Small Town (Alcoholic) Boy...

Ever hear the song by Bronksi Beat “Small town boy”? No? It’s a classic – you should go listen to it. GO! NOW!! The lyrics are rather fitting to this article, in a sense…but not a necessity to read it (but seriously, a bloody good song to listen to anyway!).

So, we all know that “Small Town Syndrome” exists, and by small town syndrome I mean that there are people within those said small towns that stay there forever, become increasingly frustrated at their situation ; shit out a baby or two, get married…and drink (not necessarily always in that order – but more times than not). Now I’m not belittling people in this situation, in fact, had I not been born into the family I was born, maybe I too would be a troublesome arsehole that sits around the local pubs leering at town’s women and itching for a fight…you know, just to pass the time…until that next drink, but I do think that these people are not only a drain on societies resources, but also oxygen. If only these people would just go read a book already, they would see that there really is a life out there, with some amazing things to see and do, and perhaps then, then they might realise that they could make a difference in their life time, and leave behind a legacy that made a difference to people’s lives, and not just bad memories in the minds of those that they inevitably leave behind.

What am I talking about? Well, this weekend I was in small town in Clare called Ennistymon, a lovely town actually, full of some very nice people with great fun and stories instilled in them – and some lovely pubs too. But it wouldn’t be a democratic society if we didn’t have one or two shagless fools to ruin what could be a wonderful town. Allow me to give you the scenario, via script ;

INT. DALY’S PUB --  NIGHT

DEL, an archetype male who is perhaps overly groomed for his surroundings walks into a small narrow pub – the walls are white and made of old rock but discoloured, the tiles on the floor are unkempt, the walls display old pub memorabilia and there is a new fangled jukebox on the wall that looks rather out of place.

The walk into the bar is a tight squeeze as countless people are stood around having a good time, and there are those that have been implanted at the bar since midday that are seemingly nonchalant about the necessity of fire exits, what have you. Music blares loudly as a DJ plays music from the current charts and this looks like a good spot to be in for the night.

DEL is accompanied by his, tonight it must be said, rather spectacular looking girlfriend, T, who is an (ex-)resident of the town, and is possibly dressed too finely for the institution they find themselves in.

They sit and have a drink and a laugh.

A DRUNK (cunt) at the bar, with a shaggy ginger beard, tightly cut ginger hair and an unflattering appearance spots DEL and T and begins to leer rather blatantly at T. This is accepted, ignored and mocked – quietly.

The young couple sit in their snug spot and drink some more, but...oh no...the drinks have run dry.

T goes to the bar to get in a round leaving DEL momentarily sat on his own.

*Cue Jaws theme music*

DRUNKY stumbles towards the table, one step carefully placed in front of the other so as not to spill the pint in hand (not looking unlike a geriatric at a buffet), with his gut hanging out. Bleary eyed he stares at the innocent DEL, who at this point now looks like a Zebra in the wilderness, but tries his hardest to display an exterior of indifference – the drunk too is indifferent, but towards DEL’S indifference.

The drunk stands at the gap between tables waiting for DEL to give up his seat.

DEL sits whistling a quiet impromptu tune looking about anywhere but in the direction of DRUNKY.

DRUNKY, becoming increasingly infuriated forces his way between the tables, drops his shoulder and quite physically shunts DEL from one end of the table to the other in one foul whoosh. DEL just smiles and ignores this ignorant infringement and sips at his non-existent drink from his see through empty glass tumbler, knowing that being from Dublin, not only will his accent give DRUNKY an allowance to hop him, but no one will step in to defend an “outsider” (home advantage matters!), so he keeps quiet (although he would ever so much like to react to the escalating situation).  

DRUNKY, not having attainted the reaction he so desired proceeds to flex his RIGHT BICEP in the face of DEL, in a rather primitive fashion (this possibly could be how fights are presented in a small town, much like a female panda bending over – but it could be a case by case thing...).

DEL still ignores this pretty funny, but at the same time slightly frightening suggestion, as you see, DEL is not a fighter, nor has he ever been in a fight (a fact displayed by his perfectly shaped nose – a curse of sorts), and tonight is going to be like all those other nights where he dodged punches or talked his way out of trouble, or, at least he hopes so.

DRUNKY, now aggrieved that DEL has not reacted favourably in a negative fashion and proceeds to bitterly spit out a slurred comment ;

DRUNKY:

I’d LUV taa geddup’ on that – hic’ ride thattt.

DEL sits still (hoping that if he doesn’t move, maybe DRUNKY won’t be able to see him – like a locked T-Rex) and smiles at T who is now stood at the bar staring back at this clearly threatening situation.

DRUNKY, having not achieved one thing in his life that he is actually capable of achieving, other than ordering a pint and wiping his arse (actually, the Jury may still be out on the latter, but still, a high achiever in the alcoholic waste of space stakes) reiterates his comment, but has altered the degree of English essential to get the negative comment across in case DEL is so much an “out-of-towner”, he possibly doesn’t even speak (pigeon) English.

DRUNKY: 

LUV ta fuk THATTttt….(incoherent slur/drunken hiccup)…TITSSsss.

T realising the situation asks a pretty female friend (thus stealing DRUNKY’s attention away by giving him something pretty to leer at, in close quarters) to intervene and sit between the quarrelsome (on one part) duo.

T arrives back at the table, the story of how DRUNKY stumbled from point A (at the bar) to point B (where they’re sat – a feat of sorts for this drunken dick-head) and tried to lure DEL into a situation beyond his abilities (his nose would like to stay in shape) is reiterated.

The drinks are floored, but not obviously – in case DRUNKY smells the fear, and the young couple make like DRUNKY’S social income – and disappear.

Walking out the door –

DEL (whispers): 

Dickhead.

-          and feels marginally better.

END

And that was it – that was my Saturday night out in Ennistymon (well actually, there was lots more – but it doesn’t make for entertainment as it was far too pleasant a time in a much nicer pub!). Reading this script back I guess I feel somewhat bad that I’ve labelled the small town for their drunken waster of an ambassador, when quite possibly I should be focusing on the drunken muppet in question solely, as this could be any town or city on a Saturday night, only well, it wasn’t, for you see it’s not a town that defines people, but rather, the people define a town, and with wasters like this just causing trouble for the sake of it, or because of their general unhappiness, towns should take a stance and disregard certain folk and allow them starve to death. It was only upon discussion later in the night that I learned this man is married and has three children, and automatically I didn’t feel so bad that he had been an arsehole to me, but that he is such an arsehole to his family – drinking away their money and giving them a poor image of what it is to be a grown-up, especially his sons, thus unfortunately, the realistic scenario is that I may well be back in this town in twenty years time, and instead of this drunk twat giving me grief, it will be his offspring.

I also had to assess what it was about me that he would want to inflict pain upon me. I mean, how can an unknown entity (me) cause such inner conflict within one person (Drunky) that they would want to react in a negative physical manner? “Maybe it’s my hair?” I thought – it is kind of styled and has a flippy-fringe thing going on these days – like a “boyband reject”, I’ve been told (gotta love honesty!). “Maybe it’s the t-shirt and shirt combo?” – some people aren’t fans of this style I know… Hmmm…was it solely that I was with one of the girls from this guys town that is prettier than most the girls in that neck of the woods? Really? Is that it? All it would take to risk a law suit (“If you hit me I’ll sue” – yeah, I’m just that cowardly I’d say that!) and put his family into financial disrepair? ... And the sad truth is that was it. Man’s primitive nature of lust takes hold, especially when he is a raging and unhappy alcoholic (is there any other kind?) and no man will stand in the way of that – especially if he has a flippy-fringe thing and a devoid sense of fashion going on, I guess, kind of a bonus to hit a guy like that even…”yeaaaah – the big gay woofter!!!”

(Side note : There were a gay couple of men (very sound guys) in the bar on this night that got zero hassle – and yet I got it...think I’d best re-evaluate my image!)

Fortuitously, I escaped without injury, and though this altercation would barely register as one, I do feel that people from small towns should try stamp out this behaviour. I mean, when a town is so full of fun, nice and genuine people, why should it get a poor reputation because of a handful of fucknuts? It wouldn’t be that difficult to rid themselves of em’ even – just close the pubs in the town and prohibit the sale of alcohol for a week, thus forcing the fuckers into melt down after they realise just how big a waste of skin they are...and don’t save them when they try to hang themselves or jump off the Cliff’s of Moher. Simples. The bonus? Not only would families be allowed progress and the town grow, but I might even be able to enjoy my drink next time – I hate having to neck/rush a drink....

Drunky.....you owe me a drink you bastard...ah, I’ll leave you off – you gave me a blog – have one yourself – you totally deserve it, ya big useless prick!!!

Civil Partnership, and the taboo thereof.

Question: What comes to mind when you think of four hundred camera flashes, enough fake tan to cover a small village, two hundred guests in want of beef or salmon, fifty eight jealous smiles/fifteen sets of crying eyes, a contract and two gold bands?

You’re thinking about marriage, right?

Wrong! HA! Trick question! No, I’m talking about Civil Partnership. Got you there!

Now you’re thinking “Well, they’re the same thing.”...and you’d be right, only, well, you’re wrong. The only other insignificant, if not irrelevant, difference between a marriage and a civil partnership is the religious ethos behind the life sentence incarceration of a couple...to one another, which in this day in age is pretty amusing given religion should even play a part in the lives of men and women when they’ve been out test driving potential partner(s) (FACT: Most people imagine they’ll marry at least two of their boyfriends/girlfriends)– so the sin of sex is a foregone conclusion, if not necessity to hook an unassuming male/female months, if not years, before the consummation of ones marriage.

Yes, this month will see the taboo that is Civil Partnerships be granted to gay Irish citizens, although, rumour has it, there has been at least one civil partnership initiated prior to the date of registry acceptance ; the male couple in question are said to have registered their partnership on 7^th February, 2011 as one of the party had a terminal illness and was thought not to make it the two months to registration – which proves one of two things ; men are as romantic as women – a shocking revelation(!), or just as big a Anna Nicole Smith’s (gold-diggers), and if you’re as big a pessimist as I, you’ll be thinking the latter...you heartless beast.

So what is all the kafuffle about? Men want to marry men. Women want to marry women. It’s pretty logical when you sit down and think about it. People perceive love, or what they think is love, and want to express it by defining their relationship in a reverse voyeuristic-typed event whereby they sign a legally (“our love is so hot baby, we gotta get the Government in on this shit”) binding document that will ensure their commitment to one another, or financially beleaguer them forever...and isn’t that what marriage is all about in the first place? So I say fair play to anyone who wishes to lock themselves to another for an indefinable period of time (a scary thought to say the least). If gay people wish to be as miserable as most married men and women, shouldn’t we let them off and wish them well? However you answer this question will tell you if you’re either;

(a) A homophobe ;

(b) A Bible wielding/fascist nut-job, or ;

(c) a person who is pretty indifferent to the whole thing,

and if you’re either (a) or (b), here’s a message, just for you ; the world is changing rapidly, and there’s nothing you can do to stop the cogs turning, so as my 3 year old nephew might put it – “nah-nah,nah-nah-nah”.

Look, here’s the skinny on marriage – it’s really not that big a deal from what I’ve seen of it, and there are two common beliefs associated to it, depending on your outlook ;

1.     Marriage is for those who wish to be with one another and have a family, or ;

2.     Marriage is the result of a mental defect whereupon people have been fooled by the chemicals of their brain that they love one person so much, they need to be with them (FOREVER! Eeek!), and have a family, which in essence is actually a trick of the mind that ensures the re-population of society.

See the way I said “person” above, which implies either a man or woman can love? Well, there you go. Do you question who it is that should love another person, be it man and woman, or man and man/woman and woman? No? Then shouldn’t men and women be allowed have the company of the same sex...legally? And that’s what marriage is – constant company throughout your life.

You watch T.V. together. Eat together. And if you’re really kinky, shower together (it conserves water!)...but that’s really it – you just do shit together – almost like having a best mate that you can relate to...and get you off into the bargain. And to be fair, if my best mate (from age 8) could get me off, I’d possibly wanna marry him – but alas, he just doesn’t “do” it for me in that sense, although, we never tried...maybe I’ve missed out on something? (Joke, John – don’t worry, you sexy bastard!).

What is the argument against gay marriage? Oh wait, sorry….”civil-partnership”? That it devalues archetype marriages? It’s against God? What? I’m not sure – but if the Catholic Church are against it, all I’m saying is, I’m all for it...whatever they dislike – I’m gonna love even more. Personally, I think they’re just a little jealous and frustrated that it’s now acceptable to be gay in society, and that they’ve wasted their lives locked up in the largest consolidated closet the world has ever known...with matching members collars.

Whilst watching The Late Late Show on Friday night (I actually only turned it on to see how Ryan (my pencil has more charisma) Tubridy would juggle such an anti-Catholic Church “taboo” subject, that, and to see Keith Barry get the shit slapped out of him (after ripping off a Derren Brown trick)) I spotted a male sat in the audience who clapped along with the rest of the audience at the end of the gay-civil-partnership-spiel, only to stop half way through his blind-follow-clapping to fold his arms and shake his “manly” head in disagreement with the whole thing. For me, he epitomises the response by the general public to the whole equation. People by nature want to see others happy, together and in love (unless you’ve previously been scorned by relationships – that, or had a variation of the clap yourself), but unfortunately, throw in the whole “God”/Religious Guilt thing and people aren’t so sure it’s the right thing, or should be allowed. Pah! Evidence that gay people aren’t wrong to love one another, but that religion is an evil entity that has driven people to incorrect conclusions...like it has done so many times in the past! Now, I’m not saying I enjoy seeing men kissing on street corners, but lets’ be fair, I don’t have a problem with women kissing on street corners, and on occasion have, in a rather juvenile fashion, guffawed for a moment and collected the image for my proverbial wank-bank. By this definition, acceptance of one sex kissing, I cannot disagree with males doing like wise, so I cannot say that homosexuality is wrong, but merely a decision, like, should I have white bread or brown bread? Kinda like marriage in a way? It may not be for you, or it could be the best thing to happen you...you useless fecker! Either way, it should not be seen as a big issue, but rather a joyous thing for people to enjoy...for a single day...and regret for a life time. I mean, who would want to exclude gay people from that? They have as much a right to be as miserable as the next person. Case closed.

Actually, wait a minute; perhaps marriage shouldn’t be a legal institution in the first place? Perhaps that’s the real issue. What place does Religion, Law or the Government have in the love and union of a couple? As the great (comedian) Doug Stanhope once said “If marriage didn’t exist, would you invent it? Nope – but if you don’t do it you’re an asshole”...and if you oppose Civil Partnership, and seeing people happy and in love (for however long), whatever the sex of the couple, you’re an even bigger asshole.

The Perception of Masculinity

As the rudimentary lyrics of Jessie J’s current chart-topping and highly thought provoking (if you’re 11) song include “I can do it like a brother, do it like a dude – grab my crotch, wear my hat low like you…bang, bang…hey pour me a beer, no pretty drinks,  I’m a guy out here”. Curiously, what Jessie J is attempting to exhibit is the general traits of males and masculinity. Scarily, she succeeds in epitomising males the world over in just a few lines of coarse imagery.

Masculinity is a funny thing if you sit and think about it. The mere notion of it makes us men do incredibly insipid stupid inspired things, all just to be seen as a “blokey-bloke”. But don't put this level of stupidity down to the man behind the act, no, put it down to masculinity, for "masculinity" is a term that has been hijacked by the foolish of the male kingdom. No longer is it associated with being tough or just being a man, no, masculinity is now a term more closely identified with the adulterous, gormless and murderous.

"I didn't mean to kill that woman, your Honour...it was my masculinity...".

"I didn't mean to sleep with that woman..fine, she was 16....okay, girl....look, whatever...I'm a bloke here!!!"

See, masculinity is not an entity that encourages cleverness or well thought out plans, but is relied upon by bravado of machismo. For instance, if you are to join Twitter right about now, add Charlie Sheen , and you will note that he has over two million followers (mostly male no doubt), after just a few days on the social network – which is a monumental achievement considering all he did to attain such a vast following was to survive a drug binge the collective members of The Rolling Stones would have croaked over, lose his job/pay cheque (£1.2 million an episode) and have sex with a few porn stars, which is not alot to celebrate, if you aren’t thinking with a pair of balls. Oh, and create a new drug – the “Being Charlie Sheen” drug (there has to be a script in there somewhere…or at least a porno – easier on the dialogue!).   

While some people out there are disgusted with his antics, there are an equal measure of those clapping him on and waiting for the next part of his sensationalistic tale. Granted, most of these people doing the clapping are males with the same mental capacity as seals, but we all love great car crash television and tabloids – lets be fair. But what is it that encourages males to celebrate the now demi-God/drug, Charlie Sheen? Is it that he's successful and rich (or as he puts it “an unemployed winner”)? Nope. Well, not exactly. It's most likely because he's sharing a bed with two women (a.k.a The Wedge) that are in love with his bank balance, and celebrating his own stupidity so profoundly himself. Possibly we should feel sorry for the disillusioned fellow...no wait, he's rich. Let's hate him. No wait, he shares a bed with two women – let's clap him on. Oh, it's enough to send you crazy with the mixed emotions you can feel

for this charming "funny" every-man.

Question ; What can a rich man attain that the normal man can't? Answer ; Women, drugs and nonsensical material goods. Yet somehow, to the normal man, this sounds idealistic. As a friend of mine once put it to me "I hope I never become rich and famous", to which I queried why - his response was that he would have to start taking drugs and having sex with a lot of random women – just because there’s little else to stimulate you once you have everything else. And this is long before the Charlie Sheen escapade – but not long after Tom Sizemore’s debacle. Since then I have always queried why the rich and famous are so consistently linked with abuses of ones self. But after great thought I noted there was one word missing from my friend's statement...one word that has even eluded Charlie Sheen debatably throughout the later part of his career – "Success". The word is never linked to being rich or famous. People want it, but they'll take immoral women and drugs in absentia of it. But then again, what is success to “MANLY” (Grrrr) men? What is it equated to? ... Well, it’s a confused notion for some.

Success comes in many forms (philanthropy and self serving being the two archetype), but ask the everyman and inside his man head (one is the same as another at this point) and he'll be thinking of banging women (more than one at a time) and buying “things”, yet not making a difference or leaving his mark on the world – which is a shame. In the Renaissance period, man was obsessed with leaving his mark on the world – even commissioning artists and writers to do the work for them, just so their name was linked to something that people would come to remember them in the years that followed their death. Man has since become confused and disillusioned. Which, given your outlook, you might either think is sad, or well, fantastic.

If one were to pit the state of their life against Charlie Sheen, one would feel like they are sorely missing out on something. For instance, I share a bed with but one woman. In comparison to Charlie Sheen, I'm already behind. I most likely will never match his bank balance, unless I win the lottery, and I most certainly will never have such a great penchant for drugs...so in comparison to Charlie, I'm actually bit of a loser...is you're thinking with masculinity. However, if you aren't, and look at it on the flipside, I'm sort of winning...as you might be too – and pat yourself on the back. You’re great!!! Well done, your mediocrity is your best quality!!!

But in this day in age, I have learnt masculinity and being seen as a man amongst your peers is what counts most, so there is no question as to why a man like Charlie Sheen is a hero to today's male. For instance, I was on a stag not so long ago, which should be aptly renamed "stag-gering", as it appears this is mostly what goes on, aside from male banter, eating fast food, adrenaline fuelled activities and leering at women. Infact, a stag(gering) is so masculine orientated that if you are to look up the dictionary for a definition you will note that it is recorded as "a social event only attended by men" (or “the castration of a male animal that has come of age” – which is accurate when you think about what marriage is about)....grrrrr, yeah! I'm a man! I was on a stag!!! Only, no...see, I was not a man....but apparently an apprentice male, as this was my first stag. I was but a stag “virrrrrgin” surrounded by prominent stag goers. However, despite my adverse handicap, I learnt many things, as advice was consistently thrown at me by my elders, including what it was to be seen as a man...and after 25 years – now I know where I was going wrong! The list of advice is as follows :-

Don't drink light beer – you will be denounced of your manliness and berated for the weekend, as I was.

Don't talk too much - talking too much reminds married men of their wives apparently. Real men enjoy awkward silences and have little to say, other than jibes, put downs and the odd "Phfffwarrrr" when an attractive member of the opposite sex is within sight.

Don't dare eat fruit, porridge or put Canderel in your coffee.

Don't be the first to go to bed (this is one I achieved!).

Don't ignore that drunk girl looking for you attention (standing aided by the wall), swoon all over her given the first opportunity. Even better if she’s pissed…apparently.

Don’t have a styled haircut, appear well groomed or wear an open shirt with a t-shirt underneath – yeah, you’re gayyyy if you do!  

Don’t dance overtly to 1980’s dance classic “The Only Way Is Up”…infact, don’t dance at all – real men don’t dance.

Don’t have gone to Boarding School for six years and now be an aspiring playwright…

See, being a man and living up to male "masculine" expectation is not so much a code of what to do, but rather, a list of what not to do. It's about differentiating yourself from females (even though women on hens are just as bad, if not worse, than males on stags), and this is at the lower end of social standings where these men I was socialising with, though decent and humorous, would become Charlie Sheen-alikes in a heartbeat, well, if they only had more money, hair and were better looking.

Is masculinity just an excuse to live under a code of acting like a Muppet, or is actually the definition of what it is to be seen as a man? Would it really put a woman off you if you were to put Canderel in your coffee and actually have a thought provoking conversation? According to some of the men I was with on this voyeuristic voyage, neither is acceptable. But I do have to remind myself that this is most likely just mob-mentality. These men, like myself, will be attending the wedding of the Groom in the coming weeks and I am curious to see how macho and masculine fuelled these men will be with their respective partners on hand to keep them on a tight leash.

The one question I now ask myself after the stag and Charlie Sheen's recent women/drug induced melt down is, Am I man's man? I like sports...films (not chick-flicks...ugh!!! (well, except for Wimbledon – but that’s just a great film!))...fast food and beer...and most importantly, women....but somehow, I don't appear to be seen as one by the manliest of men. Perhaps being a man's man isn't about being one at all, but rather being seen to be one, or the perception of attaining masculinity by virtue of acting like a fifteen year old. Perhaps all men secretly enjoy a Light Beer and coherent conversation, or at least, one can only hope they do.

In the end, if masculinity is merely perception/an image, and an allowance to do stupid things and not be questioned on it afterwards, then perhaps overt masculinity isn't an expectation that the typical male should aspire to. Perhaps we'd all be better off being something else. Perhaps Charlie Sheen is already this and is just living one big act to get attention/has a mental deficiency. Either way, if I'm not seen as a man after this article, then screw it, I am proud to be something else. I am proud not to be Charlie Sheen.  

PORN and POLITICS

Recently whilst scouring through pornographic images on XNXX and endless new additions to URBAN DICTIONARY to bolster my knowledge of new-fangled sexual trends and general obscenity to partake in a game I regularly play with a friend of mine through text, whereby we try to go one better (or worse, depending on how you look at it) than the other in the pursuit of ultimate perversion (well, I never claimed it was a mature game, did I?), I was left, well ...stumped, for once. Not in the sense that there wasn’t enough horrible new trends or words out there to pick from, but rather, quite the opposite - there was too bleedin’ much! I had once been up to date in these lowly additions, both in pornographic and literary terms, but now, there is seemingly no way to partake in this game I once created and loved, as it would appear, the horrid past times of the world are coming so fast and hard (excuse the pun) that there can be no end to my high brow game. And for a man that prided himself on being “down” with these offending trends, it’s pretty disheartening to suddenly be out of the loop with the over saturation of others salacious activities.  

Then today, I was left standing bereft and confused as might an OAP suffering from dementia in a shop approximate to my office when I tried to pick up a bottle of water. Yes, a bottle of water. But to my dismay, this is no longer an easy task by any means (God love you if you are an OAP suffering from a lil’ dementia!). See, there are no longer just one or two brands of water to choose from – now there are literally hundreds. Gone are the days where Evian and Ballygowan had a stronghold on the market – now there’s water named after each county, country and ones promoted by celebrities.  And water isn’t water anymore – no, it now comes with the capabilities of burning off calories, or working as a hard working antioxidant and are mixed with tropical juices no one has ever heard of, and that’s just this one shop! Seriously, it’s enough to drive someone barmy. I had enough trouble deliberating between still and sparkling when it was just two brands.  

The water has recently been incorporated into my diet as opposed to fizzy drinks like Coke and 7up, but with endless water companies fighting to get you to buy their brands, with such briberies as being able to help you maintain your weight or make you feel better, and at low enough costs (each one comes cheaper than the next), well, you start to doubt what you came into the shop in the first place for – thus why I left with a pack of cigarettes and a coffee.

But in a society driven by capitalism and canvassers, we are bombarded daily by choice. Now, this is not so much a bad thing, or so you may think – but with so many choices to choose from, how do we know we are attaining the best? I mean, it’s a sad world when porn isn’t just a guy and girl banging anymore – but no, you have to filter through the “Cream-pies” and “Cuckolds” to get hold of the basics. I know this all may be rather shocking and revelatory to some, maybe even a little brazen and pretty blasé to talk about such a taboo in a carte blanche manner, but damn it, whatever happened to simple choices for simple people?

For instance, if porn and overpriced waters aren’t something that have been on your radar for some time now (and if you’re a bloke, you’d be lying if you stated otherwise), just look around at any electricity pole and you will be met with poster after poster of an anaesthetically displeasing politician – all smiling and hocking themselves at you in the hope of a vote that’ll get them a seat that will ultimately better them (financially and status wise), but not necessarily you, the voter. This is why they make promise after promise to you and I, but deep down you know they’ll never achieve what they’ve promised. They’re selling themselves to you like a teenager looking for an internship in a bar, but unequivocally they’re going to steal from the proverbial cash register when your back is turned.

Today, there is no easy choice to be made – I have no clue what any of them can achieve, and essentially, they’re all spouting out the same rhubarb, just in different phrasings – yet, if you don’t vote, a handful of them are getting into power either way. But much like water – how do you know which one is the best for you? Essentially, water is just water – like a politician is a politician (a.k.a – bullshitter). To most of us out there who turn on our trusted pontificate Fraggle Rock look-alike that is Vincent Browne some evenings, just to hear him lose the rag mostly, all we know is how rubbish and deceitful politicians are – so perhaps not the best time to ask us, Joe Public, to vote for them.

I hear people almost daily proclaim “as long as Fianna Fail don’t get back into power, we’ll be okay”, which is, in fairness, utter shite. The only comparison I can make to this is an ex-girlfriend not wanting to see their ex-boyfriend (or girlfriend, whichever way you swing these days...) do well after fucking them over. Well, at least I think it’s an apt comparison. To be frank, it’s an indifferent situation with indifferent self serving politicians banging at the doors of the nation in a bid to fill their pockets. They're all not to be trusted, not just Fianna Fail. However, if a politician came up to me and said something to the effect of “I’m actually just doing this in order to earn a lot of money for doing fuck all, and to have my ego massaged while I’m not doing it” I’d be more willing to get out there and vote for him – would you not?...It would be the first honest politician anyone’d have met...for a change.

Yes, the world is full of options, ever changing and increasingly frustrating. People are becoming increasingly crude and obscene, and water is now something more than just water (”a lifestyle choice” according to one brand)...but one thing you can always bank on ; whatever Taoiseach we end up with next week – he’s still going to be less than convincing. Sure what would expect from a bunch of over valued Primary School Teachers!?          

  

A Feud Filled Thursday

Thursday last week was to be a good day. A half day from work, an attendance with Don Pasquale at the Opera in the evening (I’m not a huge Opera lover, but I enjoyed it a lot), and to travel back in time to some degree (well, 6 years or so, to be precise) as I would see my old school play in the infamous Leinster based competition known as “The Leinster Rugby Senior Cup”. For those of you not to au fait with this competition, it’s actually quite a big deal at school level and taken very seriously. Having always been a proud supporter of my school, in many ways, and not just in rugby, it was with resounding pride that I would get to go sit amongst the present students (all kitted out in black and white – and no, I do not have a penchant for young boys...thanks for asking) and teachers (still dressed as I remember them) and support the team on the pitch with my lungs.

Before the game there is the obligatory drink in Kielys – a great way to meet up with old friends and teachers, and to be finally treated as an equal by said teachers – by sharing a drink with them. As I have said, it was almost like stepping back in time to be surrounded by guys from my old class, and the older/younger classes. At one point I even found myself hiding a cigarette from one of the teachers passing by and referred to him as “Sir” from pure habit. Or maybe from respect. Or most likely, as always, never wanting to be seen as a “bold boy” – I am just that weak!

But of course, stepping back in time, along with the positives, such as meeting an old Prefect of mine, and some guys I had even prefected over, there are also the harrowing negatives of bumping into the past. Before I even stood in the pub before the game I had walked in behind a past pupil that was but one year ahead of me, and though I had always harbored a certain degree of hatred towards this particular guy I thought it might be possible that considering we were now no longer students in school, but equals in the real world, he might show me a certain amount of courtesy. This positive feeling was to be short lived as I walked in behind him where he not once, but twice, neglected to hold the doors for me entering the plush Donnybrook pub. Almost immediately the feelings of sheer angst filled my bones and I was once again “back in school” hating this twat. I’m fairly sure, even if he were to read this rant he wouldn’t know it was he that I was referring to, but I’ll give him a hint, should he by chance get a glimpse of my rant ; he was/is/always has been of average build, height, handsomeness, intelligence, humour and general demeanour. Overall, a pretty ignorant fellow that was always sat snugly amongst “the hards” of his year, and was generally the one who came out with the most undercutting remark that followed a pretty meek insult that was initially being laughed at – but never instigated an insult of his own – he was just that much of a lame twat. He also has a nickname that was actually not so much a nickname, but rather a sound you might make should you stub your toe. I’m all out of hints, and quite frankly, I couldn’t give two fucks if he should stumble across my web based rant ... if only he’d held the door for me...the ignorant-annoyingly-average-prick.

Yes, my day was filled, from there on, of catching sight after sight of this ignorant sap and feeling the same repugnant feelings I’d once held, and truly had thought, would have left me by now. It just goes to show that, like love, true hatred never dies. And for that, I feel almost sad, and somewhat to blame. Perhaps I should have tried to spark up a conversation and listened to his self-praising bullshit? Although, I do find it hard to stomach the sound of one patting their own back. And I know, by now after having years of not commenting on his abysmal behaviour towards me for the five years I had to endure it, I’d just have to make some kind of smart remark that would spoil any positive conversation that might occur. For you see, I have this inability to keep my mouth shut when I’ve been wronged, and if I’ve even had a whiff of a drink, shit, I’m going to take you apart if I think you deserve it. Luckily, I wasn’t drinking, and fortunately, that conversation never came to pass – it would not have been pretty, but in short, here’s how I think it might have gone;

INT. KIELYS PUB – DAY

ME: Hey man...err...how are you?

PRICK: Fine. Doing well. I drive an Audi.

ME: Ehm, good for you...

PRICK: What do you drive?
ME: I don’t.

PRICK: Ha. (Sips his Heineken)

ME: Hey, you remember all those times you said horrible things to me in school and I couldn’t respond because I’d have taken a beating?

PRICK: Ha. Yeah. Funny times.

ME: And all the times you bunked me at the tuck shop? (*To bunk is to skip*)

PRICK: Yeah. (Irritatingly sips his drink again)

ME: Oh you do?

PRICK: Ha. Yeah. Anyway, I’ve...

ME: Just a second. Can I ask, why did you do all that?

PRICK: Uhm. (Beat) I don’t know? ... Because I felt like it...and didn’t like you very much...

ME: Oh. Well, is there any chance of an apology seeing as we’re grown ups now?

PRICK: (Sips his pint and smiles) No.

ME: Okay. Thanks.

I would then have calmly proceeded to picking up the nearest chair to hand the second his back was turned and put it across his neck and shoulders. Sure the legal costs overall would be expensive, but when you weigh it up with the amount of counselling I’d need to rid myself of the angst I feel for this muppet, well, somewhere along the line I reckon it’d average out.  

And what’s the message behind all this, other than I can’t allow a feud between myself and another go, even if they aren’t aware of said feud?

...

Next time, please hold the fucking door for me, dickhead.

(P.S. My school won their game, and will progress to the semi-finals ; perhaps this conversation will occur next time...)

Food and TV....an alienating combination.

Okay, so here’s the skinny... Shit.

Back up.

Okay, so here’s a little insight to my life right now. It goes like this ;

Porridge

Banana

Work

Coffee

Turkey Pitta

Water

Home

Salad/Veg

Apple

Water, water, water

Green Tea

Pee, pee, pee.

Sleep

Repeat.

Yes, it’s just that repetitive, unpleasant and boring. But with the overindulgences of Christmas now forgotten and a friend’s wedding on the near horizon (selfish bastard!), I have to ensure I look, well, hopefully as good as (if not better than) the Groom himself – that’ll show him for getting married and making me sweat about fitting into my suit!

This repetitive life actually isn’t too bad once you get into it. It’s a little over a week (this is gonna’ sound like an advert for a quit smoking campaign, apologies for sounding so lame...) and I feel a little bit better in myself already. Not that I’m exactly HUMONGOUS, or point and laugh at heavy, just, well, Christmas is a great excuse to binge and it took till late January till all the Christmas contraband was kicked from the cupboards...that and I have inexhaustible penchant for chocolate and Christmas pudding.  

The repetition is sort of comforting in a way – my routine is all laid out and very systematic, which I have come to realise I enjoy...sort of. However, after ignoring all the weight loss advertisements (you know, the Weight Watchers, Danone Activia yoghurts, Special K etc.) that were instantly and incessantly broadcasted on and from the button of 12:01a.m on New Years Day, ones I possibly should have taken heed of but, like a Crack Head, was too high on Chocolate and Cake to care. Had I listened, well, I’d now be on the way to being a “better me” – UGH! Woe is me.

Typically, I didn’t listen to Martine McCutcheon’s relentless chirping on about taking on her “Activia Challenge” with her vindictive, yet fabulous smile – I mean, I’m not going to listen to a, pah, actress fronting a consumer campaign on behalf of a capitalist product...what moron would do that? ...

Well, actually, it appears a lot of women buy into this advertising lark, and tv, after telling us to indulge in the months leading up to Christmas, was now telling us to cut back on our intake...until next December. 

However, it appears I got on the boat to “Health Island” a little later than the rest. These ads aren’t half as consistent as they were a month ago, and have been replaced with new commercials that are causing this somewhat, enjoyable repetitious game of food intake I’ve got going on, to become a lot harder, at night time in particular. Every second ad is hocking food. Aeros. Dominos. Coke. Budeweiser. Subway. Mars. M&Ms’. Uncle Bens. Dolmio (“When’sa your Dolmio day?” – Seriously, if I could punch that puppet square in the head I’d feel a little better!!!) Repeat.

Like some twisted nightmare in-between obscure television programmes about self improvement. Fuck. It’s like television has it in for us folk that enjoyed Christmas a little too much...after telling us to purchase those Forrero Rocher and that box of Cadbury biscuits, and those boxes of reduced priced beer. What kind of sadistic marketing people are out there? They’re horrid, horrid people – not that we didn’t already know this, but this is essentially the final nail in the binge fridge. This is proof that advertising campaigns are not in our best interest, EVER! Perhaps those ads flogging cheaper membership to Weight Watchers wasn’t in our interest either...infact, it most certainly wasn’t.

The guilt I was caused to feel in early January has transferred to anguish as I try to improve my lifestyle with that of a healthier one, but fuck you anyway television, I think you’re toying with me. Only, I’m not giving in. I’m far more stubborn than any relentless advertising campaign. Yeah. I’ve got discipline...well...until December next. UGH... You’ll win again tv, no doubt. But in the mean time, I’m fighting you.

As for my friend and his wedding...well, we still have a stag to attend – and while I guzzle down water and vodka I’ll be feeding him up on full fat beer disguised in a light beer glass! YEAH! That’ll show him for inviting me to his shindig and making me put my life (and waist size) into perspective and under scrutiny...the lovely bastard he is.

Selfish Valentines

A great man once said “The power of love is a curious thing – make a one man weep, and another man sing”. Of course, this great man also happened to be Huey Lewis of San Francisco based 1980’s rock sensation Hewy Lewis and The News, so perhaps I’ve over-exaggerated the “great man” part – but to some, I’m sure he was, and still is, a great man...maybe? Hewy highlights a notable and correct analysis of the mental affliction that is “love”.

But what is this love malarkey? And why is it but one day a year we are supposed to rejoice our currently succeeding relationships and smugly celebrate them by frivolously throwing money away on oversized cards, teddy bears, chocolates and champagne? Why is it we feel we must make our other half feel loved on this one day in particular? As I sit here listening to Phil Collins I don’t feel anymore in love today than I did yesterday...and don’t feel like I should because of the constant bombardment of adverts on the television, which suggests to me that its actually one big great illusion created by capitalism to keep restaurants, florists and card manufactures in business after the downturn post-Christmas. And if we don’t, we feel like dejected cynics, when we are actually correct for not buying into it.

The pressure that comes from this day is immense and sweetly sickening. Love should surely be celebrated each and every day (if you actually are, and not just going through the motions which many people out there are, yet hang onto their “loved one” like a dog with a bone (which is an apt metaphor) so they’re not alone), and not by proclaiming it on a piece of card, but by cooking the odd dinner, cleaning the dishes without being asked, keeping the toilet seat down, and giving the odd ear scratch...wait, I may have confused one of man’s loves with another...but you get the point. These are all essentially proclamations of love in their own right and cost nothing but consideration, care and respect.

Each year, bumbling idiots beseech the most expense inanimate objects that are discarded in the mere hours after the event that has become as big as Christmas Day on advertisers calendars. Great, we’ll buy that overpriced card that will be heartlesly disregarded on the 15^th of February, along with the sentiment. It’s such a horrible occasion it almost makes me wish I were single so I could hate it some more...

Love, it has been discovered, and heavily debated by Scientists, Scholars and Theologians alike, is merely a chemical in the brain that ensures the survival of human existence. Want proof of that? Go to your local restaurant today, look for the couple with wedding rings and wrinkles under their eyes (have a good point and laugh as they strain to make conversation), and I can almost guarantee they won’t be conversing a whole lot. Of course, they may feign what looks like the odd bit of romantic affection – a brush of hands (possibly by accident whilst reaching for that extra bread roll), a shared spoon of their dessert (begrudgingly, no doubt), but really, they’ve nothing in common anymore and are truly not in love, but had once been fooled into this belief, only to be sucked into a vortex of marriage and popping out a few children into a world that was already full, but handy to have about for spare parts. Yes, what I’m saying is ; love is most likely just an illusion that fools us human beings long enough to keep society over-populated. Well, that’s the cynical outlook on it anyway.

(If you’re single) Love isn’t that great an entity anyway. (Love. Psssh.) It actually ruins your creativity if you’re an artist. For instance, think about the best love song of all time. Got one? Yeah well, it most likely isn’t about how great love is, but how love has torn the respective artist’s heart out and been replaced with a great big turd. For instance, the likes of Roy Orbison and Sting became better artists when their love lives fell apart – and look at Russell Brand, who since becoming married, well, isn’t that funny anymore. See. Proof to the singleton that they’re possibly better off today than the rest of us!

Here’s a thought ; why not get a card for your mum, sister of best friend? You can love them too today, just not in the physical sense. Why is Valentines Day only marketed to those that share a bed? It should be open to all avenues of love surely? But no, if you’re single (“UGH, HATE TO BE YOU!!! HAHA”) you’re not invited to today’s celebrations. What a crock of shit!

See, Vaaaaaallllllentines Day is a “holiday” of exclusion, like Christmas, except without the religious rhubarb. But this time a holiday to celebrate the fact you’ve found someone who can actually put up with you (and let’s face it, we can all be horrendous irritants!) and not snuff you out in your sleep. It exacerbates the loneliness of those without a partner, like a teasing cake shop across from a Weight Watchers. Although, the one upshot to Christmas is you can feign enthusiasm in the Holiday Season even if you don’t happen to believe in God, or Christ, or whatever rhubarb it entails of, but Valentines Day, if you’re single there is no sympathy ; having the day rubbed in your face, well its hard to smile for the smug fucker telling you of their plans for their “romantic evening”.

So, I propose we have an annual day to coincide with this day of “romance”, EXCEPT, it shall be the antithesis of romance and love, but rather, regret and bitterness. The pity-party singletons can vent and seethe over their ex-lovers and down pints of lemon juice to enhance the bitterness they taste in their mouths. They too can have cards, but ones with rude imagery and horrid messages, and send them to their ex, like “You were shit in bed, and I’m glad to be rid of you – BASTARD!!!”, and send presents like torn up teddy bears and dead flowers. Instead of a romantic meal out they can still sit on their couch in their pyjamas and gorge on tubs of HaganDaz Ice Cream (plural), only this time, they can feel like they have as much of an excuse, if not right, as the smug arseholes out there smooching and looking doughy eyed...only alone...looking at old pictures...crying into melted ice cream.

Why has no commercial holiday like this been caught onto by the Commercialist fuck-wits who contrived this annual “holiday” in the first place? It’d cover all corners and make those who feel left out feel like they’re apart of another holiday – possibly a better holiday, one where they’re the only reciprocate of the nonsensical gifts, and no longer have to face the belittling bewilderment of being alone anymore.

  

Yeah, its like a great man once said ; “LOVE...it’s a curious thing…”