Happy Ginger day!

Last week top chumley Finn complained there wasn't enough nakedness in my ginger posting. So this week I have strived not to disappoint.

Behold! With added socks appeal!

Ouch

What a monster bollocks the bigger of the cats is. Really, he chaps my hide with his cheek loafing and his, 'let's play attack the sleeping corpse' carry on.
Top of the morning to you chumlies. I and my Carlsberg sized hangover greet you all on this, leap gingerday. If Carlsberg did hangovers they'd probably be the worst hangovers in the world.
However, whatever shape my poor head, and curiously my poor knee, is in, it cannot be nearly as bad as that hussy Sam Problem Child Bride. I would not at all like to be the roof of her mouth this velly morning. What a delightful hussy she is. A pint drinking hussy of exceptional character.
Also, I have seen Gimmie's beard, it is fulsome and awesome, so I have re christened it, fawesome. Indeed he is fawesome. As indeed I am, or rather I ought to be, were I not still reeling about like a demented kipper. Oh all right, everybody is lovely and awesome today, you can be lawsome.
Speaking of fawesome-and kippers, Chumley Twenty Major's-who despite much procrastination and arse dragging- finally released his very first novel this week.
It would be remiss of me not to talk it up large, innit.
So, if you have some spare money in your pocket this weekend that is not earmarked for hooch or painkillers, my suggestion would be to go buy Twenty's book and read it. I have read it, it made me laugh out loud. It also made me groan out loud. Then there was the wincing. Then more laughing. Go buy it.
I have a truly disgusting ginger for today, but it is so vile my delicate stomach cannot bring myself to put it up this early. I will need to be fortified with more toast, more ibuprofen, and yea, more coffee before I inflict this hoolie on either myself or you. See how I care? Oh yes, it's that bad.
So, if you will excuse me, I need to go find a plaster and some more painkillers.
Thanks be to the marmalade that is raining today, I was supposed to be running in park at 10:30, ah ha, ah ha, ah ah, yeah. Good luck with that.

Jealously, brats, plus ça change.

When I was a child my Gamma came to pick me up from school on a regular basis. This arrangement suited everyone. I would willingly go with Gamma where as I would kick up if my mother came to pick me up. It got Gamma out of the house and she entertained herself by being a condescending snob to all an sundry who hovered by the gate and down right rude to the head master whom she despised, owing to the fact that he once corrected her on some trivial matter (had she a gun, she would cheerfully have shot him where he stood in his George Webbs)
I was in baby infants, which means I was about 4. Now Gamma, being Gamma, was a great believer in being soft hearted with me and annoying the shit out of my mother. So naturally the easiest way to do that was to stuff me full of sweets before dinner. This was our little secret.
On this particular day I was playing with my now oldest friend. We were building some sort of fort in the sand pit and although Gamma had called me I- empress that I was- would come when I was good and ready.
I'm not sure at what juncture I looked up. But I do know what abomination met my eyes.
There was Gamma- MY Gamma- smiling and talking to some jug eared lout from the year above me. And -GET THIS!- she had given him a packet of Rollos!
MY PACKET OF ROLLOS!!
It is both a gift and a curse to be able to remember back over thirty years. But remember I do. I remember the twisted coiling sensation as rage, utter unbridled rage, enveloped me. I remember standing. I remember marching, pudgy legs pinwheeling, sending sand flying. I remember crossing the grass, I remember pulling up alongside this treacherous pair. Gamma with her tightly curled perm and silk shirts in scarlet with ruffles, her pearl earrings, her croc bag with the gold clasp ( where on earth did that bag ever go?) I remember that ugly boy with his buck teeth and hand me down clothes, ( mine were too, but some of his were so tattered a scare crow might baulk)
I remember he turned to me and I could see chocolate around his mouth, toffee in his teeth, He was in ecstasy, he made 'myomp myomp' sounds. He looked up at Gamma-my Gamma!- and beamed at her.
He was eating my chocolate. That my gamma had give him. Mine.
So I did what I thought best suited the occasion.
I kicked him as hard as I could in the shin.
Oh the sickening crack.
Oh the howls.
Oh the tears.
Oh Gamma's anger.
Oh she had a second packet of Rollos in her hand bag.
Oh well.
Actually the reason I remember it all so clearly is not because of the violence I meted out to that poor boy, but because of the lecture Gamma gave me all the way home. She used 'I'm very disappointed in you.' Which is the one thing, the ONLY thing that ever got through my defenses as a child. If my father said it or Gamma said it I was bereft.
Naturally I roared crying all the way home. But not for being sad over what I'd done but because I was a bully and a brat, filled with outrage and because my Gamma had been nice to that horrid boy. How dare she? And now she had used the dreaded disappointed line. How dare the world treat me in such a despicable fashion!!
My Rollos tasted bitter that day... actually they tasted chocolaty, but with that poor fool's snot filled hiccupping tears ringing in my ears and Gamma's disappointment I knew I had discovered something within myself that was ugly and ought to be tempered.
Jealously, bad, acting on it, much worse.
Quite.

It wasn't until I reached about thirty that I became relatively contented with my lot in life. There is something about hitting the big 3 0 that cuts through the bullshit. Suddenly I cared not what others thought, I figured I was quite comfortable in my own skin, I didn't need stuff I thought I did. I was content to drive the car I drove, work the job I worked.
That's not to say jealously doesn't rear its ugly head now and then. You can know something about yourself and still suffer from it. Only these days it's not so much jealously I suffer from as a mild coveting of things. Shoes say, houses on Temple Road and Orwell park, that sort of thing.
Certainly I have evolved past kicking the shins of people and taking what I consider ought to be mine.
Or so I thought.
Because as Marmalade is my witness, as soon as I saw the photo of Christina Ricci and that puppy, my leg shot out and and an imaginary shin was shattered.
Her puppy, me wants it.
Kick Kick.

Plastic Surgery.

If I was in a car crash and I was facially disfigured, or if I was born with a hare lip, or some other facial abnormality, I would consider plastic surgery. But in all honesty short of those two options, that would be it and like I say, it would be to correct disfigurement, not to cause it.
Mickey Rourke was such a handsome man before he went allowed his face to be boxed senseless, but it was only after he went under the knife that he completely and utterly destroyed his face. Now he looks like a statue from Easter Island.
Kenny Rogers looks like a chinese sword maker instead of a country singer, Dolly Parton- and I love her- looks like one of the muppets. Meg Ryan looks like a sea monkey.
But it was when I saw Kelly Lebroc that I felt really shocked. Holy Moly she was so beautiful, but now... Well? What on earth does she look like? Two wet road tyres for lips, an expressionless face, a generic nose.
Why would anyone pay to do that to themselves? Why do not their surgeons, who must surely operate under some version of the Hippocratic oath, sit them down and talk them out of it? Is it the industry they work in or some other malaise?
Plastic Surgery and its other, lessor, tribulations are seriously on the rise here in Ireland with clinics dotted all over the city and 'transformations' becoming cheaper and cheaper. I've already noticed a proliferation of slightly surprised looking ladies gadding about town, wrinkle free, botoxed to within an inch of their lives. How long do you think it will take before the trickle down effect take a grip on our society? Will trout pouts become the norm? Cheek implants? Will frowning be frowned upon?
I don't know. But I looked at Julie Christie on Oscar Night who may or may not have had work done, I can't tell. But she looked her age and she looked beautiful, as did Helen Mirren, who was a goddess in her fabulous red dress and defiantly grey hair. They laughed and chatted and made more that two expressions. They were a triumph of grace over plastic.
Turning yourself into a caricature, I believe I'm against it.

Oh just shut up Marcus Sweeney, who ever you are.

Honestly, I was going to write a piece about plastic surgery this morning, but an interview with that tangerine nobody Marcus Sweeny caught my eye.
Seriously, I understand a goodly amount of people reading this will go Marcus who? And quite right. But here, let me fill you in.
Marcus Sweeney is the ex-boyfriend of Katy French -the irish model who died from a drug over dose in December, sparking a slew of naval gazing in this country about drug use and the Dianafication of a model who was anything but saintly or devilish, or even that interesting.
Sweeney and French broke up a LONG time ago when he found her-SHOCK HORROR- writhing about on a table -SHOCK HORROR-in her knickers for a photo-shoot-SHOCK HORROR- which happened to be -SHOCK HORROR- in his restaurant. This -SHOCKING HORRORING- discovery sparked a very public 'row', one that catapulted Katy into the role of tabloid darling and Marcus into, well I"m not sure actually. Whatever he was aiming for- probably publicity for his restaurant- backfired as he came across boorish and a bit of a wally.
But at least their spat was mildly entertaining for a while, and Katy milked it for every drop she could get from, playing the hurt victim to a T. (I've got to admit her dogged determination to constantly be in the press was at times amusing and her spats with fellow meedja folk was occasionally diverting over coffee)
But now of course Katy is dead and tox reports reveal what most of us who didn't 'tink kathy ur an angel coz ur 2 brite to live' had already figured out. 24 year old models generally don't drop into a coma and die for no good reason.

That should more or less be the end to the whole sordid affair, but OH NO, not while there's even an ounce of sweet sweet Sweeney sweat to be wrung from the cloth of Katy.
Which brings neatly us to mr tangerine.

Observe,

' Marcus Sweeney has a question for you. For you, and for every one of the readers of this paper. For me, the journalist sitting across from him, for the media industry in general, and ultimately, for the Irish public as a whole. For the past year, his life has been served up for public consumption, and, quoting from the film Gladiator, he wants to know: Are you not entertained?

Sweeney understandably approaches the media gingerly, as if entering into negotiations to broker a ceasefire with a bitter enemy. Like a disgraced politician, he gives each sentence he speaks a mindful, wary consideration."

Aw, diddums. Poor exhausted hunted Marcus. Here's a thing Marcus, if you're so terribly wary of the press why bother talking to them at all? I am wary of cabbage, I don't dress up in my most revealing t-shirts and have it for lunch.


Anyway, the whole article is one long boo hoo
and you can read it for yourself if you have the stomach for it. But don't bother, or do, no, don't, no do. DAMMIT, do read it, it's is the longest whinge and poor me whine you are likely to read this year and quite frankly whoever advised this lumpen gobshite to 'break his silence' is either out to get him or a dumb as a hammer.
Everything about this interview hits a false note, the self interest, the poor me, even the way he speaks about his current girlfriend is offensive and self centered, he can't even pay her a compliment without first linking it to his inner wants and pathetic wannabe-ism.

"The girl I'm with is my rock with no flaws. I can't find a flaw in the girl whatsoever. We were good friends previously and I'd like to thank her personally for standing beside me and basically putting up with such a controversial guy that I am. But really, she knows who I am, but it's not easy."

I mean give me a break. Can't find a flaw huh? Glad she meets your exacting standards That's nice, glad you looked though Marcus. I imagine she spends all her time nice and relaxed around you.
Controversial guy? Controversial? Oh how he wishes. And how do I know that? Because he has said so. He wants to be, he wants to be spoken about, considered interesting, noticed. Anything but what he is, an overly tanned ten-a-penny entitlement riddled boor, so utterly vapid and void of any personality you wouldn't notice him unless he was doing a bang up job of drawing attention to himself, and here chumlies, is where Marcus learned from the mistress.
Are we entertained? Not really Marcus. Not really. But I"m pretty sure that won't stop you.

Happy Birthday

Happy birthday Carrot-Top, begingered love god and original obsession. 41 years ago some lucky nurse got to see you naked for the first time. 41, le sigh, that's almost the amount of kissies I would plant all over you. I hope you're having a super gingerday.
Love, FMC and all the chumlies.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The conversation.

This morning I had go down south for a meeting with folk. Meetings first thing on a Monday morning are definitely a bit smeggy. At any rate this one was unavoidable so I went. I went, I did the whole head bobbing 'really uh-huh really' thing. I might even have squeezed in an 'indeed' once or twice. I took notes in my illegible hand writing and then I hopped back into my car and set her warp speed for Dublin ( not really, I don't, it has to be said, drive fast at all).
All fine and dandy except I had to put petrol in the car, a tedious job, but quite quick and at least it's not loud like hoovering.
Anyhoo. I was at a garage not a million miles from the Cullenmore hotel. I was standing at the rear of my car, pumping gas, thinking about how much I disliked meetings but how much I enjoyed when they are over and would a breakfast roll really be that disgusting when another car pulled into the forecourt. One of those people carrier thingies. You know, they're like a minibus, but it's a car.
Hey ho I thought, that driver, she looks weirdly familiar. I peered.
Ah balls.
For it was she, ex-friend, traitorous gorgon, vile fie, fink, Benedict Arnold!
What's she doing here breathing the same air I breath, inhabiting the very space I inhabited FIRST. Oh stupid Wicklow, first with the mountains and now this.
Short of ducking down-which I was NOT going to do, I had little option but to stand there, being blown about in a squall and watch as she exited her car and rounded it to the pump. She opened her tank, inserted the nozzle and as she filled her car she did what all of us do. Gawked around her.
Her eyes slid right across to me.
It was interesting reading her face. First nothing, then puzzlement, followed by recognition, then some other kind of weird emotion I couldn't work out but I hope was agonising guilt. Or maybe it was trapped wind, who can say.
What to do? We would clearly be in the shop paying for our petrol at the same time, ignore now and then do faux 'why hello theres' in the shop? Or get it over with here and now, then avoid each other in the shop.
Balls, I thought, it's Monday morning. Who needs to make decisions at this hour of the week?
In the end she moved her pawn first.

'Is that you? ' She said
'Hello there. I thought that was you.' I said, lest she think she noticed me first, you didn't, traitor.
'My god! I almost didn't recognise you! Your hair has gone so long.'
Hair grows. I thought, over time, rather like animosity.
'How are you keeping?"
'Oh busy.' What's it to you? I'm fabulous actually. Can't you tell? I'm wearing a suit and a full face of makeup a Las Vegas show girl might baulk at. Don't I fucking ooze 'keeping'?
'You?'
'Ah sure you know yourself.'
No I don't actually. That' s why I asked. Actually I only asked to be polite and I AM polite. Polite and loyal. You might need to look some of that sentence up.
We pump more gas. I scrabble for neutral ground.
'Country Gay tells me you've moved up to XXXXXXXX?' I say. 'It's lovely up around there.'
'Yeah, it's really beautiful. We needed more room.'
For all the spawn you keep spwaning no doubt.
'You moved yourself I hear.'
'Yes.'
I decide I will throttle CG and his friendly bantering ways. What business is it of hers where I move to? For that matter she should just shut up. I don't want to do small talk with this women. It pains me to do it. It makes me very angry indeed. I'm getting a pain in my face from keeping my expression non-murderous.
'And you've had another girl?'
'Yes.' She smiles, and nods her head to the car. I finish pumping my gas, shut off the pump and close up the cap. I come around the car and look through the window at some sleeping sweet faced cherub. She always had nice children.
'Wow, she's very pretty. What age is she?'
'Four months now.'
'You must have your hands full.'
'I know.' She laughs and points to her ensemble, which looks like it's comfortable and like it could do with a wash. 'Look at the cut of me, I never seem to get two seconds to myself these days.'
'Oh well.'
'You're looking great. How's the running going?'
And suddenly I am FILLED with the over whelming desire to yell, 'What the fuck do you care? I run, end of. Why should I explain anything about my life to you? What does it matter how I'm 'getting on?"
'It's going fine.' I look at my watch, worried my mask is slipping. 'Oh God, I"d better get on. It was good to see you.'
'Yes, you too.'
And then she gives me this big limpid look and I can tell she's going to say something else, something idiotic like I should come down to her new home, or give her a call or she'll call me or SOMETHING that will involve me having to slap her. Don't do it. I warn her mentally. You didn't just burn your bridges with me, you used the A-Team to explode them with TNT. Don't say another word. Fatcats are polite, but don't do it anyway.
'Bye.' I say very firmly and click clack my way across the fore court and into the shop before she makes that error.
I pay for my petrol and don't even get a newspaper, never mind a breakfast roll. I just to be away, away from there, away from her and her beautiful sleeping child and her hesitant smile and her willingness to try.
I do a reasonable attempt at a smile as I climb into my car and put on my belt. She waves. I return it briefly.
In the rear view mirror I can see her cross the forecourt and make her way into the shop.
'You broke my fucking heart you stupid bitch, I'll never forgive you.' I say softly as I pull out into the traffic, bound for Dubin, homeward bound.

motivation for fatcats and possibly for chumlies of Fatcats!

This week has been monster monster in terms of work, so not a whole lot of gym work was done. Next week's agenda looks even fuller, so I'll have to see how she blows over the coming few days.
However,
Monday- too much work.

Tuesday- still too much work but fitted in a 15 k run. This run was light and easy and I could easily have tagged another 5k on to the end of it I felt THAT good coming down the road I was on. I didn't of course, but boy I coulda. This happens to me now and again, the runs are easy from start to finish, but it is such rare occurrence that I feel it bears mentioning.

Wednesday- 10k on the rowing machine time 52: 26. Which is faster than I can run 10k, go figure!
30k lat and bicep pull downs, 3s ets of ten each, walked home 4k.

Thursday- ran a rather poor 18k, I got lost, muscles and back sore from the previous day.

Friday- yeah I went to see a band last night, I wouldn't call it exercise but I tapped my foot a lot.

Tomorrow I"m running a 5 miler in the par with some chaps in the park.

Naturally this negates me misbehaving for another night. But I had three pints of beer last night at the gig. Now normally that would be nothing to a gal like me. But I gotta tell ya. I feel like the bigger of the cats shit in my mouth this morning. If THIS is what giving up alcohol for the best part of two months does to a person I will have to reconsider it.

happy Ginger day Chumlies!

This, chumlies, is a Newton Faulkner.
Swoon.
As befitting his champion name he is an evolved ginger, a dreadlocked ginger, a singing dreadlocked ginger! A folk singing dread-locked ginger! He may well be the Ginger Lancelot! Huzzah, I have founded heeem. Gather round Chumlies, let him lure you to his ginger shore with his merman song!

Oh the humanity! I may very well get into some kind of trouble over this.
No, really. With this here Lancelot of the Gingers I may have stepped over the line with He Who Will Be Obeyed.

Picture the scene Chumlies. it's a hot summer's day, your rum stores are depleted and you decide, say, 'Golly it's hot, maybe I'll go have a swift pint of rum in that there bar, it looks dark and dank and perfectly run down, an ideal drinking place for the thirsty shopper.'
You enter, plonk yourself down in a genuine authentic Irish booth order your drink from the bored un-Manuel like gal and are considering between a soggy BLT mitt chippies, or a basket of scampi also mitt chippies, when suddenly there is a terrible renting of the very air, and a portal opens up right in front of you.

'Mummy!' You cry.
But it is not a Lilac Couch that steps through. No no, this is an even MORE ancient evil than she- albeit slightly less rotund.
'You there!' A voice will boom. 'I've been looking everywhere for you!'
'Eep!'
'There have been stirrings in the underworld about you and your carryings on.'
'I said eeep.'
'Silence!'
A gnarly pointy anointy nointy finger pokes you in the side, most annoyingly.
'Because of you I"m losing some my best ghouls. Slackers they're turning into. I won't have it. There is even rumblings of a union.'
'I seeeeeeee, and this has what to do with me precisely, oh horned one?'
'Gingerday of course.'
'I seeeeee.'
'Stop doing that.'
'Okaaaaay.'
'I will smite thee.'
'Snarf.'
Pooof.
'Eeep!; You cry as he replaces your silver Bertie high heels with taupe comfortable practical flats.
'Okay your most uncleaniness, stop that! I'm listening, I'm all ears. Except I"m not you know. I only have two and they're pretty small.'
'Shut up!.'
You do a zipping motion.
'Ginger day is ruining the underworld, it will have to stop.'
You unzip-using a reverse motion to your previous zipping motion,
'Are you quite mad? Stop Ginger day? What would I replace it with? I tried Hoff Day and everyone got all up in my grill about it.'
'I don't care about that. I care about other stuff. People are saying they don't fear Hell anymore.'
'The devil you say?'
' I do say! And after doing some research and taking a poll among some journalists I have come to the conclusion that it is entirely your fault!'
'Moi!?'
'Yes Toi! Why would anyone in their right mind fear eternal damnation when there is a weekly Gingerday here on earth. Don't you see, you're messing with the cosmos. Some of my best captains have put in for early redundancy claiming ennui and job dissatisfaction. Can you imagine that?'
'Ennui? Sure who doesn't?'
'I doesn't!'
'Right, right.'
'So it's going to have to stop.'
'Well, I'm pretty sure I'm against that.'
'What?'
'Against it. Stopping. I think It should continue.'
'But, but I"m telling you to stop.'
'Ye-ah, no.'
Do you know who I am?'
'Oh please, if it didn't work for Pat Kenny...'
'I can have you smoted but good.'
'Well you could I suppose, but then how would you combat my legacy? '
'Your what now?'
' L-e-g-a-c-y. Has Braveheart thought you nothing?'

You stand up and suddenly a hush falls over the bar. Your guest notices this and is mightly huffed the hush didn't fall when he appeared through a portal.

'That's right my cloven friend,' you say, spreading your arms wide. 'A legacy, where free gingers can hold their flaming heads to the sky. A legacy that allows gingers to dance and sing with wild abandon, where freckly arms are bared and fake tan avoided like cabbage! Where peroxide is shunned and copper revered. Where two redheads will no long fear to procreate, where a blonde and a ginger no longer fear to procreate, dash it all, where no one fears to dance the dance of the belly fart with their ginger brethren! I see a time where ginger will be sought, protected, worshupped-which is like worshipped, but for gingers. Oh no my Lord of the dance, er, Underworld. Speak not to me of death and stoppings and unions, threaten not this humble mongrel, fearless champion of the red setter! For if you slay me, countless others will rise in my stead. Medusa like they will burn a path along this fair and brunette land, chanting, 'Ginger ginger give us a twirl!' And then what Fallen One? Huh? Will you slay us all? What of the auburns? The strawberry blondes? People with just some freckles across the bridges of their noses? We will not be thwarted. The sheer level of utter gingerosity will create a groundswell of lust and desire and muscly muscly arms and ringlets! Oh you may make us use L'Oreal, you may bring forth mystic tans, you may force us out of the sunlight and high, high into the hills, but you will NEVER EVER take our genes!'
'Yes all right, stop shouting. But what of the ennui?'
'You tend to your own garden, Pointy tail and I will tend to mine. One day, is all I require, one free day to worshup as I see fit and spread ginger tidings. Fuck me even his nibs upstairs rested one day of the week. Can't you take the guys bowling or something. Have a team building day.'
'Team building?'
'Some weird thing where people who work together all week are forced to spend leisure time in the arsehole of nowhere building bridges and falling back into each other's arms and talking about their 'feelings'.'
Suddenly his eyes lit up. 'My Self! I had not heard of such an evil! Why that sounds deliciously hellish.'
'Ain't it tho?'
'Hum, perhaps I will look into this 'team building' of which you speak. Good day to you noble adversary. There will be a hot seat ready for you when your time comes, we could do with outside of the box thinkers like you.'
'Okay by me, as long as there are jellies.'
'There will be, but not sour.'
'Wow, you are eeevil.'
The portal begins to close.
'Oi!'
'What?"
'Change me bloody shoes back!'
Poof.
Your shoes are back and all is well with the world.

But that was before the Lancelot of Ginger was discovered. I'm not even sure how to begin to describe the upset this will cause.
A dread-locked folk singing ginger. Why it's the holy grail of gingerism. Now if we can just get him to pose naked I feel Nirvana is within our velly grasp! Be prepared dark mopped smuggers and blonde/blond types.
Victory is within grasp!

I hate...

people who write 'um' at that start of a sentence.
You know, you say something, somebody else disagrees, but instead of disagreeing with you with some fucking balls, they say 'Um...I think you'll find...'
Fuck offity off with your pathetic stylized ums. If you are that much of a dithering blithering dribble of puke and you need to fucking say um then say it- to yourself. Don't fucking well type it, you absolute utterly affected dickhead.
Are you being sarcastic, do you think it gives you oomph, do you REALLY think it makes me CONSIDER your answer all the more? No, it does not, it makes me think, 'oh my god what a stain on humanity you are. I hate you.'
If you don't have the strength of your convictions don't say them. Or say them, but don't fucking window dress them in 'ums' are you scratching a line in the dust with your toe toes bashfully as you type too? playing with your fucking piggy tails? Um, are you?
Also, people need, I mean REALLY NEED, to stop saying the following.
'There is a real disconnect between them.' No there fucking isn't, there might be a disconnection, but not a disconnect. One's a fucking verb, one bloody well isn't !!!
And also, my personal jaw clencher. 'I could care less what she thinks.' If you say this when you mean 'I could NOT care less' you deserve to be blunderbussed with rock salt. Until you die. If you could care less, it means you care some, which is the TOTAL opposite of what you're trying to say. The devil take you!

(And yes, I mangle the english language quite regularly, in fact I like to speak in my own language which is a crude mixture of bollocks and nonsense and loud clicks and eeeks. But I spend a lot of time talking to cats and they understand me perfectly)


'Um' in print. I am thoroughly against it.
(Also I seem to have acquired Tourettes, sorry)

Junk Mail

I'm going to put a sign up in the porch.
It will read simply No Junk Mail.
No more supermarket special offers, no more flyers for pizza chains, no more offers to trim my bush (snarf), no more offers to cobble lock my drive, no more offers to clean my house (as if, I can do that myself too, and sometimes I even do) No more offers to take away unwanted clothes, No more free newspapers I never read.
Just my trusty sign.
Naturally my trusty sign will probably make not the slightest difference to the oodles of unsolicited crap dumped into my home every week, but I can always hope.
I view the post with pretty much the same suspicion as I view my telephone ( I found it eventually by the way, unharmed and unscratched, nestling in some dead grass), a necessary evil, one I am happy to do without as often as possible. Seeing as the bulk of my post consists of bills, who the hell needs any more nonsense clogging up the mat.
Also Postie is a fine chap, he closes the gate after him and put the letter flap back down. Junk Mail folk do not. I have often gone out to find my poor old Gardinia shivering away to itself in a draft.
It's not like I ever read junk mail anyway, it goes directly into my green bin.
But annoyance pales into apple blossom white compared to my latest fear. I don't want to be sued when some clutz hurts themselves on my property, while delivering junk mail I don't want and shall not read.
Observe if you will.

"Paul O'Brien is being sued by a woman who says she trapped her hand in his letterbox while posting mail.

Joy Goodman, a cake decorator in her late 40s, is seeking damages for personal injury and loss of earnings.

She claims the top of her right index finger was severed by his letterbox and she can no longer do her intricate job.
Mr O'Brien, 44, from Morley, Leeds, vowed to fight the claim, branding it "a joke".

The self-employed engineer said: "When I received a solicitor's letter I thought someone was having a laugh.

"I actually told them they had sent it early - April Fool's Day is still six weeks away.

"I just cannot believe someone who came on to my property uninvited, to put junk mail through my door that I didn't want, can now sue me because she hurt herself.

The divorced father of two was out when Mrs Goodman claims she was hurt at the door of his four-bedroom detached new-build house.

She returned two days later and, finding him out, spoke to a neighbour and left contact details for him to get in touch with her.

The next he heard from her was when he received a letter from her solicitors saying she was claiming damages.

It read: "We understand that the circumstances of the accident are that our client was delivering a leaflet to your house when your letterbox snapped back on to her right index finger.

"As a result of this, our client suffered from personal injury and loss."

The letter did not state how much compensation she was pursuing, and asked only for his acknowledgement." (Mail)

See that? I can be sued if some eegit hurts their finger. YOU can be sued if some eegit comes onto your property uninvited to post junk mail.
So, I'm going to make a wee sign, stick it up and see how many folk utterly ignore it. Of course if they do ignore the sign I'm goig to use the dreaded phone to call up the source and give them what for.
Yup, eventually I see myself sitting on a swing chair out front with a shotgun resting across my lap, talking trash about the 'gubermint' and wondering about how much 'lectricity mah generators' can create. Surely enough to power the interweb. I will make my own high heels.
Being sued, I'm against it!

Hormonally Yours.

I don't like to play the hormone card because I think it cheapens my natural misanthropic view of the world. Also I think blaming hormones just gives certain people carte blanche to behave appallingly and yet others the right to roll their eyes at the funny-but plainly oh so hysterical- women.
But at the same time-having just been to the supermarket- I find myself filled to the brim with inexplicible incandescent rage.
Pulling into the drive way here my knuckles were white on the steering wheel, my eyes wild and rolling and it dawned on me that was I a sword carrier I was one very fine baby hair away from pulling a Michael Douglas in Falling Down and slaughtering half of the assorted stupid lazy bovine fuck wits I came across this fine and vindy morning.
Seriously.
One hair away.
I wondered then, how many of us ticking time bombs are there wandering around, keeping a lid on things with the greatest of effort?
Surely the number must be legion?
There should be a super market shopping set of rules. If people must shop at a supermarket, and let's face it most of us do at some point, then people ought to be fucking more considerate.
But people are utter utter contemptible bastards.
If in the car park a woman waits while you pull out of a space, slowly and painfully cranking the wheel of your Micra or Yaris, easing it inch by inch out of a space that would cheerfully take an Boeing 747, then the VELLY fucking least you could do is acknowledge that woman's manners and EXEMPLARY patience. You don't have to get out and start offering to bake her rhubarb crumble, but a smile, a head nod, anything at all would suffice you sloth driving twat.
Also, I understand women of a certain age all know each other and are all called Mary and Carmel and I also fully understand you Marys and Carmels have devised a way to synchronize your shopping so that you can meet at exactly the same time on exactly the same day. What I don't understand is why you must cluster at the mouth of the Butter/Cheese/milk aisle and blather, pausing only to look snootily at the polite woman who said, 'Excuse me, please' as she tried to ease past. Oh and thanks SO FUCKING MUCH or the two inch gap you were good enough to provide.
Oh, and you there, all you Kerry Katona look alikes, yeah you lot with the running children, yes especially you in the 'juicy' tracksuit bottoms, it was so fucking HILARIOUS when your Tommy clattered straight into me, I really appreciated the depth and feeling you put into your 'Tommy mind the Lady' But uttering those words after he has winded me with his mallet head is surely a bit redundant no? Look here, if you can't keep the little shit on a leash, or at the very least OUT of the strange lady's abdominals, then leave him in a childminders/playschool/Gammas/bath with a toaster and a two bar fire. Leave him doped up in the car, whatever, I don't care. OH and that gritted teeth expression the lady did warrants at least a 'sorry about that'. But that's okay, next aisle Tommy tears past me I'm going to stick my foot out and send the little darling flying. I hope he slides along the floor on his face.
Yes, I'll get 'that down for you' old lady, you were polite.
Oh great, packed to the gills and three checkouts open.
Right. Calm down, hum vide cor meum. Think about work. NO, don't think about that.
Here's another thing you could do shopper, if you're not the most self-centered miserable hag, you could pack your fucking shopping as the check out girl scans it through. See the way it's all piling up at the end there? SEE IT? Why aren't you fucking packing? What's the point of standing there like an upright Beluga in plaid watching the electronic price creep up?
Where's your purse? Why is it still in your handbag? Don't you know how supermarkets work, you're going to have to PAY for those goods you're not packing.
WHY ARE YOU NOT PACKING?
I've got everything on the conveyor belt, the woman behind is trying to unload her's, and you haven't even taken your fucking purse out. I want nothing more than to back hand you across your face you you you... Now I have to wait, the check out girl has to wait, EVERONE has to wait because you could not even be bothered to consider ANYONE other than yourself. OH yes, count out the money, oh yes make sure your purse if in the ABSOLUTE right section of your bag, now pack, could you go any slower? COULD YOU?
Oh, I see, you can.
ARGH!
Stay calm, don't look at her, if you look at her she'll burst into flames. You'll burst into flames. There will be flames somewhere.
FInally.
Out.
Back to the car.
Load.
Bring trolley back to bay.
Back to car, heart beating rather uncomfortably isn't it?
Get into car.
Turn on car.
Brenda power!!
Argh!
Wait to reverse out of space. No one will let me. Feel temper rising. Car pulls up directly behind mine even though they too must wait.
Mutter more swear words that a sailor even knows.
Finally!
Out.
Every light is red.
Eventually pull into drive.
Vow to build some kind of weapon to obliterate world.
Put away shopping and have tea instead.
Decide to wander down to bottom of the garden after tea to look for phone which once again was hurled down that way sometime this morning, before supermarket trip.
Vow to start taking evening primrose.
Sit shakily at desk. Complain to chumlies.
Drink tea.
Check pulse.
Argh!

Death warmed up.

That is the most apt description of me today, and I still have a mountain to climb in terms of work, but at least I'm at base camp one.
What do you suppose happens to you when you die? I don't think anything does, well apart from being turned to ash in my case. Then loaded into a blunderbuss and shot through the doors of the nearest Reiki centre ( a gal can dream can't she).
I only ask because I was among actual breathing people the other day and during the lunch the converstaion bounced unaided into familiar territory when the subject of the teen suicides arose.
There was some, 'oh it's terrible' and some talk of epidemics and some more talk of how difficult life is and...
I said I thought if people stopped glorifying death and talking up something as nonsensical as a angel filled afterlife, perhaps teens might place a big more value on the life they already owned and might yet still have.
I said this in a rather mild manner-I was eating polenta at the time- but I did notice some taken aback faces.
'What?' I said.
'Do you really believe that?' One woman said.
'That people ought to stop glorifying death?'
'No, that there's nothing after death? That death is the end.'
'Honestly, apart from the physical changes, yes, of course.'
There was some head shaking and a few mutters and I decided that-for once- because I wasn't on my turf and therefore not at liberty to take bloody over and be all bossy and condescending, to keep my big yap shut.
But it's true. I don't believe in anything after death, I don't believe in souls and sprits and rebirth or heaven and hell, the whole thing seems ludicrous to me.
Why the need for it? Why the fretful hope that this world, this existence can't be all there is to life? What's wrong with this life?
A belief in a retribution filled after life is one of the things that bugs me most about dogmatic religious people. It's always the same line of patter, 'you live your life in a manner I don't approve of, ergo you'll burn in hell if you don't repent/change/do as I do.'
Which is patently unprovable is it not? So why worry about it?
A belief that because you were pretty in the mortal world- or famous or a good singer or stupid enough to murder yourself- automatically gives you free passage into a heaven filled with angels- of which you are now one- is also too ridiculous for words.
Despite all the hucksters in the world there has never been tangible proof of an afterlife. Nor tangible proof of a god or gods. Sure people like to believe in a god, but I like to believe that Haribo Tangfastic Jelly Sours aren't fattening.
Belief just don't make it so.
I often wonder what it would be like if people stopped believing in gods and mumbo-jumbo. Would we disintegrate into a heartless secular society, morally bankrupt and free from other worldly fears?
Historic evidence from Stalin to Pol Pot would suggest that atheist rulers are even more blood thirsty than the religious when they secure power. Perhaps it's the human condition that is really at fault, perhaps despite what we strive to be-be it pious or secular-power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely.
I don't know, I don't have any answers. I just know it's Wednesday, it's sunny, and I'd rather live and enjoy the here and now than pin my hopes on any form of post death hoolie.
In the mean time I ought to work on my social skills, such as they are.
Or stop going places.

Just another working stiff.

Top of the morning to you chumlies. Work has reared its ugly head, getting all up in my grill and insisting I take heed of it. Ghastly sort of business. Now I have to get all professional and stop wearing fleece and dammit, I might even have to brush my hair. I mean how utterly lame is that?
Peace and ginger blessings to you all. Be back Wednesday.

Motivation for Fatcats and possibly Chumlies of Fatcats!

Sunday-15k, it was a sunny hilly run.

Monday- pft. Yes it was.

Tuesday- Gym, 40 minute run on the treadmill, followed by
Bicep curls 10k x10x 3 sets.
Bent over rows, 12.5k. x10x3 each arm
Tricep pull downs 30k 8 x 4
!000m on rowing machine, 4 mins 20 seconds ( just checking, preparing for speedy 6000m later in week)
Bike, 20 mins-we hates the recliner.
shower, walked home-bout 4k. Pooped.

wednesday- I walked about 9k. Lazy sort of day really in terms of real exercise.

Thursday- Gym, I ran split Ks on the treadmill, three fast, two slower. Best time was 5:10 mins for 1K, not exactly fleet of foot, but good for me. I'm desperately trying to incorporate some speed into my running. We'll see how it works out.
Then I did,
Fly lifts, 5kx10x4
Shoulder press 18kx8 x3, last few reps were messy, but it's a slow over head lift, there's no bounce or extra motion so it gets tough on tired arms.
Traps, 12.5k, downward sweep, 10x 3.
20k on those stupid bikes, but at least I got to watch Judge Judy while I peddled. I hate recliner bikes.
Walked home. bout 4k.

Friday- Five mile run in the Phoenix Park with some chaps. It was a beautiful day and I felt like bursting into song, so clearly I was high on something, toast maybe.

Satdee. Nowt so far, but my plan is to race 6k on the rowing machine, aiming to come in under the half hour mark, I will do this after I walk down to Rathmines and back which is about 9k, but it's a beautiful day, sunny and bright, the perfect day for a stroll.
Tomorrow I"m going to do a long run too, about 20k.
Must say, even though my sleep has been poor, I'm noticing renewed bursts of energy this week, possibly due to my diet and hoochlessness.
I definitely feel as though I am breathing much more freely since I cut out most of the dairy produce I normally eat. I still have skimmed milk in my coffee and when I make a hot chocolate, but there has been no cheese or yoghurts since December.
Now it could just be that because I'm not drinking like a sailor on shore leave everything feels better, but I do believe my no red meat/limited dairy appears to be adding to my general sense of well being.
We'll see I suppose. I don't miss red meat at all, not even bacon. The Paramour made bacon and eggs and toast this morning, and I was surprised to find the smell of it did nothing for me. I do miss cheese though, and come the end of the month I'm going straight to Marks and Spencers for a block of Double Gloucester which I'm going to wolf down with zesty Italian tomatoes. Oh yes.

Happy Gingerday!!

Observe Chumlies, a retro-ginger, but one so fearsome and so ironcladedly frightening that even the gods dare not speak his name. But I shall endeavor to bring forth, the power, that is, the Hucknall for your gingerday pleasures. Well mostly 'cause Andraste reminded me.
Old Mick here was/is a crooner with Simply Red (was there ever a more apt and godlike name?)
He was born down on Capitol Hill, wearing a cap and fully upright, sometime in the early eighties and sprouted ringlet after ringlet of ginger and yet still became a much loved and horny-toed pop super star!
Do you see chumlies? Do you see?
Such was his awesome magical power, that despite being begingered and befreckled, and on occasion adding to his hawtness by garnishing some of his teeth with jewels, Old Micky still managed to dance the dance of the belly fart with all manner of lovely ladies while convincing the world at large that he was a terrific singer and rather hot stuff indeed.
Is that not a sign? Do you see? Do you see?

Initially Mick thought money was too tight to mention, then he held back the years through the sheer force of his gingerosity- no mean feat I think we can agree. I got a bit scared when he sang that he loved the thought of coming home to me, even though he knew we wouldn't make it, which frankly sounds like a bit of threat to any sane person, but then I figured I'd moved house so often he'd never find me and if he wanted to kill my old flatmate he was welcome to her.
After dancing dreadlocked and Joseph and the technicoloured raincoat like around the fairground, ruby toothed and gleaming, it soon became apparent that this little hobgoblin of funkified Ginger was in fact some kind of sex crazed troll, and I for one started to wear an amulet to ward off late night attacks of finger clicking. Fortunately I got into E and by the time I realised 'If you don't know me by know' was also something of a threat, I had weaned myself off his ginger finger licking style of worship and had taken to making box shapes with my hands in nightclubs all over the city.
Phew, saved and what a close shave that was.
So in honour of escaping the cult of this finger clicking red setter, I give you....well I give you Mick Hucknall actually, Retro Ginger extra cherry on top. Yeah, you're moist, don't even bother lying. But you don't know why.
Do you see? Do you see?

Gambling on a result.

I"m going running in a hour. I choose to go running today, much like I'm choosing to put up a post. I believe I will choose wholegrain toast and eggs for breakfast in a few minutes. I will then choose whatever clothes I think will suit the weather today. Later on I will choose to work rather than lie around reading. I will choose a lunch of baked fish instead of driving myself to Burger King, even though I have a serious goo on me for a flame grilled whopper with extra everything please. (drool)
I will then choose to work some more. Not because I want to, you understand, but because I know I should.
Then-instead of going to Smurf's bar and drinking rum like it's going out of fashion, like I really also want to do- I will go to the cinema with the paramour to watch There will be Blood. I did choose that film, but I confess the paramour chose the time. I hope I can cope with having that choice wrenched from me in such a way.
Now naturally those of you who have chosen to read this will probably be going, 'Right, what the is fuck eating her this morning, what's all this choosey bollocks?' And you'd be quite right to ask. Quite right indeed.
See chumlies, I believe in choice, I believe in personal responsibility, I believe that adults by and large make their own decisions in life. Sometimes we make good ones, some times silly ones, sometimes dangerous ones, and sometimes we decide to do the one thing we said we wouldn't do.
I call that one choosing to be a bloody idiot.
Take for example the flint that sparked my ire this morning. The flint's name is Graham Calvert. Now Graham is a greyhound trainer-quite a successful one it must be said. At one point Graham was making about 30,000 grand a month, STERLING!
He was married and happy as a calm. He also likes to gamble.

"The 28-year-old from Tyneside gambled more than £7.5 million on football, golf and horse racing in an 18-month spree beginning in August 2005.

He once lost £347,000 - at that time the biggest bet in golf history - after backing United States to win the 2006 Ryder Cup. On occasions he would drag bin bags stuffed with notes into the bookmakers.

Aware that his problem was spiralling out of control, and with his marriage on the rocks, Mr Calvert telephoned William Hill in June 2006 to ask them to close his account.

He claims they offered him what is known as "self-exclusion", under which the bookmaker agrees not to accept any bets from a customer for a set period - in his case six months.

But within two months Mr Calvert claims that he was able to set up a new account in his own name and start gambling again.Since then he has placed more than £3.5 million of bets, losing more than £2 million.

Mr Calvert is now attempting to make legal history by getting a judge to rule that William Hill was negligent in allowing him to continue betting.

"If I'd known I had the problem and didn't do anything about it, I would see myself as being 100 per cent responsible," Mr Calvert, who is now £1.5 million in debt, told the BBC.

"The fact is that I did try to go through the right procedures and I was let down."

Tiejha Smyth, Mr Calvert's solicitor, said: "He was allowed to continue gambling after Hill's agreed he should be self excluded. They should be held legally responsible."

William Hill contests the allegations, arguing that customers place bets of their own choice.

The case is due to begin at the High Court next week." (Telegraph)

Right. So here we have an adult who chose to gamble, chose to put gambling above his marriage, his career, his livelyhood. He gambled big and lost. Now he's looking to lay the blame elsewhere when the blame already has a perfectly good home.
'If i'd known I had the problem and didn't do anything about it I would see myself as being 100 percent responsible.'
What kind of claptrap is that? William Hills is not your mommie Mr Calvert, it's not going to take you by the hand and lead you home. Its a bookies. Their job is to provide a service to people who want to bet, people like you Mr Clavert.
Let me ask you this, if Graham Calvert had won in William Hills would we be reading about a 'duty of care'? Of course not.
If this man was sitting at home giggling over his wins we'd hear nowt about duties of care. But he lost, because unless you're very very very lucky indeed the house always wins. And like a true loser Graham Clavert is looking to point the finger anywhere but at himself.
Don't gamble huge sums of money unless you're prepared to lose it. Don't chose to be a wally and then cry about it.
Choosing things, I'll all for it. Bleating about it when you make the wrong one, I"m against that!

Valentine's Day, Ground Hog Day.

Meh, it's hard to feel romantic when faced with a mountain of work and no slaves or worker monkeys to do it. I even have a meeting today, and you know how I feel about them. The current project I am working on requires meetings. With people. How annoying.
But for other souls more joyous and romantic and not forced to dress and go to meetings, today is a day of hope and heart and commercial bollocks. Cards will be bought, received and delivered, flowers with notes will wizz thither and yon, texts will buzz non stop, dinners will be booked, hands will be held. Some people might get laid. Some people will feel unloved and dejected because they don't fit in to the kodiak moment of scripted love (not Tilda Swinton it has to be said, forges her own path with romance that woman, she was excellent in Constantine too)
Whatever, I didn't get to sleep until after 4 in the AM so I"m feeling particularly fragile and as romantic as a three day old piece of poo.
However. At some point today I'm sure nineteen cups of coffee will kick in and I will open my other eye, so keeping that in mind, romance.
What is your most romantic/and here's mine...
Film- Moonstruck, I love it. I love it to pieces.

Song- Isha D, Stay. Means a lot to me that song, it can make my black heart melt slightly.

Book- The End of the Affair -Graham Green. Actually, this is probably not the most romantic of books, but I can almost feel every single tremor of hurt and anger in the lines and it had a hell of an effect on me when I read it, so it's in there. I remember reading the Thornbirds as a youth and being beguiled by it too- although I can only imagine what I'd think if I read it now.

PETA know Britney Spears inside out.

Oh for the love of marmalade. Peta, those bunch of people hating loons are now suggesting Britney Spears diet might be the cause of her madness. Especially the way she routinely abuses dairy.

"Peta president Ingrid Newkirk has written to Jamie and Lynne Spears, suggesting the Toxic hitmaker's reported schizophrenia or bipolar disorders could be related to her meat and dairy intake.

Newkirk writes, "We have heard that Britney asked for ice-cream while she was in the hospital. There could, in fact, be a connection between her diet and her mental-health problems.

Comment on this Article
"Numerous reports indicate that in bipolar patients who have hidden dairy sensitivities (a fairly common condition), the disorder can worsen if the patient consumes dairy products.

"And a significant body of research-including evidence cited by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention-has linked parasites that are often found in undercooked meat (Toxoplasma gondii) to the development of schizophrenia".

The Peta president adds, "While the medical link between mental illness and meat and dairy consumption is still evolving, there is no doubt that eating animal products is a major factor in causing other diseases".

Yep, it's not living in a goldfish bowl, her millions, her drug use, her drinking habits, the yes people around her, the fucked up upbringing or ANYTHING else. It's her ice cream intake.

Bravo PETA bravo. You clearly have no agenda to push and Britney's best interests at heart. I don't know why people mock you, why don't you get her to strip naked for one of your stupid fucking ads to show how much you TRULY care for her mental well being.

Dog Crap is the Devil's smegma.

As a runner I am frequently astounded by the sheer amount of dog shit around our streets capital. It is really unbelievable.
Now some areas are a whole lot worse than other, for example Rathmines is pretty shit free, so it Rathgar, Crumlin is bloody covered in it, Kimmage too, Templeogue looks clean, but take a short cut across a patch of grass and you'll soon see- or rather feel- the crap.
A lot of my runs end with me standing one legged out in the back garden using the hose and a bloody stick to scrape the stinking shit out of the treads in my footwear. I curse a lot when I have to do this, I curse and think murderous thoughts about people.
Now I walk a CG's dog on a regular basis, and I always bring a selection of small plastic bags with me, he poops, I invert the bag, pick it up, twist the bag out and knot. It takes SECONDS. Admittedly there are a serious shortage of bins around and nine time out of them I end up carrying it for quite a while before I find one, but as it's tied it really isn't the end of the world. If I can do it, why not everyone bloody else?
So it was with glee I read of this morning's latest crap fighting strategy.

From the Indo.

"DOG owners beware -- Big Brother is watching you.

Dublin City Council, tired of having to clean up dog litter from the capital's streets, is to mount covert operations aimed at catching offenders.

Mobile CCTV units and officials working undercover will mount surveillance operations to police blackspots, including Clontarf and Sandymount strands, as part of its efforts to catch offenders. And owners who claim little Fido was caught short can expect no mercy. The city plans to step up its enforcement activity and has promised more prosecutions and fines.

The new regime was revealed yesterday in the council's Litter Management Plan 2008-2011.

The plan will also see celebrities used to front advertising campaigns aimed at reducing specific litter problems such as cigarette butts, chewing gum and fast-food wrapping, while a multilingual campaign will be launched aimed at telling people of all nationalities that littering is not acceptable.

The city council currently collects 25,500 tonnes of litter from the streets each year, and has a budget of €37m for 2008.

Yesterday a range of new measures aimed at tackling litter were proposed. They include:

l Construction sites will have to be kept neat and tidy or contractors will face prosecution. Industrial estates will also have to ensure skips and waste containers and not a source of litter waste, while management companies and landlords will have to keep premises clean.

l A name and shame campaign will be extended to include businesses, public bodies and individuals found littering, and a list of prosecuted offenders will be published annually.

l Council vehicles will be painted with anti-litter messages to help promote the message that people who drop litter are themselves "pieces of filth".

l Concert promoters will have to submit litter management plans to the council, and will have to pay the city to clean up if they are not complied with.

"Dog litter is a major issue, especially for kids, and it's very much an eyesore," spokesman Hugh Coughlan said. The council also proposes introducing by-laws later this year which will require businesses to agree practical measures to tackle litter outside premises.

Businesses will have to provide a certain number of bins, and must draw up specific cleaning plans, which must be approved by the council.

Residents' associations will also be provided with free litter-picking equipment and bags, and gardai will be drafted to help in specific enforcement campaigns against graffiti and litter.

A littering tip-off system will also be introduced, where people will be able to report illegal dumping via a website or through mobile phones.

Litter bins will be mapped using satellite technology to show the distribution of the bins across the city, with bins to be power-washed once a month.

Another 15 staff will be employed to tackle litter, and €750,000 a year will be spent removing graffiti."

Huzzah! About bloody time!
Naturally we'll have to see if this in enforced rigorously, but I hope it is.
It isn't difficult not to liter, it isn't difficult to clean up after your dog, it's isn't difficult to spit chewing gum-if you MUST chew the disgusting stuff- into a piece of paper and bin it, it isn't difficult to not drive up into the beautiful Dublin/Wicklow mountains and not toss great big sacks of household rubbish into lanes and culverts, no really, it' really is very easy not to do that.
All you need is an IOTA of consideration for other people and your surroundings. All you need to remember that the whole fucking world is not your personal dumping ground.

Who ya gonna call? Ghostbusters!

There's one born every minute, let the sucker parade continue. I'm too exhausted to be my normal vicious self, but just so you know, I am sneering, oh I am sneering with gusto.

Observe from to day's Daily Wail, that's right Wail.



"When Sabrina Fallon heard banging noises coming from her attic, she was understandably concerned and called the police.

Officers found no sign of a break-in, however, and joked that it might have been a ghost.

Unfortunately, Mrs Fallon didn't see the funny side.

She claims the banging was followed by a series of strange happenings, including doors slamming shut, the ghost of a little girl appearing on the landing and, bizarrely, even her own dressing gown floating down the stairs.

And the council's solution to her months of torment? To pay for an exorcism, of course!

Now, through the power of prayer, holy water and protective salt circles, Mrs Fallon says she and her family have finally been left in peace.

Mrs Fallon, 23, moved into the three-bedroom council house in Peterlee, County Durham, with her husband Martin and two children in June last year.

They first contacted "ghostbuster" Suzanne Hadwin in December.

"She sent her spiritual guide to the house," Mrs Fallon said yesterday. "Me being me, I was waiting for a knock at the door.'

"We got a call back later that night from Suzanne who said there was a male in the house. She said he was really angry and that he was after my youngest daughter Amy who is only 16 months old.

"It was terrifying. Suzanne didn't even know that I had two children, let alone their names. She knew everything - even the colour of the walls in our home. She said this male figure wanted to possess my daughter's body in order to relive his life. His name was Peter and he was a poltergeist.

Ghosthunter Suzanne Hadwin was paid by Easington District council to perform an exorcism at the Fallon family home in Peterlee

"After that the banging got worse. He was also trying to make physical contact and on one occasion I felt a hand touch my shoulder."

Later that month they decided enough was enough and called in Miss Hadwin herself.

"When I saw the girl at the top of the stairs I thought I must have been seeing things," said Mrs Fallon.

"I tried to put it to the back of my mind but kept hearing this banging coming from the loft and whispering.

"I called the police one night suspecting that it may be thieves but they couldn't find anything and suggested it might be ghosts. It was then that I called Suzanne for help."

Mrs Fallon, whose 24-year- old husband quit his job as a lorry driver to protect his wife and children, was later told by a council worker of a murder at the property 50 years ago.

"I couldn't believe it," she said. "They said a man had killed his wife on the landing using a fire poker. It seems he then hanged himself."

Miss Hadwin offered to carry out an exorcism for £120.

Unable to afford the fee Mrs Fallon, whose elder daughter Shannon is nine, went to the council, which agreed to pay half.

The exorcism was carried out on December 27 and the Fallons say they have since been left in peace.

Miss Hadwin, 35, of Gateshead, Tyne and Wear, said: "I realised there was a very bad spirit in the house and there had been a murder there.

"Sabrina was absolutely terrified. She told the council that she didn't want to stay in the house and that's when they agreed to help pay."

She added: "I got rid of the poltergeist by laying salt circles in the house as areas of protection for the family.

"I then used the power of prayer, sprinkled holy water and called in some angels to take the spirit to the place he needed to be taken."

A spokesman for Easington District Council said it agreed to pay half of the exorcism because the family were "extremely distressed" and the alternative was £40-per-night emergency accommodation."

OH my, she laid salt circles, and called in some angels? She CALLED IN some angels to take the eveeeeel sprit. What, are angels just sitting around, playing cards, waiting calls about for haunted council houses? She called them in? Don't they have anything better to do? Where did they 'take' the poltergeist? Is there a poltergeist holding cell? Poltergeist courts?
I particularly laughed when I read Sabrina's husband quit his job to 'protect' his family? How was he planing to do that? SUrely fighting a poltergeist takes some training? Would fighting one be like fighting plaque? Invisible warfare? Surely if all he needed to do was lay salt circles and dial up some layabout angels, why the need to quit his job? Surely he could have done all that on a Satdee morning?
I like this ghostbuster's job though. She doesn't even have to show up to the 'haunting site' she can send her 'spiritual guide' along. Awesome. I'd like a gig like that. Between that and 'distant healing' I could make a bloody fortune and STILL stay in my jammies.

And then there's this. "Suzanne didn't even know that I had two children, let alone their names. She knew everything - even the colour of the walls in our home."
Hum, 23 year old woman living in a council house, I'm going to go out on a limb here and suggest having children would NOT be unusual. And even though my spiritual guide is off playing poker with some corporeal chums right now, I'm guessing, no- sensing the living room walls are... I"m seeing a yellow colour, a sort of cream yellow? Does that mean anything to you? Primrose? Yes thats it. that's what my guide tell me. Sorry, he just popped back in for a 'mo.
Despite the fact that this 'terrified tenant' saw a dead girl, which seem to have little to do with a man murdering his wife 50 years before hand, the 'poltergeist' turned out to be a dude called Peter. Funny how none of the tenets saw him, including the protective and brave husband. But then those pesky poltergeist are sneaky that way. Always making sure never to appear in front of say, oh I don't know, non idiots.
In the end of the day 120 of somebody's finest pounds was spent to chase old Pesky Poltergeist Pete back to the spirit world, where doubtless he and the lay about angels are high fiving each other and plotting their next ghostly charade. They'll kick back ten percent of their earnings to the ghostbuster, after all without the salt shaking and incantations of woo, they'd be pretty short on gigs and cash and everybody knows angels and poltergeists like cold hard cash.
Right?

Bloody Insomnia comes a calling again.

I must be interconnected to Sam-who is also suffering from insomnia of late-or something. Here we go again, was I asleep was I awake? Who can say. All I know is I have a monster week ahead of me in terms of work so naturally by body decides I can do this on little or no quality sleep.
Does anyone know how much sleep the human body actually requires to function? Is it four hours? SIx?

It should be an interesting day today, Archbishop of Dublin, Cardinal Desmond Connell, is due before the High Court again and it appears many parish priests here in Dublin are deeply unhappy with his decision to contest files on child abuse being made available to the courts. But does Connell have a right to with hold the files? Is it right and proper that he must retain the right to confidentiality in sex abuse files? Is it even legal? Does his view trump the law?
Across the water Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams, is being roasted for suggesting that the establishment of Sharia Law might be unavoidable, but I wonder how incorrect he is. It does seem the laws of the land are only secondary to the law of cultures and spiritual groups. Another flouting of the law is being acted out in this country at the moment, witness the case of a 13 year old Roma girl, abducted and raped by her 16 year old 'groom' in an effort to make her family honor an agreement to marriage. 13, a child, yet her case appears to be outside the remit of Irish law.
From to day's independent.

The Irish Independent...' has learned that the girl's 16-year-old-rapist, who had been selected to become her husband, and her abductors may never face prosecution as her parents have accepted a €10,000 payment after an independent mediator brokered a deal between the two families.

In a case that highlights the complexities of applying Irish laws to those with different customs and traditions, the Roma family -- who arranged their daughter's marriage when she was just eight -- no longer regard the incident as a rape despite the fact that the child's husband-to-be has admitted to gardai that he had sex with the girl.

Details of the hush-money payment emerged one month after a coroner ruled that a British teenager who opposed her parents plan for an arranged marriage died after she was strangled or smothered. The 17-year-old had previously been admitted to hospital after drinking bleach when she was introduced to her suitor and no one has been charged in relation to her killing.

It was believed that once the Roma girl's "husband" had sex with her, regardless of her consent, she and her family would have to accept and honour the original arranged marriage agreement.

A file has been sent to the Director of Public prosecutions and several people have been questioned in connection with the kidnapping, but the row between the two families has been resolved by the €10,000 payment.

The case may prove difficult to bring to court as the families came to a new agreement following intervention by a mediator who recently travelled from England to Ireland to broker a deal. Other youths employed to kidnap the girl have also been compensated for their role in the abduction.

"Some Roma have their own customs when dealing these type of issues," said a senior gardai who is involved in the ongoing investigation."


So culture trumps law and religion trumps law. Makes a body wonder what the point in having laws if they are so easily over looked.
Yep, 10,000, that's the cost of dignity. The cost of family 'honor'. Seems cheap at half the price.


UPdate: Cardinal Connell has withdrawn his high court action.

motivation for fatcats and possibly for chumlies of Fatcats!

Exercise? I should have, but I was here instead. Note the sun shine!


Top of the afternoon to you Chumlies. And I hope you are having a splendid weekend. The weather here is unnaturally sunny and bright, hitting at one point 17 degrees as the paramour and I drove along some bloody cliff top or other in the wilds of the Wicklow mountains. Somehow or other we managed to completely miss the Hellfire club, then we ended up driving up, up and up some more, until eventually we came back down into some village and then we decided bugger the hellfire club, so we took ourselves off to Johnny Fox's Pub (the higest in Ireland it claims but I'd wager the Blue Light is higher) for a much deserved lunch.
Why am I telling you this? Why only to say nowt in terms of exercise was done, but the swordfish steak was terrific. I will walk to the video store and back shortly, and that's about 9k in total, which will be exactly how much exercise this fatcat will be preforming today.
However the week wasn't a complete loss.


Sunday- wet and soggy and also VINDY. Daunted by outdooriness I took myself off to the gym and proceeded to half kill myself with the following.
18kx10x4 shoulder presses. Now these are lighter than what I would do in a push press, but because there is no bend in the legs or little jump there is no momentum so after about eight of these it gets tiring. By the second set my shoulders are protesting. and the following two sets are annoyingly painful and slower with some cursing and foot stanping.
To compile my misery I lie flat on one of the benches and carry on with 8kx10x4 dumbell bench presses. Ow motherfucking ow on the last set, again with some arm trembling and a squeaky eek from me when I actually thought my arm was going to give out.
Now, one leg on the bench, 12.5kx10x 3 one armed rows. This I find easy and probably could have gone up to 15k on each arm, but I knew what was coming next so I didn't bother killing myself, next week though I'm going to maximise my strength and use the bigger weight.

What was coming next.
Hit the rowing machine with gusto. Rowed a nice 8k in forty-two and a half minutes.

Stretching stretching, come on, stretch. Shower and home.
A nice set up to the week ahead.

Monday and tuesday nowt really but about 5k walks on both days.

Wednesday- In a fit of temper I went off and hit up a 15k run. It was sunny and it was beautiful and when I came back I was in good humour. Yay for running.

Thursday- Off to the gym I went. Push press- 18k x10 x3
Bicep curls, 8k x10 x3
Dumbell press, 8k x10x3 the last set was slower, and the last rep was wobbly, but we did it Melvin.
40 pull ups on the grav, 30k counter balance, broad grip and over hand, working the back a lot. But it was good and I only said eeeeeeeeeeek on the last few reps.
And then chumlies I went off to cycle 20k while watching Home and Way and Location Location Location. Huzzah. Although the recliner bikes are the devil's smegma.
Then I had a shower, after which a lady told me to move away from the weighing machine while she weighed herself. Which was odd.

Yesterday I didn't do a tap apart from work, and today, well it was supposed to be running, but that was cancelled-yes I'm looking you CG, then there was supposed to be walking, but that too fell by the wayside when a seafood lunch was on the table instead.
Oh well. Next week will be better.

Mobile phones in schools.

'What's new pussy cat? Can I join the ginger club?"
'Well I dunno Tom, you're kind of inky black there. Say what colour do you call that anyway?"
'You can call it Ebony Dream, for that's what I am.'
'Aren't you white? And of even lesser importance, Welsh?
'On the outside sugar- WOAH WOAH WHOAHYEAH- inside I'm the heart of darkness, watch me jiggle.'
'I dunno Tom, here on Ginger day we're pretty much booked up what with Carrot Top and now Scott who -under all that peroxide- is most surely a ginger.'
'Well sure honey-pie I dig-COME ONOWAH! but the skin, check out the skin. I need to slip you some...skin.'
'Humm, that does have a ginger glow to it.'
'OWA COME ON give it to me. I think I wanna dance now.'
'Argh, your hip just popped out of its socket.'
'DOn't worry sugar, with a quick bump and grind that baby'll pop straight back into my MY MY DELILAH-'
'Okay! if I make you a fully fledged member of the Ginger club will you bugger off. You're getting some sort of residue on my walls. What is that gunk?'
'That's my love aura. Once that baby envelops you your fires are lit Baby, and when The TOM lights fires they stay LIT!'
'Oh for the love of marmalade.'
'Ah yeah you know it. That right-ah!'


Happy Ginger day Chumlies!
Urgh, what a long week this turned out to be. But Avast! Ginger day is upon us and the weather appears to be brightening up-although it is drizzling right this second. Either way, yay to spring. Mr Blackbird has a new missus and I expect they'll be getting busy any day now and producing a new crop of birdies, my field/lawn appears to be growing again and there are buds on my bushes- which sound faintly smutty to me, but there you go.
Now, it's probably no secret to anyone here that I dislike mobile phones. Truthfully I dislike all phones, but even a dullard like me understands they are a necessary evil, my cats would eat carrier pigeons, plus I'm not sure I like pigeon any more than phones.
(My preferred contact is via email. I find this to be very civilized. Like letter writing but swift- and in my case legible, unlike my handwriting)
I'm not a complete wally, I know having a mobile in the car might be very useful should you break down miles from home or witness an accident, so it''s not like I"m against them completely. But in general I think they are the most hideous invention of this century.
My dislike of mobiles is due to many factors. Firstly I don't think anyone unless they are assassins or surgeons or heavily pregnant or waiting for an organ transplant, needs to be in constant contact with the world 24/7. I can think of nothing more ghastly.
Secondly there is the noise. Every bus ride, every gym, every restaurant, every public place is now populated by various utterly idiotic ringtones and bleeps and tinny songs and it's just so fucking annoying. I hate it, I really do, and because I hate it so it's the only sodding thing I notice.
Then there is the utter disrespect mobile users display to all and sundry, which leads me cheerily into today's hissy.
Observe, from the Irish Examiner.

"Gardaí in Croom, Co Limerick, declined to get involved in the matter after parent David Docherty contacted the local station.

Mr Docherty claimed school rules do not supersede the law and demanded the return of his son’s phone. He claimed the phone was confiscated after it “beeped” during class.
Mr Docherty also failed in his attempt to get the County Limerick Vocational Education Committee, which has overall responsibility for Coláiste Chiaráin, to get involved in his campaign.

School principal Noel Malone said the rule about mobile phones was implemented after detailed consultation between teachers, parents and management.

“With this rule there are no exceptions. There are a number of issues with regard to mobile phones in schools. There is the issue of integrity and staff need to be protected as phones can be used to take pictures.”

He also said the school has a very fair and reasonable policy on the matter.

Students can bring mobiles to school but must place them in lockers before going to class and can access them during breaks. If a student is found in breach of the rule, the phone is confiscated.

A sum of €26 has to be paid for its return that day. Otherwise it will be held by the school for four weeks.

Mr Malone said the phone confiscated from Mr Docherty’s son did not bleep, but gave off a full, loud ring in class.

“I have been principal for nine years and this is the first time there has been an effort to challenge the rule. Parents and students all sign up to the rules before coming to the college. Everybody is aware of them.”

Clap-clap! Take a bow Mister Docherty. Instead of telling your boy he shouldn't have brought his mobile into class-as per the rules- and serves him right, you try bring the law and VEC in. What a delightful sense of entitlement you and -naturally-your son must have, rules for thee but not for me. Golly, he will be a delight when he gets older, I"m sure. A real chip off the old block.

The school is absolutely right. In this day and age every single teenager seems to have a mobile, can you imagine trying to teach a class with bleeps and ring and vibrations going off every five seconds? Nightmare. I'd confiscate everyone of them too. Then I'd blunderbuss them into the next country. Which is probably why I'd never be a good teacher, what with carrying a blunderbuss around a lot.
Mobile phones, unless used sparingly and with GOOD REASON- I"m against them!
(also parents who are stupid gobshites, I"m against them too)

Babies babies everywhere. Except here.

Oh for the love of marmalade. I wonder is there something in the water? Another two of my friends are sperminated, knocked up, with child, embiggened with baby.
I must admit I am feeling strangely nonplussed by it all. Pregnant eh? How nice for you.
I am glad for them, especially one of the girls who I know nearly all my life and is a really lovely mammy. Lovely mammies should have children, they're happy and their children are darlings. More people who are good and happy mammies should produce healthy happy babies. It seems a win -win situation. (People like my mother who resent having children and make sure their children know the 'sacrifices' they made to have them should rethink having babies)
So back to my friends. I think it's terrific that they are having their children, extending their families. I will of course be a doting 'aunt'. I'm very popular with other people's children, they like me. I collect CDs from newspapers for them, I include them in conversations, I enquire after their schools and pals. I pore over recently coloured pictures. I buy them nice christmas and birthday presents. I never give out to them or tell them to clean their rooms. See? I like my friends and I like their children.
So I realise I'm probably sounding churlish and a bit of a wally. But the selfish part of me now knows I can forget talking about anything other than baby stuff for the best part of this year.
Balls. I don't have that many female friends, losing them to a fetus is irksome- no matter how much I will like that fetus the moment it's able to make eye-contact.
What's worse is that my friends will start talking about babies around the clock-because that's what babies do, they take over. Suddenly there will be nothing but talk about morning sickness, veins and piles and stretch marks and food intolerance and back aches and whether or not soft cheese is a lethal as some people make out...
Le sigh.
And then will come the, 'What about yourself? Any plans yet?'
Now my female friends are not foolish women, but every time they get pregnant they seem to forget that other women-particularly this women- are not exactly as naturally maternal as they are.
Ergo the 'plans' question irks the shit out of me.
Of course I have plans, I plan to finish the project I'm working on. I plan to master a handstand. I plan to meet Sam and Medbh. I plan to go running in the Scottish Highlands with Finn in March, I plan to run this year's Dublin City Marathon faster. I plan to expand my little business and get a bigger foot hold in the UK.
It's not just me either. The paramour has plans for this year, and they seem mostly to include some travel and a business expansion. Oh he and I regularly talk baby, but we talk it in a vague, abstract, off hand sometime in next three decades sort of way, and considering I'm 35 and he's 36 ( when did that happen?!) this seems amusingly procrastinatingly long- fingered of us.
Truth be told both of us are too something ( lazy, single minded, selfish>)to be dealing with small children. Oh we like the idea of running around Bushy park with the imaginary perfectly dressed children on a sunny summer morning, conveniently not thinking about the waking, feeding and dressing of those children. No, ours is a rosy tinted vision of our future children, where they pop up out of the ground as chubby robust three year olds, who sleep eight hours a night and never get colds or any other childhood illness (ideally they should be champion readers, hearty sportsmen and eschew television in favour of learning a musical instrument)
Then there is the noise.
I freely admit I am intolerant of long sustained piercing sound. Like phones, or hoovers or babies crying. And they seem to do that a lot. I find a lot of noise stressful in the extreme, not unlike Rainman.
My big fear- and I'm really not joking here when I say this- is that we would have a child and then it might teethe or cry a lot. I can picture the paramour coming home from work and asking, 'Say honey, where's the baby?' And I will look up from my own work and silently point over the top of my computer to the pram parked under the trees at the bottom of the garden.
Seriously. That's my fear, and it happens to be an important one. I don't want to be my mother. We went for lunch over christmas with friends of ours and they brought their 12 week old baby and it started to cry as soon as his poor mother's food arrived, and then we all took turns bouncing this volcano of sound while she wolfed her food down.
'He's some set of lungs on him.' The paramour said as we toddled off up the road.
'Indeed he has.'
And both of us did that nervous twitchy smile people who feel guilty do.
Where am I going with this? Well no where really, But I read an interesting piece in The Times this morning, I'll link to it here
I feel for that woman, I really do. I understand her so completely it is frightening. She's happy the way she is. She feels guilty about it. I think I'm pretty happy the way I am. Maybe I feel guilty for that. But why would I?
For that matter I'm pretty sure the paramour is happy the way he is. He's not backward about coming forward, if he wasn't happy he would say something. Wouldn't he? Would he? Wouldn't he?
So, nine months of baby talk. Oh well, it's just another three weeks until I go back on the rum.