you'll do your best and you haven't short changed yourself. You can come away smiling and eager for the next challange. You get a little rush. A completely non alcohol/drug related rush.
It's velly cool indeed.
I feel like a convert, a zealot. I might just start dressing up in shorts and a singlet and calling to folk's homes. 'Hello, My name is Fatmammycat' (points at name tag and bib number)' and I'm here to spread the word. Do you feel you're missing something in your life? Suffering from a spiritual thirst that no beer can quench? Have you considered running?'
Anyhoo, thanks for all the good wishes. I appreciate them all.
Yours, wearing her medal over her jammies,
FMC
X

BUPA Fun Run.

Well, the weekend is here and tomorrow is my very first road race, the BUPA fun run in the Phoenix Park. 10k on a pretty steady neddy course with only two short hills. My race pack didn't turn up so I have to collect it at the offical tent tomorrow, but that a minor thing.
I did some interval training over the last two weeks (cheers Finn) and I have improved my speed but still not enough to do the 10k in under an hour, but I'm not going to worry about it. There's another run in June and I'm going to do that one too. Maybe I'll have sped up by then, maybe not.
I have a question though-don't I always- does anyone know the best thing to eat on the day of the race? Is wheetabix and a banana enough? The race is not until 1pm. Other than that, good luck everyone taking part!

For Finny Finny Finn Finn.

Behold! Savour the gingerosity, bow down before the glory that is ginger, think of a sexy ginger sammich, of freckly ruby red nipply goodness, Behold, behold I say!

Basic Instinct.

Alrighty then, I feel very shaky and quite terrified and my hand trembles when I lift my coffee cup. As yet I have not managed food, but when I do I shall nibble it in silence,stopping now and then to glance fearfully over my shoulder.
There will be two posts today, one, this one, will be trying to make sense of what I witnessed last night, and the second one is pure, pure, purest, well, you'll have to see for yourself. I'll put it up in a while.
By rights I should not be sitting here at all. I should be in a hospital somewhere, with bandages over my very eyes, raving. Why, I can't hear you ask because this is a computer and not really my office although this is MY office if you see what I mean, why would I be in such terrible pain. I have one answer.
Michael Douglas.
I must thank the very stars that sheltered me and my country bumpkin upbringing because somehow over my youth-a time when I smoked, rode moterbikes, fell from horses and dated men who wore cowboy boots- I managed somehow to not watch Basic Instinct, not even once. I should have stayed on this path and not succumbed to curiosity. My mind is now unclean, I'll never get it back to the shape it was in before Basic Instinct. NEVER.
Oh I remember all the talk at the time, 'didja see that scene?' people asked in hushed awestruck tones. That scene is so famous, it's iconic, the one where a very beautiful- if hamtacular- Sharon Stone flashes her lady patch and a megastar was born.
'Did she do it?' others asked. 'What about Roxy' 'What about the shrink?'
'What are you all talking about?'
'If you haven't seen it Fatcat, we can't explain', my snotty peers would say.
'But I can't afford to go to the cinema.' I bleated.
But nowt was to be done. The film remained unwatched by me and I became a social leper, at least for a couple of weeks. I swore that one day- one day I would see Basic Instinct. It also wouldn't be the only time I did the leper thing.

Never mind all that.

It's too late now, I can't go back in time.
Last night, I watched Basic Instinct.

What the hell is it about Michael Douglas? The faces, the way he can moves his head like an owl. The nightclub scene? The dancing in a blue v-neck sweater? EEEEEKKKKKK! What about that? Well? WELL?? What about his sex face? What about that? The way his chin juts out, the way he sort of wetly lick-kisses BLEEEEEEEEEEE------EEEEEEEEE. Why did no one warn me of his smarminess? Why couldn't I have left well enough alone? Why? I'll never get any of these images out of my mind again. Never! I"ll be lucky if I can ever kiss again without picturing a curly tongue licking my faceeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeebleaugh. Why didn't anyone warn me? Why didn't I warn myself, I knew it, I knew when he showed up at the night cub wearing that sweater and the too short, high waisted, ironed drainpipes that the director was fucking with me, that even Latoure's excellent 'Blue' was going to be viciously abused. Why did I not go to bed? Why? Why?
My mind this morning is a puddle, a mucky puddle with a film of petrol over the top and filed with frog spawn, maybe some dog wee. Argh, it's fetid. Nothing could have prepared me for that man's sex face-and I've seen Celine Dion sing.
I'm traumatised.
Michael Douglas' sex face. I am SO against it!

Arguments with my mother. Part gazillion and fifty.

I want you to read the following conversation in a pitch that dogs three countries away might hear, rising towards the end.
It is a sunny day, birdies are singing, a tabby cat is snoozing in a patch of sunlight, the smell of rich strong coffee fills the kitchen. An auburn haired woman in a black dress and a lilac sofa in comfortable shoes are having an argument. Nostrils are flared.

'What do you mean you don't believe in God?'
'What do you mean what do I mean? Anyway, I didn't say per se I didn't believe in God but I do have a super hard time with-.'
'That's nonsense.'
'What is?'
'Of course you believe.'
' I like the idea of it, but-'
'You mean to sit there and tell me your turning your back on everything you know?'
'Turning my-'
'After everything, after all these years you would do that!'
'How the hell does my wondering if a deity exists or not equal turning my back on everyting I know? What kind of stupid argument is that? Everything I know? Do you think my questioning a theory-
'A THEORY!'
'Yes a theory, I think the idea that there might or might not be a god is pretty close to a theory-STOP BLESSING YOURSELF! Anyway, my questioning does not mean I suddenly forget everything else. I can still drive a car you know, I can still talk, I can still recognise people.' *
'Well I think that's outrageous. You and all your ould guff, this really takes the biscuit! You stick your head in all those books and come with this sort of thing on purpose.'
'What?'
'I saw that book, what's that fellow who was on the Late late?'
'Dawkins?'
'Yes, going on, spreading all his old shite.'
'Yeah, imagine someone going around spreading his views all over the world, next thing you'll be calling him a missonary.'
'Let me tell you something Missy, ** one of these days you'll realise your wrong. You're too big for your boots, that's what wrong with you.'
'Size 7 Ma, still remember that too.'
'Oh you're so-'
'-sharp I'll cut myself, yeah, looks like I haven't turned my back on everything after all.'
'I'll pray for you.'
'I'll exercise for you.'
'What?'
'Nothing. More coffee?





* Yes, it was that ridiculous.
** Most hated name.
I would also like to point out that my mother bring her dog to a faith healer, but I'm the one who come out with 'guff'.


STONKINGLY GOOD, APT LINK AND UPDATE (stolen fully from Pharyngula)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RuA3nB3_5Go

The Lucifer Effect.

From the Lucifer Effect.'
""Arendt’s phrase 'the banality of evil' continues to resonate because genocide has been unleashed around the world and torture and terrorism continue to be common features of our global landscape. We prefer to distance ourselves from such a fundamental truth, seeing the madness of evildoers and senseless violence of tyrants as dispositional characters within their personal makeup. Arendt’s analysis was the first to deny this orientation by observing the fluidity with which social forces can prompt normal people to perform horrific acts." (From Chapter 12, pages 288-289)
"Our usual take on evil focuses on the violent, destructive actions of perpetrators, but the failure to act can also be a form of evil, when helping, dissent, disobedience, or whistle-blowing are required. One of the most critical, least acknowledged contributors to evil goes beyond the protagonists of harm to the silent chorus who look but do not see, who hear but do not listen. Their silent presence at the scene of evil doings makes the hazy line between good and evil even fuzzier. We ask next: Why don’t people help? Why don’t people act when their aid is needed? Is their passivity a personal defect of callousness, of indifference? Alternatively, are there identifiable social dynamics once again at play?" (From Chapter 13, page 314)"

AS you can see I'm reading a disturbing book at the moment called the Lucifer Effect and it's by Philip Zimbardo, a very well known and well respected psychologist and professor
The Lucifer Effect is a book essentially about why good people do evil things, and Zimbardo himself is the man behind the Stanford Prison Experiment, a now-classic study he conducted in 1971. In that study, normal college students were randomly assigned to play the role of guard or inmate for two weeks in a simulated prison, yet the guards quickly became so brutal that the experiment had to be shut down after only six days.
Last night as I lay propped in bed I read about the genocide in Rwanda, the butchery and torture of thousands of Chinese at the hands of Japanese advance and finally I had no choice but to put the book down and try to sleep. I lay in the dark, listening to the not exactly gentle snore of the paramour, pondering, trying to make sense of what I had read.
I don't mind telling you I had nightmares and today I am very cranky and even after a disgusting breakfast of egg white omelette and coffee I am no less narked.
I am also deeply troubled. Zimbardo makes a very valid point in the book, that before mass murder, before war, before torture and violence is committed the warning signs are in place. Propaganda is racked up, warring factions are dehumanised. We see it all the time, all around us. Iraq-ragheads, sand niggers, Americans and European- are infidels and filth, women the world over are second class citizens, if they are vocal and who demand their rights they are feminazis, gay men are 'faggots and sinners', lesbians are dykes, Christians are backward bible thumping fairy believing morons, intolerance is rampant, and tolerance where it should not be is allowed.
It happened here in my own country, where for many a year 'the troubles' pitted neighbour against neighbour and the Bloody Sunday and the Omagh bomb where the apogees of sectarian hatred.
I read a fair smattering of blogs, some far right, some far left, most centric and the gulf between people is growing ever wider and more vocal. Lines are being drawn, even if they are faint. Something is rumbling.

Are we as a people becoming jaded by war and bloodshed around us? What's happening In Guantanamo Bay? Why haven't I wondered about this before? Why are soldiers in Iraq? There was no WMD found, so why the continued occupation? I'm not going down the stupid road of 'merika evil rest of world good' either, that's nonsense, but I would like to know what the thinking on this is. I would especially like my American readers to voice an opinion. What's the feeling? Will there be an Iranian war next? Is there a war between Islam and the west on the horizon? Between the right and the left?
Who do I believe, the media? Which media? Is everything black and white? Where should a person stand? Should I just carry on going about my daily business, eating, going out with friends and pretending there's nothing going on? According to Zimbardo that's just what folk do when evil thrives. The Germans did it while their fellow country men were slaughtered, but that idea makes me feel terrible. And besides, Ireland is not involved in anything, well except Shannon stop overs. What do you mean global wars are on my doorstep?
Am I part of the problem? Should I be doing something? What? What should a semi- intelligent 34 woman be doing anyway? Okay, I don't live in a vacuum, the world is there before me. So why the ennui? Why the 'tut tut' as I read the newspaper and then back to whatever I was doing before?
Bah, I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to think about anything. But I promise you this, last night as I lay in the dark I gave myself a firm kick up the backside. I need to read more, learn more, exist on this plane. I don't want to become part of a problem, even if I'm not a hundred percent sure what exactly that problem is yet.
Sorry for rambling, yours in confuddled thinking on a sunny sunny day, the dark clouds are my own.
FMC

Size zero and the morons that buy into it.

Now I wrote about this some time ago, October 20th to be precise, I called that post The Emperor's New Clothes, you know, in case anyone needs to borrow it.
Anyhoo. Squeaking in slightly horrified mirth at the tini-tiny clothing and wondering aloud what in God's name it was all about I remember laughing at the stupidity of it all and going about my business of eating and not fainting from hunger. I decided I rather like having breasts and a backside. It's important to me. It seems very important to the paramour.
So all good then.
Yesterday I picked up the Sunday Review from the Times and my eyes fell on-well to be honest my eyes were almost seared straight out of my head by that disgusting photo of Nicole Ritchie running on a beach in a blue bikini last year, you know the one, where she looks like she's fleeing a concentration camp.
But then mine eyes did see,
'My 6-week journey to the land of the Thin,' (they have their own land now? Who knew?) and check out the byline, ' What does it take for a normal woman to achieve size zero? In this graphic account of extreme dieting Kate Spicer reveals the revolting cost.'
Yep, so revolting Kate Spicer appears in her smalls showing off said new figure.
To save you from reading it all, let me condense it for you.
Healthy girl does really stupid diet. Loses weight by not eating very much at all, gets grumpy, feels unwell, chainsmokes, takes laxatives, abuses body, gets grumpier and teary, continues to not eat very much at all, ignores medical advice, gets grumpier still, becomes very unhappy, continues to abuse self, sticks fingers down throat, reaches week six, feels miserable and a failure-she says- while also bleating that she is a whole stone lighter. Writes article, poses in underwear, gets TV show, enrages fatcat reader.

Next! Move it along, nothing to see here. This schtick has been done to death.
Haven't we already had Louise Rednapp wasting away before our eyes on a television show called 'The truth about size Zero.' Was there not some other gal on in February munching her way miserably through a cabbage soup and laxative diet?
Who is this crap for exactly?
Spicer says at one point, 'Almost all women want to be thinner' This might be true, maybe we do, but you know what, most women I know don't want to be sick, they don't want to be miserable, they don't want to faint and have enemas, they don't want to be so obsessed with whether or not they lost that extra half pound that they cry, they don't want stick thin-bobble headed stars who look like they might snap in the wind to be held up as the 'ideal'.
This kind of article makes me want to hurl-but I won't because I liked my breakfast which was toast and-shock horror-cheese and ham spread. At no point does Spicer sound scathing about the situation she find herself in, at no point does she utterly decry the 'diet' as ridiculous. One senses in fact that she is rather impressed with herself and her determination. This journalist has just bought straight into the whole bloody game without even realising it.
And thanks for the glorious gleaned information on how to get to size zero. Who whould have thunk it? Not eating makes you super skinny! Taking laxatives makes you shit more. WOW! Thank you Kate Spicer, for your Herculean effort to debunk the revolting myth that starving yourself won't affect you at all.
Oh now, wait, hold up. That's not right now is it?
Give me a bloody break here. Is this supposed to be journalisim? This is news? This is even interesting? What does it take for a normal woman to live a normal life and not cry and not vomit? Why, not very much at all.
People starving themselves to death when perfectly good food is available, whether it be for fashion, meedja, or sheer stupidity, I"M AGAINST IT!

Easter weekend.

It's a warm sunny day in Dublin, heading towards a remarkable 18 degrees. At the bottom of the garden the sheets from my bed gently sway. The air is full of the smells of cut grass and flowers, the sky is blue, the birds cheep, the cats are all sprawled on the grass, belly side up. Incredibly large bumble bees are flitting about and the wood pigeons are having a bit of a do it seems.The paramour is smiling and talking about Bar-B-Cues in the same way some men talk about fast cars and loose women. I have some work to finish so I"m going to take it outside and do it there.
All is well with my little world and I hope yours is just as delightful.
Have a lovely weekend y'all.

Damned if you do...

I'm going to make it a new rule, when in a taxi I'm going to say nowt unless we're talking about the weather, and/or the property market.
I had an early meeting this morning and as if often the case I jumped a bus into town (quicker than driving and looking for parking). Had said meeting, grabbed a coffee, read a paper and decided to head home to work/enjoy glorious sunnyday/work.
So, I grabbed a cab.
Well sweet fucking Chulutha. We hadn't gone two metres when my driver-about fifty five and English- starts in on the release of the 15 sailors captured by Iran and how disgusted he was with England's 'pussy actions'.
''Facking gift bags! They got facking gift bags. Can you imagine?'
'Better gift bags than body bags I suppose.' I said.
He made some weird noise then, a sort of cross between a 'peeef' and a 'flaarrrrp'.
'They should 'ave bombed them the moment they took 'em.'
'Who should have?'
''The British.'
'Do you want a war with Iran?"
'They started it, it's an act of war kidnapping our facking troups.'
'Well, weren't they in Iraq waters?''
'Media lies.'
''Right.'
I have always wondered about this media lies thing. How does anyone know the truth of anything if both sides of the meeja are big spoofers?
'Well, ' I said, at least they're coming home safe and sound and no blood was shed.'
'No blood? No blood? There's no blood, ya don't need to spill blood when you can rip the spine out of a country that easily. No blood? Ffffttpprrfht. We're a laughin' stock, no blood? Fpttthhtht'.
His jaw mucles bunched.
'Hum,' I said, 'Plenty of blood shed at the Man U/Roma game last night though wasn't there?'
And he was off. I'm not even sure how he managed to draw breath such was his invective. Occasionally I would sense him flagging and I would casually say things like, 'Did you see that guy with the blood all down his face?' or 'I heard that there are 18 fans in hospital ' and 'at least they kept them seperated.'
By the time I reached my front door he was red faced and wild eyed. I paid him and began to climb out. 'Still with all the craziness going on, it was nice to see a photo of Bertie and Ian Paisley shaking hands like that, wasnt it?"
He roared off without another word and I let myself into the house and made a nice cuppa.

Pappa was a rolling stone.

ROLLING STONES guitarist Keith Richards made this bizarre admission to a music magazine. He said: “The strangest thing I’ve tried to snort? My father. I snorted my father.”
He said: “He was cremated and I couldn’t resist grinding him up with a little bit of blow. My dad wouldn’t have cared, he didn’t give a shit. It went down pretty well and I’m still alive.”

I'm not a big fan of the Rolling Stones, although I have been told I am going to see them in concert at Slane Castle for some reason, but I do admire Keith Richards and his inhuman ability to keep breathing. He's an example to us all that sometimes more is good.

Excited!

This is how I feel today, I've got 'stuff' going on. I'm waiting for phonecalls and I have a big deal meeting later today. Eeeeeee, I wish my tongue was normal size.

Age.

I was at a dinner party on Satdee night, a fine affair with much wine and food and even music. T'was a splendid way to spend time but one conversation has perturbed me. One of the ladies was waffling on about something or other and the subject of age came up, or rather it didn't as said lady claimed she has never revealed her exact age to anyone, not even her doctor.
This struck me as the daftest thing I had heard in some months.
'Don't you think he ought to know?'
'No', said she.
And that was that.
But it got me thinking. She is not alone in this, I know of at least two other folk-women-who are super hella coy about their age, always shaving off a couple of years here and there.
But why?
What's so terribly wrong about being the age you are? When did it become shameful? What's so great about being in your twenties that a body might cling to it as though drowing in a rough choppy sea of higher numbers.
Pretending to be younger than you are, I'm against it!