household tax poster ireland

An ominous brown envelope alighted on our doorstep this morning and that was the final straw.

Now we’re really bloody angry.

Where does this government get off thinking they can continue to raid the already empty pockets of Ireland’s working classes?

Enough is enough.

The letter kindly informed us that having received our payment of the Property Tax (which itself is a travesty since we paid stamp duty when we bought the kip in the first place) that they noted we hadn’t paid the Household Charge of €100 back in 2012.

Well that’s because in protest against the injustice of its imposition we didn’t bloody pay it (along with over half the country).

But there’s no escaping it now. Now they know who we are. And if we don’t pay, they can take it direct from our wages. Also they’ve decided, since we made them wait, that we’ll have to pay €200, double the original charge.

Don’t forget this is on top of a marginal tax rate of 52%, €200 a year in annual bin charges, €600 road tax, €350 property tax, a private pension levy, universal social charge and impending broadcast and water charges.

Are they for bloody real? Irish workers can’t afford anymore and yet here they come looking for more…

Can’t wait for canvassing politicians to call to our door before the local elections.


Game of drones

Local election posters Kildare Street Dublin

Spring is here and new life has sprouted with alarming fecundity on lampposts around the country.

Yes, it’s election season.

What struck me driving home past the identikit posters exhorting me to Vote number 1, for Ireland, for jobs, for a good time, was that it’s all become a numbers game.

I’m sure boffins deep in a lab somewhere have produced a complex formula that includes the number of doors you have to knock on, babies that must be kissed, flyers dropped, funerals attended and posters hung.

So the outcome of our democratic process is that the votes go to the candidates who have spent the most on marketing.

And prospective politicians almost bankrupt themselves in the process.

But don’t worry too much. It’s a savvy investment, since, once elected, they are on the gravy train for life, with a secure job, guaranteed pension and unlimited expenses. Well worth the cost of a few thousand posters.

The entire process is destined to attract the wrong types of people with the wrong priorities and the wrong skill-sets, inevitably resulting in bad government.

Successful candidates should be those with clear policies, the right competencies and a genuine desire to act in the country’s best interest, not their own.

Maybe I’m profoundly naive but we have the power to change this.

Don’t vote for the candidate who’s a nice guy or who looks familiar. Interrogate the politicians who call to your door, research their track records and achievements to date. Ask yourself whether they possess the right qualities to represent you, not whether you’d like to go for a pint with them.

Cashel Palace, Tipperary

Cashel Palace

We happened upon this impressive building on a recent visit to Cashel.

It dates from the 18th Century and was originally built as a residence for the Archbishop of Cashel. Its red brick façade is quite unusual for the period.

It was designed by the same architect that built the old Houses of Parliament in Dublin, which today are Bank of Ireland, College Green.

There is also a connection with the Guinness family (of the black stuff fame). Local legend has it that the gardens of the Cashel Palace contain scions of the original hop plants used by Richard and Arthur Guinis to brew their famous stout.

I know you’re well and you’re doing fine . . .

“The Faz” sat with us at the dining table in the dining room with his glass half full of vodka and both ourselves were easing into the evening, aided by beer and wine when! Delaney ran under the table towards the bay window and frantically began licking herself where it no longer mattered.  We all knew there was a problem, ‘specially when i darted to her and screamed (like a chick) as i saw her red insides, come out.  Thankfully the Englishman . . . from, well . . . up the road,  turned the corner with his pal Woodie, calmed us down, as i telephoned various vets until i received an answer from U.C.D.  allowing me to visit with our, as i felt, alien invested dogg.

* * *

. . . and after two hours i was told by Lydia that i could return home, but not until i said goodbye to my two friends and their palz cat who fell two storeys . . . i exaggerate, nine storeys, from a balcony in Sandyford and wasint found for eighteen hours but weel say nothing!

karl and roberta

Karl & Roberta, and her quote of the day:

Mocking is the most sincere form of flattery” . . . and don’t that apply to me! . . .

and because it’s Easter Sunday;


# 8) Jesus, Middle Eastern philosopher

“And know that i am with you, YES! ’till the end of time”




. . . thinking of you;

. . . although i prefer this one . . .

. . . no offence baby bitch face x



“When we die, we will turn into songs, and we will hear each other and remember each other.” Rob Sheffield, Love, is a mixtape.


“I freakin’ hate the radio stations!  They all play the same freakin’ music, we gotta make a mix tape for the car, eyem just sick of this shit!” she says as eyem drivin’ our ceedee less car toward the junction.

* * *

“Okay, letz make this a competition, we get one song each, and letz see who wins” i say as i stumble out the dining room with our cheap music maker in my arms, followed by wifey with stacks & stacks of ceedees to play and record and make our summer mixtape.

Which we do, and which i win, clearly . . .

Side 1:  Alphaville. BIG in Japan (R) Scissor Sisters. Laura (J) Cat Power. Ruin (R)* Jenny Wilson. Summertime – The Roughest Time (J) Bombay Bicycle Club. Shuffle (R) Redneck Manifesto. Good with Tempos (J)* The Divine Comedy. Lost Art of Conversation (R) Roxy Music. Mother of Pearl (J) Paula Seling & Ovi. Playing with Fire (R)* Joe MacElderly. The Climb (J) Michael Viner’s Incredible Bongo Band. Hang your head, Tom Dooley your tie’s caught in your zipper (J)

Side 2: Of Monsters and Men. Little Talks (R)


Brown Dogg starts the comeback!

The Rolling Stones. Starfucker (J)* Simon & Garfunkel. America (R)* Lee Hazlewood. The Railroad (J)* Fleetwood Mac. You Can Go Your Own Way (R)* Delaney & Bonnie & Friends. Livin’ on the Open Road (J)* Cracker. Teen Angst (R)* Therapy. Screamager (R) Biffy ClyroMountains (R) Fun Lovin’ Criminals. Coney Island Girl (J)

Abitt drunk at this stage . . .

Primal Scream. Sick City (J)

. . . back on track,

Kitty, Daisy & Lewis. Tomorrow (R)* Sixto Rodriguez. Sugarman (R)* prefer David Holmes . . . . .






*deadly tchoones . . .

“Delaney! Get outta that garden!”

summer 2014


She woke me early yesterday morning, sometime around six.  The day had been planned a week in advance, and i knew that i had to fix, the garden.  The soil was hard, the grass was long, and the patio required a scrub, and i was tired and somewhat hungover,  all i needed i think? was a hug, from her.

* * *

So i got up on mah day off at the stupid time of 8, and i let the doggs out for a pee anda poo.  She remained in bed with a book and some popcorn and stayed there until she could, no longer justify her laziness and together we walked the two traumatised bitch faces the short walk to their doggie doctor who told us that they need more painkillers and antibiotics, and we smiled and nodded and walked the return journey home where i recommenced the clean up of the back garden.

* * *

It was sometime after four that i finished,

“Yesterday I was a dog. Today I’m a dog. Tomorrow I’ll probably still be a dog. Sigh! There’s so little hope for advancement.”


The two ones woke yesterday morning little realising that their lives would change forever later that day.  Their opportunity for offspring was to be cruelly taken from them by their evil master, Wooth, wife of Brown Dogg, her benevolent husband.


lillian hellman

# 7 ) Lillian Hellman, was an American dramatist and screenwriter, famously blacklisted by the House Committee on Un-American Activities at the height of the anti-communist campaigns of 1947-52.

“I cannot and will not cut my conscience to fit this year’s fashions.”