Resistance is futile . . .

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. . . 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”

In Ireland to be a realist, you must believe in miracles . . . *

the fence of progress fenced them in and wuddint allow them go no further so they obediently followed me by the sidewalk, east, toward the parkland and . . . i was surprised.

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*paraphrasing David Ben – Gurion

Ireland 2.0

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.

“Organised crime in America takes in over forty billion dollars a year and spends very little on office supplies” Woody Allen

eyem aware that stationary is expensive, i mean this Rapesco 545 Stapler R54500B2 costs €24.23 inc VAT

Rapesco 545 Stapler

but todays delivery of our weekly office supplies really wowed me, as i was made aware that 12 packs of coloured Post Its cost €68.00 and the size of the box that they came in . . . well . . .

coloured post its

€68.00 with Codex Office Supplies, whood a’thunk it, huh?

€68.00!

“This land is your land and this land is my land, sure . . . but the world is run by those that never listen to music anyways”. Bob Dylan

i blew into Dublin in the early naughties a very green boy and throughout the years, here in our centralised capital i’ve seen enough to help me make the climb to the heights of Firhouse, an area of southwest Dubh Linn i wasint intitally keen to see, although 5 years later i couldint imagine a posher part of Tallaght eyed rather live in.

The transformation offa closed mind began with a view of the mountains waking me with itz windy wind every morning, azzeyed walk from our home to THE bustop,

Dublin Bus, Bus Stop, advertising

. . . looking east to the affluent coast and the sea that belongs to us . . . and thinking of those in the BIG jet planes taking off from the air port to the north . . . on their business.

. . . the walks with my wife by the dodder in summer . . .

. . . the cattle in the fields close to the convent . . .

. . . and the green open space surrounding the community centre where our dags run free in the evening with myself and moo moo keeping a close watch from behind as we admire the one lonely tree that has braved the burning winds of Kilakee . . .

Firhouse

This land is our land and slowly the postcode we love  will be no more as our green spaces are disposed of by OUR council to make way for indoctrination centres, of the young pledging their obedience to the new Orthodoxy. Nature certainly plays second to that of science and progress . . .

Delahunt’s Restaurant – Camden Street

We’ve been meaning to visit Delahunt’s for some time now. From the outside it looks like an unassuming traditional bistro, with quaint net curtains and a long, narrow dining room. It occupies the building that used to be home to Jack Carvill’s off-licence, which featured in James Joyce’s Ulysses. But the food was far from unassuming. The menu was relatively short and the wine list predominantly European. We picked a Portuguese Duoro which unfortunately was corked. The waiter agreed and it was speedily replaced. J Mac was intrigued by the Pigs Ears pre-starter. Thankfully they were far removed from the treats we feed our dogs. Crispy little strips with an amazing raisin and mustard dip. These were followed by Ox Tongue and Smoked salmon to start, both dishes were delicious and beautifully presented. Then Guinea Fowl and Nettle & Spelt risotto for mains. Finished off with another bottle of red and a cheese board. The food in Delahunt’s is top class, the staff are highly professional and attentive and the dining room is elegant and comfortable. They have retained many of the features of the old bar/off-licence, including an old mahogany and glass office which is now a private dining space. Much to our delight we discovered their lovely outside patio garden space which would be an ideal spot to while away a warm summer evening. Overall this is one of the best meals we’ve had in Dublin in ages.

Airing our dirty laundry

I’d like to think I’m fairly laid back when it comes to housekeeping… I happily cram clothes into closets and shove things under the bed… as long as I can’t see them, it’s tidy, right???

J Mac has a slightly different approach. If it falls on the floor it stays there until wifey trips over it enough times to pick it up and shove it in a closet or under the bed.

Sometimes I think it’s a type of game, like a treasure hunt, where he leaves little love offering around the house for me to find…

Here’s the treasure I discovered today…

dirty clothes on floor beside bed

The trick is if they’re on his side of the bed I can’t see them…

clothes pile on chair

What’s a chair for if not to hold dirty clothes?

clothes on landing

Nice… underpants crotch side up…

laundry on sofa

Spare bedroom… I think these might actually be clean…

dirty clothes on bed

Other spare bedroom that is in fact J’s walk in wardrobe.

shoes on floor

Seriously the guy has more shoes than I do…

random sock on floor

Forlorn single sock inside the front door…

Pyjamas on chair

Pyjamas in the kitchen… no clue how they got there…

boots under table

Shy pair of boots lurking under the coffee table…

dirty clothes pile on dining room chair

Another neatly folded pile languishing on a dining room chair…

dirty socks on kitchen shelf

And finally the piece de resistance… another pair of socks tucked away in a bowl in the kitchen… I get extra points for finding this one…

Seriously, is it a guy thing?

“across the evening sky . . . “

i’ve changed job and i miss the weakdays dayz off. i also miss the late starts, as it gave me the morning to walk the dogs and to listen to good radio (Q102 plays everyday in the new working environment, 5 dayza weak – and eyem sick of Hozier, Ed Sheeran, Sam Smith and “Rhythm is a Dancer”). eyem more offa RTE Radio 1 type a guy, i enjoy Morning Ireland, John Murray, Sean O’Rourke – i do miss Pat, though – and Ronan Collins, i really enjoy Ronan Collins, so . . . i was sad to learn today, that his 95 year old mother passed away.

Ronan introduced me to Sandy Denny.

“get UP! get OUT! get into something new!”

on Friday evening we left east Dublin and travelled south to county Limerick in our battered BMW. moo moo drove and i sat drinking cans of Danish green in the disordered back, where Delaney drooled on the shoulder of my coat, and Bonnie drooled onmah lap. it took three hours to drive to nowhere and we wudda got to there quicker if we hadinta been pulled in by the Guards for speeding.

the weakend waz luvvely and Ballyhoura was warm and welcoming with her long walks to towns i never heard of and hills i thought only existed in Rome.  our dogs indjoyed shit smells and country cousins who’d never met them, and from the sounds of those barking wolves, they didint want to.

tired, we returned to our forest roots; feet sore, from the ten kilometre walk up the fucking mountain, and the ten kilometre walk, down the fuckin’ mountain.  And we watched the greatest spectacle of Saturday rugby thatz bin played in some time.