i bought Metamorphosis years ago when i went out with the girl from Clondalkin and we lived in Knocklyon with the Hungarian doctor from Hungary and my favourite song from the album was “I Don’t Know Why” which was a Stones cover offa Stevie Wonder song and late at night as eyed return home drunk eyed play that song LOUD and wake Csaba who’d join me and the current girl in the living room as we’d smoke and drink and talk . . . and talk . . . and in the morning eyed call in depressed and take the week off work as me and the girl would spend the days slowly drifting apart until sheed be replaced the following Friday night by a new one and the cycle of growing up would continue.
i liked that album alott and returned to it recently as i agreed with mah best man, The Arab, that weed exchange mix tapes, although they aint called mix tapes no more, they’re now known as mix sticks, and the song that would open my mix stick was “Out of Time”, Song Number 1 on Metamorphosis although the version i used was by a guy called Chris Farlowe and itz the one i prefer;
and now! 2 days later after startin with Chris, eyem delighted with myself as i finally finished the fookin’ stick after 5 fookin’ attempts and a lot of needless money spent on C.R.A.P. in the belief that these songs would fill the gaps of the tracks on mix stick Number One, which will be posted to The Arab come Monday . . .
When is a bonus not a bonus? When it’s an Irish Water bonus of course!
Some SIPTU trade union goon was on the radio the other day trying to justify demands that staff at Irish Water, the most reviled Irish utility company in history, be paid “Performance Related Awards”. He went to great lengths to avoid uttering the hated “B” word but I struggle to see the difference.
Irish Water, in its relatively short incarnation, has successfully alienated the entire Irish public, incorrectly billed thousands, failed spectacularly to meet compliance targets and over-spent on meter installations.
Despite this comedy of underperformance, staff members think they are entitled to bonuses.
Good luck with winning the public sympathy battle!
Things are pretty bleak in Roscommon these days. Over half the county is still on “boil water” notices, their local hospital Accident and Emergency facility was forced to close in 2011 due to budget cuts and they were the only county in Ireland to vote no in the Marriage Equality Referendum (although on the plus side they did beat Cavan in the football at the weekend!)
But Roscommon County Council aren’t letting these things get them down, or the fact that they are operating with an annual deficit of €21 million. No sir! Instead, they’ve commissioned a shiny new, state-of-the-art €18 million HQ for themselves. Only, as with any public contract, the costs are now estimated to come in at €30 million (67% over budget).
Let the good times roll!
And thanks to Servant to the Public for digging up this fantastic piece of gombeenism!
It’s a truth universally acknowledged that the Irish are fond of a drink.
In fact we have made it a badge of our national identity.
The Guinness Storehouse is the most visited tourist attraction in the country and foreign dignitaries dutifully fall in line for the obligatory photo op with a pint of the black stuff.
All this despite us having the most expensive booze in the EU – 70% higher than the EU average.
And what clever solution have the boffins in Leinster House arrived at to eradicate this scourge? Why only to make it even more expensive!
Boozing and obesity are now the twin nemeses of our new puritanical Irish society and hiking the price of our national libation is intended to defeat both in one fell swoop.
The government’s cunning plan involves the introduction of a minimum unit price on alcohol, taking the price of wine to over €10 a bottle, which means Concerned from Dalkey will no longer be able to enjoy a cut price midweek Claret. It will signal the end of a decent €4 Bordeaux from Aldi and a mass exodus of oenophiles north of the border to Newry.
Having just returned from the south of Spain, where a perfectly drinkable bottle of white could be acquired for just over €2, it’s obvious we are already paying well over the odds for our plonk. Increasing the cost is hardly going to effect the desired behavioural change. All it will do is line the tax man’s pockets, damage our nascent tourism industry and further enrage middle Ireland.
. . . i don’t buy Una Mullaly, the high priest of permissiveness and i don’t buy her continuous acts of political partisanship. I find her ugly . . . on the inside, a harpy whose nest is nurtured near the nerve centre of opinion in the Free State, and i find her beliefs in the unbelievable both damaging and pernicious.
Her misandry is one thing but her belief in the collective goals of progressivism, another, as not all will follow the hive mind set and a desire that we all sing from her hymn sheet which only caters to an atomised Ireland and a society that continuously competes with each other.
What i buy is a country that is One, happy with itself and others and i believe that for the majority of us this ideal idea did exist in the not to distant past but we now find ourselves near the barricades of a culture war created by Mullaly’s ancestors sometime in the Sixties . . .
“The idea of cultural relativism is nothing but an excuse to violate human rights”
i wondered when i was young how Germans could go along with the Nazis and now i wonder no more.
. . . tonight i saw the crowd, the gang, the oppressed and their enthusiasm spilling onto the warm Dublin streets of the hippest area of the city, partying, and enjoying the end of the old republic and the welcoming of their new progressive wonderland, their Disney playground in their world of tomorrow. The airplanes flew overhead with the cargo of equality in their slipstream and the cool ones told us how they’re voting as they drank their alien beer, and i imagined an island of separateness in a sea of sameness and thought of making it home.
our world of confusion has become more complicated as the new orthodoxy ascends to the throne, to be knighted by those who hid for so long behind the mask of tolerance.
eyem sad, as all i believed for thirtie six years turned out to be wrong.
i walk our walk most evenings, across the playing fields of Firhouse down toward the motorway the separates the sticks from the suburbs and now our walk has been interrupted by the fence of progress . . .
. . . our poor brave tree, and itz dark future . . .