Sunday, September 30, 2007

When we make plans the weather laughs.

My plan to hike to the hell fire club today was drowned out in a torrent of rain. So instead I took myself and a sorely disappointed LGK off to the gym, where we did a circut session that culminated in a 2k run, a run TLGK said made her feel sick. Teenagers are moany wee shites are they not?
Now I must plan where to watch the rugby and what ale to partake of while I do so. Yesterday I had a pint of Smithwicks with a Guinness head, pretty smooth I must say.


Friday, September 28, 2007

Motivation for fatcats.

Alrighty then, as the Finnster would say, this week is mostly in the bag. Apart from a hike on Sunday I am on a go slow until next week.
Today was a good work out. I worked hard on my stabilisers, doing 4x10 sets of one legged dips, carrying 15k disks in each arm and performing over head squats using the 4k bar. Now I'm a bad squatter so form is much more important to me than weight for the moment, but even using the 4k bar it was a real work out.
4x 10 sets of flys, only 4k bells but that's fine.
I need to work on the shoulder press more, when I'm not doing a jump I'm seriously lacking in strength and that pisses me off. I did 3x 8 using the 18k bar and I was wobbling all over the place on the last three reps and finally dribbled off to failure. Now if I do a my normal push jerk I can lift 5kilos more than that, so I'm not impressed at all.
In between all this I hit the grav machine for more pull ups, broken into sets of 10, I used an under grip today, working the biceps and kept the weight on 35k, it was fine and dandy but my over grip is definitely much stronger and I was kipping a bit towards the end of the last set-which is ridiculous on a grav machine.

To finish off I hit the rowing machine. Now for some reason I found it hard to get into the groove today, so by the time I hit 3000metres I was almost 2 whole minutes behind on my time and getting annoyed. As is the fatcat way this meant I had to chase it, and when I hadn't caught it by 5000m I lost it and the big guns came out. It was a pink faced teeth clenched affair and I chased that time down until I bounced over the 6000m mark coming in at 29: 40, still not fabulous but better.

I realise why it is that I don't need anyone to train with, if I had real live competition I'd probably kill myself.

Hit the showers, home.

I am going out tonight to partake of what is probably the only session I'm going to fit in before the Marathon. Chumlies will notice I've been taking it handy with the hooch of late, watching CSI on Fridays after only a drink or three at Smurfs, taking it handier still on Saturdays and running on sundays or the day formerly know as drink day.
Tis but a small sacrifice if I can make it over that line after 26 miles in one piece.
But tonight all bets are off.
Have a good weekend everyone.


An ominous start to the weekend.

Not actual size, nor bird.

Oh Chumlies, I tell you...I have aged ten years this morning. I'm still not right.

I was up and about, I'd had coffee and a slice of wholemeal toast, I checked my mail, my blog, glanced through the papers. All was well with the world. After a while I wandered up stairs in a leisurely fashion, thinking about Fullers best bitter ale and how I was going to do a post on it. I stripped naked, scratched Puddy who lay on my bed in a ham induced coma, picked up my dressing gown and then...
A terrific smashing sound from downstairs, followed seconds later by another, then a lot of what I can only describe as muffled thumping and what I thought was a rough sort of weird voice.
'What the fuck?' I said, in a lady like manner.
Puddy paused mid purr to look askance.
Now, the paramour had gone to work and I was alone, and nude. So naturally I did the lady like thing. I slipped on my dressing gown, grabbed the lady like putter by the side of my bed and charged-lady like-downstairs to do irreparable damage to whomsoever's skull I happened to tee off.
I had barely made it to the return when something shot past my head.
I released a terribly brave and lady like high-pitched scream and then another as a second later two more blurs tore up the stairs in hot pursuit.
I got my heart to restart and ran after the bigger of the cats and the one-eyed Marklar who were hurtling towards my bedroom.
It was at this point that I noticed Puddy hurtling towards me at one hundred cat fathoms an hour. (who knew she could move so fast at her age)
I side stepped her and she proceeded to carry on down the stairs. I proceeded on to the bedroom where I was stunned to find the two chap cats trying very bravely to take down one of those ferocious black and grey crows, you know, the big, big bastards that are always on the side of the motor way, waiting to pick off cattle or beggars or whatever the hell they like to do with their enormous beaks and huge bloody talons.
Once again I did the brave scream, as it flapped about the room, smacking off the mirror and getting tangled up in the curtains, curtains that Marklar decided to then climb, panicking Satan's wretched budgie to even more frantic 'ATRKSK' and more flapping.
What to do?
Well I did the only sane thing any sane woman would do. I fled and locked myself into the bathroom.
The arking and flapping went on for a while longer and then from the thudding of feet, I knew the whole possy had once more moved down stairs. Hearing Memnoch's evil mocking voice ringing in my ears I decided to stop being a scaredy cat and to go and sort out the intruder, perhaps to coax it to return to the pit of hell from whence it came.
I managed to make it the whole way down stairs this time just in time in fact to see the Bigger of the cats dragging the outraged vulture off my counter tops as it flapped and pecked like crazy. Marklar was behind the bigger of the cats, his tail as big as a racoon, his ears flat.
'Get out with that thing!' I whimpered bravely, and waved the golf club in a lady like but threatening manner.
TBOTC did just that. I stumbled into my kitchen-which looked like a small but powerful bomb had gone off in it what with the broken crockery and over turned plants- and watched as he hauled the still squawking winged beast down the garden to finish it off, the Marklar trotting behind in his wake.
'Holy fucking shite.' I said in lady like fashion and dropped the putter.
Puddy came out from where she was hiding under the the kitchen table. I picked her up and together we stood there, our hearts beating uncomfortably, my face drained of any human colour, her's stayed black and white.
Presently she began to purr and I decided to close the back door.
Bloody bloody birds and their bloody bloody flapping. I tell you, I'm not right.
Birds in the house... I'm AGAINST IT!


Thursday, September 27, 2007

This can't wait until Friday!

Holy Guacamole. His arms are right angles. Hat tip the ever nutty Michael


Motivation for fatcats.

I often find the days I don't want to go to the gym at all and my procrastination is at 100% to be the best sort of day once I drag my protesting arse there. The following was done earlier on a circuit with no rest breaks-apart from that break when I thought I was going to vomit, but other than that no breaks.

10 Pullups on the grav machine, over hand grip used. Lowered the balance weight by ten K from last week.
10 Dumbell presses, 10k each arm,
30 dips off bench
Push jerk- 22k x 8

Repeat 4 times.

Then I made my way to the mat to perform 50 disgusting nasty hateful carpet sweepers. This is where you lie down, hold a bar or (broom if you're at home) about chest height, arms extended, ready, okay, curl your feet up and tap them against either side of the bar, outside your hands, return to floor and repeat on opposite side of bar. Do as many as you can. I could do 50 unbroken, but I'd imagine others can do it better, my abs are a bit sore and my arms were knackered so even holding a 4k bar up was starting to make wobble time.
Then, 11k run on treadmil.
Finish, gulp water, hit shower.
Home, Nice to see you to see you nice.


Romantic Films.


Not my forte really but Conan just reminded me that I do love the odd one here and there and given that PS I Love you is billed as romantic when clearly it sets off my twee twitchy alarm I want to put forth my idea of Romance, feel free to add yours, I'll make up a top ten for the most mentioned. Then I'll watch them with Puddy next time it's wet and I"m avoiding work or better yet, when I'm slightly ill. ( but not too sick)
My favourite romantic films are.

1- Moonstruck. Love it, love her love him, love Olimpia, love 'he took my arm'.
2-Truly Madly Deeply- Oh when she cried I cried. Also it had the Rickman factor...mmmmmmrickman.
3-Terms Of Endearment- I've said it before and I'll say it again, when Shirley breaks and comes screaming furious and hopeless out of the hospital waiting room I almost sent myself into a coma from crying.
4-Ghost- cheesy, but still, it's in there. Cried.
5- Crocodile Dundee- I'm kidding, I kid I kid. 'Or am I?' ( Spongebob voice) I'm putting in 'As good as it Gets' at 5, and yes, I do know most of the script off by heart, I can do this Melvin, I truly can.


Best excuse ever.

Oh I like his style. From the BBC.

'Goat-free roads made me speed'

A Swiss man caught speeding on a Canadian highway has blamed his actions on the absence of goats on the roads.
The man was caught driving at 161 km/h (100mph) in a 100 km/h (60mph) zone.

A traffic officer's notes said the Swiss driver had said he was taking advantage "of the ability to go faster without risking hitting a goat".

Canadian police spokesman Joel Doiron said he had never found a goat on the highways of eastern Ontario in his 20 years of service.

"Nobody's ever used the lack of goats here as an excuse for speeding," Mr Doiron told the AFP news agency.

"I've never been to Switzerland, but I guess there must be a lot of goats there," he said.

The driver was ordered to pay a fine of C$360 ($330; £175) for speeding."

Well that seal it, I'm am to drive down to see a darling friend of mine in Wexford this weekend, and I must say normally I take it quite handy on the roads, but perhaps I shall go faster. If stopped I shall use, 'there were so few sheltland ponies on the road, yer guardship, I couldn't help myself.'


Wednesday, September 26, 2007

Ps I love you- the hard way.

I'm sorry if anyone was eating.


Future Batman will look like this.

Finn, in what was clearly an effort to kick lower my blood pressure after watching the trailer for PS-I Love You, has sent me into eeeeeeeeeeeee overdrive.
Look at 'eees little belly, eeees little feets. Oh Sigh, le sigh. I've simply got to have a French Bulldog Puppy. I have sent this picture to the paramour's 'putor where doubtless he will roll his eyes and ponder how to throttle Finn wthout leaving his chair.


P.S I love you- The Film.

Holy fucking crap! French Gay just sent me the trailer for the film of the book Celia Ahern wrote. HOLY FUCKING CRAP!
I feel like I've been dipped in treacle, covered in icing sugar dipped once more in mo-lasses, coved in brown sugar, baked and then covered in honey and just for good fucking measure dipped in jam.
Argh, my teeth! Argh MY EARS! ARGH ARGH ARGH! What the hell is it with the accents!? Why oh WHY is Gerard Butler who is fucking Scottish for fuck's sake, why is he speaking in a high pitched OIRISH accent, Jesus, if he'd even modified his own accent slightly he could be from some mythical town up North. What the fuck is Lisa Kudrow doing in this? Is that fucking Kathy Bates?
Oh god, oh my, oh dear oh kill me now lord. I Said DO IT! - no wait... stay you hand. I want you kill French Gay first, but slowly, make him eat carbs. Please god, carbs with butter, kill him that way.

People, chumlies, other folk, you have been warned. if you follow the link below and watch that trailer don't fucking blame me if you gouge your own eyes out and stick knitting needles in your ears. Thank GOD Sweary wasn't around to see this... this... this ABOMINATION. It would have stopped her black heart stone dead!
DEAD I TELL YOU. HIllary Swank?
Proceed with caution. Don't say you weren't warned. I---what the hell is that buzzing sound, is that a bee?

UPDATE! Chumly Medbh informs me that link no longer works, possibly it has jumped ship. Who can blame it.

here is a new link. Go see,


Sport and the Older Gentleman.

The paramour is non-bendy. That is to say he is the most inflexible person I have ever met. I used to think he was making it up, I couldn't fathom how anyone couldn't touch their toes, or indeed the ground, but the paramour can't. And no amount of stretching has changed that. My yoga friend once confidently assured him she'd have him touching his toes in a matter of weeks. She's still saying it, only in a less assured more tooth gritting manner. Memnoch used to say anyone can be taught to increase flexibility. I disagreed with him and told him of the paramours non hinge-ular legs. He 'pfffted' at me and gave me some instructions that the paramour was to carry out, confident that by his very word the man I loved would be pressing his nose against his knees in no time.
I carried said instructions home, proceeded to imperiously tell the paramour that Memnoch on high has declared his limited movements a falsity and instructed him to try out the new and improved definitive non failing answers.
No luck, the poor man gamely tried out all manner of exercises but nowt came of it.
Then I discovered he can't hold his leg out in front of him, say in an L shape without bending it slightly either. Befuddled, I went back to the drawing board, searching though ancient yoga texts, Pilates texts, tae of Jeet Kun do books until finally I had to throw my hands up and say, 'You're just not that bendy.'
'I told you that.' The paramour said. 'It's my hamstrings, they're like steel cable, not elastic. I could never touch my toes, not even as a child.'
'I see' I replied, 'But I just never met anyone that inflexible that wasn't suffering from a disease.'

So, finally I accepted that the man I love will never touch his toes without bending his knees and I moved on to fretting about other vital things, like will I ever find the perfect pair of jeans and why people don't clear their throats before talking.

I would have quite cheerfully never revisited said topic if not for this morning. Picture the scene. I was standing by the counter munching a slice of toast covered in butter AND wild blueberry preserve when the paramour hobbled in looking for his mobile.
'Why are you hobbling like that?' I asked.
'I think I dislocated my arse in football training the other night.' Quoth he.
'You dislocated your arse?"
And so he did tell me the story of defending most gallantly and taking an almighty swing at a high ball before their forward could get a head to it. Transpires in the heat of battle the Paramour forgot all about his leg's natural propensity to stay bent. He swung and twinkle toes straightened, there was-to him mind anyway- and audible 'clack' as his arse slid out of position, allowing for him to hoof the ball high up the pitch, and then it slid back into place as his leg retracted.
By the time I'd stopped laughing at this 'Alien mouth arse' of his, he was miffed.
'I'm telling you, I'm bloody sore.'
'You're always sore.' I said.
'That's another thing,' he said glumly, 'I thought as some stage I'd reach a level of fitness that didn't involve aching all the time.'
I pondered this. 'You know, I don't think that really happens. I think you just get used to the aches and what not.'
'Yes, but I get battered out there. My hip still isn't right for where that fella crashed into me and then used me as a landing pad last Sunday. And when I was warming up in training last night I kept thinking , 'is this worth it to play football?'"
'We all do that too, I complain every time I go out the door to run and-'
'No no, you're more in tune with your body, my body is lazy. It doesn't want to do anything I tell it.'
'And yet you're the only person I know who can dislocate your arse.'
'Worrying isn't it? I really think this might be my last season playing, or maybe the next one.'

Well I don't know what to make of it really. Poor old chap. He loves football, he lives and breathes it. Sometimes when he's dreaming, I can actually catch him trying to head imaginary balls. He would stand in the middle of a raging river on the coldest day of the year to watch his favourite team play.
But he's not a spring chicken any more and the knocks and scrapes take their toll.
But still, if he can dislocate part of his body to reach difficult shots, you'd have to think he's got something in reserves. He just needs to be more flexible.
And here's where I came in. I, Fatmammycat, resolve to help my beloved in playing at least another season or two of football. I will do so by increasing his flexibility-thus lessening his chances of injury. I have no idea how I am going to achieve this goal, but I will try.


Tuesday, September 25, 2007

Motivation for fatcats.

20k in the bag. Going for shower now. I feel I could have gone on longer, in a comfortable gait as I approached the house, but I didn't have the mental reserves to pass my own gate after running for 2 hours 16 mins. Maybe if I'd come up a different route...but no matter. Feeling good. Going to eat a really large homemade burger now with onion and cheese and lashings of ketchup after my shower... mmmm. Me so hungeee.

Interesting note: I was listening to Depeche Mode's Enjoy the Silence as I was running my last K when my ipod battery ran out. Egad! So I did.

Other note. I notice my abs really tense up over long distance. I know I'll feel them tomorrow. Does this happen to anyone else?


A chair of one's own.

I'm thinking the chair with the books built in makes a kind of sense, but the truth is I like to read while sprawled. I also have a long held dream of owning the 1956 Eames chair and matching ottoman. (not red one)

Now that dream seems highly unlikely unless I suddenly earn a whole lot more money that doesn't have 'mortgage' 'insurance' 'Puddy' or 'must fix garage roof' titles attached to it, but a gal can dream right? Some people spend their dough on cars and holidays, well I want that chair and poof. I would put a fifties standard reading lamp behind it with a long chain and there I would sprawl, contentedly, nose buried in a book. If I could add in a roaring log fire to the mix and maybe a rum and coke then that would be bliss.
Bliss I tell you.

Is there anything you'd really like to have? An indulgence that you can ill afford but like to day dream about?


Cheaters cheat, it's what they do.

Modern technology is wonderful and no doubt, but it can also be the bane of many a life. This story reminds me of Bonfire of the Vanities. I mean, ooops.
From today's Daily Mail.

"A text message sent to the wrong woman has put paid to a reconciliation between Shane Warne and his former wife.

The Australian cricketing legend is said to have composed a message telling a lover that "the back door is open" - then accidentally sent it to Simone Warne.

The couple divorced over a year ago but had been working hard to repair their relationship after Warne promised to end his repeated infidelity.But according to Simone, mother of his three children Brooke, ten, Jackson, eight, and Summer, five, the chances are now zero.

Warne, 38, who captains Hampshire, was relaxing at his home near Southampton when he tapped into his mobile phone: "Hey beautiful, I'm just talking to my kids, the back door's open."

Seconds later the message appeared on Simone's mobile in Melbourne. She replied saying: "You loser, you sent the message to the wrong person."

In an interview with Australia's New Idea magazine, 37-year-old Simone said: "I'm devastated. But it was the wake-up call I needed. I'd been very suspicious for some time that he was up to his old tricks.

"It broke my heart all over again, so it's over for ever now."

In 2000, Warne was stripped of the vice-captaincy of Australia when details emerged that he had been pursuing a young nurse with a series of phone calls.

Just three years later, in 2003, a married stripper came forward to claim that the pair had been involved in a three month affair together.

It was in the same year, just before the cricket World Cup, that Warne was found guilty of taking a banned substance and suspended from cricket for a year.

In 2005, whilst the bowler was preparing to tour England ahead of the Ashes, it was revealed that the star had embarked on an affair during the final stages of his marriage.

It is also claimed that he had bombarded a young secretary with text messages in June that year.

A young student then also claimed the father of three had stripped naked in front of her and begged her for sex when they met at a London hotel prior to the Ashes.

Just a year later, a tabloid newspaper published pictures of Warne in his underpants with two 25-year-old models and details of explicit text messages sent by the star."

Oh dear, once a horny old dog always a horny old dog I guess. But I would like to have seen his face when he realised his mistake. Or maybe he doesn't give a rat's arse. But why would he be trying to get back together with a woman who divorced him only to cheat on her again?
There are lots of philandering types who can't do monogomy-they claim-but is seems a pity they don't realise this before they get married.
Why do you think people cheat anyway? Is it simply because they can? Why would someone who cheats regularly want to get married in the first place? Why not just stay single and sleep around unfettered by any kind of responsibility, emotional or otherwise. Surely the whole point of getting married it to say 'I have made a commitment to you.' Why bother if what you're really saying is 'I've sorta made a commitment to you, at least until the next hot totty comes my way.'
I mean really, why bother?


Monday, September 24, 2007

Sex, cross dressing and the public figure.

Shit, is everyone making sex tapes nowadays? According to Michael over on Dlisted, Meg White of the White stripes has had a sex tape leak. And this, coming on the back of some seriously flambouyant photos of boxer Oscar de la Hoya, is really making me scratch the top of my head in wonder.
What in the hell?


Vandals, thieves and casual crime.

I walked to my local shop yesterday evening with the paramour only to to find it closed.
'There must have been an incident.' The paramour said, nodding to the smashed glass on one of the sliding doors.
'Nope,' I said, 'that's been like that for weeks now.'
So why was it closed? Turns out the young chap who works there got held up by a guy with a syringe just minutes before we arrived. He explained this in his usual cheery way as he smoked a trembly cigarette while waiting for the Gardai to arrive.
We expressed our pleasure that he himself was not harmed and waddled off (we had been in the Paramour's pappy's house for Sunday dinner and if we had eaten so much as a wafer thin mint it would have killed us)
But it struck me yesterday that the decidedly middle class area I live in has been rife with all sorts of crime of late. Nothing as dramatic as a syringe attack, but troubling nonetheless.
For example over the weekend the glass in the new bus shelter down the road was smashed to pieces. The lower glass panels of every phone box on one particular road I run down had been kicked out. There was fresh green graffiti on some of the walls-indeed I watched a very pissed off man using a wire brush to try and scrub the filth from the side wall of his home- and somebody had set alight a skip in Rathfarnham, while someone else-or maybe not- had smashed a window of an estate agents.
Now I'm going to go out on a wild limb here and suggest that the vast majority of this was done at night, and I'm going to balance further on that limb by suggesting there might have been alcohol involved.
So just what the hell is it that compels a person to destroy things like that? What bloody pleasure can a person derive from kicking the glass out of a door for no reason? Why would you do it?
I do not understand vandals. I understand thieves, they at least are trying to get their hands on something useful to them.* But what does a vandal get?
There is an interesting article in some of the English papers today about a 15 year old girl who has been given an ABSO ( warning about social behaviour) but who claims the ABSO only made her behaviour worse. Personally I think ABSO's are a complete load of bollocks and a pointless exercise in foot shuffling. But something has to be done to make little shits and bigger shits comprehend their actions.
I'm all for imposed civic duty for this one. I think vandals who are caught should be made spend a day or two undoing their handy-work. I think people who destroy bus shelters should be made replace that glass and spend a day working to serve the community they have affected.
There should be a reaction to their action, and it should be connected so that gurriers and louts see the effects their action cause and understand what a pin in the arse it is to fix.
What's the point in an ASBO? Why give them a badge of honour? Let them undo the damage they have caused, if they can, maybe that way the would think for a second longer before destroying something in a fit of needless stupidity.
Vandals, I'm against them.

* Scum who attack people with bloodied syringes deserve to rot in jail. I said I understood it, not that I feel soft towards it.


Sunday, September 23, 2007

Motivation for Fatcats.

Oh it was a near one. A lazy sleepy fatcat, sloshing gently with the three bottles-count 'em- of London Pride she had imbibed the night before, gazed upon her runners with a crumpled brow.
'I'm tired' left leg said,
'I'm tired too you know.' right countered.
'I'm being treated worse than any of you so shut it.' Liver piped up.

'Argh.' I said.'Talking body parts, how annoying.'

Then I put on my shoes and did a 15k sunday run. Not the 25 I had planned to do because I am tired, but also I spent a goodly part of yesterday morning- when I wasn't drinking London Pride- doing other stuff that involved manual labour. So although I am indeed 10k short of today's goal, I feel not a sodding jot of guilt. NOT EVEN A LITTLE BIT!
I must now go and recycle the glass. And later we are to go to the Paramour's pappy's house for Sunday dinner.
There will be yorkshire puds and mushy peas. That is as close to heaven as I'm ever likely to get.
Hope everyone is enjoying the weekend.


Friday, September 21, 2007

A double whammy of mingosity, saved...

by a sliver of ginger.

Huzzah for Friday Carrot top, why he done saved mah retinas. Happy weekend chumlies. May your satdee be filled with stuff to do, your Sundays with hooch, sport and newspapers.


Breastfeeding, Facebook, and the Meaning of the word Obscene.

Obscene=adjective, (of the portrayal or description of sexual matters) offensive or disgusting by accepted standards of morality and decency.
Offensive to moral principles, repugnant.

Right ho. We all clear what obscene stand for? Most excellent Ted.

Facebook= on line social network site. Or as they put it better, 'Facebook is a social utility that connects you with the people around you."

Alrighty, You can keep in touch with pals, post a little biography of yourself, post pictures, chat, you know, interwebby stuff.

Now facebook has some rules, like no spam, and no porn and no harvesting of email addresses, no puppy killing and no obscene images.
Fair enough.
So are we all dandy?
The let me carry on with my Friday snark.

Karen Speed.
"Facebook is getting an online scolding after the social networking site deleted pictures of nursing babies it considered "obscene content" and closed the account of at least one Canadian mom.
Breastfeeding activists are emailing, posting and instant messaging their outrage. A new Facebook group set up to petition for a change in site policy – called "Hey Facebook, breastfeeding is not obscene!" – has swelled from 7,000 members to more than 10,200 in the past few days.
"I was really ticked off," said Karen Speed, 33, an Edmonton mother of three boys, ages 9, 4 and 20 months, after five of her photos were deleted last month and her account shut down."

Face book said,

"After reviewing your situation, we have determined you violated our Terms of Use. Please note, nudity, drug use, or other obscene content is not allowed on the website. Additionally, we do not allow users to send threatening, obscene, and harassing messages. Unsolicited messages will also not be tolerated. We will not be able to reactivate your account for any reason. This decision is final. Thanks for understanding."

Karen is not taking this lying down and you can toddle on over to her site and follow up with it if you wish.
Only for the love of peel-less marmalade, if you DO think breastfeeding in public is tantamount to performing a sex orgy, don't go over, I read some of the enlightened comments 'hey Karen Breastfeeding is like taking a shit, that's natural too' and moronic does not even begin to cover it.

Seriously, this kind of poppycock get on my last nerve. Since when is feeding your child obscene? What makes people so uncomfortable about a breast doing what it is designed to do? What's all this 'people shouldn't be whipping them out in public.' Whipping them out? I've seen women breast feed and it's not like pole dancing, nobody is whipping anything anywhere. You can hardly see anything UNLESS YOU REALLY LOOK HARD ENOUGH.
People need to get the fuck over their prudish nonsense. We've got show after show on our televisions about women living with a flaccid old porn king in his mansion, or shows where the gals are trying to snare a husband-tee hee, lets run around and have pillow fights in our underwear even though we're in our thirties, magazines in shop are rife with 'barely legal totty' we have actors posing nude to flog magazines and animal rights, girls Gone Wild, Britney's ever public vagina shots, playboy logos on our kids underwear, padded bras for eight year olds, pole dancing lessons 'for strength and agility' page 3 stunnas, big brother live sex, Billie Piper glamourising prostitution ( coz it's like pretty woman y'all) in that up and coming bollocks, Secret life of a call girl, or whatever the fuck fiction it is called. WE have all this RIGHT BEFORE OUR EYES!
But what do people wiggle over, what makes them go all 'ooh that's icky.'??
People need to grow the fuck up. I dislike the sound of children crying, and hungry children really really make a lot of noise. Breastfeeding is feeding a child-thus making them shut up and be quiet again. If you don't like it don't look, if it makes you uncomfortable deal with your discomfort. Either way, recognise that the last thing breastfeeding can be called is 'obscene'. Breastfeeding, if it was good enough for Jesus, it should be good enough for me and thee.
For shame facebook, for shame.


Thursday, September 20, 2007


This week's ale -of which I am sipping right this very second since everyone else seems to be hitting the hooch midweek and after all Thursday is close enough to the weekend for an ale and even if it is not who is going to stop me... where was I?
Ah yes, this weeks ale is Theakston- Old Peculier. I bought it in Superquinn with 2 euros and something of my fine cents. Not cheap but there you go.
It's a strange one, headless, flat, a curious taste. Hoppsy but autumnally fruity. It's an old fashioned beverage, a deep red in colour and I'd feel right at home supping it by a fire in an old lighthouse bar looking out over a moonlight sea, me collie half asleep under me stool me thick socks pulled out over top o me boots. Perhaps I might have a pipe hooked in the corner of my mouth, unlit, but packed with Condor tobacco.
For the novice ale drinker I'd imagine it's rather heavy and a bit dull, but I rather enjoy its nostalgic mellow twang and I would recommend it for sipping while reading the pigeon racing results, or as I am about to do, watching Dr. House be mean to folk.
I believe I might have another too, while I"m at it.


Motivation for fatcats.

Meh, a so so 12 K toddle. Neither good not bad. So, so so then.
My legs are tired from the dead lifts, it takes a lot out of them.


Drugs are dangerous, mkay?

Raver Faceplant - Watch more free videos

Oh dear, guess he was higher in his head.


Buying New Jeans.

Hahahaha, oh bleaugh. Whale ahoy! These are really awful and a big cheery cheers to Jezebel for making me laugh out loud on this sodden morning. And double bleaugh to the belly ring.
These vile jeans notwithstanding, buying jeans in ireland is turning into an increasingly difficult affair. I started last Satdee and I have yet to lay my paws on a pair. I went al over Dundrum shopping centre the other day and nowt, I did manage to snap up a pretty nice winter coat and a super nice pencil skirt, but not jeans.
Why? Because they're vile. The cuts are vile, the styles are vile. I'm 34, I don't want jeans that barely cover my bottom crack, I want jeans to at least come over my hips. I don't like 'spangly' things on my pockets, I don't want any more skinny jeans, I don't want distressed, I can do that myself in the space of a year or two. I don't want stiff denim, I don't want grey, I don't want coloured denim, I don't want the pockets to be under my bottom ( that's a really big thing over here right now for some reason, how the hell am I supposed to carry my George Costanza sized wallet about in that?) I don't want loose cut, I don't want flares, I don't want jeans that trail on the ground behind me, I don't want high waisted MOM jeans, I don't want jeans that are roomy, I don't want jeans that are that bit too short, I want them to be on my boots, on them with about half and inch of cover. I really don't want jeans without belt loops and I hate hate hate, I"m using the word Hate here Melvin, jeans with no pockets on the back at all!
I just want a pair of jeans that are boot cut, denim coloured, slim in the legs, COVER my hips and the crack of my bottom, and have pockets where pockets are supposed to go and are the exact right length. Now why should that be so hard?
Levi 529's where the hell are ya?


Wednesday, September 19, 2007

Motivation for fatcats.

Urgh, a not so great session.

Deadlifts, 60 kilos, 3x10
Push jerks, 22k 3x10, actually need to apply heavier weight next time on these, increased attention to form has added bonus to strength.
Pull-ups using Grav-machine, 10 wide grip, 10 over hand 10 under hand, wide grip was easiest.

A lame assed run on the treadmill for 40 mins. Not comfortable. I'm beginning to dislike running in the gym, it is incredibly dull. Plan to run 15 k in the park tomorrow, running badly sucks the whole fun out of a workout.
Slight pain in right shoulder from dead lifts. No, not pain, nothing sharp, just an ache that I know will hurt tomorrow.


Peta are really fucking annoying.

Peta has a new ad, it features a very naked Alicia Silverstone climbing out of a pool saying ' I'm Alicia Silverstone I"m a vegetarian and I feel great and blah blah chee di rah...'

Hello I"m Fatmammycat. I'm going to have a bacon sammich with brown sauce for lunch and I feel terrific, I'm also wearing clothes and never feel the need to be naked in order to make a point.
I win.


Pregnant? Get thee to a hotel.

Considering Ireland is just comming out of an unprecedented boom, where wealth and resources were plentiful, it is absolutely mind boggling to read the following..from

"A major maternity hospital is being forced to rent hotel rooms for pregnant women because of a lack of beds.

The patients were checked into Jurys Inn, just yards from the north Dublin Rotunda Hospital, yesterday.

Health officials argued the women were at the early stages of their pregnancies and in good health, but concern for their safety has been expressed by patient representatives.

Janette Byrne, of lobby-group Patients Together, criticised the move, saying it placed both the lives of the unborn child and mother at risk.

The revelation comes just days after it emerged the country’s health service chief was being awarded an 80,000 euro performance-related bonus.

“What happens if she falls or what happens if something goes wrong during the night, does she call the porter and say I’m bleeding?” asked Ms Byrne.

“I don’t want to scare people, but at the end of the day, there’s no beds, there’s no space and something has to be done about this.

“This is just the final straw when we start using our hotels as hospitals,” she said.

Rotunda Master Dr Michael Geary stressed that only those at the early stages of pregnancy and undergoing routine tests were affected.

“We’re trying to do something constructive and is safe and is sensible and is reasonably good for our patients,” he said.


“In an ideal world we’d love to have an unlimited amount of beds, but what we’re doing here is taking a carefully selected two of three groups of patients who are well and have no symptoms and need to be in hospital because of tests on a daily basis, either for themselves or for the baby.”

Members of the public bombarded RTÉ radio’s Liveline programme this afternoon to express their concern at the move.

The Health Service Executive (HSE) defended the decision saying the provision was rolled out to cope with the large numbers of births being dealt with by the hospital.

A spokesman said: “This year, in the Rotunda Hospital alone, there has been a 14% increase in birth rates, with 830 births occurring in the hospital in August.

“This figure compares with an average of 550 for the same period last year and is well beyond all projections of growth made.

“In order to meet this exceptional demand the HSE has implemented a number of innovative short term initiatives to ensure that maternity care is provided in the safest setting possible,” he said.

The condition of Ireland’s health service has long been a source of criticism.

Earlier in the year it was revealed two women suffering from breast cancer were mistakenly given the all-clear.

An independent probe into the blunders was launched, while a review of the treatment of thousands of breast cancer patients at hospitals in Limerick and Portlaoise is to be carried out over similar concerns.

Last Friday the HSE announced its chief executive Professor Brendan Drumm was being awarded a performance-related bonus of €80,000.

It comes at a time when hospitals are introducing cuts to curtail massive spending overruns and in the wake of a total ban on recruitment by the HSE.

The Rotunda is one of three maternity hospitals in Dublin and was first established in 1745.'

I mean I don't have the words really. You're pregnant, you need a check up, you're sent to a hotel.
THe question I suppose it why?
Where the hell is the money? Wasn't there supposed to be a new hospital built? Why is it that hard to provide a decent health care system? Why are heads not rolling? Why are we content to sit back and not demand answers? What has Mata Harney got to say? Well? Anyone?


Catholic stupidity runs rampant!

I read this with coffee burning my inner cheek, just as well that it was hot as I might have spat it in fury at my screen. From the Canadian press. Hat tip Pharyngula.

"Catholic school board in Halton may ban HPV vaccination

The Canadian Press
Halton's Catholic school board could become the first in Ontario to ban public health nurses from administering the HPV vaccine to young girls at local schools.

The human papilloma virus vaccine is offered to Grade 8 girls in Ontario as a way to prevent cervical cancer.

Trustees in the region west of Toronto will debate Tuesday night whether to ban Halton's public health unit from offering or administering the vaccine in Catholic schools.

The ban could also prevent the health unit from counselling or giving advice on the vaccine to any student on board property.

A recent letter from the conference of bishops encourages Catholic boards to remember that the virus is sexually transmitted, and that sex is "appropriate only" through marriage."
First of all there is no guarantee that having a ring on your finger and a husband rules you out form cervical cancer, so this numb skull notion is outrageous. Secondly the church should pull their heads out of their arses and realise that people have sex and that they are going to continue to do so until the end of time and that when 'God' said 'go forth and multiply, he didn't mention 'and don't forget to get married first.'

The HPV is a vaccine that can prevent women (huh, maybe that's the problem right there, the Catholic church has long had a history of not giving a shit about us) from catching a disease. Cancer is a nasty rotten way to die and if anything can help prevent it then I say have at it. Denying a whole section of people from getting a life saving vaccine on the grounds that you can only have sex when you agree to a man made contract is one of the reason the Catholic church is floundering these days.
Health should always trump hocus pocus.
And frankly if this is the type of crap it worries about the sooner the catholic church dies out the better.


Tuesday, September 18, 2007

For Medbh! Stupid is what stupid does.

This is a classic example of a really bad idea.



Crocodiles are not vegetarians.

Ah bleee, I was perusing the papers and pondering breakfast when I ran across this story in The Sun. Seems some chap swimming about in a lake with a 40 foot meat eater came a cropper. Imagine that!

A '12ft beast attacked luckless Bill Hedden as he swam, ripping off his left arm at the shoulder.

Horrified picnickers told how Bill, 59, staggered from the US lake, clutching his bloodied socket and gasping, “Call my wife” through his facemask.

Five nurses among a group of churchgoers on a day trip took ice from a cooler and put it on the wound — then told stories to stop Bill passing out beside Lake Moultrie in South Carolina.

Onlooker Jerome Bien said: “He was bleeding bad. His arm was clean off.”

Jerome said he then traced a bloody trail through trees to the lake and saw the gator with the arm still in its mouth. He said: “He was just smiling at me.”

Bill was airlifted to hospital while park wardens hunted down the 40st gator — which had by then SWALLOWED his arm — and shot it with a rifle.

The wardens then sliced open the monster’s belly and found the limb miraculously still whole inside.
It was placed in a picnicker’s coolbox and rushed to hospital with a police escort. Doctors were last night deciding whether to attempt to re-attach it.

Rescue Squad captain Bill Salisbury said: “The arm, surprisingly, was not chewed up like you’d think.”

The victim was said to be “critical” in hospital."

Next week, 'man claims wolves 'just be dogs' plays football with wolf pack to prove theory, onlookers express no shock when he is beaten, eaten and picked clean. 'I couldn't tell if they were grinning', says onlooker, 'but they were clearly bemused by his antics.' 'I don't think wolves are really that friendly.' said another onlooker.


Monday, September 17, 2007

Rich lucky sucker!

Oh that's me. hoot hoot, my ship has come in. I'm going to fly straight to France and get me a Batman, then I'm going to fly from there to Barcelona where I am going to spend a week getting a tan and snorting rum and drinking absinthe and buying totally over the top clothing and lots of asparagus. Then I'm going to fly back to dublin and throw me the most decadent shin-dig I can muster and if either I, Country Gay, Twenty Major, French Gay or Finn survive it I will deem in a near failure. I trust the paramour to keep me alive, the rest of can fend for themselves. You lot are all invited too. Your invites are in the mail.
Whoot I say!
Observe losers and poor folk, observe my ship...docked in my very inbox earlier this very evening.

to undisclosed-re.
More options 6:07 pm (1 hour ago)

Mr Paul Glover.
Hemel Hempstead Hospital
Hillfield Road
Hemel Hempstead

Here writes Mr Paul Glover, suffering from cancerous ailment. I am into
private practice all my life and do not have time for myself or any other
things,except making money via my numerous business.I was once married but
after three decades without child i have to continue my life.

Iam writing this email to you because i want entrust the sum of 5 Million
(Five Million Great Britain Pounds Sterling which were derived from my
vast estates and investment in capital market with A Bank here in UK for
the good work of charity in your country. Presently, this money is still
with the Bank.

Recently, my Doctor told me that I have limited days to live due to the
cancerous problems I am suffering from. Though what bothers me most is the
stroke that I have in addition to the cancer. With this hard reality that
has befallen my family, and me I have decided to donate this fund to you
and want you to use this gift which comes from my effort to fund the
upkeep of widows, widowers, orphans, destitute, the down-trodden,
physically challenged children, barren-women and persons who prove to be
genuinely handicapped financially,for doing this you will be entitle to

I made a vow to uplift the down-trodden and the less-privileged
individuals as i had passion for persons who can not help themselves due
to physical disability or financial predicament. I can adduce this to the
fact that i do not have a Child from my late wife, which never came.

It is often said that blessed is the hand that giveth. I took this
decision because I do not have any child that will inherit this money and
my relatives are bourgeois and very wealthy persons and I do not want my
hard earned money to be misused or invested into ill perceived ventures. I
do not want a situation where this money will be used in an ungodly
manner, hence the reason for taking this bold decision. I am not afraid of
death hence I know where I am going. I know that I am going to be with the
Almighty when I eventually pass on. The Almighty will fight my case and I
shall hold my peace. I do not need any telephone communication in this
regard due to my deteriorating health and my doctors advise. With God all
things are possible.

As soon as I receive your reply I shall give you the contact of the Bank.
I will also issue you a Letter of Authority that will empower you as the
original beneficiary of this fund. My happiness is that I lived a life
worthy of emulation. Please always be prayerful all through yourlife.
Please assure me that you will act just as I have stated herein. Hope to
hear from you soon and God bless you and members of your family. Reply to
my mail through my email address:

Mr Paul Glover.'



Smoking ban in Private Homes and Cars?

Are my velly ears deceiving me? I caught the tail end of this as I was going out to the clothesline. Apparantly the Ninnies and Nannies in Europe want to make it illegal to smoke in private homes and private cars. Or at least I think that's what I heard, I can't find any whiff of it in the meedja. But If it's true then it is totally outrageous. I don't smoke but as far as I know smoking is not illegal and therefore not the business of the powers that be if a person smokes in his or her own home or car.
Not even slightly their business.
Did anyone else hear this?

Irrational Fear.

Eeek, it is with great horror that I must start this week. A piece of molar has broken and this can mean one of two things.
I can ignore it and pretend it's not sharp, or I can go to the dentist and get it fixed.
Now a normal person would automatically choose the latter. I too will have to choose the latter, but I'll choose the later and then pretend I've done something about it. I can do this type of thing for months.
See chumlies, I don't care a hoot about getting stitches in my head, or needles in my arm or bad haircuts or getting my eyes tested or taking medicine or stripping off naked in front of a doctor or peeing into cups or any off those things. I'm a very rational human being. Mostly.
But when it comes to the dentist all rationality goes straight out the window. I am reduced to a quivering mess even at the very thought of a dental visit. I"m serious, I turn into smooch the moment I cross the threshold. I've fled from a dentists office once, he said 'open your mouth please' and I said, 'aieeeeeeeeee!' and ran for my life. I burst out of his office with the blue paper still around my neck, eyes wide, with flecks of pink foam around my mouth, reeled around the waiting room- scaring the bejayous out of the other patients waiting and then when his dental nurse said, 'Miss fatcat wait!' I yelled, 'No! NO! forget about it, sorry about that, I'll call okay, we'll do it again bye bye bye...'
I fled and was hyperventilating on the street for almost two minutes feeling like a absolute idiot, but also relieved that my fight or flight responses were so sharp.
Then there was the time I went to a chap who 'specialised' in nervous patients. I was there for so long -turning my head every time he tried to inject me- that he eventually had to grumpily send the rest of his appointments home. He wasn't quite so patient with me after that, which made me worse and finally he threw up his hands in despair and said, 'WILL YOU JUST HOLD STILL FOR A MOMENT!"
I burst out crying and began to hyperventilate, and so we danced on until finally he just sort of stabbed me with the needle. Of course I bolted from the chair- with the bloody thing still in my gum which totally terrorised me and him...oh it was a disaster (he retired not long after and I always wonder was it my patronage that pushed him over the edge)
I've had emergency root canal done at 2:30 am by an extremely pissed off dentist, still in tails as he had to come from a party to save me. The reason he had to save me at all was the pain was so bad the 18 or so Anadin I was taking a day and had been for almost nine months just weren't cutting it any longer.
That was a mess. Even in agony I had to be talked back into the chair about five times. How he didn't just club me over the head and be done with it I"ll never know.
I know I should go and get this fixed immediately, and I swear to chulutha I'll make some kind of phone call today. But right now I"m just going to sit here and gibber to myself softly for a while and hope the the one Dentist I know who uses a complete anaesthetic will have an opening this side of Christmas.

Anyone else got an irrational fear? It's probably dentists, right? RIGHT?


Sunday, September 16, 2007

Kerry versus Cork in the all Ireland final.

Kerry won, in fact they won in serious style. The Kingdom beat the Rebels 3-13 to 1-09. Some very sloppy defence allowed Kerry to romp home in the second half and Cork's midfield need to be asking questions about why every kickout seemed to fall to Kerry hands. Cork got a goal back but it was too late to change the shape of the game.
I am ten Euros to the good. And I had a carvery lunch to boot. With some very nice Carlsberg.
Really, is there a better way to spend a Sunday afternoon?


Motivation for Fatcats.

Up and at them! You can do this Melvin. Just get out the bloody door and stop moaning.
Ahoy chumlies and a very good day to you. 20 k ran. It went something like this.
'Ennrgh I don't feel like it, oh this part of the road is so boring, hey, there's a basset hound!, ugh, stupid hill, weee down hill, urgh stupid wind, urgh stupid rain, urgh stupid sun, urgh stupid 'nother hill, hey, the wind's cool now, it's nearly pushing me along.
stops for isotonic drink in Rathfarnham, man on bikes stops, 'here , gis a suck of dat, I'm bleeding parched so I am.'
Stunned I offer him my drink, he does indeed take a 'suck' hands it back shakes my hand 'ta luv.' and off he goes.
I wipe the top of my drink, shrug and finish it off.
Urgh, stupid sun, urgh stupid roadworks, hey my legs feel pretty all right, hummm running on the white line is a bit dreamy, oh I like this song, she's a fucking mess but she can sing I'll give her that, stupid hill, stupid sun, fuck me it's roasting, it better not be roasting in Oct-oooeeeee, nice houses, oooh nice garden, ooo nice....... I like those windows, ooh nice (this continues for a while until I reach Rathmines upper)
Stupid Rathmines and their bockity roads, move it wench, ohhh, dried vomit, how very, argh stupid wind, oh now this stretch is soooo blooody loong, one foot at a time fat cat, ooooo shuffle, I did not know I had that song, is that a remix I wonder, I'll ask Country Gay, he'll know, hey! whaddya know I"m at this bit already, argh sun, argh rain? What the F! ohh, thank God a bit of shade, hey nice legs on that bike, look at those calf muscles. I wonder is the paramour finished football training, Kerry better win, wonder in which bar will I watch the match... oooh look where I am, not far now, argh, bugger off wind! Ohh okay last bit, bollocks, rain? Argh Hail! Ow, oh now you stop. last stretch, golly, I do feel all right although I'm glad I can see the house. Where did I put the keys, oh right...
Going for a shower now.


Saturday, September 15, 2007

Motivation for Fatcats.

A satdee gym jamborie of exercise.
Weights, yes sir, Concentrating on upper back and arms.
3x 10 rows each arm-15k
flys, 5kx3x1o
Bicep curls, 2x10 sets at 8 k , 1x10 at 10k
Lats 3x10 x 35 k each,
Tripcep pull downs 3x10 also 35k each.
Dumbell pullover 3x15 at 8k, ouch on stomach.
125 dips off off bench, broken into sets of 25 each.
Finished off with 5000 metre row and 2k jog at 5 incline on treadmill to simulate hill.

Feeling fine, arms are a bit useless at the mo, but tomorrow is my 20k run so I needed to give my legs a bit of a break.
Home now, cross and hungry. The very worst way to be.

UPDATE! Crank be gone. I'm going into town to buy new jeans, then meet up with the paramour to eat a steak bigger than my head. Golly the paramour is clever, with very nice arms. I believe I might even smooch him.


Friday, September 14, 2007

A forgetful Furious Fatcat finds fPinkie Fabulous.

"Oh Slinky Pinkie, me so happy to be cherished on a frideeee, where would we be without you? Kisses and love muffins and baps and smoochies and coochie coos to yoouuuuuu.
Carrot top.

Especially for Pinkie, but to all of you too. Happy gingerday and have a rollicking weekend.


Fuck off Variety.

I went to see Kicking a Dead Horse last Night. There's a review of sorts two posts down.
Obviously Karen Fricker from Variety saw it at one time too too. The following is her review.

"Sam Shepard's first new play since 2004, "Kicking a Dead Horse," is altogether a strange beast. And that's not just the dead horse onstage. Some excellent deadpan humor, delivered brilliantly by a refreshingly antic Stephen Rea; autobiographical material that seems a halfhearted attempt on Shepard's part to unload old creative baggage; and the incongruous setting of Ireland's National Theater all add up to an evening that feels like a somewhat misfired in-joke.
The lights come up on a circular stage with two mounds of dirt, a rectangular hole, a pile of riding tackle, and -- yup -- a very real-looking life-size dead horse. A man emerges out of the hole, carrying a shovel. "Fucking horse. Goddamn," he says to the audience, and then kicks the dead horse. Literally.

We are in broad parodic territory here; and initially Rea gets the tone just right. He is Hobart Struther, a New York art dealer who headed out on a desert walkabout to rediscover his "authenticity," only to have his horse keel over. Homage is clearly being paid to Samuel Beckett at his most absurdly comic, as Hobart tries and fails repeatedly to tip the horse into the too-small grave.

The key artist Shepard is glossing here, however, is himself. Hobart made his fortune reselling paintings of the American West at a massive markup. "What I couldn't see was how those old masterpieces would become like demons, trapping me in a life I wasn't meant for," he says self-pityingly.

This and other references (to New York, where Shepard now sometimes lives, and his wife's "golden hair") make clear that Shepard is reflecting on his own career and life, seeming to renounce his past creative patterns by sending them up. But by invoking all his familiar themes -- the American West, dreams of escape, tourism, violence -- Shepard re-inscribes them in his work even as he claims to disavow them.

On one level, he knowingly nods to what he's doing by making the classic Shepardian battle between self and other an internal one: Hobart bickers constantly with himself, another challenge Rea carries off with great skill (if with an overly mobile pan-American accent).

But the legend simply protests too much: if Shepard really wanted to "make a clean break" from the dead-horse weight that is his cowboy-playwright image, then why write another cowboy play? The entire effort is steeped in solipsism, into which it starts to disappear.

The first sign that things are going wrong is the brief appearance of a pretty young woman in a short slip who gives Hobart back his discarded Stetson -- a possible nod to feminist critiques of the treatment of women characters in his plays. But this is a self-reflexive gag too far -- you can't objectify women and pretend not to at the same time (something the creative team may have begun to realize in the run up to production, given that the printed playscript says the woman is meant to be naked.) And when Hobart collapses on the horse's body, sobbing, his crisis now seems to be intended seriously, a tonal about-face that prompts the only bum note of Rea's performance.

This play is part of an ongoing engagement with Shepard's work that saw a fine revival of "True West" last year. But Ireland is an odd context for such a self-referential work; it's unlikely that audiences will have the knowledge required to fully grasp its apparently intended ironies."

Seriously, how much knowledge does one need to have acquired to 'fully grasp its apparently intended ironies' when said ironies are right on the fucking stage in front of you, signposted with every gesture and every sentence uttered? Every spoken line is weighed down, contradicted, agonised over. Rea's character is tearing himself apart in frustration at his fickle contra-directional longings. What's hard to understand? God damn it, does she think we Irish so unsophisticated that we cannot grasp the fury and impotence of waning life?
Well bollocks, obviously Sam Shephard thought otherwise, and judging by the response last night his faith was justified.
Fuck off Variety and fuck off Karen. I hope you have acquired the knowledge needed to fully grasp what I mean by that.

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I like beer. But I particularly like ale. And London Pride is a velly nice ale indeed. It is a rich red in colour, foamy at first but then settles down into a sharp delicious woodsy fruity scrummy ale-y beer. You can buy it in Tesco and O'Briens offy. It ain't cheap, about 2.80 a bottle, but then it's not the sort of drink you'd have all night. In fact I think it is an ideal drink for a football match. I think two bottles of it is more than enough, one for each half. It's a beer to sip and enjoy.
If you want to try something different over the weekend you might do worse than giving it a whirl.


Plays, the importance of sandwiches.

I went along with my darling friend Country Gay to see Sam Shephard's new play Kicking a Dead Horse last night.
Country Gay and I had our pre-theatre drink in an 'authentic Irish bar' packed full of Americans who were asking other Americans the rules of Rugby.
'But are there field goals?' they asked, drinking 'authentic' Irish Guinness. And 'how high can a score go?' plus my favourite, 'The New Zealand team don't even look when they do a pass back.'
'Everyone in work said it's terrible.' CG says.
'Well five people.'
'Aw fuck.' I glumly look at my drink and remember a time I was made go to see a Japanese play so dull my hair frizzed up in an attempt to block out the sound from my ears.
'But opinions are subjective.' Country gay counters his own statement.
This is true, some people like Marmite and some people think jazz is perfectly acceptable.
The Americans say something about infield defenders.
'Let's get out of here.' Country Gay said.
'Rokay raggy.'
We toodle across the bridge and enter other Dublin and head for the theatre. We raced up stairs and had ourselves an 'authentic' drink at the Abbey bar.
'There's Sam Shepherd CG, get him to sign your script.'
'Where?' said CG.
'Sitting right there.'
'I can't go-'
Bollocks to that. I march him over. CG gets his script signed I shake hands with Mr. Shepherd and wish him luck. I ask him is he nervous. he's says he's never comfortable before hand. He asks my name, I tell him. I say this will be his first production I have watched. He takes this on board and says, 'Well I hope you enjoy it.'
CG wishes him luck.
After a pee (me) and a smoke (CG) we take our seats. The Abbey looks great, high slopes and comfy chairs. So comfy indeed that the man seated next to CG promptly falls asleep the moment the curtain is drawn back over the stage.
The play start slowly. On a sparsely lit stage, Stephen Rae comes out of a grave he has dug for his dead horse and so begins his angry searching monologue. His frustrated, self pitying, ultimately surrendering rant. Here is a man who wanted one last trail through the 'authentic' Wild west, the romantic West of his youth. Here is a softened art dealer, made rich by plundering the very authentic west he now strives to seek. Dreaming of his youth, when his hands could rope steer and he knew he could survive alone, sleeping on the prairie floor. Here is a man with 'age hanging from him like a moss' who sees death ten years away, a death of sorts, when his body will crumble and his will can only follow. And what has he got for company on his quest? A dead horse, a horse he himself killed through poor feeding, because he wanted the jazz the old horse up.
Here is a man who aches to be what he once was and who laments the passing of his life, his youth, his virility, who cries out against his aging ways and battles against comfort and companionship, only to realise too late that comfort and companionship are not the lessors of evils. And when faced with an open grave in a desolate wilderness, what man in his right mind would not like to be home, on the sofa with his wife, listening to the radio, in comfort.
All right. So I loved it. I think I got it. I sure as shit swallowed up the lines and clung to the sentiment.
After wards we clapped and clapped. Rae's performance was a delight, even if his second voice was more Woody Allen than not, but then I thought afterwards, why not Woody for a neurotic art dealer?
We hit the bar for an 'authentic ' post play drink and gawked at all the somebodies. There was Sam Neill, enjoying a pint, a dahling playright whose name I forget, there's Alan Stanford, and that could be one of the Cusacks and that white haired chap, he's in the Tudors, CG said, and I nod, for CG knows these things.
I meet Sam Shepherd coming back from the loo.
'Well, what did you think?" he said, as his wife spoke to a photo hog.
'I loved, It was a real lament.'
'Good' he said and nodded slowly.
'Goodnight' I said, but he was already being sucked into the maw of the public and my stomach was growling.

We hopped a cab home, mwah mwah. I thanked CG for a lovely evening and dropped him off. On the way to my house my cabbie told me all about the 'The woman who walked into Doors' which he and CG saw. I told him Roddy Doyle is about to open his production of The Playboy of The Western World. Somewhere between Crumlin and Templeogue he managed to tell me that a man once offered to 'splash his fucking brains all over the dashboard'. I thought, 'How authentic! The wild West lives!'
And then I got home, had a cheese sandwich and two bottles of beer and went to bed.
I slept like a dead horse.


Thursday, September 13, 2007

How big is too big?

I'm guessing he doesn't wear a lot of fine Italian shirts, or shirts.

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Cancer link to Mobile Phones

Now, there's probably a certain amount of 'meh' to this story, but still, it makes for interesting reading, and as one of the few people left in the country that does NOT own a mobile, it makes me baulk at ever getting one. (not that I need any excuse, I find the idea of someone being able to contact me at all times ridiculous).

From the Guardian.

'Mobile phones do not pose health problems to adults in the short term but there is a "slight hint" of a cancer risk for long-term users, according to the results of a study which could not rule out risks of brain or ear cancer for those who have used mobiles for more than 10 years.

"We found no association between incidence and exposure for people who have used their phones for less than 10 years," sais Lawrie Challis, chair of the Mobile Telecommunications and Health Research programme. "But we cannot rule out the possibility [of] n association for exposures for more than 10 years. The numbers appeared to show some slight hint ... it's a faint suggestion that needs to be followed up

The researchers involved in the six-year study said they would further investigate in the next phase of their work, which would also examine the effects of mobile phones on children's health.

The £8.8m MTHR programme is a joint project funded by government and the mobile phone industry in response to Sir William Stewart's independent inquiry in 2000 into the safety of mobiles. He has concluded that mobile phones seem to pose no problems but has recommended further research.

The group's report, published yesterday, collates the work of 28 studies it has backed, as well as other research from around the world that has looked at the effects of mobile phones on health factors such as blood pressure, brain function and cancer. It concludes that there is no evidence of short-term effects from either GSM or 3G handsets or base stations.

There is also no evidence, the researchers say, of the phones causing the symptoms described as electrical hypersensitivity, a phenomenon affecting up to 4% of people in the UK who describe a sense of tingling or dizziness in the presence of electrical signals.

For the long term, however, there is less certainty. Paul Elliott, an epidemiologist at Imperial College London, said: "In some of the studies there was an excess of malignant brain tumours and acoustic neuromas [ear cancers]. But the excess is quite small and is at the borderline of statistical significance."

Regarding the question over the effects of mobiles on children, Professor Challis said: "At this stage we have no evidence at all that mobile phones or masts hurt children. But we do know that [regarding] a number of other environmental agents - lead, tobacco smoke, ultraviolet radiation, ionising radiation - children react differently to them and often more severely, than do adults."

The professor said that his group's findings did not contradict the advice from Sir William, who, in 2005, urged parents to limit their children's use of mobile phones as a precaution, and advised that under-eights should not use them at all.

Starting next year the MTHR researchers will begin a £6m health study on more than 200,000 mobile phone users from across Europe."

Yesterday I ran past a bus stop in Rathfarnham, there were five people sitting on the wall waiting for a bus, EVERY one of them had their mobile open and were staring at the screens. It was almost zombie like. Not talking, but texting or reading texts. I laughed and trundled on. But Ireland seems to have a real mobile problem. I must admit, I don't get it. But the Little Goth Kid's generation are mobile compliant. Text speak is rampant, stupid annoying ring tones saturate the air, downloaded adverts, they're bombarded with mobile related crap daily.
I once asked her if she could go without her phone for a day. Her startled expression was comical as was her, 'Well, why would I want to do that?" answer.
It was unthinkable.
How weird is that?


Wednesday, September 12, 2007

Motivation for Fatcats.

15k, hilly, wankery, too sunny, too warm, easy enough on the legs, people are rude, velly sweaty, need one of those belts for carrying liquid, might need new runners, going for shower now.

Oh, running music, the very lovely Mark Ronson.


Father's rights. Mr G and the high court.

From yesterday's RTE.

"Campaigners have welcomed the outcome of a landmark High Court case on the rights of unmarried fathers.

Today the court ruled that the rights of an unmarried father were breached after his former partner removed his children from Ireland without his consent.
The ruling has significant implications for unmarried parents in the future and has already sparked a call for a constitutional referendum.
The High Court has ruled that the removal of twin boys from Ireland to England was wrongful and in breach of the rights of their father.

A man known as Mr G, who was the unmarried father of two-year-old twin boys, took the action after his former partner took them to England without prior warning or consent.

In a lengthy judgment, Mr Justice Liam McKechnie ruled that the action by the mother breached the rights of the father even though the couple were not married.

Under the Constitution, unmarried fathers have no immediate right to the custody of their children.

However Judge McKechnie concluded that the boys had been resident in Ireland and the couple had lived their lives in a fashion similar to a married couple.

The court heard that the father dropped and collected his children from school and was the only contact that a local crèche had when dealing with the boys.

A District Court case in which judgment was reserved last March involved Mr G applying for custody and guardianship, Judge McKechnie said today that as of 9 March there were rights of custody as a result of the District Court application.

In line with this he said the mother's refusal to return the children was unlawful.

Mr G was represented by Michael McDowell SC who said that the issue of costs was yet to be decided. Mr G has also taken action in the English courts, a stay on proceedings had been issued to await the outcome of the High Court case in Ireland.

Some legal experts say that while the judgment does provide a framework for new legislation to safeguard the rights of unmarried parents, this particular case may not set a precedent."

The rights of unmarried fathers in Ireland has long been a bitter battle to many. Custody of children is usually granted to the mothers and fathers are frequently denied access to their children as the parents war and hostilities over the split colours judgement. Fathers who were active in their children's lives struggle when reduced to weekend fathers, seeking to build a relationship with their children over a limited time.
Now, it's not all one sided. There is more than one man who has been granted access and abuse that by not turning up and by refusing to pay maintenance for his child or children. There are mothers who get their kids up for school every day, put them to bed every night and are doing their level best to hold their family together as best they can without a second parent's help or interest and resent then the court's decision.
It's a quagmire.
But what of the children? What about their rights?
In an ideal world children should have access to their parents. They should have a right to live a child's life, to love both parents without guilt, to see both parents. They should grow up with a loving family, they should be shielded from arguments and vicious splits, hostilities.
They should never be made to choose between two parents.
If a family unit breaks apart, then it is incumbent upon parents to protect their children from a situation they had no part in and no control over. If the children have had a good relationship with their father and their father's family then I think it is down right cruel to prevent them from continuing that relationship. Parents should not run the other one down in front of the child. It's not that child's fault if the parents can't stand each other. It's not that child's fault that an adult union broke down. It is not that child's fault if Dad didn't pay that month, it is not that child's fault if Mum is to attend a wedding that weekend and wants to change the agreement.
It is never the child's fault, so why are they made to suffer?
I have never condoned automatic custody to either parent. I think cases need to be judged individually. I also think it would be in everyone's best interests if you could keep the courts completely out of it.
As adults, the parents must set aside their personal differences and decide what is the best they can do for the children. Sometimes that means sitting down with the 'enemy' and hashing out a way forward. Easier said than done I know. But if it can be done it should be.


Tuesday, September 11, 2007

Boobs bounce, better bras bring better bolstering.

As a runner I was most amused and head noddingly in agreement with the Daily Mail this fine morning.

"Women's bras do not offer enough support when exercising

Dr Joanna Scurr's research revealed that between 45 per cent and 60 per cent of women in Britain experience breast pain when exercising, regardless of their breast size.

An A-cup woman could be prevented from doing sport just as much as a woman with a double F cup, the survey showed.

Breasts also bounce more during exercise - up to 8in (21cm) rather than the maximum 6in (16cm) bounce measured in past studies.

Bras are designed to stop breasts bouncing but Dr Scurr's research showed that breasts also move from side to side and in and out, and ordinary bras are not designed to cope.

The University of Portsmouth scientist also found that breasts move as much during slow jogging as they do at maximum sprint speed.

She said: "There really are women who want to do exercise but who don't have the bras to cope.

"I know of a 16-year-old who was selected to play basketball for the county but she was told to give it up because she couldn't find a bra that made playing possible.

"Breast size and pain caused by exercise can be a real barrier to women doing exercise."

Dr Scurr is working with bra manufacturers in Britain and globally which are vying to design a bra that can lessen movement in all three dimensions and reduce the pain factor.

Seventy women were recruited for the two-year study through the university's student and staff population, gyms and doctors' surgeries.

The University said it is the widest range of breast sizes ever studied and includes women with cup sizes from A up to a double J.

Dr Scurr said: "If women wear the correct form of support, if we can get that right, the use of pain medication is reduced and women can be active and lead healthy lives.

"Studies have shown that medication to reduce breast pain was only successful for 54 per cent of women, but they had to put up with side-effects of the medication, whereas sports bras were shown to be successful at reducing breast pain for 80 per cent of women, with no side-effects at all." "

Well shit. So let me get this straight, wearing a sports bra to do sport is a good idea. Well no shit Sherlock. I am astounded that anyone needs this pointed out to them. I mean for god's sake of course wearing proper support is crucial. I wouldn't wear flip-flops to go jogging, why on earth would I wear a non-sport bra.
And yet I have passed many a lady and winced inside as their boobs bounce and boing all over the place. I've even seen some women sort of run with their hand almost up under their breasts to reduce movement. I always feel like stopping them and asking what their breasts have ever done to them to deserve such treatment.
Now some women have large breasts and find any kind of jogging uncomfortable but there is no need for the painful swinging. The good news is that the sport clothing manufacturers these days have at long last come up with some very high-tech bras indeed. Bras that minimise bounce and firm hold bras that seal breasts into an almost rock solid position and are an absolute delight to wear if sport is your goal (no chaffing, breathable material, amazing shoulder position).
Most good sports shops stock these bras.
There really is no reason to suffer and no need to not partake in a sport becasue of your breasts. Just buy the proper equipment and sally forth.


Monday, September 10, 2007

Motivation for Fatcats.

A late 'will I won't I go for a run' argument was soundly thrashed by my darkening mood over work.
So 10k run later and I am feeling less cracked, and let's hope tomorrow is less shitesome.

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I hate work sometimes.

Have you ever worked on something for a few weeks and then just looked at it and thought, 'what a pile of shite' ?


The murderer Britney Spears.

The video of Britney's comback preformance wouldn't load so you're going to have to look for it yourself here,

Basically Bit Brit just killed her career at last night's MTV awards show. When a performer has a lot riding on a show they usually do their level best to make that show the most spectacular event ever. Usually. But not Britney Spears. Britney takes what ever narcotic folk take to kill their enthusiasim, put on an ill fitting outfit a stripper would reject and proceeds to shoot her career in the chest with a fully loaded automatic 'fuck you photon rigged blaster blunderbuss'.
She murdered her career in cold blood last night. With her own bare hands. Dead, I mean she slaughtered it. It's D.e.a.d. Dead I tell you.


Sunday, September 09, 2007

Motivation for Fatcats.

Stunned to find myself suffering a hangover free Sunday, I decided to put this most rare of occurances to good use.
Running 11k, hilly route, lots of long slow rising hills and one or two sharp inclines. Good work for the legs. Must have shower now. Music, Ministry of Sound Classics. I did indeed hold that sucker down.


Bad Idea number 4

Bone Crushing Bike Crash - Watch more free videos
Seriously, I saw this and whole sections of my scalp crawled. Then I immediately thought, 'I know, I'll share it with the chumlies!'
You may thank me later.


Friday, September 07, 2007

Motivation for Fatcats.

Monster Monster (ala Eric Hall) workout.

125 shoulder dips- broken up into sets of 25.

3x10 push jerk-22k each.

3x10 rows, 12.5k each arm

3x 12 flys 5k

15/12/10 one legged dips with 10k disk weights in each hand (that hurt, especially if I dipped my other toe on the ground even for a second to get balance I discounted the rep, you can imagine I tried not to lose my balance)

finished with
15k run on treadmill,

Monster monster. Can we dig it? Yes we can!


Happy Gingerday everyone.

'Oh my god I'm so excited about Ginger day I could tear my hair out! Pass me the oil beea-tchessss. I'm gonna rip my clothes off and dance the dance of jiggy ginger for your pleasssssssure. Fatcat, stop drooling like that, you're ruining your magenta lipstick.'

I don't know what is going on with the weather at the moment, and I care not a jot. But as I sit here in a vest and shorts on the 7th of Spetember IN IRELAND (!) I am filled with a glee I normally reserve for the sound the seal breaking on a bottle of seven year old rum, I am reminded that joy is fleeting, cement, not so much. The forecast fot the weekend is good chumlies, the paramour think there might even be time for another bar-b- cue, ( there won't be actually, I-for some reason best left know to my digestive tract- really really want a kebab and that is what I will get on Satdee, right after we ( me, the paramour and the paramour's bro) use lump hammers on the Paramour's daddy's barna shed! Huzzah, breaking stuff)
I shall not waste this day! It's warm, and sunny and there are birds twittering, not magpies neither. I think I will wait for my sambo of grilled pig to digest and then I will toddle off for a run. In the sun. Oh what fun. Right, I"m done.



KIll it Cook it Eat it.
THis one is pushing the boundaries. From to day's Indo.

"The latest example of this insatiable desire to put bums on seats comes with BBC's latest stunt -- killing animals in front of a live audience and then cooking them -- the animals, not the audience, that is.

Producers plans to kill lambs, piglets, goats and calves as part of the second series of the controversial Kill It, Cook It, Eat It. Readers may remember that the previous season of the show caused outrage when they showed the grim truth of the inside of an abattoir, but this time they have, apparently, gone too far.

According to one bunch of animal rights campaigners: "BBC licence-fee payers have to ask themselves if they are happy for their money to go towards paying for the slaughter of baby animals for entertainment."

This, of course, is missing the point. They're killing the animals to feed the studio audience. The entertainment is just a bonus."

And from the promo for the show.

"Do you ever find yourself indulging in a meat feast and wondering how the animal made its way to your plate?

Presenter Richard Johnson is here to bring together the two key moments that are usually separated in our lives and minds: the death of the animal and the eating of its meat.

In each programme, we trace the journey of one animal from its life on the farm to its fate at a small working abattoir. At the abattoir, a group of specially invited people, from vegetarians to meat enthusiasts, will witness the slaughter."

Wow, it's like food porn and the death is the money shot.

Now, I believe if you eat meat you should at least appreciate from whence it came. LIke those cute little lambs skipping about the grass in spring time? Well they go well with mint sauce. Like bacon sambos-which I'm about to have actually- well bacon doesn't grow on trees, it comes from an actual living breathing intelligent animal.
Veal, from a confined milk fed lonely calf. Steak, from a large brown eyed bovine animal that likes nothing more than grazing and sunshine.
These are the facts of our food. We should appreciate that, and if we eat meat we should acknowledge the animal it came from.
But that's one thing, to butcher animals live on telly for the sake of culinary seat grabbing is another. Most people will not butcher animals, and have no need to witness an animals die before their eyes. Most people will find it very hard to stomach watching an animal die. Does that make them bad people, no, just not butchers.
Well, maybe the producers of this show are actually aiming to turn people from eating meat. Could be. Stranger things have happened.


Thursday, September 06, 2007

Motivation for Fatcats.

Good news anybody. Results from my x-ray. Basically the lumps I was concerned about showed up on the x-ray and the doc concludes they are the result of 'healing from a stress type of injury' and that's it.
On the plus side there was no sign of a fracture, so her advice was to 'watch it' for a couple of weeks and go back to her if it flares up again.
Huzzah! It's so technical and light years away from anything I might have come up with.
Huzzah I say.
Not running today.


Annoying expressions part 1.

Fatcats are full of quirks and foibles, it's true. But I do try to keep a lid on some of my more OCD styled weirdness. However certain things are quaranteed to set my phasers to stun and the following is one of them...

'Darling, what time will I meet you in town?'
'Around three, four.'


'What time did he call?'
'About seven, eight.'

'What time is the party?'
'It starts nine, half nine.'

Seriously, fuck of with your five sixs and your nine nine thirties. There was a woman on the radio yesterday that said, 'Ten, Twenty thousand people could be affected by the HSC's decision' and I was standing there in the kitchen yelling at the radio, 'TEN TWENTY? IS THAT A NEW FUCKING NUMBER?"

If asked what age I am I don't say '34 35.'
Or if somebody asked what car I drive I don't say Ford Mondeo Ka. That would be stupid. So what is it with numbers? If you don't know the exact time just say 'I think it was around 4' or 'between 3 and 4.' Don't just pop it on there like a bloody big strangley placed digit!
It's really not that difficult now is it.
Adding number to existing perfectly good numbers thus rendering them annoying...


Hunger or Hyperbole?

I"ve read this story twice now and I'm still scratching my head over it. I mean, can it be true? Or is it 'Indo true' (i.e. not very true, ot true-ish with a dash of bollocks, or true-escue but really with lots of holes).

'TENS of thousands of children are going to school every day without breakfast or with only junk food for their lunch.

"We have some children who might be lucky enough to bring a packet of chewing gum with them for lunch" one teacher is quoted as saying in a draft report which has been seen by the Irish Independent.

It quotes research which shows that: *more than half of Irish children consume sweets and 37pc drink fizzy drinks at least once a day; *the rate of overweight and obese children on the island is increasing by 100,000 a year; *fruit and vegetable intakes are only half the recommended amount; *there are inadequate intakes of foliate, calcium, iron and vitamins A, C and B2 is common, especially among girls.

Now a major initiative to tackle 'food poverty' among primary school pupils will be launched shortly by three anti-poverty groups.

The Healthy Food for All Guide has been prepared by Dara Morgan, a consultant dietician and nutritionist for St Vincent de Paul, the Combat Poverty Agency and Crosscare, the social care agency in the Dublin Archdiocese.

It says that schools provide an ideal setting to focus efforts on ensuring that children have access to a healthy diet.

They could develop a range of programmes such as breakfast clubs, school lunches and and snacks, milk schemes, after school clubs and school gardens.

The report describes successful projects around the country but highlights lack of parental support in some areas as a barrier to implementing policy.

One principal said: "We tried to ban crisps a couple of years back, but we experienced extreme resistance from a number of parents, some of whom were very vocal and instead of giving their children one packet of crisp they would give them two, just to spite us."

Some principals said that their schools already had too many policies and programmes in place and that implementing a healthy lunch policy was simply too great a workload for members of staff.

The draft report is currently being considered by interested parties and a decision will be taken in the near future on how a final report outlining best practice can be distributed to schools.

A spokesperson for Combat Poverty said that recent figures showed that 14pc of pupils did not have breakfast during weekdays.

The rate increased with age and a greater propoprtion of girls than boys skipped breakfast during school days.

"Not only does inadequate nutrition lead to health problems, -- for example obesity and heart disease -- it also makes it much more difficult for children to concentrate at school and affects their learning."

The report also adds that studies conducted on undernourished children who take part in school meal programmes have shown improvements in their cognitive ability and are healthier in line with their improved nutrition."

Now let's break it down.
1-14% of kids go to school with no breakfast? How is that possible? How hard is it to have a bowl of Ready Brek or Wheetabix? Or to have banana, or even toast? What sort of parent lets their child out the door in the morning with nothing in their stomachs?
2- I don't know about you, but I can't work properly when hungry, I just can't. How are these kids supposed to function without fuel? Ah right, they're not. This reminds me of a study done a few years back on ADD, which found that kids, mostly boys it had to be said, who were wild and disruptive and 'ADD compliant' were found to have significant changes in their behaviour when their diets were changed to exclude sweets and rubbish and include very basic foods, like fruit and pasta and lots of water. The kids calmed right down, leaving the layperson -me- to wonder aloud if maybe letting kids eat the amount of crap they eat and drink the amount of soft drinks they drink isn't outright cruelty.

3-"We tried to ban crisps a couple of years back, but we experienced extreme resistance from a number of parents, some of whom were very vocal and instead of giving their children one packet of crisp they would give them two, just to spite us."
This is easily solved. If your school puts in place a ban on such items and parents include them, confiscate the offending items and if the parents continue to flout the rules ask them to remove their child from the school. Be vigilant and be tough.
4- I would also ban all soft drinks and gum.
5- If you're going to have a school lunch, I would make sure there were only healthy options available, no chips or white bread. Hungry kids will pretty much eat anything, but given a choice will pick the least healthy option.( salty over-flavoured foods tickle the palates of kids, it takes time for them to get used to plainer food if that is not what they are used to)
6- Demand to speak with parents who send their children to school lunch-less. Don't beat about the bush. Ask questions.
There is no excuse to send a child to school hungry and poverty doesn't cut it either. How hard or costly is it to make a cheese sandwich and pop an apple in their lunch box? What about making up a pasta salad the night before, it's cheap and it's easy.
Anyone that sends their child to school with nothing but a packet of chewing gum deserves a good kick in the arse in my view. But failing that, they need to be told it is not acceptable and the school won't tolerate it. When it comes to children's health what we do now can alter and shape their health and their understanding of their health as they grow and reach adulthood.
There should be no pussy-footing around on this one.

Talk about hobbling a child before the poor kid has even started his path in life.