Friday, November 30, 2007


Jesus, some people are just scum. This story is one of the most distressing things I've read this week. And that's saying something.
Why do fucking people have children if they're going to treat them this way. What sort of mother stands by as a boyfriend beats her child. If any man laid a hand on any child of mine I'd kill him. What the hell is wrong with these people?



Despite my boarding school analogy of this week, alcohol and I met up yesterday evening and had a fine old time, the results of which are doing the cha-cha and the tango about the sensitive parts of my brain this morning. I started sensibly enough, drinking japanese beer and trying to pick up fiddly bits of duck with chopsticks, but somehow more beer did come and less food made it into my mouth, so eventually I was tispy and my friend well on the road to flat out drunk.
Naturally we decided cocktails were the way to go.
Then, after leaving the restaurant and dragging my girlie friend up the bloody street to get her opinion on a dress I've already decided I will buy,( thank you Palesa, it was your suggestion) we had the misfortune to run slap bank into a vengeful French Gay.
'Errr, 'look-ed- what ze cat, she dragged-ed in and spitt-ed out.'
'Are you dressing ironically these days?' I said. 'Or are you an actual pirate?'
'Beeeech.' he said.
'Hello French Gay,' my friend said, but prettily, for she is very pretty and a real lady. Why she hangs around with the likes of me I'll never know. She has probably been in work since eight this morning where as I and my pained head have just rolled out of bed. Frankly I'm guilty m'lud, of leading her astray.
'ello, iz zat Chanel?'
'Eeets beautiful.' He swiveled an eye in my rather Chanel-less direction 'This iz very good to finz you'- he pointed a gallic finger imperiously, 'I am calling in ze favour.'
Now this left me very puzzled, what favour was this? But before I could ask he said, 'I 'ave been invite to a weeding.'
'A weeding?'
Images of wellies and gardening gloves flooded my feeble drink sodden mind. How bo-ho. How chic! Turning gardening into a party, maybe the invites were printed out on dock leaves, maybe-
'You will go with me. Eet iz in Sleego.'
Suddenly a dark cloud descended over me. Daisies and buttercups exploded, not a weeding...
'Oh now wait a second-'
But the French fancy was having none of it. There is a wedding coming up, one of French Gay's dreadful clients is getting hitched. It's in the middle of nowhere, down the bloody arse end of nowhere to be exact, French Gay has to go and now I'm being made to pay for some previously awful karmic sin I didn't even know I'd performed by accompanying him.
This is ghastly. I mean I'm already going to a wedding in December, and my oldest friend will be setting a date for next year too. isn't one a year enough?
And Sligo? SLIGO? Who gets married in Sligo? Why Sligo? Where is Sligo? Oh don't give me that, I know roughly where it is, but really... Sligo? With French Gay and a whole slew of people I neither know nor care a fuddler's curse about.
Why couldn't it have been a weeding, that would have been fun.
Why did I then decide cocktails in the Fitzwilliam was my only hope of dealing with another wedding.
Will I never learn?
Probably not.
Sligo. Jesus.


Thursday, November 29, 2007

Animal Telepathy is a load of bull wank.

Regular readers to this blog will know I get ever so slightly hot under the collar every time that fucking mumbo jumbo bollocky bull wank Reiki is mentioned anywhere near me. It really does have the capacity to blow a fuse deep in my brain. It enrages me that fucking hucksters and snake oil peddlers prey on the feeble minded and the sick to shill them out of their money. ENRAGES me I tell you. it makes me want to kick things clear across the room. If I was Queen they would be first to the wall, believe me.
But-while scoffing down bacon and eggs not one hour ago-I have since learned that it is not JUST reiki-spit spit- that can send me to the abyss of howling fury. In fact I was horrified to find that ' Practitioners of Animal Telepathy' have the very same bloody effect.
This is not good. I don't need that level of hostility rising within me when I am trying to eat. I should probably start switching off the radio during breakfast. Or stop listening to Brenda Power at any rate. I may have mentioned this before. Why do I torture myself so?


Well it turns out that our country is RAMPANT with fucking half wits. Not five minutes after the fraud and huckster was on some other idiot rang the bloody show and wanted to send a PICTURE of her DOG to the 'healer' so that the 'healer and telepath' could READ the dog's mind via the fucking photo. When Brenda Power said, 'Make sure it's a clear picture where you can see the dogs eyes, that's very important' I gave up trying to eat, flung my breakfast into the bigger of the cats, kicked the press under the sink and tore in here to look online.

Could this be true? Are we really over run with simpletons?
It would appear so.
I found a web page, oh what a web page. I have been reading it, steam rising gently from my ears.
Here, allow me to share with you some of the wonder claims made by these oh so gifted individuals.

"I offer hypnotherapy (analytical and suggestion), Past Life Regression therapy, Tapas Acupressure, Reiki or Integrated Energy Therapy (Healing with the Energy of Angels), and I have to say I really enjoy my work! When a person comes to see me, they are offered a safe, confidential service. They can choose one of the therapies on it's own, or sometimes a combination of various therapies can prove useful. It is like calling a plumber to your house - he comes with a bag of tools, and won't know which tool will be necessary until he assesses the situation. Both Reiki and the Integrated Energy Therapy are also available to animals to help them kick-start their immune systems. Any therapies offered to either humans or animals are not a substitute for medical or veterinarian treatment, but can serve a purpose as a "complementary therapy." Absent healing can also be organised."

"Baby Whispering: Jane has recently been asked to use her telepathic abilities to communicate with small babies, which she calls ‘Baby Whispering’ as she can relate how they are feeling, what they are seeing and areas of pain, as well as asking specific questions, something that has helped greatly in treatment and diagnosis. However she will only do this for babies under medical care and with the permission of their doctor."

"I am a Reiki Master/teacher. An animal trainer and behaviourist for many years, I have found that the holistic approach to problems can bring about rapid results. Reiki Works for you and your animal companion. Stressed out humans and animals benefit greatly from Reiki therapy. Balance the energy of mind, body and soul. Non invasive hands on healing."

"I have been a member of the Bi-Aura Foundation since 2002. I treat a variety of ailments from people being simply run down and tired all the time, migraine, arthritis and the list goes on. I also treat animals big and small. If you require further information please do not hesitate to contact me for a chat."

Sweet Chulutha on a unicycle. The Bi-Aura foundation? That's this crowd, Saying you've been a member is like saying you've been with a traveling circus for a few years, so bloody what? Just because it has a dicky official sounding title doesn't make it any less of a breeding ground for purveyors of poppycockery, they're just better organised.

Ask yourself this chumlies! Why will the fucking baby whisperer only 'do' her shit for a baby under medical care? If she's just 'reading' the babies minds why the need for a doctor's permission? Wouldn't the parent's permission do just as well. Surely the baby can 'okay' it too, since it appear to be so chatty.

How bloody convenient that the huckster shower have moved on to animals to read.
Picture the scene. Having forked over her hard earned money for a session, a lady is astounded to be tol...

'Hi Mrs Quin, Bobby tell me he's a little sad today.'
'Really? Why?" Lifts overweight pug onto lap.
'He's telling me he feels fear of abandonment. Have you left his for an unusually long time recently?'
'Oh my God, I DID leave him, remember I told you a few weeks back about my daughter's wedding. OH gosh, I had to leave him at home all day.'
'Ah, that's it, that's what he trying to show me. He says he was alone for hours, and very frightened.'
'Oh Bobby, I never knew! I'm so sorry.'
'He's telling me he forgives you.'
'Oh Bobby!'

Cold reading, guess work and good memory for details previously learned. Shit, who doesn't leave their dog alone. And it's not like Bobby can suddenly pipe up, 'Steady on old chap, I'm feeling rather fine today. I was just wondering when we can get the hell out of this stuffy front room and go have some lunch.'

The plumber analogy is my favourite. Yeah a plumber doesn't know what tool is right for the job until he sees what the problem is, but then he fixes the problem with them. What he doesn't do it take them OUT of his tool bag, call someone ELSE to fix the actual problem and then charge you for 'complimentary plumbing'.

Oh these people make me sick to my stomach. I hate them with the power of a thousand suns. They should be illegal, they should be hounded in groups and pelted with tomatoes. They should be horsewhipped. They should -every single one of them- be made have a disclaimer with 'we're are charlatans, charlatans are we' under all their amazing claims.

I've just heard a long and plaintive wail from my kitchen. Using my own mental telepathy I can 'sense' the bigger of the cats wants to be let out.
Zounds! I was right.
Where can I hang my plaque announcing my 'unique and fucking awesome power'?

I remember the lilac biological incubator attempting to get me to bring Puddy to a 'faith Healer' when she had her run in with cancer that time. I chose the vet, assuming, as most good pet owners will, that she needed medical attention far more than she needed some gruesome quack 'laying' his gnarly hands on her. Puddy is at this moment killing the circulation to my lower legs and purring up a storm. Imagine that. Without the 'inner ancient knowledge of the spirit world' my vet was able to tackle what could have ended her life quick smart.

If you need a bloody quack to mentally read what's troubling your dog you need to stop having a dog, seriously. Get a gold fish.

Quacks, I am so firmly against them it makes little squeaks of incandescent rage escape me unbidden.


Hey now, hey now, the dream is over.

You cannot imagine how much it hurt me to write that line, but look chumlies, look at what he did...
I am befuddled and somewhat bereft.


Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Delightful pleasures can be pretty cheap.

There are many things in life that bring me pleasure. Rum, sex, concerts, buttery toast, beans on toast, finishing a run, mashed potato with gravy, sleeping in an extra half hour in a warm bed, not answering the phone, not listening to jazz, reading that James Rand has exposed that fucking baby whispering freak Derek Ogilvie as yet another woo woo fraud.
All these things are a delight. But they are a sort of everyday delight, not to detract from them of course, few things can be more delightful than not answering a phone WHILE eating buttery toast. But some delights are more delightful than others and I want to share one with you.
This delight is so utterly delightful that that no matter how glum my day it puts me into good humour.
I am devoted drinker, but owing to my unwillingness to become a raving alcoholic I must harness my devotion and take long and tedious breaks from my beloved hooch. I will gaze fondly at my drinks globe and sigh heavily. Not today beloved rum, don't look at me like that wine, oh honey bee ale, I miss you too. This sort of crying will go on for much of the week. It's hearbreaking, rather like I've sent alcohol off to boarding school, but a weekly board, not one of those crazy places where people don't see their offspring any more than four times a year, I mean what the fuck is up with that? Why bother having children at all if you're going to ship them to an educational prison. What's that ma? Boarding school is character building. Well you must be right, after all the character they built rendered me half cracked. Oh not that kind of character, that wasn't what you were aiming for? Oh, I see.
On occasion, when the time is right- it should be stormy outside. There should be howling winds and lashing rain, there should be a fire, or at the very least turn the central heating right up- I like to pull the curtains, fling some ice into a glass, crack open a bottle of baileys, slice some carrots into strips, add some humus, get into my most comfiest of jammies, grab Puddy and position myself in front of my computer... and watch cartoons.
Yep, cartoons.
Not Tom and Jerry cartoons, cartoons like Spawn, Earthworm Jim and Aeon Flux and X men. Yes folks, in my darkest and cheeriest hours I am nothing more than a filthy nerd. A mildly drunken filthy nerd, but a nerd none the less.
This habit of mine confuses the life out of the paramour, but the paramour plays X-box which confuses the life out of me, so we have reached a peaceful bridge.
Baileys, cartoons, cat, heat, try it, you cannot but enjoy it.
That you probably don't bother mentioning to chumlies, lest they make the L sign at you?
Hum? Fess up.

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Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Ricky Hatton V FLoyd Mayweather

December 8th Ricky Hatton and Floyd 'Prettyboy' Mayweather go toe to toe on the 8th of Dec in Las Vegas.
The welterweight clash pits Britain's current world light-welterweight champion, undefeated in his 43 fights, against the man rated best pound-for-pound fighter in the world.
Mayweather has won world titles at five weight levels and defeated Oscar De La Hoya for the WBC light-middleweight title in his last fight. He remains undefeated in his 38 professional fights.

Hatton's no slouch either, his fights include his memorable defeat of Kostya Tszyu for the IBF World title and victory over Luis Collazo to become a two-weight world champion.

Mayweather is a arrogant but brilliant and skilled fighter, Ricky is as tough as nails down to earth curry and beer loving everyman.
I'm naturally going to be cheering Ricky on-I've watched him being interviewed lots of times and find him adorable. There was a great write up about him in the times the other week and although his habit of letting himself go between training is unorthodox, it seems to work for him.
I am going to trundle down to the bookies later to put 10 of my beloved Euros and also 10 of the paramour's beloved Euros on him.
It's pay per view. It should be awesome. Anyone else watching/betting?


A bubbling melting pot of evil.

What happens when you put jealousy, stupidity and religious fervour together? Why you get a bubbling over heated pot of pain and death and intolance and down right evil, it's as easy as ABC. Yep folks, a whole lot of trouble comes when you stir up that heady mix.
A) This lady is being held in a prison because she allowed the children in her class to name a Teddy Bear Muhammad?
I admit I find all religion ridiculous, but seriously, this takes the cake. I hope this sort of act will be roundly condemned by moderate Muslims, who much surely at this stage be fed up with extremists hijacking their religion.

B)But you don't even have to hide under the mantle of religion to be a crack pot, tribal ways will do nicely, witness this next story

C)And then to roll out the stupid carpet, what about putting a stalker and jealous man on stage with his victim in the name of 'entertainment' what do we think will happen in that cauldron?


Monday, November 26, 2007

Children, fathers, secrets and lies.

An interesting case is brewing in the UK. The mother seems determined to place this child with an adoption agency, but it begs the question why?
If the father in this case was informed and did not wish to offer the child a home then adoption seems a reasonably solution. HOWEVER, as the biological father why has he no input into the future of his child? Perhaps he might like to raise his daughter, perhaps he might provide her with a home and all the love she needs. What about the baby, does she not have the right to her kin? When she is old enough to search out her biological parents, she might well ask why they gave her up for adoption. What then? The father didn't give her up, he didn't even know he had a child.
For whatever reason this woman kept her pregnancy a secret, maybe through shame, maybe her parents are assholes, whatever. That is her right. But to make a judgement on the future of this tiny infant without even considering the father strikes me as an abuse of power.
Like I say, maybe he wouldn't be interested, but he should at least have the choice, the same as the mother does.


Saturday, November 24, 2007

Pure Evil

I read this and had to re-read to believe what I was seeing. I have no words strong enough at my disposal to condemn this man. I have nothing in me to comprehend anything about this attack. Sometimes a person is just pure evil and this is one of those times.


Motivation for fatcats and possibly for chumlies of Fatcats!

AHA! Let me welcome you to the motivation club. If you're new here I decided to set up a little place where we chumlies can set down what we did in terms of exercise this week. There's nothing behind it other than a chance to see in print how we're doing, to motivate ourselves to going that bit extra. If you want to join in feel free, don't be shy.

So Saturday is here and let's see how we're all doing. Did we pull our runners on? Walk that extra mile? Cycle harder faster longer? Brave the cold? Traffic? Ugh it's just so much harder in Winter. Also This week I learned the soggy leaves are treacherous.

Tuesday- I forced myself out the door, it was bloody cold I ran 10 k (badly) It took over an hour. I'd like to say it didn't but it did, I pretty sure it took and hour and a quarter which is utterly depressing. Did I mention it was cold?

Thursday- I went out again, it was dark- I poodled 8k, terrible. Also frightfully cold. I was supposed to go to the gym, somehow I managed not to. Bit disheartened at my lack of effort. Just didn't seem to have it mentally.

Sautrday! -Burning with shame at how pathetic my lazy arsed week was I pulled on my runners and did a hilly-ish 15k run. And lo! It was a good run, no aches, slow start, but kicked in after 3k and my return route was faster than I ever paced it. Not sure about time because I forget to check when I went out, but I was really booting it along-for me- on the last 2k. That's the way it goes sometimes, you can be crap all week and suddenly it clicks into place.

Next week I vow to utilise my gym more, even if I have to keep my own arse to get there.

Feeling great, feel good, how are you?

I also went out for a walk every night this week for about 40 mins, mostly to think about work, but also to loosen up my body after so many hours sitting in this chair. It's freezing and I enjoy gawking at every one's windows as I wander along. Yes I am that sort of freak.

I almost forgot but Medbh reminded me. Useful websites, comprehensive no nonsense training updated daily. You can sub and adapt the exercises to suit your weight and ability. All exercises and 'names' of exercises are explained, take a day or two to read over it. Excellent site. - absolutely brilliant site. I used it regularly when training for the marathon. You can map out any route you wish to take in your area, find the exact distance, save routes, alter them. Invaluable when you need to be precise and want to see exactly how much running you're doing.

Good luck.


Friday, November 23, 2007

Fox hunting, horses and a girl's awakening.

There is a story in the Indo today, about foxhunting.
This quote made me roll back the years. "It's very early days as yet," said Brian Munn, IMFHA spokesman. "We heard the rumour 48 hours ago. My colleagues have spoken to eyewitnesses and those people have denied that that happened. We have got an explanation but I am very loathe to say too much at this stage"

I don't know what happened on that hunt, but let me share with you something about hunting. There are two sides to it, both vocal and both dug in. Neither will EVER give ground to the other and that's the way it will stay.

In my youth I was obsessed with horses. I rode at every chance I got, I worked for free in various stables and spent every spare moment I had talking about horses and thinking about horses. I pestered my poor father to distraction until he got me the loan of a pony, who I subsequently despised
I measured myself regularly, hoping I might meet the height requirement needed-and set down in stone by my biological incubator- to ride the hunter my father already owned. A liver chestnut harlot with two white socks and a white jagged blaze, whose greatest pleasure in life was to throw me off when I least expected it and to go where ever she liked when I was on board.
She had a mouth like concrete and no bit, however complicated, made the slightest difference to her. She was smart and strong, swift and fearless. 'Aye she'd jump over the moon if you let her' the ould boy down the road used to say as I sailed past clinging for dear life on one of our many hacks.
But unlike the pony she wasn't malicious, just headstrong. I can only imagine she regarded me as some kind of fawning gnat. I loved her, feared her, respected her, worshipped her. I would lie in supplication before her mighty feet if I wasn't so sure she'd snort and boot me out of her way with contempt.
She spent summers out on grass and came back in bloated and wild maned. I would spend hours untangling the burrs and briars from her, I would groom her until she shone. At first she resisted but after a few minutes she would cease and I would watch gleefully as her rubbery lower lip drooped lower and her hip would cock. With a deep sigh she would drift off into a slumber, resigned and content to allow the grinning gnat to carry on her devoted ministrations.
We would call up the farrier, a portly louche fellow with tons of imitation children. This man drove up to our yard in an old postal van. He swore repeatedly and never, not even in the dead of winter, covered his arse crack.
The mare hated him and he her, many the battle royale my father and I watched in awe as the unmovable semi-naked troll and the red devil duked it out. Finally the switch would be called for and peace would descend on the sweating combatants.
Eventually her feet would be pared and shod, her hooves would ring on the cobbles and like any lady in new shoes, her head would lift higher and she would flare her nostrils in magnificent splendor.
AS soon as I was tall enough to impress upon my mother that a deal was a deal I moved on to my next plan. I wanted to take her out properly, to test my mettle, to prove once and for all that we were the formidable team I dreamed about in my head.
I wanted to go hunting.
My father did not approve. I was astounded, some of my friends already went, I told him, ALL of the pony club did. What was his problem with it? He gave me no good reasons, but could be heard muttering ' that pack of yahoos' as he and his dogs crossed the yard. But I would not be swayed, not by him, not by anyone. And curiously my mother seemed to be on my side for once. An event so isolated I should have given pause to wonder what this portentous act meant.
Finally the hunting season was upon us and I rode out. My first hunts were disasters. Unencumbered by weight, the mare rode roughshod over me and rode literally over everyone else. She had no manners at all. She would lay her ear flat if a horse pulled along side her and was not adverse to lashing out behind, not good in tightly packed country lanes. I bandaged her tail in bright red to serve as warning and tried my best to keep her to the back of the pack as we set out. Her flecked and foamed neck bore witness to our struggles and within the first ten minutes of set off she would be a furious sidestepping sweat soaked mess of energy and my hands would be raw despite my gloves.
We rode our first few hunts badly, she cat jumped the bigger ditches, unseated me twice and galloped off. She kicked the horse of the wife of the whipper in, she challenged a six bar gate only to change her mind at the last second, too late to stop me sailing over her dropped shoulder and into said gate. Because we rode to the rear the ditches and banks would often be torn up before we reached them. We would slip in the mud and on one painful occasion she fell with my leg trapped under her. She rode directly through the hound pack once, delighting in yelps and howls, getting me sent home by the furious Master in the process. The shame of that still lives within.
But after a while we began to improve, to read each other, to communicate with heels and shifts. Her ears began to flick back towards me now and then, giving me some scant attention. And oh how I loved hunting. I loved everything about it. I loved the cold frosty air, the dappled woods, the smell of gorse, the fear, the adrenaline as we approached a fearsome jump. The friendliness and chat on the headlands and we waited for the hounds to catch a scent. I lived for the headlong gallops, when I could finally rest my hands on either side of her fiery neck, stand in my stirrups and let her have her head, hearing the whoops and 'heyahs' as her great haunches powered us past one rider after another. I loved the way she would rear slightly if I held her back, and plunge headlong down a hill, if we fell at that speed both of us would be killed.
Neither of us cared.
She leaped walls with abandon, through gaps in hedges that I feared we would not fit through. She charged up headlands, sploshed through freezing streams, leaped banks and tore off again without a moment's hesitation. We got torn up, filthy, bloody and exhausted.
We were alive, we were free, we were as one.
Everything was dandy. Right up until I saw my first fox being killed.
I'll never forget it. Not as long as I live.
It was late in the season, probably the last or second last weekend of the season as far as I remember.
When I awoke it was still dark. I pulled on a filthy wax jacket and wellies. I let myself out and, accompanied by the collies, crossed the yard to the stables.
She was awake already, snorting softly and snaking her head on the door. I said good morning and rubbed her nose. It was freezing and our breaths mixed in the frigid dawn air.
I fed her and changed her water and went back across the yard to the kitchen to get my own breakfast. The hunt was local, so I had plenty of time to get ready and hack to the meet.
An hour or so later I went back to her and pulled off her blanket. I tried to get her ready, but she was already starting to dance and her patience for her gnat was low. She knew that soon she would be among the ranks of her own kind, martingale tight across her mighty breast, cinched girth covered in a sheepskin sheath, tendons bound, tail bandaged.
She would, like any warrior, ride out for battle fit, trained, skilled and bold. She loved it, she lived for it. It didn't matter to her that the gnat would be her companion. What mattered was the three hours or more where she would reign supreme.
After struggling on, I finally got her ready and tacked her up, looping my reins back through my stirrups and throwing a head collar over the whole shebang. I led her out and tied her to the railing outside, with her blanket thrown casually over the lot.
I ran inside, said 'hiya hiya hiya' to the family, tore upstairs, got dressed, put talcum powder into my boots, battled with them to get them-dammit, every time- on and tore back downstairs.
My father watched me go, unsmiling. 'Off at it again?'
'Yep, see ya later.'
'Be careful.'
The hunt was busy, people came from all over. There were a lot more blow-ins than usual, smart newish boxes and fancy hunter clips. I found some friends and we arched our country eyebrows at the newbies and townies. A friend of mine was trying out a green horse. He was a three year old bay, a bit gangly for my taste and seemed to have serious difficulty going forwards. He managed sideways perfectly and backwards to a T, but forwards seemed beyond him. We laughed as he reversed most of the way up the street, my friend mortified and kicking the flanks off him to no avail.
Finally we were off. The mare was already at her usual frothing and pulled hard, yanking me out of the saddle again and again. I couldn't wait for her to get her first gallop out of the way so that she might settle down a bit.
But that day didn't hold much galloping. For whatever reason the hounds seemed to find little scent and we spent a goodly amount of time waiting around thickets and ditches, growing ever more colder and our horses ever more fidgety and bad tempered.
The mare was driving me up the walls, she just wouldn't stand still, and my friend's green horse was starting to toss his head and chomp at his bit too. Even the older more experienced horses were stamping.
BAROOOO, suddenly we were off.
We criss-crossed through the trees and up a bank, clearing a ditch on the other side and racing across a frost-filled meadow. The mare began to pass horses on the outside of the field and try as I might I could not contain her. I lowered behind her neck and tried to keep her straight, it was all I could do.
We raced over another field and leaped a drainage ditch, hit the middle bank and over another water filled ditch. The mare stumbled but righted herself, I lost a stirrup but regained it by accident. My friend's green horse mistimed it, jumped, saw the water, bucked, and flung her to the ground before tearing after the other horses. Turned out going forwards wasn't such a difficulty after all.
We rode on hard for another two miles or so, gaining ground on the pack and that's when I saw her, the fox, streaking across the field next to me in a diagonal direction.
The hounds didn't see her and anyway, they are so utterly stupid she could be doing a cha-cah in front of them and they wouldn't notice, the scent is what mattered. But they picked it up and soon were hot on her trail. From a distance I heard the change in pitch of their hysterical cries.
I lost sight of them as they hit a copse. I heard the horn. They must have caught her somebody said, as we waited our horses steaming and tossing their heads. Nice day for it, somebody else said, did you hear how much old Dan's looking for that new yearling? someone else said, and so began the waiting blather.
I wasn't interested in any of it. I was listening to the hounds, I was listening to their cries of frustration. I had ridden with them for weeks I knew their voice. They hadn't caught anything. I edged the mare closer to the tree line.
I know what happened. That vixen was dug out. I saw her as she was flung high into the air by unseen hands. I saw her leap and bunch and snarl and the hounds descended on her. I heard her screams as one hound grabbed her flank, another her front leg, then still another her stomach. Some of the more senior members of the hunt rode between me and the kill, trying to engage me in conversation and tripe while the rest of the field began to catch up. Over the shoulder of a brassy blonde on a fat arsed chestnut gelding I saw the pack swarm over the dying fox and tear her asunder. Through the trees I saw two of the local men stamping on something, and heard sounds that I can hear to day if I put my mind to it. It was too early for cubs wasn't it? I tried to think. Maybe, maybe not.
The blonde rode directly in front of me and began asking how was school going. I had no option but to speak. It would have been too rude not to.
We did small talk, but inside I was twisted, as something grew from my gut. The mare laid her ears flat and snapped at the gelding and the blonde eased him skillfully to the side.
My eyes trailed back to the scene.
The houndsman waded through the hounds and dragged what was once a living breathing animal from them. What was left of her was a stinking mucky steaming pile of guts, shredded skin, protruding tongue and shit. The hounds surrounded the man, wagging their tails happily jumping up at the vixen's body. The hounds man tossed her corpse into the undergrowth and after a brief conversation with the master decided where next to flush out their next quarry.
The light was too young to give up this early.
The thing inside me surged. I wheeled the mare away and began to ride back towards the headland. I passed more riders coming in, flushed, breathless.
'Where are you going?' My friend with the green horse asked as he and she skidded to a juddering halt. Both of them were covered head to toe in mud. I found out later he had tripped over his own bloody reins, the stupid beast, and that was how she had caught him again.
'Home.' I said.
'Did you have a fall?"
'Are you all right?'
'Yeah, I'll see you later.' I kicked the mare on.
I met my father as I rode up the yard. He was chopping logs, his good natured face streaked with sweat. He straightened when he saw me.
'You're back early.'
I nodded and rode straight past him into the stable yard.
I untacked the mare and checked her over for cuts. She had one or two, but nothing major. I tied her up and got the hose to wash her down. I used the sweat scraper on her so hard she threatened to kick me.
'What is it?"
I looked over my shoulder. My father was leaning on the gate looking at me. I continued to squeeze the water out of my valiant mare. 'Nothing.'
''Did you fall?'
I shook my head, but now there were tears and I didn't trust my voice.
My father watched me for a while. I tossed the sweat blanket over the mare and began to walk her around.
'Come on into the house and I'll make you a cup of tea when your done.' My father said.
'Right.' I nodded using the mare's neck to hide the tears running down my nose.
I dried her off, put her blanket on and hung a dampened hay net for her. Dismayed and weary, I trailed off into the house.
My father made me tea and put antiseptic on a cut on my cheek. While he did all this I told him what I was sure I had witnessed. I cried and told him I'd never go hunting again. I asked him what was wrong with me?

He told me there was nothing at all wrong with me. I'd just taken a while to see something for what it was. But that I had seen it, and sure wasn't that the main thing. He gave me a kiss on top of the head and told me to go take a bath.
I did as I was told, for once.
I never did hunt again. I had loved it passionately, the thrill of the ride, but had forgotten the outcome, or had conveniently blocked it out of my young mind. Whenever I saw a hunt meet I always got an excited flutter in my stomach. Then I would recall the sounds I heard that day and the excitement would die out.
I did a few point-to points though, and fell more times than I care to remember. Turns out that was all the excitement and terror I ever needed.
My father was right all along. Hunting for sport is a cruel act. You can dress it up any way you see fit, but it doesn't take from the distress and agony of the animal being hunted. If you want to kill an animal for food, I have no qualms, in fact I salute you. But for a day's entertainment? Well, evolution takes longer for some.


Thursday, November 22, 2007

Cruel and unusual.

It is not often I am rendered speechless. I'm just not that sort of woman. But a chumley sent me a link to something this morning and after reading it my brow has lowered and I find myself filled with an emotion I normally reserve for Reiki.
"Saturday is "black cat day," in Italy, an initiative by an animal rights group to try to stop the killing of thousands of the cats by superstitious citizens convinced they bring bad luck.
Black cats have a bad name in many countries, but nowhere more so than Italy, where a papal edict in the middle ages declared they were instruments of the devil. Black cats were thrown into the fires to join witches burned at the stake.
The Italian Association for the Defense of Animals and the Environment (AIDAA) estimates 60,000 were killed last year, to ward off bad luck but also for use in satanic rites and in cosmetics laboratories where black fur gives the best results.
"We want to halt this massacre, educate people and restore dignity to black cats," said AIDAA President Lorenzo Croce.
The group has set up 200 information points in towns and cities around Italy, where passers-by will be given literature on black cats, asked to sign a petition and urged to adopt one of the 5,000 in cat refuges.
AIDAA has also sent a letter to Pope Benedict, a well known cat lover. "It would be great if he would speak out in recognition of our initiative and say the prejudice against black cats is a lot of nonsense,"

Okay, there is no accounting for the stupidity of people, and that's a fact. But killing an animal purely on the grounds of its coat colour? Fucking ridiculous.

But that's not all, oh no.

Observe some more.
Dog owners in Turin will be fined up to 500 euros ($650) if they don't walk their pets at least three times a day, under a new law from the city's council.

People will also be banned from dyeing their pets' fur or "any form of animal mutilation" for merely aesthetic motives such as docking dogs' tails, under the law about to be passed in the northern Italian city.

"In Turin it will be illegal to turn one's dog into a ridiculous fluffy toy," the city's La Stampa daily reported.

Italians can already be fined up to 10,000 euros and spend a year in prison if found guilty of torturing or abandoning their pets, but Turin's new rules go into much greater detail.

Dogs may be led for walks by people on bicycles, the rules say, "but not in a way that would tire the animal too much".

Italy considers itself an animal-loving nation and in many cities stray cats are protected by law. Still some 150,000 pet dogs and 200,000 cats are abandoned in Italy every year, according to animal rights groups.

To enforce the law, Turin police would rely largely on the help of tipsters spotting cruel treatment by their neighbours, La Stampa reported.

It said the 20-page rulebook gives Turin the most stringent animal protection rules in the country. It even bans fairgrounds from giving away goldfish in plastic bags."

And so the pendulum swings the other way. Fish in a bag, bad, killing black cats, cultural.

Actually I'm glad to see docking on there. Nothing divides dog people more than a debate on docking. I know a girl with an uncut boxer, and he has a fine tail and floppy ears. My own doberman had a docked tail, but I got him that way and never really gave it much thought until years after when it suddenly dawned on me that slicing the tail of a tiny puppy to achieve a look was pretty unreasonable behaviour. And I really hate ear docking, removing skin and re-stitching just to make a dog's ears stand up. I don't get it at all.
And speaking of cats, I must corral Puddy and take her to the vets for an ear clean. Ghastly business, they've got to knock her out to do it and at her age that scares me.


Wednesday, November 21, 2007

The Drugs do work

After yesterday's kerfuffle about drugs and what not, Jezebel have made me grin by quoting that rag the Dail Mail with some goodly news for the dopers among you. Turns out the drugs do work after all. Huzzah then. Pass the dutchie... yes I should be working.


Baptism and mass versus non-belief and pomp

While perusing my inbox yesterday morning I was astounded to read an email from a chap I know. He had a baby a few weeks ago, well not him, his girlfriend. You know what I mean.
Now I know this chap a goodly number of years, since I was a youth in fact. And one of the main and abiding things I remember most about him is that he is and out and out atheist. Not an agnostic, or fence sitter like myself, but a firm, 'No God' camp follower.
So naturally it was a bit eyebrow raising to read of his upcoming baby drowning or baptisim.
I emailed him immediately. 'Exactly what faith are you drowning your child into?'
'Why? I thought you didn't believe in any god. Have you had a conversion? A road to Demascus type blinding? Have you been recently saved? Raptured? Lourdesed?'
Turns out none of these things had happened, but what did happen was even more powerful. He had been Irish mothered. No sooner had his sproglette cleared the birth canal and hollered her first lusty bawl, his mammy- a vicious old harpy with a tongue so forked I could use it to plug in foreign plugs into Irish sockets, also friend of my mother- and his girlfriend's mammy- don't know anything about her-started banging the baptism drum.
'You've capitulated.' I typed.
'There were two of them.' he typed back.
But the whole set up strikes me as utterly ridiculous. Neither he nor his girlfriend are even remotely religious. They do not attend mass, don't pray, don't believe in any diety. Live cheerfully 'in sin' and break every RC rule in the book. So why, I pondered over cheese, would they mark their newborn's card ike that? Why label her RC? Why label her at all?
If they don't practice and more importantly, don't believe, why soak their newborn's head in a draughty church?
If nobody actually believes in the rite itself what is the point of it? Is it simply tradition these days? To impress the friends and neighbours? Where it the piety?
Why does not this type of dousing die out if each successive generation doesn't believe?
I asked the one person I know who seems to care even less about god stuff than I do.
'Paramour, will you want our future imaginary children baptised?'
He was chopping carrots at the time. 'I don't think so?'
'You don't sound very sure.'
'Okay, no then.'
'Why not?"
'Well, I don't believe in God and we don't go to mass so what would be the point?'
'So no then.'
'Right, no.'
'But what about our wedding? That's in a church.'
'That's different.'
'WHere else are you supposed to get married?"
'In a regi-'
'Ha, can you imagine if I'd suggested that?'
'So it's just for the ceremony?'
'Yep, the pomp and ceremony.'
'All right then.'
Armed thusly with all manner of hypocrisy, I turned my thoughts once again to my friend and his much battered sensibilities. I understood it. We are a secular country and no doubt but we want what we want and what we want is pomp and ceremony, regardless of what club that leaves us in. We are hypocrites and traditionalists. We neither believe or are arsed disbelieving.
God- if he exist at all- is like a doddery old uncle, dragged out for those occasions we're having a bit of a do, banished to the great old folks home in the sky when we 're done with him.
Perhaps he needs new PR. I know a couple of Irish Mammies that would be a good hire.


Tuesday, November 20, 2007

RTE and the Drugs Soap Opera.

I say soap opera because I can't use the word documentary without laughing, and I don't want to laugh as I need this coffee in my system.
The other night-yes, despite my protestations about RTE- I managed to catch the second part of High Society, the, I can't, the soap causing such a media rumpus. For those who might not have heard of it High Society is a book and subsequent 2 part television show, purporting to 'expose' the prevalent and continued drug abuse among middle to upper class Irish.
According to RTE's own blurb that programme " gives an insight unto middle class cocaine use in Ireland through the reconstructed personal testimonies of users and former addicts such a school teacher, a chef, a nurse, an accountant and a trainee doctor, all of whom have disguised their addiction behind their responsible and law abiding lifestyles."
Oh, and let's not forget the 'government minister' who admits to regular cocaine use, on tape no less. And don't also forget the dealers, fine men all, who are kind enough to take our intrepid journalist with them on their rounds as they deliver their goods. Drug dealers are a good and open lot that way.
What an expose! This programme must surely be too hot to handle. Would high society tremble? Surely it must, tapes, taxi styled drug dealers? Oh my!
Right, except it really didn't because the key word in the blurb is 'reconstructed'. Reconstructed means actors, it means words that cannot and indeed are not verified. It is anecdotal at best and cannot represent the views and actions of the people involved fully. If High Society was a court case it would be thrown out on its flabby arse, we would be using a salt shaker most liberally if we read it in the pages of a tabloid.
But on RTE? The state television channel? Whither the gravitas? Surely RTE- committed to serious journalism and eyeing up our television licence money -would not be prepared to litter our screens with unsubstantiated folly and reconstruction posing as fact.
I mean actors are that actors, interspace them with professionals and their professional opinion and we get is a deliberate sleight of hand. Could RTE be guilty of cheap parlour tricks?
Now add to the curious mix that The High Society was presented by researcher and journalist Justine Delaney-Wilson, who claims to have carried out the interview with the minister in question while writing the book about cocaine use in the middle classes, is back peddling slightly. Ms Delaney-Wilson and RTE initially insisted they had audio recordings of the minister, but have now admitted that they don't exist.
So what's going on? Who is the government minister powdering his nose regularly? Where does that nun get her supplies?
Why would RTE support a show that it knew to be full of fiction? Where is the buck going to stop on this one?
As the one year anniversary of Anthony Campbell, the young man murdered in cold blood on the floor of Mylo Hyland's cocaine funded home, fast approaches, what are we, Joe Public, going to do about the flood of cocaine this country is currently riding on. Do we legalise it? Stamp on it? Tax it? Actually go after the users as well as the dealers? What? Because if ministers and nuns and, oh I don't know, everyone and their mother is using then what hope have we of quelling the tide? If RTE are to be believed it is already in our homes, it is everywhere.
Or is it hyperbole, are things as bad as they seem?
I don't have the answers to this, I can only speak for myself. I won't be using cocaine over the holiday season, I won't be using it any time in the future, I won't be having a quick line at any parties. I won't shrug and say 'oh well, everyone does it' I won't use it. I won't support it. Because the truth is, high society or not, cocaine is everywhere, and while it is being shipped and distributed and sold by ruthless murdering scumbags, we are all culpable.
So to RTE and Delaney Wilson, why did they even bother? There is a story here, a real story. There is a cost to society, there are people suffering, recovering, reeling, grieving, they may not be high society, but they are real flesh and blood. No need for actors, not need for missing tapes and reconstructions.
There is already a human face to cocaine use.
And you sure as shit don't need to pay the wages of the actor's guild to provide it.


Monday, November 19, 2007

Jonathon Rhys Meyers is a drunken hussy.

While eating a bacon and cheese sammich and drinking something delicious called a mochachino in town, I was gleefully delighted to read of that great big eegit and straight as two circles Jonathon 'I have many accents none of them Irish' Rhys Meyers was arrested for being a drunken lout. I don't know why I enjoyed it so much, but I did, perhaps I am my mother's daughter after all.

Indo true story as follows.

" Hollywood star Jonathan Rhys-Meyers will appear in court next month on two public order offences after he was arrested at Dublin airport for allegedly being drunk and disorderly.

The Cork-born actor (30) was refused permission to board a flight to Britain yesterday afternoon and had to be escorted to the check-in area by airport police.

He was later arrested and taken to the Whitehall garda station where he was charged with being drunk and disorderly and in breach of the peace.

He was later released on bail to appear next month at the Dublin District Court."

Yep, sober and straight, eh Johnny boy?


Kill my mother, please.

Ah I kid, I kid. But not everyone is so jovial on a miserable Monday. I was pretty shocked to to read the following story, and by read I mean press my nose against the print and follow the blur. I guess some kids do not like to be told what to do by anyone. Just two bullets. Astounding. I mean these are his parents. What kind of fucked up individual consider hiring a hit man to take his mother and her husband out over something so trivial, imagine how vicious he'd get over a serious infraction. Imagine how much value he's put on the lives of people who were NOT related to him?


Sunday, November 18, 2007

Lost Glasses!

I have lost/mislaid my glasses. I cannot find them anywhere and I bloody well need them for work. (I need them for work/reading/television to be honest)
I cannot fathom where or how I have lost them. At first I thought, 'oh they have to be some where'. So I have looked in all the usual places, and nowt. Then I turned this house upside down and inside out, I have searched stupid places, like under the sink, in the fridge, inside the linen basket and even the garage-they have a tendency to slip down my nose so I have a tendency to leave them odd places. But nothing, they are NOWHERE to be found.
This is most perplexing and annoying. I now have to go to bloody specsavers, have my eyes tested and get another pair, all of which cuts into lollygagging around reading the paper time.
Losing things, I am VERY much against it!


Friday, November 16, 2007

Motivation for Fatcats and possibly for chumlies of Fatcats!

Huzzah, my ankle is better, and by better I mean it's holding up over a hilly sort of run of about 8k. Naturally j'suis un lobster and I was alarmed to see I was puffing and blowing like a common Jeremy Clarkson on my second and third kilometre, but then after that I felt pretty damn good actually, and on my last K I was tickity tock and had to slow myself lest I undo all the good work resting and complaining and rowing a stationary imaginary boat has done.
Now, some of you chumlies expressed an interest in running and general keep fit stuff so I thought -seeing as I'll be waffling on about it one way or another- I might post up a weekly thing here. A Motivation for Chumlies sort of thing. It's easier to keep track of your training if it's right there under you nose in ink, well, computer print, and since I can't imagine anyone would be bothered their arse making up running times and efforts I figure it's a good self shaming/motivation tactic.
It doesn't matter that we are in different countries, at different levels of fitness, are different ages or after different goals. What matters is we are a supportive sort of crew and that some exercise is better than none at all. Also I firmly believe no matter how out of shape or a novice you are you can improve. You all know that before I started training for the marathon I couldn't really run from here to the off licence, but on Oct 31st I ran 26 miles AND i did it with a stupid grin on my face.
There are tons of shorter runs and walk and hikes and longer runs between next year and now. I have signed on for the April fun run in the park here, it's a nice run 10k great atmosphere, and I've roped poor Country Gay into with me. So he'll be pretty much where I was this time last year, a complete novice. For myself I want to try gaining some speed and shaving time off my runs, so this will take a different sort of commitment. I also want to improve my gym work outs and what not.
I can put up a post every Saturday and we can put down what we did over the week, how we trained, distance, times, how we felt, what improvements we made-if any, any injury or equipment queries (without this site I would more than likely have damaged my knee when I started running in an old pair of sneakers). We can set out whatever goal we have in mind and work towards it. Mine is to do next year's marathon in under 5 hours, nothing terribly dramatic, but a goal nonetheless.
So there you have it. That's my idea.
Anyone in?


People are stupid.

I don't really have the vocabulary at my fingertips to explain how I feel about the following story. Besides I'm trying really hard not swear as much these days.

Observe, humanity at its most base and most fucking awesomely stupid.

"BERLIN (Reuters) - A convicted paedophile sentenced to do community service in a German kindergarten will return to court next week to face charges of abusing two children there, a regional prosecutor's office said Thursday.

The man was allowed to work as a janitor at the Evangelical Kindergarten St Petri in Melle, near the northern city of Osnabrueck, because a court worker missed three prior paedophilia convictions on his record, said Alexander Retemeyer, spokesman for the Osnabrueck prosecutor's office.

The man, identified only as A.B., had been sentenced to 720 hours of community service earlier this year for working on the sly while collecting welfare payments.

"The colleague didn't pay attention and didn't see he had a sexual conviction, so she allowed him to serve in a kindergarten," Retemeyer said. "She didn't read the file."

The prior convictions date from 1988-1990, when the man was living in the former East Germany, Retemeyer said. Though the convictions are listed in the man's criminal record, the details are unclear because prosecutors cannot access his East German police file.

Police arrested the man in April after the head of the kindergarten reported he had fondled himself in front of two children."


Occam's razor is a little blunt this morning.

It's late, there's heavy metal music, students, bouncers, alcohol flowing, drunk patrons...ah yeah, suddenly there's a scuffle between a bouncer and a patron. Both claim the other one started it.
They go to court.
What do we think might be the common denominator? Hum? Anyone?
Why yes, that's right it must be redbull, that disgusting caffeine fueled monkey jism that stinks like the inside of a of a dead wasp's unwashed winkle.
Not hooch, are we also clear on this? Not beloved alcohol, alcohol has NOTHING to do with this, and don't none of you go besmirching it neither. I"m looking at you, yeah, that's right, you.
What we're dealing with here is a soft drink of hidden depths and formidable potency. All that eeeevil caffeine, smothering out the gentle mixed nature of testosterone and alcohol with a miasma of sweet scented sugar dense malevolence, well, clearly an assault waiting to happen.
Oh I love the logic, I love the logic so much that if I hadn't already hitched my wagon to the paramour's mighty chest and lovely arms I might hunt down this logic and ask it to make babies with me. Certainly I would let this logic buy me dinner.
Remember folks, nothing is ever your fault, there is ALWAYS something to blame. And never alcohol. say it with me now, NEVER alcohol.


Thursday, November 15, 2007

A very strange illness.

Seriously, I almost feel bad for bitching about my rough day, at least I am not an Ent


People are monumental arseholes.

Yesterday was just one of those days, I caught a bus into town, arrived at an office, only to discover the woman I wanted to see had left by 2 minutes for her lunch. It was raining, So I went to Clerys to look at dresses. Didn't find one I liked. I did get perfume sparayed in my face though, by a over zealous lady at a perfume counter, despite the fact I only really ever wear Dior and I said 'no thank you' most clearly.
After fannying around for almost an hour I retuned to the the office, only to find the woman has been in and gone off again. After some gentle under my breath swearing I did a tour around the block and caught her on the third pass. Then I learned that she personally was of little use to me and the woman I did need wouldn't be in until the following day. This DIRECTLY contradicted what this same woman told me earlier that morning over the phone
Miffed, mystified and malevolent I thanked her for her uselessness and headed back out into the rain.
By the time I had made it back across town to other Dublin I had been poked repeatedly by vicious deadly umbrellas, almost hit by a snot rocket-disgusting beyond words- and asked for money/cigarettes be no less than three people.
I made it back across O'Connell Bridge and entered a shop, A woman was coming out with her hands pretty full, I opened the door for her and stood back and to the side, where upon a gaggle of girls in a hideous uniform brushed past me and entered shoving the woman and her groceries out of the way in the process. The woman and I did simultaneous head shakes.
My brows lowered.
I bought the paper, I paid the chap behind the counter and said thank you. He ignored me and flung my change down in a puddle of something sticky on the counter instead of into my outstretched hand. He roared 'Next there please' before I had even had a chance to pick it up.
Did I mention it was sticky? I hate sticky.
More umbrellas and an almost collision with a chap going up the footpath in Templebar on a mountain bike later, I located a chumley and we trotted off to a Spanish restaurant where we were treated like a nuisance, ignored, poorly fed, ignored some more and finally given the wrong bill in such a haughty manner it was all I could do not to take the wrong bill and shove it where no sun have ever shone, but I did not because I wasn't paying it and I had been invited and I"m just not a fucking rude bored bitch who think customers are the bane of her fabulous and obviously important life.
I said good bye to my friend and caught a taxi.
My taxi driver asked how I was.
I told him 'not so good, people are monumental arseholes.'
'You got that right, 'says he, and proceeds to regale me with one story after another of just how arsehole-ish people REALLY are ( I assume he thought I didn't get it).
This depressed the life out of me, and the driving was pretty hairy too, with him blaring the horn every five seconds and throwing his hands up in DESPAIR at every light he came across.
By the time I made it home I was operating on a monobrow and had begun mentally swink-lopping my way all over the shop. I paid my cabbie, climbed out into a stream and watched him tear off into the night, doubtless to be shocked and horrified by traffic lights all over the city.
I let myself in, the house was warm and inviting. Puddy and the bigger of the cats were lying sprawled under a radiator in the hallway.
'I've made Rogan Josh' the paramour said as I dribbled into the kitchen.
'It smells fabulous.'
We kissed, he took off my hat and looked at me.
'Glass of wine?"
'Yes please.'
He is not an arsehole. Not even in the slightest.
I'm never venturing outside my front door again. Well, obviously I will, but just let me hang on to that lie for another while longer this morning.


Wednesday, November 14, 2007

The devil sure likes 'em small.

People are stupid cruel fucks, they really are.
From to day's tabloid de jour, the SUN.

"A FATHER who thought his two sons were possessed by the devil fastened their top and bottom lips together with safety pins, a court heard.
The Nigerian-born churchgoer, 47, cut their tongues with a scalpel to draw off blood.

Clothes pegs and pliers were also put on the boys’ tongues, it was claimed at Bradford Crown Court.

The children were aged between seven and ten at the time of the alleged assaults two years ago.

The father, from Bradford, West Yorkshire, denies unlawful wounding and cruelty.

His wife, 41, denies cruelty.

The trial continues."

Seriously, how fucking lame is the devil? Talk about your cowardly custards. Why doesn't he ever invade Jeremy Clarkson's body? Why not David 'not even slightly funny and never was or ever will be not in my life time or yours anyway the unfunny insulting gooch-faced twat' McSavage? How does Bertie's not get invaded? You'd imagine he would be pretty fertile host for a touring diablo, unless lord beelzebub is allergic to brass. Well?
It's always the kids. Little kids too. Sheesh, anyone would think the devil's got nothing better to do except go around infecting and possessing small children. But why? Bit futile surely? Since once he's in there his devilish way are easily overcome by pins and clothes pegs?
I would really like to take a set of pliars and a Black and Decker drill to the parents of these two children. I betcha it would not take very long to get them to admit that they too were 'possessed', but not by the devil, oh no, just by a fucked up deity that allows people to unleash wanton cruelty on the defenseless and the weak, in the name of their god.


Tuesday, November 13, 2007

Breastfeeding and teeth.

I have posted on breastfeeding before on this blog. I believe if a person can and wants to breastfeed then she should be supported fully and if people find it 'icky' in public they need only to turn their heads ever so slightly and stop gawking, thus their delicate eyes will not be scorched from their delicate little sockets by such a natural act.
However, my squeee factor rose unbidden when I read this story
I am sure I am being slightly ridiculous here, but I do firmly believe that when your child is old enough to phone for takeaway, she might not really need breast milk any longer, despite what mummy thinks. And also,and image of 'Bitty' has cleaned any lovely thoughts about lovely loyal dogs and lovely green dresses clean out of my lovely head.



A chumley just sent me this and I'm really touched by it. Oh my god, if that isn't the saddest thing ever. Poor dog. It reminds me of that episode of Futurama where Fry's dog just sits waiting for him to come back. Oh WAH, now I feel all sad and tear filled. I miss my doberman, he'd walk across hot coals if he thought he could stay by my side.
Super sniff.


Two weddings and a hat.

As is the wont of mah ladies, two of the fatcat chumlies are to be hitched. My oldest and most dearest friend has been proposed to by her long standing paramour, and my other darling friend who makes me stretch a lot is also getting married, indeed her nuptials are next month.
And so, what does this mean?
Why it means I need a new dress. Possibly more than one. According to OF (oldest friend) I am also to purchase a hat.
Huzzah, I like hats, I am a hat person, hats suit me very well indeed. I rather fancy myself in a feathered D'Argagnan number, jauntily perched to the side. Or perhaps some wild art deco number with mesh. Either way, I will search high and low for the perfect creation, for I like nothing more than to be given carte blanche .
But first to the December union, it is a small but highly glitzy affair and my esteemed chumley is a lady of great taste and decorum. So the hunt is on for the perfect gúna. I want a green dress. It must be floor length, and it must swish. I'm thinking something along the lines of a red Vera Wang gown CG pointed out to me over the weekend (in photo). But a deep emerald green.
Well? if anyone has spotted such a creation, or knows of a dress that might be fabulous and most suitable, do say where you spotted it. All help appreciated on this one.


Monday, November 12, 2007

Plastic Surgery is an unnecessary risk.

I loved College Dropout, the album, and had it pretty much up there on the ipod playlist for the spring of 06. So I feel bad for Kanye West this evening, his beloved mother and best friend died over the weekend due to complications during plastic surgery.
I remember watching a documentary about Kanye and his mother a few years ago and being mightily impressed with this tough, outspoken and devoted mother. She came across as a real lady. She adored her loudmouth son and he thought the sun moon and stars rose and set in her eyes.
It's a sad demise for an intelligent vibrant woman like DR Donda West, and a reflection on our society as a whole that so many women are prepared to undergo unnecessary surgery and all the risk that it entails in the pursuit of 'beauty'.
RIP Donda.


Fifty fucking annoying things on a Monday.

If you're like me and sick to the back teeth of being shafted, and were one of the people who GENUINELY didn't vote for that festering shower of thieves and miscreants Fianna Fall to have another go at shafting us further, then take a quick spin over to That's Ireland.
Read the post and weep chumlies. Read it and weep bitter tears of snot inducing rage.
Hat tip to Twenty.


Television Licence? Are they fucking joking?

I almost fell out of bed last night when I read how much a TV license costs in this country. €158! To own a television! (you can probably tell It's been a while since I purchased one, but they've been doing the rounds up this way lately)
God damn it, I'm a relatively law abiding citizen. I pay tax, I pay PRSI. I don't know why this maddens me so...
Actually I do. The reason I'm up in arms about it is my Spanish friend was forced to buy one last week after a louche fuckwit called to her home and demanded she get one. Now I know my señorita, she no more watches the dross offered up on RTE 1/2 TV 3 or 'TG4 or 'Channel 6' than I do. In fact she only watches Living TV and Hallmark. I doubt she's ever changed the channel. But off she went and got one.
Now I am incensed. I'm still not completely recovered from paying the HIGHWAY ROBBERY that is car tax last week, but grudgingly I will put up with it as long as they keep the roads in relatively good nick (although someone needs to explain to me why I pay almost double what a Nisson Micra driver would pay, don't both fucking cars use the same roads and now I see over at Major's some twat in the green party wants to increase even that) But a TV licence, what the hell is that for?
I don't watch Irish channels either, have you seen what passes for entertainment on them? But if push comes to shove I suppose I'll just have to get off my arse and get one. But why? I already pay NTL handsomely for the pleasure of using their services. So this €158? What exactly is it for? I already own the god damned thing, why do I need a license for it at all?
And then there is this...

'Conviction for non-payment of a television licence (first offence) is a fine of 634 euro.

If you are convicted a second time for not paying your television licence, you will be fined 1,269 euro and your television and signal equipment will be confiscated.'

Ahahaha. Now I would like to test this one. How would they get my property, because they sure as fuck would not be coming into my house to get it, and they won't be scaling any walls to take down any cables neither, not it they don't want a golf club to the back of the head they won't. So how would they 'confiscate' my property?
I realise this is but a very minor thing to most folk, but is is and it isn't, it's another bloody con in a country of cons. They-yes they- take our money at every single opportunity and we give in like sheep. The 'government'- yes that shower- change the laws, act arbitrarily, ignore concerns and continue to fleece us, yes fleece us, every single change they get.
I'm bloody sick to the teeth of it.
Thieving, I'm very against it.


Friday, November 09, 2007

For Medbh and Feminazis EVERYWHERE!!

of which I am one! Huzzah! For darling Medbh, eagle-eyed keeper of the gate, let us begin with some mild words of admonishment from journalist Claire Byrne.

Are we all clear?

Then let us away to Kathy French, champion of women everywhere, underwear model and all round good egg for a rebuttal.

Are we clear here what's happening. J-e-a-l-o-u-s-y. It's not that anyone could find dear Katy vapid, it's just we're all seething with jealousy because she's so outspoken and 'comfortable' in her sexuality, ( I know this because she keeps saying it) where as the rest of us prudes just can't dig it.

It is now beer o'clock! Have a good weekend everyone.


A Friday Fact For Finn.

Somedays chumlies, no matter how much work we have on, or how cranky we feel, or even how irked we are that it is not yet beer o'clock , it does a body good to remember, we are not Courtney Love.


Thursday, November 08, 2007

The Scottification of Fatmammyat.

Chumley Finn and I talk regularly about motivation. We do a spot of bolstering and some 'kick ass take names' talk that is sometimes needed to drag reluctant runners and what not out from warm houses into cold damp days to train for things.
Sometimes this works, other times...not so much.
Motivation is a strange bedfellow. I consider myself quite a good self motivator. I genuinely don't need anyone standing over me, or indeed behind me, to make myself do things. All I need is to tune into whatever frequency the 'nagging self' operates on and I'm off. (I can also tune that out at will, and therein lies the problem) This self-motivation gift holds true for work as well as training, and since I work for myself that's a bloody good thing, other wise there would be a whole lot of reading books and toast eating done in this house in lieu of actual work.

But some days that frequency is hard to locate, either that or I am deliberately scrambling it.
Today is such a day.
It was a mildly depressing sort of morning. I should have gone to the gym, but the bed was warm and cosy. I must go and pay my motor tax-this in itself is very distressing as I hate paying motor tax- and this requires me to get dressed and go to Nutgrove and queue-which I also despise. I need to make an appointment for Puddy with the vet, ear again, but that requires me to use a phone. I have a meeting later on, hate those too. I have all these sodding things to do today and I just don't feel like doing any of them.
I am befunked.
I probably shouldn't have read the 'thinking' behind the latest school massacre carried out by another deranged attention seeking fuck-wit, because it depressed the hell out if me. Finland this time, but geography does not matter. Same shit different continent, just another psychotic bullshit attention seeking beta dog lashing out at the world.
Like I say depressing sort of non-day.
Motivation zip.
So it was with wild delight that I perused the pages of the sun and found Scott Alexander, the vainest man in Britain. Awestruck, I read his story

Well I"m flabbergasted. I don't know what to make of it. My experience of chaps had led me to believe that a shower, possibly a shave and some deodorant was all that was required and a man was good to go. It appears not. Actually this guy puts women to shame too.
Frankly Scott has made me feel down right slovenly. I mean, I've never tinted my eyebrows, or used a sun bed and I"m a woman, what the hell is wrong with me?
'"365 days a year I"m in photo shoot condition'" he said Can you imagine that? 365 days a year! What sort of dedication that must take. I still need to go to the dentist and get that back molar seen too, but that kind of arse dragging would disgust someone like Scott. He has B1 white veneers fitted. Look at his hair, nary a split end in sight. Blemishes, bah, for losers.
The man gets up at 6 am to work out. Every. morning. without. fail.
I could feel myself sinking further into my chair at the very thought.
I issued myself a mental slap. Get up Fatcat. Arise! Cast off your fleece and comfy slippers, go have a shower. Tame that mop, make it submit. Put on a full face of make up and face the day. Scott has tattooed No1 on his manly tanned moisturised arm, surely you can draw on eyebrows. Surely you can put on shoes with actual heels? Well? well?
You can do this Melvin!
I'm going to make Scott my screensaver.
Scottify! Scottify! Can I get a witness? Hell yeah, Scottify.


Wednesday, November 07, 2007

For Sheepworrier!

Stupid stretch too much for comments, here this is what I wanted to show you! Oh this takes me back...hee.

Oh sorry, I just died laughing.

"Earthworm Jim! Through the soil he did crawl! Earthworm Jim! A super suit did fall!
Jim was just a dirt eating chewy link of worm flesh but all that came to a crashing end, ha ha ha!
Earthworm Jim! He's such a groovy guy! Earthworm Jim! He rockets through the sky!
Crusin' through the universe havin' lots of fun here comes Earthworm Jim you know he's the mighty one!
Despite his great big muscles and his really big ray gun
Jim is still an earthworm but then he's the only one with a supersuit that makes him really super strong
Jim can be winner only if we all sing along!
Earthworm Jim! We think he's mighty fine! Earthworm Jim! A hero for all time!
Earthworm, Earthworm, Earthworm Earthworm Jim! Hooray for Jim!"
- Theme Song for the Series


A question about slugs.

Okay, this is going to sound slightly ridiculous but I have a question about slugs.
I have a very large-for the city- back garden, and mostly it is filled with a raggedy lawn, mature bushes and hedges, a huge black berry bush, and very few actual flowers. Until we have more money at our disposal that is the way it shall remain too.
Because I don't have a lot of flowers, except for some troughs filled with pretty hardy Geraniums, I don't really get into a flap about snails and slugs. I don't like killing them, I just don't. I usually move all the visible snails off the lawn before I mow it and there was a slug that looked like a small walrus sitting by the kitchen drainpipe yesterday that I moved onto the lawn with a stick.
(I know this sounds more daft as I go on, bear with me.)
However, the last few nights I've noticed something odd. I put the cats out into the garage every night and I feed them there. Apart from the Marklar, the Bigger of the cats and Puddy have their bowls on the floor (concrete) But all this week I have been finding two pretty hardy looking slugbuts in their bowls before I feed them. Normally I toss these chaps out, rinse the bowls then feed the cats, but lo, they are back again the next night.
So, pondering this, last night instead of tossing them out I plonked the very smallest piece of cat food (cod in jelly) down for them (the slugs) and went to bed (upstairs).
This morning it is gone and from all the silver trails it seems they went for it like crack starved junkies. Now maybe they're just coming in because the weather is getting colder, but it does seem they make their little sluggy way in at the same time every evening, and they do seem to make their slugbutty way to the same spot. So what do we think?
Is this odd? Do slugs like cat food?
Or am I spending a bit too much time thinking about slugs?


Mirror mirror on the wall.

Well? Could you go a whole day without looking in a mirror?
I don't seem to be able to pull this off. Although I might try again tomorrow out of curiosity. I looked in the mirror when I got up, I looked when I brushed my teeth this morning, and I looked at myself in the mirror over the fireplace when I can into my office. I'll be in the gym later and for sure I'll be looking at my lobster head then too. But is it vanity or is it habit or is it curiosity?
Could you go a whole day without looking at your reflection?


Tuesday, November 06, 2007

Prostitute? Interpreter? All the same to the Sindo!

Oh I"m very happy about this. Not only were Liam Lawlor's poor family put through the horror of tabloid hacks at their worst, but that poor woman was besmirched and her reputation sullied by the rags. 'A teenage prostitute' I believe she was described.
From the indo, hee....

Ukrainian woman Julia Kushnir has settled her libel action against all five newspapers over their reporting of the Liam Lawlor Moscow car crash which she survived.

A number of apologies have been read out in court on behalf of the papers accepting that the articles wrongly referring to the translator as "hooker" should not have been written.

The 31-year-old, who lives in Prague, was working as an interpreter for Mr Lawlor in October 2005 when the car they were travelling in crashed between Moscow Airport and the city centre.

The former Fianna Fail TD and his Russian driver were killed.

Articles appeared in a number of papers over the following days referring to the girl who was travelling with Mr Lawlor as a prostitute.

She settled her action against The Observer at an earlier date for €100,000.

Ms Kushnir sued the Irish Independent, the Sunday Independent, the Sunday Tribune, the Sunday Mirror and the Sunday World for libel.

The latter was due to start this morning, but the jury was told that all cases had been settled.

Apologies were read out stating that the articles, including one which was headlined "Lawlor smash girl is a hooker", were totally false and grossly unfair to her and her family and that she had never worked as a prostitute.

She has also received substantial damages thought to be in excess of €500,000.


One of those phone calls, part 3.

The doodley deep of our house phone is a frightful sound at the very best of times, but when you're up to your crossed eyes in work and it breaks your concentration by going off not once but twice in quick succession is is even more annoying.
Observe, from the fat cat home this very morning. A be-dressing-gowned, fleeced up Fatcat answers the annoyance that is the house phone.
It is my eldest sister. She sounds bossy and cross. My hackles rise.
'You have got to ring our mother and sort out whatever the hell is going on between you.'
'Oh for Jesus sake. This is going to have to wait.'
'She's driving me up the walls.'
'I'm working here.'
'She was on the phone for almost an hour last night, I couldn't get her off it. Did you really call her a vicious bitch?'
'I didn't call her a vicious bitch, I said she could be a vicious bitch when she wanted.
'Well, she says you called her a vicious bitch.'
'Well, she can be a vicious bitch.'
'She was in bloody hysterics last night.'
'She puts that shit on, you know that.'
'Up to ninety she was, going on about-'
'Lemmie guess, she was heaving heart palpitations? Her blood pressure was sky rocketing? An astroid fell on her?'
'She was very upset and angry.'
'Pity about her.'
'I mean it, sort it out. You and her can't keep crossing swords like this.'
I look to the East, where Puddy is busy sitting like and old man and making disgusting 'zizzz zizzz' sounds. I wonder why my sister does not hear me when I use the word 'working'. I wonder how much of a show my mother put on for her last night. Certainly she tried to stage one for Etheline over the weekend and that failed miserably, so it is crystal clear to me she was aiming for the another 'mammy' to play the burning and much wronged saintly Matriarch. I tell my eldest sister this, but she doesn't seem to hear that either.
'Honest to god cat, you and her, ever since you were old enough to walk you've been at each other's throats. I have to tell you I'm really really tired of it.'
'Don't blame me, I wasn't the one who called you up.'
'She says you were incredibly rude to her.'
'I may have been, she deserved it. She was rude to me too. Did she tell you that?'
(and now I can hear the childishness in my voice and as well as making me mad is it making me sick.)
'What is going on with you two? Why the hell can't you just try to get along?'
Ah the million dollar question. I ponder it. Well actually I don't ponder it at all because there is nothing going on between us, absolutely nothing. I don't like her, that's it. I have never liked her, even as a child. I don't like her. There, I've said it out loud, well I've typed it. Actually I did say it out loud, I said it to the paramour a few weeks ago after I flung our phone to the bottom of the garden.
'I just don't fucking like her!'
And exhale.
I don't like her, she is not a very nice woman.
And exhale once more.
I don't like her. I prefer it when I don't have to talk with her.
'I don't like her.' I tell my eldest sister.
'Well too bad.' My sister retorts, 'she's your mother and you're stuck with her.'

I finally get off the phone. And I seethe and I rage silently. Then I look up poisons and my day improves.


Monday, November 05, 2007

Hardy Bunch, those Australians.

I'm feeling a bit delicate and fretful this very morning. A weekend of hooch and over indulgence has left me feeling lightheaded, icky and downright sunken.
However, I did not tangle with a crocodile. So I suppose I am ahead of the game. Lucky me.
From today's Indo.

"An Australian who went for a drunken dip in the sea got more than he bargained for when he dived into the jaws of a large crocodile.

Matt Martin was camping alone in northern Queensland when he decided to go for a swim, despite having drunk what he later admitted was "half a slab'' or 12 cans of beer.

When the 35-year-old construction worker dived into a wave, he butted heads with a submerged saltwater crocodile.

"I thought I was dead. It was like when you hit a rock, but the rock moves,'' he said.

"The next moment, I'm standing up and something in my head was screaming 'it's a croc', and I just started to backpedal.''

As Mr Martin was retreating, the crocodile caught him with its formidable jaws, inflicting deep gashes to his face.

He managed to scramble out of the water but instead of seeking medical help, decided to sleep off his drinking binge.

The next day he drove himself to hospital but had to hold a blanket to staunch the bleeding to his face, which was "pretty messed up''. The cuts required over 40 stitches.

Dr Mark Read, a crocodile expert, said Mr Martin was a "damn lucky fella'' to have survived."



Saturday, November 03, 2007

When good ' Psychics' go bad.

I am too hungover to be anything other than mildly joy-filled by this here video. Despite the pain it made me cackle like a loon while singing 'fraudy fraudy fraud fraud.' I mean, seriously, swink-lop.


Friday, November 02, 2007

A ginger puzzlement of sorts.

Well chumlies, another week down and we are ever closer to beer o'clock, or as I like to call it, 'the rumming hour.'
I have plans tonight, all sort of crazy 'I'm not in training for a god damn thing' plans. But before I get all googly eyed at the thoughts of it, a question.
Why is Danny always semi-or indeed fully- naked in public?


Exercise can make you fat...apparently.

Oh for the love of....

from the Independent. A new discovery.

I saw this whole article somewhere else the other day (word for word actually, Indo, are you just cutting and pasting these days or what?)and chose to ignore it as cookamammie poppycockery, but this is the second time I've seen it so I feel I ought to comment on it.
If you go to the gym/exercise five days a week, burn roughly say 400-500 calories in a session, wander home and then proceed-because your hungry- to eat a meal consisting of 600 calories, will you lose weight?
Erm, no. You won't.
If you go to the gym/exercise five days a week, and burn 400-500 calories a session, then wonder home and eat-because you're hungry- a light meal of say 300 calories, will you lose weight?
Depending on the rest of your 'diet' I'd say you have a better chance of it.
Now,if you don't go to the gym/exercise ever and eat more calories every day than your body requires, will you put on weight?
I'm going to go with yes here.
If you never go to the gym/exercise and eat just enough food to keep your body ticking over, will you put on weight?
Probably not. You might not lose any either, but there you go.
If you go to the gym/exercise, don't lose weight, but work out, are you getting fitter?
Is getting fitter good for your heart, lungs, blood pressure, all round health?
Will this stupid bloody article have many folk across the land today going, 'See! It's not just me, I never lose weight, see, it's genetic, why would I join a gym/exercise if I'm not going to ever lose weight?'

Here's a radical thought. Going to the gym/exercise is NOT just about weight!

However, if folk are really serious about losing weight, exercise COMBINED with an over haul of eating habits can make a person fitter and slimmer. I'm not saying they turn into swimwear models either, but if a person is serious about it they can do it. Articles like this act as a salve for the lazy. You can be sure my mother is somewhere reading this, eating a slice of toast with a inch of butter on it, nodding along to...

'Another factor never explained was why some people were just fat no matter how much exercise they undertook, while others remained thin as whippets.

"They are people whose bodies are programmed to send the calories they consume to the muscles to be burned, rather than to the fat tissue to be stored,"

Programmed eh? Well then, how convenient that our weight and our health is out of our own hands.



Thursday, November 01, 2007

Dog the Bountry Hunter...

suffers a Kramer moment.
You can find a recording of his outburst all over the interweb, but I would like to provide a little snippert...

"I don't care if she's a Mexican, a whore or whatever. It's not because she's black, it's because we use the word ni**er sometimes here. I'm not gonna take a chance ever in life of losing everything I've worked for for 30 years because some fucking ni**er heard us say ni**er and turned us in to the Enquirer magazine. Our career is over! I'm not taking that chance at all! Never in life! Never! Never! If Lyssa [Dog's daughter] was dating a ni**er, we would all say 'fuck you!' And you know that. If Lyssa brought a black guy home ya da da... it's not that they're black, it's none of that. It's that we use the word ni**er. We don't mean you fucking scum ni**er without a soul. We don't mean that shit. But America would think we mean that. And we're not taking a chance on losing everything we got over a racial slur because our son goes with a girl like that. I can't do that Tucker. You can't expect Gary, Bonnie, Cecily, all them young kids to [garbled] because 'I'm in love for 7 months' - fuck that! So, I'll help you get another job but you can not work here unless you break up with her and she's out of your life. I can't handle that shit. I got 'em in the parking lot trying to record us. I got that girl saying she's gonna wear a recorder..."

Now, I'm not sure why ANYONE is fully shocked that Duane Dog Chapman, a murderer and bounty hunter with a penchant for leather and praying to the LAWD! for guidance might use racist language, I'm really not. But nonetheless, the DOG has fouled his bed and has now gone with his tail between his legs to the REV, Al Sharpton (voice of ALL black people it seems) to get his nose smacked by rolled up newspaper. Doubtless Dog will relocate god from where ever he left him and a case of top quality forgiveness, enough so that he may straighten the feather in his hair and carry on arresting folk who skipped bail and lecturing them about into complete submission while directing their sorry asses to jail and also the 'path of life, Bra'. And I'm sure his conversion to the light will in no way have ANYTHING to do with his popular and lucrative eponymous television show.
Damn, I'd rather be tasered any day of the week than lectured about god, but hey, each to their own.


Westboro Church faces 11 million dollar bill.

OH how utterly delightful to read this news. That nasty evil hateful band of fuckwits have finally been challenged and been found wanting. I know they have their beliefs, fucked up as they might be, but how they can picket the grieving families of fallen soldiers and abuse them during their most vulnerable time is beyond my understanding and beyoned the scope of just cruelty. So heres to ya, Phelps and co, maybe God will write you a cheque.