Attack on Glasgow Airport.

From the BBC, more worrying news.

"A car on fire has been driven at the main terminal building at Glasgow Airport, police have confirmed.

Eyewitnesses have described a Jeep Cherokee being driven at speed towards the building with flames coming out from underneath.

They have also described seeing two Asian men, one of whom was on fire, who had been in the car.

Strathclyde Police said two people had been arrested and detained in connection with the incident.

The airport has been evacuated and all flights suspended following the incident at 1515 BST.

A Whitehall spokesman said the incident was not being treated as a national security threat however the prime minister is being kept informed of developments and is expected to chair a meeting of COBRA - the emergency committee later.


First Minister Alex Salmond has activated emergency procedures in response to the incident.

The incident comes a day after two cars were found containing explosives in central London.

The cars contained petrol, gas cylinders and nails but the devices did not detonate.

One eyewitness said: "I heard the sound of a car's wheels spinning and smoke coming out.

"I saw a Jeep Cherokee apparently as if it was trying to get right through the doors into the terminal building.

"There were flames coming out from underneath then some men appeared from in amongst the flames.

"The police ran over and the people started fighting with the police. I then heard what sounded like an explosion."

Molotov cocktails

Eye-witness Richard Grey told BBC News 24: "A green Jeep was in the middle of the doorway burning.

"There was an Asian guy who was pulled out of the car by two police officers, who he was trying to fight off. They've got him on the ground.

"The car didn't actually explode. There were a few pops and bangs which presumably was the petrol."

Stephen Clarkson said he saw people running towards him and "panicking" then noticed a crashed Cherokee jeep.

Fire at airport
The car was ablaze before crashing into the building

He said he helped police restrain one of the men.

"It was lucky that I was there," he said.

"I managed to knock the man to the ground with my forearm and the police got on top of him and restrained him and put handcuffs on him."

Thomas Conroy, a maintenance worker at the airport believes the men deliberately tried to set the car on fire.

"It looked like they had molotov cocktails with them," he said.

"They sort of burst them round about the flames to make sure the car would go up big style.

"Within minutes it was up and the terminal caught as well."

Very very worrying developments folks, very worrying.

a ghastly gruel of Ginger for gimme a minute!

Imagine if you will, not only a naked Carrot Top, but a naked carrot topped Carrot Top. What am I saying, imagine no more! Would you chew your way through this much vegetable to reach him? I should coco. You'd have to be real careful though.

The velly best fight scene of all time, surely.

Oh lordy, the speed, the saliva, the rarrrrrrgh, the knife licking, the hair, the pants...it's the eighties, but fight eighties.

Fee Fi foe... Friday?

It's super mega hard to get overly excited about Friday when you know the day is not going to end with me making hand gestures to Smurf the barman becasue I've lost the ability to speak.
So because I'm feeling mean, I'm going to revel in other mean things, such as the following.

The Spicegirls are reforming

Blondie, Ginger, Eddie, Scary and Barbie spice have decided to reform their girlllll powerrrrr group.
In other news, my nextdoor neighbour has planted some bulbs.

il Divo/Dublin

Well now, my ears are still ringing. Not from the group, although they seemed most loud to me, Carlos, the spanish one, could probably get a job working as the fog horn on a ship whenever he decides to lower his eyebrow.
No no, we had cracking good seats, near to the stage centre aisle, my friend had her camera at the ready. But on my other side I was swiftly to discover I was sitting by il Divo's biggest Fan!
'OOOOOOOORRRREEEERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOO!.'
clapclapclapclapclap
'WEEEOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORRRRRRRRRRR!
clapclapclapclapclap.'
repeat for one hour and about forty minutes.
She wept openly during their rendition of 'Mama' and almost lost her shit completely when her son/toyboy, ran out of batteries for the camera on which he was filming the entire concert. Luckily she had only to reach into the suitcase she was carrying to find more. That she did this in an absolute blind panic just made the whole scene more remarkable.
'Ima gon to keek dat beech in de fanny.' My Spanish friend hissed looking very fierce, ' She shud shut de mouth. Eef she catch me ona bad day I keel her.'
'Well, you're not the one sitting beside her.' I managed to get out before a 'OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!' shattered what was left of my ear drum.
Despite the biggest fan, it was a cheery sort of evening. I'm not really sure I'm cut out for it though, I don't mind the music so much, but the cheesy talk between songs made my toes curl.
'We are here to geeeve you pleasure.' Carlos assured the throng of salivating laydeees at the front, and causing the laydee beside me to have an orgasm, I know, I could hear it.
'Musical pleasure of course ah ah ah.' He said, making his one raised eyebrow disappear behind the one slick curl on his forehead.
And later this gem.
'We want you-'
cue much screaming-
'To surrender.'
More screaming.
'To the music of course. Ah ah ah.'
And then they burst into song and the light came up dramatically and flooded us as the god like entertainers were backed in a heavenly glow. The Fan screamed. I flinched and my friend said 'That is unreal.'
It was rather unreal. Also I appeared to be the only person there without a drink in my hand so this might have something to do with my bemusement.
I can happily report that the French dude is singing much better, the 'merican one is my favourite because he does all the harmonies and he's quite theatrical when singing and smiles a lot.
The spaniard has the best voice, a rummbly baritone, but I think he sort of drowns out the others a bit, although as a showman, he's second to none. He'd certainly give Joe Dolan a good run for his money or Sea-lion Dion.
The band were really really very good.
At the end the four 'guys' came down and sat on the lip of the stage to sing their final song. Naturally this caused a minor stampede of chiffon clad ladies and as the boys sang they were happily pawed and groped and made shake hands, accept flowers and sign stuff. To their credit they acted as veritable showmen and looked like they were really enjoying it, all except Urls, or whatever his name is, the Swiss one, the one whose cheekbones you put plant pots out on, my friend's favourite. He has two expressions, singing, and painful wind. I thought about relaying this observation to my friend, but she might keek me in my fanny, and I'm already down an eardrum so I can't have that.
High pitched screaming!
I'm against it!

Revenge and possible retribution, eeek.

My sister Etheline is a clever woman, an early riser and anal about furniture to be sure, but clever. However, every so often, I think that one of these goodly day I will stab Etheline in the eye with a blunt pair of scissors. Why? Because my clever sister becomes a dolt of the highest order. A nincompoop who wears pastel.Was she not dragged kicking and screaming from the same birth canal? Has she no sense? Has she no cop on? Has she no fucking idea what our mother is made of?
SPITE Etheline, you silly silly twit, pure unadulterated spite. If spite was a river then my fucking mother is the unsullied well from which it doth spring. She so spiteful she's zesty. She's filled to the double chin with it. She's choc-a-bloc full. If spite was a fuel we could plug my mother up to a machine a run generators off her that could keep the country going for years.
She needs no outlet, she needs no triggers, she's finely balanced up. Why would anyone add to her spiteliness? Why? Why Etheline why?
Let me explain.
A long time ago in Bethlehem, no wait, I've got that wrong.
Once upon a time, there lived a much put upon beautiful angelic, sweet-natured fairy princess called..erm...notfatmammycat.
Now this fairy princess lived with an evil stepmother (screw you jesus, I prayed long and hard and what did I get? Time to take matter into my own hands) and two hideous step-sisters, also there may have been a younger brother but he was of little use to anyone except to dress up and play Ivanhoe with.
Anyhoo. This poor princess was regularly ganged up on, bullied and made to have baths and wear horrible hand-me-downs, clothes that street urchins would reject in horror. Normally this was not much of a problem as the fairy princess spent rather a large amount of time covered in horse hair and manure and other assorted filth, and was quite happy to orbit under the radar and go about her day, plotting the demise of the step mother, studying the brake lines of her car, loosening the rug at the top of the stairs and reading up on whether foxgloves were really as poisonous as everyone claimed and would sugar hide the taste of it if it happened to get sprinkled onto of cornflakes ( it is, digitalis)...stuff like that occupied a good deal of the sweet and kindly mind of the fairy princess.
She might have gone on forever, plotting and eating crisp sambos were it not for that day, that evil fateful day when an enormous dark shadow fell across her and mother was its name.
But that day did come, and that day that will linger forever in the frontal lobe of the notfatmammycat. A day so dark and cold and filled with earwigs and headlice and cabbage and other stuff like earwax and almost sneezing but not quite at the last minute, horribleness. Oh that were a one, oh that was a one, oh that will a one. For it has no beginning nor end, nor sense.
The dark shadow spoke. It said, 'rarrrghgharrrghgglelerarrrghghghg srllllrarrgh?'
Or, as I deftly translated it, 'Isn't tomorrow casual clothes day?'
Only one day can instill fear into the heart of a newish teenager, with the social skills of an incontinent skunk.
Casual clothes day.

Oh verily, some of you might go 'so? what's she fooking on about now?" But I would say shut it southsiders. You know not of the horror that casual clothes day means to the younger female sibling who just so happens to attend a sodding school filled with teenage first wearers. FIRST WEARERS, I once heard that some of those girls even got to PICK their own clothes! Their clothes even FIT them!
She begged she pleaded, she groveled. Don't make me do it. She sobbed to the evil Stepmother. Leave me in uniform.
'The money goes to charity.' It replied, but evilly.
'SO!?'
'You'd think you'd be delighted have a day out of uniform.' It replied, green eyes flashing madly.
'You'd be wrong.' She cried. 'Wrong and fat.' (actually the last bit might have been added in her head)
'You're going, honestly, I don't know what the fuss is about.'
'Well fook you anyway Ya hideous skank.' She bellowed inside. 'Butmayyyyyem,' she said aloud.
'No.'
And so it came to pass. There the fairy princess was, adrift in a sea of denim and black, wearing a batwing jumper that was both polyester and canary yellow with the words 'RELAX" across the front and green trousers tucked gaily into grey suede boots with fringes.
Oh woe was her. She went to boarding school, and normally she would have just said, 'sure' and taken the clothes with her and never looked at them again until the following Friday. But this sodding casual clothes day was on a Monday so she had no sodding excuse. It was the longest day of her life-up to that point. But the real stupidity of it was that on leaving the house that morning the Fairy Princess, in a fit of, fairy pique, did borrow her evil step mother's silver dress watch.
Now true, the watch was lovely, and equally true it did not take much from the ensemble, but the fact that the fairy princess had struck one for the underdog cheered her right up, right up in fact until the following Thursday when she broke it in a mess basketball game.
A deep and dark terror fell over notfatmammycat. There is was, the glass face shattered, the hands still. What could she do?
Only one thing.
Lie.
And so she did just that. No, she hadn't seen the watch at any time. No she didn't know what had happened to it. What watch? She said, 'Oh that watch, no I haven't seem it. Jeez, stop asking me.' And so on.
For many years the question of the missing watch would pop up now and then. The evil monster would-on occasion- look out the back window at her rockery and say, 'Raghghggarrgfaggle?' or 'I wonder whatever happened to my watch?' But by this stage everyone, evil sisters alike had been accused of its vanishing and so the universal eye-rolling would begin.
It should have stayed that way too, there was no reason for a cold case style opening. Nor would there have been had not notfatmammycat drank some rum with one of the evil step sisters in her twenties, and revealed finally, the mystery of the watch.
There is clearly a limit to how long fatcats can keep shit to themselves. And that limit seems to be about eight years or so. For now, as I sit here typing, one ear cocked for the phone, I can recount to you what the evil sister told notfatmammycat late last night.
'Hah, Mum's going to kill you.'
'Why?'
'She knows it was you that took the watch that time.'
'And how would she know such a thing?'
'Oh, she was doing her usual.'I wonder whatever happened to my watch' routine on the weekend and I started to laugh.'
'Laugh?"
'Come on, it's funny.'
'Etheline, you didn't tell her it was me did you?'
'Jesus, come on, it was years ago.'
'I've got to go.'
'Wait, are you seriously telling me-'
'That you're an idiot and a big mouth? yes I am.'
'Oh for God's sake.'

I wonder is it too late to move, or hire assassin? I wonder where the foxgloves grow around here? I'm only asking for a friend.

Have you every done anything in your youth that you thought you had gotten away with, only to have it creepy crawl its way right back to you? WELL?

A question of time.

Day two of no coffee. I have roughly one million too much work today and one million too many meetings and one trillion phone calls and emails to make-and you must know how I feel about phones at this stage.
However, before I shoot off into town to throttle a PR gal with my bare hands, I would like to pose a question, two in fact.
At what time do you consider going to bed 'late'?
And, At what time do you consider getting up 'early?'.

Yoda!

Eeeeeeeeeeeeee, gollieeeeeeeeeeeeeeee, I do love pugs, but I especially like pugs in outfits. Do you suppose the Paramour would notice if he came home one day and found two extra 'cats'? (I would dress my pug and french bulldog in cat outfits, natch) If they weren't all in the same room at the same time he might not notice. Right? RIGHT?

World's Ugliest Dog.

Go Elwood! He romps home as the World's ugliest Dog, gaining his darling owner one thousand smackeroos in prize money. At a mere two years of age chances are he'll go on to win this competition again and again. Cheers Dlisted.

A friday foto of frightening tongueosity.

Or, when good gingers go make up free. Seriously imagine playing tonsil hocky with him, mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmfreckly.

A Friday Fore 'n Aft foto for Finn.

A fright-free friday foto for Sam

Braided yellow wool and pipecleaners are velly cool, but I liked these too. (I would wear a hat with viking horns!)

Snail Porn.

Day something of the flood...no wait! It's not raining. It's threatening rain, but so far so dry. I'll take it. I also hope it stays dry for I am going to Marley Park to see Crowded House this evening. Actually, Peter Gabriel is the main act, but I'd rather suffer cholera than stay for that, so once the Finn boys pack up I'm outta there.
Also! I was assaulted in my very sleep. Early this morning the Paramour bopped me on the nose. Not very hard, but then bops on the nose don't need to be.
'Yeaourgh!' I said, awakening from a dream where I was reading a magazine where every picture of every person in it was Matt Damon (imagine if you will, a Dove ad, the saucy lady is looking at you, arm pits raised to the world, but instead of a womanly face it was Matt Damon, terrified you turn a page and it's an add for a some bloat defying yogurt, the lady is leaning against her kitchen counter in pale lemon Capri pants and a tight boob hogging white shirt, a blonde bob, but it's Matt Damon)
'Son of a-'
'I'm so sorry!"
'Ow. You bopped me.'
'I know, are you alright? I'm very sorry, I was dreaming and there were vortexes every where and I was being sucked down into one.'
'Right.'
'Are you okay?'
I tell him about the Matt Damon dream, he looks suitably horrified. We return to sleep, well he does, he lies there wiggling and making scared sounds. This is why older wiser couples sleep in twin beds.
In truth my nose is the very least of my problems. Remember I went for a 20k road run yesterday. Remember I was all, 'Oh my god I totally need to be like you know running on the road and stuff, here let me tell y'all like you know about it, and how like, I sooo gonna do it?"
Right, well obviously that was some kind of dream too, clearly I didn't run anywhere, no no, what must have happened was I went to a near by building site and lay under some of the machinery, yes that must be it, perhaps a JCB ran over my lower legs, and a couple of hod carriers kicked the bejayous out of my lower back, and then for shits and giggles, clearly I asked someone else to run over my shoulders and upper torso with a fork life. Yes, that must be it.
Ah shit! It's raining again.
Which reminds me, all this rain is causing the snails around here to go mental at night. They congregate is vast numbers outside out back door, the slimy little brats. Last night as we rounded up the cats there were about forty of the buggers out there all criss crossing each other's slime and doing weird snail figures of eight. There were even one or two pile ups. Which begs the question, how can they crash into each other at the speed they're going at?
'Look Paramour.' I said, gently throttling the bigger of the cats who was desperately trying to escape.
'What? said he, listing to one side under the weight of Puddy, while the one-eyed one tried to eviscerate him with his back claws. Oh they do so love going to bed at night.
'Snails. What are they up to?'
We stuffed the cats into the garage and closed the door and make out way gingerly through our molluscy guests. One or two more seemed to have joined the pile up.
'I wonder what snail porn is like?" I asked.
'Slow.' Said the paramour.
And on this note we retired.

Training for the marathon.

Day nine of the great Irish annual summer flood. 'Tis with a heavy heart that I cybersit here before ye. For those of you who know, or indeed even care, today is long run day, a fortnightly time that has been known to strike fear into the heart and muscles of this fatcat.
Oh I remember well the day when -owing to some synapse failing stupidity- I said 'I think I'll do the marathon this year'. Why did I not take heed of the gibbering voices swirling above my head, of the dark clouds that rumbled in, of the large raven that perched on the bough next to where I stood, who said 'Caw foookin' blimey guvner!'
Why indeed?
Today's run is a hilly affair, and by hilly I mean it's not on the treadmill. You see chumleywarners, I have discovered something about the old tready, it is a sneaky bit easier to run on it than say, oh the roads. It's self propelling for one, and bouncy. Now that's all very doodly deep, but it means fuggledy garp on race day. See, I noticed after the Flora Run that my shinny shin shins ached a bit the next day and also my thighs. And it dawned on me that I'd better start splitting my training up a bit to include actual real life surfaces. I mean its not like I can set the treadmill up at the starting line up of the marathon and run 26.2 miles on it there, now can I?
So bearing this in mind I have been splitting my runs between the park and now the roads. Monday I did a very easy 6.5 miles and I plan to do an easy run Satdee too, prolly about 10k in the gym. But today it's that section of training where I concentrate a bit more on the endurance. Now, my longest run up to now been in the gym and it was 20k. Today I am going to see if I can aim for that but on the road.
If I don't return it is because I have keeled over somewhere in a ditch. Or my legs detached themselves at the foot of some hill or other and quit.
If that happens you are all to have a piss up in my honour. There should be rum involved, and possibly teary fights and some singing. Oh, and an arrest or two never hurt anybody.

White Van Drivers. You lot are screwed.

Day eight of the flood and as I peer out the window at the never ending rain that falls during the typical Irish Summer I am once again having to reassess my views on the Catholic Church and mostly, the pontiff, Christ's right hand dude on this earth..
For yay, verily, the pope has our interests at heart. He wants us to live, to survive. He wants us to have multiple babies and revere old dudes, to not ask questions and to carry malformed and misshapen fetus' to full term so that they may survive long enough to be doused in water and sent to a holier death. He wants us to reject Amnesty International, meat on a Friday and the gays, for it is probably written that sharing cheese burger with either a country/city/french gay on a Friday while simultaneously considering the plight of others across the world is a big no-no and I for one don't want to get smote-eth, for that one.
Nope, he's a top man the pontiff, and now that he has sorted us all out he has turned his hand to road rage and come up with a whole slew of road rules. Rules that should they be abide-eth by I'm sure no accident will ever befall us true Catholics, the most holiest of drivers.
Observeth- from today's most holiest of tabloids, the Indo.



"The pontiff is so concerned about road rage that he has asked his staff to draw up a list of rules for the highway, including thou shalt not use a car "for sinful purposes".

A 58-page Vatican document, entitled 'Guidelines for Pastoral Care of the Road', urges drivers to avoid road rage, to respect the rights of pedestrians, and to make the sign of the cross before setting off.

Road users must not make "rude gestures" at other drivers, or use cars to show off and "arouse envy".Speeding and dangerous overtaking are forbidden, as are rude hand signals. And as for kerb crawling, forget it.

This would be a particularly tough call in Italy, where aspiring to own a Ferrari to demonstrate power and affluence (and impress women) is considered a male birthright.

Cardinal Renato Martino, head of the Vatican Office for Migrants and Itinerant People, said that the Vatican felt it necessary to address "the pastoral needs of motorists" because cars formed such a central part of modern life.

"Cars tend to bring out the primitive side of human beings, thereby producing rather unpleasant results," the document said.

It appealed instead to the "nobler tendencies" in the human spirit.

The fifth commandment - "Cars shall not be an expression of power and domination or an occasion for sin" - referred, Cardinal Martino said, to motorists who used their cars to pick up prostitutes, which was "an offence to human dignity".

Some drivers behaved in an "unsatisfactory and even barely human manner," the Vatican document said.

Motorists should avoid "unbalanced behaviour" such as "impoliteness, rude gestures, cursing, or blasphemy" and would do better to use the time spent in a car for prayer.

This would "immerse them in the presence of God so that they remain under His protection."

Concerns

While earthly concerns have tended to focus on careless use of mobile phones, the Vatican suggests that passengers can safely recite the rosary because "the rhythm and gentle repetition does not distract the driver's attention."

In addition, the document urges dioceses to help to set up chapels along motorways, with priests holding Mass or offering spiritual comfort to motorists at service stations.

Vatican City, the world's smallest sovereign state, doesn't have many of the problems listed in the document.

It has about 1,000 cars, the speed limit is 30kph and one Vatican official said the last accident inside Vatican City's walls was about 18 months ago, resulting in minor damage. "

Yah, and lo. For it is now written. Go forth and drive carefully fellow catholics. You Protestants can drive however you want, everyone knows you and the Buddhists and that other lot are just spawn of Satan. You lot are already screwed. I revoke my previously held view that I"m a filthy Agnostic and am off this very morning to see if I can locate a magnetic dashboard Mary.
For I have seen the light! And it was amber your Lord, AMBER!

When dinosaurs stalked the really young earth.

Creationists! Behold! I guess I stand corrected. That Noah, what a cad. He must have known T-rex was a vegan all along. Cheers Boingboing.

Tattoos

I'm against them!
I dislike tattoos, I have always disliked tattoos. Living in Barcelona really turned me off them as every other person seems to have one.
I think tats are really ugly. That's just my personal opinion, but sometimes I can get my head around the thought that someone might get one done that REALLY REALLY means something to them. However I reserve my outright disgust for those tats that mean nothing at all to the person wearing them. I think celtic bands look ridiculous, I think designs on the base of the spines are common and completely unoriginal and I super hated all those tattoos everyone got around their belly buttons years ago. Bleaugh. A friend of mine had one done, then she got pregnant a few years later, you don't even want to know what her 'Eastern Sun' looks like now. Tattoos that cover the whole arm like sleeves are gross, and if you get a tattoo on your neck or hands...well, you're an idiot.
I don't like to see ink on anyone, men and women alike, but I especially hate to see ink on teenagers. I also think tattoo parlours shouldn't tattoo anyone under the age of 21. Teenagers are notorious for changing their minds every other week. Witness the Little Goth Kid, now more The Little Sk8tor Kid, next week she might be The Little Emo Kid, who can say.
Yesterday on a 15 to Rathmines two boys got on the bus as Ternure. Both wore sleeveless tops-despite the rain- both had near identical MASSIVE tattoos of squiggly crap all over their pale under developed deltoids. These young lads can't have been any more that sixteen or seventeen.
If I was their mother I would be most unhappy.
Many many years ago I worked with a gal who was covered in tats- including two on her upper breasts. She had gotten them done as a youth and was in the process of getting them removed when I met her. Man the pain that girl went through, and the bloody expense. But that's the thing about tats, it's not like a piercing where you can just remove the offending article should you change your mind. It's not like getting a dramatic haircut or dye job that you can alter. It's pretty permanent unless you are willing to go through the discomfort and cost of having then removed.
Tattoos, I'm against them!! (but do what you want)

Talent, thy name is Paul Potts.

This dude won the 'Britain's Got Talent' show. I don't normally follow stuff like that but I made an exception for this show and I fell madly in awe of this dude. He's round, shy and totally adorable in his no nonsense way. Plus he has some set of pipes on him.

Sinead O'Connor.

Troubled singer Sinead O'connor opened up the the Indo about her love for her 'Devil' mother.' How nice. Her mother is dead now. It's easy to love them when they're not hanging over you like a fucking rotting albatross.

In other news I am to be an Auntie again, my brother and his good lady are having a child. To normal people this is a most joyous occasion, to miserable fucks that ought to just pack their bags and shuffle off from this mortal coil, it is news akin to discovering you've just destroyed the winning lottery ticket in the white wash.

The Weekend! It's here! Huzzah!

Due to a most unfortunate set of unforseen circumstances, i.e work, I could not post a doodle worth a damn to day and now it is too late and beer is upon us. Or rather it will be once my lip gloss dries and I make my heady way through the Irish summer weather,i.e rain, towards the Friday bar, where doubtless Smurf- the barman- is currently smearing a perfectly clean looking glass with his filthy rag, looking at my empty seat is astonishment and perhaps terror, for he might have more children he expects my liver to put through college.
So, with that long sentence firmly behind me, I bid you all adieu and I hope you have a cracking weekend. But don't smoke crack, crack is wack, Whitney said so, and she should know frankly.
Kissy kissy,
FMC.
The dog photo was so adorable I eeeeeed myself into a near stroke. Lookit eez little feeets! Thezz in sokzzzz.
Sigh.
I blame Finn.

What's in a name Fuckface?

Wouldn't a goddamn rose smell the fucking same no matter what you called it? Didn't some one say that in some teenage angst play or other. Well?
While pondering where the invisible mariachi band had come from this morning, and why they were playing quite so close to my ears, I wandered lonely as a puddle of gloop to the kitchen to make coffee and inject pain killers directly into my veins. Sitting there, in my robe, bare feet, my hair as curly as orphan Annie's, I tried to make sense of certain things I had learned the night before.
Here is what I learned. Take heed folks, you may need this list to compare some day.
1) Cocaine is now de rigueur at any social gathering.
2) People who ingest cocaine bore the absolute shit off me, okay dude I get it, your mind is like totally expanding man and your early inhibitions have flown the coop so now you can wax lyrical on just about any subject you choose.
3) Small light people cannot handle a lot of booze.
4) However fill them with Redbull and they think they can-thus they drink more than normally possibly-and get very very aggressively drunk.
5) Girls called 'MiMi' (that's right, second capital) ought to be rounded up and studied. If we can isolate whatever gene it is that makes them impervious to cold we should isolate it and the one that makes it difficult to breathe and blink at the same time, we ought to crush that one.
6) Running into old 'friends' at social gatherings, while awkward and uncomfortable can be done, unless girls called MiMi are nearby.
7) People who say, 'Didn't like, you, like used to be, like friends? Ohmigosh, well, you know, what's that saying, we're all together as one?' exist.
8 There is no such saying as 'we're all together as one.'
9) False eyelashes are like totally expensive but there's like an amazing girl in Temple Bar that can do them, it I should ever like you know, what to 'do something' about my own eyelashes.
10) And this is where I came in. Not taking your husband's (future or otherwise) name as your own once you're legally hitched is still seen-by some- as being an act of subversion. Pointing out that your own name might have served you perfectly well for any number of years and you might like to keep it, is also considered, 'strident.' And 'bogus feminist crap.'
Telling cocaine filled wanklords to cram it is not considered strident, that's just considered 'hostile.'
Offering to show cocaine filled dude the true meaning of 'hostile' invokes near gnu like panic in the surrounding herd, except for MiMi who was busy trying to scoop one of her false eyelashes out of her drink using a straw and then her thumb.
Rum will sooth all ruffled feathers, at least surface feathers.
Ow.

The mother of all combinations!

Oh praise Chulthua! And double praise Dlisted for finding these nutjobs. I'm sending this to my mother immediately! Immediately I say. Oh it's too too perfect. I'm almost spluttering with joy. Finally, something she can use 'til the end of days. Oh Etheline's gonna crack up, this shit is too...I'm almost at a loss. Where's Kim Ayres when you need him?
Follow the link, follow the yellow brick link.

http://www.weighdown.com/

Dreams.

Oh I have 'em, great big film dreams, dreams where I recognise I"m dreaming, scary dreams, falling dreams, boring dreams, long drawn out dreams that leave me exhausted and convinced I haven't slept.
HOWEVER, only one dream makes me curse a lot.
Do you lot get the one where someone calls you to get up and you say, 'Muuurpokay!'
And then you get up, tiredly, stumble into the bathroom, wee, wash hands, wash face, brush teeth, stumble back to bedroom, find clothes, get dressed slowly, stretch, start to wake up a bit, go down stairs have coffee and...
'Are you getting up?"
You open your eyes.
ARGHGHGHGHHGHGHGH! You were still asleep and you've just been dreaming, now you've got to do it all over again! (Even though you didn't actually do it in the first place)
I used to have this dream before school a lot. I had it again this morning.
Most annoying.
However, not annoyingly, I"m going to a paaady tonight, a Wendesday night paaaady, how bloomin' dolce vita is that then?

Toddlers and Spectacular Tantrums.

I had to nip down to the local shop a while ago to buy bread and milk. A normal sort of morning thing to do. While I was there I perused the magazine section and then ambled slowly towards the checkout, where a group of people stood in line, as the slowest man in all the land operated the cash register.
But no matter, it was a warm and sunny day. I don't mind standing in line, especially when I can people watch. And by golly did I get the price of a full ticket today.
At the head to the line was old woman, behind her an impatient taxi driver (he'd parked him taxi slap bang in the middle of the cycle lane and put his hazards on)
Next a well dressed man with a paper who sighed and glanced at his watch a lot.
Then a mother, with a small baby on one hip and a toddler/small boy * standing beside her.
Then me.
I"m not sure how it happened really, but there is a plastic stand full of jellies near where she was standing and I'm sure that had something to do with it. I'm sure I heard her say, 'No Noel, put that back.'
Noel-said toddler countered with. 'Cannnoiii getoneodem?"
'No.' said his mom, rather mildly I thought.
Well sweet fucking chulutha. I'm not sure what the child heard, perhaps voices in his head, perhaps faeries-invisible to the grown-up eye- suddenly started pulling his hair and stinging him with wands made from bees or something, because the next thing this... SOUND came out of him.
I can't describe it really, it was a howling keening rising wailing caterwaul. It started hoarse and ratched up in seconds into an ear-splitting, eyebrow raising screech of such agonized pain and fury that I for one smooched my bread in terror.
The man with the paper jumped mid-sigh and even the taxi driver looked startled.
I shook out my bread and stepped backwards. We all backed away a little.
Jesus.
But it was remarkable, he kept at it. He just stood there, eye scrunched up tight, fists balled, face as red as a lobster, making that sound.
And his mother, she wiped dribble from her baby's chin with a hanky, and stood gazing at some cards on a display rack.
Was she deaf?
THe old lady finally paid for her goods and moved off. The taxi dude was next. The line moved forward, or rather some of the line did. The mother tried. I was stymied.
She held out her hand.
'Noel come on, hold Mammy's hand.'
Clearly Noel heard, 'Hey fuckface, I'm going to kick you really hard and then I'm going to rip up all your comics and melt your action men and you'll never have sweets again, EVER!'
He must have heard that, there is no other reason for him to do what he did next, which was pitch himself straight onto the floor and kick and scream with wild abandon.
I'd never seen anything like it, it was like he was simultaneously being electrocuted and racked at the same time, stiff, crazy ass wiggling, stiff, crazy ass wiggling, and all with the noise, oh the noise. I swear I can still hear it.
His mother tried lifting him, but he wouldn't have it so the poor woman let me go ahead of her while she dealt with the small explosion that was her son. So grateful was I that, with tears in my eyes, I stepped over the writhing ball of rage and then fled the shop with nary a backwards glance lest I be turned to a pillar of salt.
I could hear him for quite some time. My teeth ache, my jaws still haven't fully unclenched.
My god, is that normal? Do small children do stuff like that on a regular basis? If that was my son I"d have fled. Or threatened to end his suffering right then and there. How could she have been so calm? Maybe she was deaf too. Or on Xanax.
yes, that must be it.
Xanax.




* when does the toddler stage end?

Child savaged by dangerous dog.

Another child has been brutally savaged by a dangerous dog. This poor child was minding its own businesss when this monster turned and- without any provocation -launched its furious attack.
I'm outraged, I'm going to ring all the radio stations and complain about these devil dogs. How can we -Joe Public- be safe when these beasts are allowed to live near us!? It's an outrage, they should be muzzled at all times-yes, even when asleep, how do you know they are asleep anyway? They could just be pretending to sleep while in reality they're hatching a nefarious plot to find and savage a child. They should be wearing wearing shock collars and be under supervision AT ALL TIMES!!!!
They're not to be trusted, this eeeeveeel breed, they could turn any second, savage they are, everybody knows that. Look at the damage they do. Outraged! I think I read -somewhere one time once a long time ago somewhere- that they were bred for fighting, AHA!
Where is my number for Joe Duffy, for Oral (that's right) Barry, where did I put it? I want these devil dogs destroyed, I want them moved to an island somewhere, away from us people, away from civilized society, what sort of person keeps these anyway????? Oh yeah, we know the sort, of course we do. Acting all tough and stuff, we're totally on to you.
Won't someone PLEASE THINK OF THE CHILDREN!!!!

Oh and some boy was attacked by two rottweilers yesterday too, but no one seems to be getting upset about that one. You know? No hysterics, no...Oh no wait, I could be lying.
http://www.independent.ie/national-news/savage-rottweiler-attack-on-boy-sparks-garda-probe-695602.html

Part 2 of Friday's fun. A ginger triune of testosterone

It's very hot here, I may well be on my way to having a stroke.
Happy weekend Bee-atches!

A fashionably freakish friday foto for Finn.

When designers go roid! Seriously, his nipples are bigger than my thumb.

A Friday murder.

Remember how I said the bigger of the cats was being tormented by birds when we moved here, specifically by a large fat woodpigeon. Well I reckon mr wood pigeon was clever enough to get the hell out of dodge.
However, it would appear some other birdies were not so smart. And this is what greeted me in the hall a while ago.
(It's not mister and missus blackbird though, they were out in force yesterday teaching the babies how to extract snails form shells, most amusing to watch)

Missing girl found.

This is a strange one, and a bit like the Shawn Hornbeck case. From to day's UK Independent.

"It had been a year and hopes that a missing teenager from Connecticut would ever be found had inevitably faded. But the police never gave up and on Wednesday their labours reaped their reward: they uncovered the girl, alive and apparently unharmed, inside the home of a dog trainer.

The circumstances, however, of the teen's recovery by the police were disturbing. When the police entered the home of Adam Gault, 41, on Wednesday, with search warrants to pursue the case, they stumbled upon a secret door behind a dresser. On the other side lay a miniature room measuring barely 3ft high and about 5ftdeep.

The girl was found crouched inside. She is 15 years old but other personal details about her are not being released because an investigation into possible sexual abuse is ongoing. Last night, she was in protective custody as police sought to find out the details of what happened during her year-long absence.

Mr Gault, whose lives in Bloomfield, just 10 miles from Hartford, the state capital, was due to appear in court yesterday on charges that included unlawful restraint and reckless endangerment. Also due to appear on similar charges were two women who lived with him, identified as Ann Murphy, 40, and Kimberly Cray, 26.

Many questions remained unanswered, however, about the weeks and months that the girl apparently remained with Mr Gault, including the circumstances of her disappearance from her family in June last year. Police said she had had a history of running away from home and that she and Mr Gault had apparently been in contact before she vanished.

Officials are not ruling out the possibility that the girl had gone to Mr Gault voluntarily, at least in the beginning. It appears that the dog trainer had been an acquaintance of her parents and may have had some business dealings with them.

"There was an inordinate amount of contact via cellular phone and then, during follow ups, there were a lot of other circumstances that led us to believe there was an inappropriate relationship," Capt Jeffrey Blatter of the Bloomfield police department said.

During the 12 months away, it also appeared that the girl was using a different name to avoid alerting police suspicions. "She was compelled to use a new name, a new identity," Capt Blatter said. "She did assume a name to suggest that she was part of the family."

There may have been trips out of Bloomfield and possibly into other states.

Police are also investigating the possibility that Mr Gault had entered abusive relationships with other under-age girls in the area. "The case is definitely on going," Capt Blatter told reporters yesterday.

He indicated that police may have already identified other young girls who had already had contacts with Mr Gault but have not to pursued legal action because of feelings of embarrassment or humiliation.

As for the girl and her family, it was not clear when, or even if, their reunion would come. Police conceded that it might "not be in the child's interests" to return her to her parents."

Strange, you would have to ask what sort of home this kid comes from that she would rather change her name and live with complete strangers.

Laugh, I should say so!

For Annie, and for me too.

Plague, a plague upon me.

I am utterly banjaxed. Beyond help, completely and utterly bollixed, aches, shivery, slitty-eyed, light sensitive, voice free, sweating and throat inflamed all at the same time. Poorly doesn't really cover this one. Unclean Unclean, might.
I have been up a short while, trying to convince myself that if I just take enough painkilers and so forth that I can attend the Gala fashion thingie I have an invited to. Invites from City Gay are like gold dust (he works in meedja) and I don't want to leave him in the lurch. Also there will be clothes 'n stuff at the end of this trip.
And yet, even typing I can feel the energy seeping out of me as the infection builds. My voice is completely gone, there's nowt left but the scraping sound of bark on granite and it costs even to use that. Coughing makes me scream but you can't hear it.
I am properly walloped.
Vile.
For some reason or other, this state of near radioactive slurm filled mank reminds me of a post Fat Sparrow's spouse put up the other day, http://fatsparrow.blogspot.com/. It was a post about the sheer hellishness of a McJob and the tossers and horror of working at that particular fast food place. It put me in mind of a the series of hellish jobs we must all suffer before we drag ourselves gasping and aching onto whatever platform we can cling too that isn't, well, completely shite.
I've had some truly utterly awful jobs before I quit working for folk and started working for myself. But the one I'm thinking of today, as I sit here shivering and freezing and dribbling snot was so vile even now I get frostbite thinking about it.
Door-to door scratch card selling.
Oh lawks, take my soul and burn it right now, you might as well.
It's a vile job. VILE.
I worked for this 'charity' way back in the heady days of my early twenties. Every day we would assemble in the city centre, divide into our respective teams, and go sell!
GO TEAM GO!
Me, a funny dude from Galway, an obese girl from Carlow(who used to steal all the little jam and marmalade tubs from restaurants and lick them clean on the hi-ace), two student who had taken a year off college and a chap who liked to play with knives would climb into into a battered hi-ace driven by a lunatic, and be sent off to various parts of the country to sell scratch card that nobody wanted for a fake 'charity' nobody cared about.
It was hellish. I traipsed around some of the worst estates in Dundalk, Drogheda, Balbriggen, all over the north of the city. It was a strange one, the poorer the estate, the more likely you were to sell the cards, but also the more likely you were to be roughed up and robbed. So it was a fine line. At least poor folk don't just silently let the door close in your face while you're still talking.
Every Friday I would go to Dundalk and set up my pitch outside Dunnes in the town. One Friday I went and discovered a woman there collecting for guide dogs, or Irish life boats or some shit. I a not joking when I saw we nearly came to blows.
We had a quota we had to sell, 65 scratch a day. You would imagine that 65 is not a huge number, but you'd be wrong.
It all came to a head for me on the Christmas week. Driven by greed and good will, the boss, a fat oily oik, decided that we should suck the festive wallets right up to Christmas day.
So on Christmas eve, I, and my bunch of reprobate co-workers, hit Kildare.
I have no words for the misery. It was -2 degrees and as I crunched across lawns, gazing like an orphan in at fires and Christmas trees, waiting shivering in the doors with my fake plastic smile stretched rictus like across my face for the home owners to open their doors expecting friends or family, only to be trounced with, "Hi, I'm Fatmammycat, I work for shysters inc, I'm terribly sorry to bother you like this...'
We worked until the temperature dropped another two degrees. The we made our way back to the hi-ace. I had sold 80 cards. Stabby has sold 12, Galway dude has sold 94, the obese girl, 40, and the two students hadn't come because they actually had family that would feed them, for free.
That's when our driver informed us that what we sold that day was to be our wages for the week, he also added that we should probably get out there and see if we could sell a few more.
So we did, we worked on late into the evening, pestering people, letting the cold into houses, terrifying old deaf ladies who couldn't understand what it was we wanted and who were we again.
It was hellish. My fingers gave up working and despite our best effort to keep him on track Stabby lost it and disappeared-which was alarming since he was from Firhouse and we had no idea how he was going to get back to the city.
Anyhoo, not long after I spent a luxury Christmas in my one bedroomed hovel in Rathmines, enjoying the fruits that my 32 pounds-had to pay rent see- had brought me, I decided I"d rather cut my own throat that go back to that shit hole for one single other day.
And so I called time on the scratch card industry.
So what about it folks, what are the worst jobs you've had to endure? Are perhaps still enduring? Is there one that can pull you up in your tracks and make you go 'Bleeeeeeeep' still? Do you shudder?





Oh, and Frank Carson is a miserable old fuck who is neither funny nor charitable.

The healing power of fashion.

'Urgh,' I said when I opened my eyes this morning. 'Urgh and yow.'
I went out see, last night, to a gal pal's house, there was wine drunk and some sort of quiche eaten, then more wine was drunk, next thing you know I"m back home, NOT talking (for fear of sounding slurring) and trying to tidy the kitchen.
'You probably should go to bed.' The paramour said as I tried to tie two plastic bags together for no discernible reason.
I nodded in agreement, went upstairs, washed my face and then I woke up this morning.
Ugh.
With a cold.
And a hangover, a... hold.
Less than amused at this discovery I made my way-gingerly- downstairs.
'Bindrow?' The bigger of the cats said.
'Velly.' I replied in Christopher Lee's voice, opening presses -which sounded like trees falling- and putting the kettle on- which sounded like a waterfall and then an explosion.
I sat at the table to wait, noticing as I did that my ear are blocked and my throat feels like it's tied up with razor wire.
Truly mingingly awful.
'Oh woe is me, bigger of the cats.' I cried, admiring the way he can sit in a chair and look remarkably like a person. Well, if I knew any black and white furry people. 'Woe' I say.
'Ech-narp.' Said he.
'Pork! I should co-co.' I laughed, but I stopped laughing when I realised there was an AK47 going off in a metallic room somewhere nearby.
I made coffee and a hot lemon drink.
I carried them in here. My footsteps were sonic booms.
I switched on the Dapple. A small grenade, followed by an orchestra.
Bling, it said loudly, and a red dot appeared in my mail.
Spam spam spam spam, work related crapology, work related crapology.
Bah!
But then...what's this? An email, from City Gay no less, that most elusive of thistles.

'Darling, I"ve got two tickets to the gala opening of Kildare Retail Village (http://www.kildarevillage.com/Kildare/home.asp?lan=en) tomorrow night. Want to come? It's gala Darling, you'll probably need a new gúna! Pm me, we'll have a drink in the Fitz and then grab the bus!'

Retail? Village? New dress? Moi!
Who has time to be ill? Who has time to be hungover? There are dresses to be hunted. And lo, I have new shoes upstairs just waiting for an outing such as this.
Oh fashion, you never let me down.
I love you.
Kissy kissy.
FMC

Resistance is...well, boderline futile.

This is a total tease, a tease of epic proportions. I am an Apple whore, I love their stuff, I love my iPod, my Dapple, (desk Apple of big screen size) our old Lapple, (ibook or lap Apple )all manner of Apple things in fact, love them. Love the design, love the style, love the way they work with no hassle and even computer idiots like me can operate them.
I love Apple products.
But this is taking things to bloomin' far! I am AGAINST mobile phones. I would go as far as to say I hate them. I hate that people on buses use them to say they are two seconds away from their destination. I hate that people use them in lifts. I hate catchy ring tones. I hate people texting while they are talking to you.
I just don't like being in contact ALL THE BLOODY TIME!
So when I saw the following on this fine sunny morning, it set off all manner of twitches and bleeps in my wracked body.
What is a fat cat to do?
WHAT?
http://www.apple.com/iphone/ads/ad3/medium.html

The Sunday Gym report.

Ow. Core work hurts. Many thanks to the very lovely Ian who kindly sent me some super core strengthening exercises, which I followed tweaked a little. The pull over was quite an eye opener (I did it with a 6k Db, and even at that It made me face puce)
However rather delightedly I have discovered I am getting stronger. My row today consisted of a warm-up and then three sets of ten reps at 12.5k and my db press has is bobbling along nicely at 10k-each arm. I was terrificly pleased about this, so much so I sat on the bench grinning like a loon between sets until I noticed the dude next to me was winking at me. I considered sticking my tongue out at him, but thought it might descend into hair pulling and wedgie land so I resisted.
Right ho, seeing as tomorrow is race day and I need the energy, I am away to the paramour's father's home to eat the poor man out of Sunday dinner.
Wish me luck peeps, I intend to break the mo'fo 10k/hour if it kills me!

Niles Crane is actually gay.

Well, I'd love to say I'm totally surprised that David Hyde Pierce has come out as gay, but really, there are only so many lies I can tell in one week.

Psychics? Where the fuck are ya?

Much as the whole Madeleine McCann thing bothers the shit out of me, I do wonder about something.
Where are all the psychics? Why have they not zeroed in on her whereabouts? Why no proclamations? Well? Well?
Sylvia Browne? You're suspiciously silent.
All those other dudes who are regularly on tv waffling on about their spiritual guides and so forth. The readers, the white witches, the seers. Why so silent? Why so vague?
Well?
Thought so.

A fat filled, tasty, sexist sort of post.

A triple-decker if you will, with a topping of wii!
Firstly a very good Friday to you all.
Secondly this is a rambler, but see if you can track along with me,

Part 1-Europe is getting fatter. According to the European Commission our bellies are bulgier,our asses wider, our hips wider and out bingo wings flap-tacular. A full 50% of us are not overweight/obese and this figure is set to rise."The figures are frightening. More than 21 million children are overweight or obese," Mr Kyprianou -he of the commission said.

EUROPE'S HEAVYWEIGHTS
Malta - 26.6
Greece - 25.9
Finland - 25.8
Luxembourg - 25.7
Hungary - 25.6
Cyprus - 25.6
Lithuania - 25.5
Slovenia - 25.5
Denmark - 25.5
UK - 25.4
Body Mass Index figures (healthy = 18.5 to 25)

"Even more worrying, the rate of increase [among children] is more than 400,000 per year. Today's overweight children will be tomorrow's adults with all these chronic illnesses."

So there you have it, in a nut shell, in a McDoanalds wrapper, in a Nachos 'n cheese bundle. We're getting lardy-assed at an alarming rate. I don't know where the Irish fit the above graph, but if my walk all over Parnell street and Capel Street yesterday was anything to go by then we're probably right up there.

2-Part 2 Bearing this in mind let me impart my new breakfast on you all. Cheap as chips, healthy as a fox, and best of all, really really good for you and very low in the calorie department, with an added bonus of not feeling hungry for many hours after wards.
Superquinns are doing this see through plastic bucket of stuff called, Toasted Breakfast Cereal, from the Stable Diet company. Now, it's about four euros for the bucket and it weight 460 grammes. However you only need to use about three table spoons of it for breakfast and the bloody stuff is delicious. It's a combination of oat flakes, oat bran, sunflower seeds, coconut, almonds, walnuts, sun flower, and brown cane sugar. It's very very good. But if you mix it with a pot of natural yogurt, and some fruit the result is FANTASTIC!. Normally I like blueberries, but today I sliced up some strawberries to spoon through it. (Strawberries 6 euros for two large punnets. You only use about four strawberries per bowl so again it lasts for some time)
So
Some spoons of aforementioned cereal,
Natural yougurt.
Fresh fruit.
And voila! A good healthy hearty breakfast that was quicker to make than toast. I should point out the paramour, who is working from home today had a smoked bacon sambo while I had this.
Which leads me to my next section.

part-3Yesterday evening while shopping with aforementioned paramour, we paused a the meat counter in the aforementioned Superquinn to buy the aforementioned bacon.
Now there are varieties of bacon on display, streaky, smoked, maple backed Hickory and so on. We were going for the streaky-as it crisps up nicely.
'Which do you want?' Paramour said, peering through the glass. 'Smoky or normal?'
'I don't care.' I said helpfully. 'Get which ever one you like.'
'Hummm, I'll have a pound of the smoky please.' the paramour said to the much moustacheiod butcher dude behind the counter.
''Hurph. If you'd bought the other she's have been giving out to you when you brought it home.' Our delightful butcher. said, grabbing up chunk of smoky pork.
The paramour and I glanced up at him. 'No I wouldn't.' I said. 'I still wouldn't care.'
This for some reason offended afore mentioned butcher's testicles, causing them to wither up into his body.
'My guess is you'd never hear the end of it,' he persisted, making desperate eye-contact with the paramour.
'You guessed wrong then.' I said, with steely -eyed calm.
Once again he seemed to hear, 'Widdle woman, widdle, widdle." from far back in his frontal lobe.
'Huh.' He sealed our bacon. 'Good job you brought her with you anyway.' Quoth he.
'I didn't. She brought me.' The paramour said cheerfully, accepting his bacon with all the good grace he normally reserves for strange angry men who talk over his beloved and wear stripped pinnys. By this stage he had twigged the power struggle.
'I know my place.' He added joyously.
Our butcher, shot him the 'You're fucking ruining our club you smiley bastard,' look and stalked off to beat his chest, or torment old ladies or whatever it was he needed to do to reassert his place in the world. Perhaps he stalked the baggers, making cute comments on their breasts, who knows.
We went home and had spicy chicken wraps.
Then this morning the paramour, over his bacon sambo, informs me that he is going to buy a wii.
I think he's nuts, but also a gadget freak. So I salute him and am happy that he enjoys shit like that.
I know my place too.
And also, bacon, Kevin Bacon. All roads. Lead to. You have been warned.