“. . . but! i don’t want comfort! I WANT GOD! i want poetry, i want danger, i want freedom, i want goodness, i want sin . . .”

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I remember the day Nelson Mandela was released from prison, I think it was the weekend and for sure I was in my Grand Uncle’s house just two minutes from where I lived.  It was a sunnie day in Cavan and it was a sunnie day in South Africa, and Monsignor Mackin told me to recognise the day that was initt; a wronged man was free.

I loved that old uncle of mine and to this day eyve never forgotten him, a man’s man, which was something to be back then, but nothing to be proud of today.  Two weeks after he died in the Autumn of 1991 I hadda dream where he was alive and it was so real and convincing eyve never doubted the existence of an afterlife since.

* * *

What stuck with me from that day; was that justice will always win, that the wronged will (eventually) be righted, and that time always finds a balance; a proposition I wholeheartedly agree with and yet eyem troubled by the case of Geert Wilders who went on trial, last Friday for allegedly inciting hatred against the Dutch Moroccan minority.  This is a man who fights legally against the orthodoxy of his day and now finds himself in the position of possible imprisonment and I just don’t think this is fair or just, as I believed we had laws favouring freedom of speech, statutes facilitating flexibility of speculation and I see that this is not the case; we only have punishment for those with heretical views toward the beliefs of the modern state.

And what gets me is that no NGO’s stand with him, helping to defend his viewpoint, “itz obviously wrong” and thatz whatz annoying, if you hold the wrong convictions; you’re on your own.

Posted in Civil society, Culture, Europe, Justice, nanny state, Opinion, Poetry, Politics, Quotes, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , | 3 Comments

The Chain of Wedlock is so Heavy that it takes Two to Carry it – Sometimes Three

i woke up slightly hungover on the day i was to marry, and was nervous as my life would change that Thursday, either for the good or for the bad and eyem happie to type that it turned out just fine.

Happie Anniversarie Moo Moo x x x

 

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It is harder to fight against pleasure than against anger.

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“. . . There’s a battle outside and it’s ragin’,

it’ll soon shake your windows and rattle your walls, For the Times they are a’Changin . . . ”

. . . wrote Blind Boy Grunt sometime in Autumn sixtie three, and it seems that the timez are a’changin once more, and as this time comes to pass, how soon wilitt bee that they change anew? For as long the sun sets, everything changes and nothing stands still.

Our times today belong to those who shout the loudest, for liberté, égalité et solidarité, words and ideas no-one can argue against, however the meaning and objectivity these sentiments profess have moved to encompass that of anything the warriors of justice pretend it to mean.

Their perception of freedom is anything goes so long as we say.

They own the idea of equality.

Solidarity is; FUCK YOU . . .

. . . and this is the basis of bliss?

The dismal imaginary place of yesteryear made flesh in the now is the goal of those who feel oppressed; the white male shall be slaughtered as the sperm whale is saved, the indigenous are obliged to feel misplaced as the alien arrives, the indoctrination of young will cease until we have our day! One (supposedly) dictatorial regime will fall only to be replaced by another more grim.

* * *

Three years to go and the wait continues for the one to sing the battle hymn of the new revolution, and the generation that worshipped at the altar of F.U.N.N. will be replaced by the one that finds offence in everything, helped by the atomised young whose distorted views, fuel the fires of separation that progressives profess to detest.

“ . . . The line it is drawn, the curse it is cast, The slow one now will later be fast, as the present now will later be past, The Order is rapidly fadin’. And the first one now will later be last,

For the Times they are a’Changin’ . . . “

 

 

Posted in Banking, Business, Catholicism, Christmas, Civil society, Culture, Dublin, Economy, Europe, Feminism, Homelessness, IMF, Ireland, journalism, Justice, Media, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Lion Eyes

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I used to like Leo Varadkar. Back in the day when he challenged received wisdom, showed little tolerance for the flagrant excess of the public sector and gave away free Lion Bars when canvassing on the door steps of Dublin West.

But now he’s out of the closet, taking part in triathlons (boxers, not speedos in case anyone’s interested) and making a political career for himself by taking all the fun out of life.

First for the chop was tasty grub – I’m talking fast food, sweet treats, creamy desserts – the good stuff (I’m guessing that includes Lion Bars).

Now, he’s gone too far. He’s messing with our booze.

Goddamit, it’s an Irishman’s inalienable right to gorge himself on reasonably priced cheap plonk if he so desires. But no, says our saviour Leo. You shall only do so at exorbitant expense. A minimum of €9 for a bottle of vino, and €2 per can of Dutch Gold. Perish the thought. That’s a rite of passage for an entire generation obliterated in one fell swoop.

During the summer, myself and J Mac took a little trip to the Costa del Retired Irish Drug Dealers and were excessively diverted by the fact we could buy a bottle of Los Molinos for €2.40. The same bottle in our local SuperValu costs over €10.

So the Irish government is already ripping us off to the tune of around €7 per bottle, which also makes a mockery of their argument about over-consumption being indexed to price.

We have posted many times before on the terrifying spectre of the nanny state in this country but this really takes the biscuit. It won’t be long until all forms of alcohol consumption will carry a severe social stigma and the lycra-clad, Irish Times reading, tri-athlon running, quinoa eating masses will condemn anyone who engages in such a boorish, destructive past-time.

Since we love to hold Scandinavia up as a shining beacon of civility and justice, it won’t be long before our beloved booze is displayed behind glass counters with rigid purchase quotas.

But don’t you know it’s for our own good. We’re just too stupid (or intoxicated) to realise it.

Posted in Animals, Ireland, Opinion, Politics | Tagged , , , , , | 1 Comment

An open letter to Mr Dyson, inventor/household appliance wizard

Dear Mr Dyson,

Your hoovers don’t suck.

And that’s precisely the problem.

Some years back I found myself in need of a Hoover (it’s a kind of rite of passage into adulthood and responsibility).

I was easily seduced by the Dyson ideology that you take ordinary things and make them, not just extraordinary but also beautiful. I was lured in by the fact that yes, it comes in pink and oh look you can see inside it. That means when I Hoover up a spider (which undoubtedly is the hoover’s main raison d’être) I can make sure the little feckers aren’t breeding and starting a colony in there.
Sadly my love affair with the Dyson ended abruptly within a week of owning it when I realised it was designed to do anything but suck up dirt.

Our Dyson came with a multitude of accessories (it’s like a Transformer on steroids) including a snazzy head  with rotating bristles for hoovering carpet. Unfortunately after about 10 minutes of use, the bristles got so entangled with hair that the motor jammed, started to overheat and melted the plastic fixings.

I give you fundamental design flaw #1. I mean most people have hair, with a few notable exceptions (Kojak, Dr Evil, Jean Luc Picard) so surely a visionary designer like yourself could have anticipated this happening. Amazingly after I dissected the head, removed the melted components and defurred the bristles it miraculously started working again. I grant you that much, your machines are damn hard to kill.

So we now have a situation where I have to stop hoovering about every 5 minutes to pull all the hair out of the head. It would almost be as easy to pick it off the carpet by hand. Also the Amazing Rotating Bristled Head Attachment jams if it tries to swallow anything bigger than a 1c coin. So matches, 2c coins, small stones all confound it resulting in a loss of suction, so I have to pick all them up by hand too.

In fact generally all the bloody thing is good for is pushing dirt around the floor. It’s basically a very fancy, very expensive sweeping brush. And it fills up after about 4 uses which means I spend my life emptying the cursed thing.

How I miss the old bag filled hoovers. I could go for years without changing them and they just kept on sucking. So I’m sorry to announce Mr Dyson that I’m breaking up with you and getting back together with Happy Henry!

PS. Your hand driers seem ok but I haven’t had as much intimate experience with them. The jury’s still out on your fan heaters.

Kind regards,

R Mackin

Posted in Humour, Marketing, technology | Tagged , , , , | 7 Comments

Dig your own Cosgrave

Paddy Cosgrave Web Summit

I want to like Paddy Cosgrave. He’s a relatively youthful, successful entrepreneur, putting Ireland Inc on the international map, attracting legions of hipsters, billionaire geeks, veecees, and visionaries to our capital, along with Eva Longoria, Dan Brown and Rio Ferdinand.

Over the past five years he has grown his conference (and let’s be honest, despite the smoke, mirrors and technomancy, it’s still a conference) from 400 attendees to over 30,000, generating an estimated €100m for the Irish economy and, one expects, a substantial amount for himself.

I really do want to like Paddy Cosgrave, but he makes it so damn hard.

He comes across as an entitled, arrogant ass. He’s pushy, aggressive and unapologetic.

Most of the Irish business community appears to have been spammed by him at one time or another. I have never received any unsolicited mail from him, which makes me feel oddly despondent – like never having been injuncted by Denis O’Brien.

He castigates hotels for increasing their prices during the event, yet charges €1,250 per ticket and €20 for a pretty paltry luncheon. Moreover, despite the increasing success of the Web Summit, it has largely been staffed by unpaid volunteers.

While espousing the ideals of entrepreneurship, he expects the Irish state to step in and solve the problems his private business venture has encountered.

And he never, ever stops whining. About the traffic, about the hotel prices, about the WiFi, about the media coverage, about the weather and about the government’s lack of initiative.

So we bid him a hearty Adeus and eagerly await the outcome of his decision to move next year’s event to Lisbon.

Most of what drove the Web Summit’s success was the character of the city of Dublin itself. Its informality, its compactness, its pub scene and its warmth.  And it’s a clear barometer of Cosgrave’s hubris that he fails to recognise this.

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A lot of hot eir

eircom logo  eir logo

One of the most significant rebranding exercises of recent times is the transformation of the indigenous telcommunications behemoth eircom to eir.

The former state owned company started life as Post & Telegraphs and latterly Telecom Eireann before reinventing themselves for the dot com age.

Now in a bid to chase the lucrative quad play market, they have unveiled their new corporate identity.

At an estimated cost of €16 million, branding experts Moving Brands earned their sizable fee by dropping three letters from the brand name.

That’s over €5 million a letter!

Posted in Advertising, Business, Ireland, Marketing, Media | Tagged , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Thems the Breaks

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Sunday afternoon and we’ve all left the kitchen to read books and watch sport and sleep, and to think of the fortune we have in living suburbian dreams . . .

Posted in Dogs, Drink, Dublin | Tagged , , , , , | 3 Comments

Once Upon a Time . . .

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I look though the glass to our green garden and itz orange flowers and remember living elsewhere, another time another place i guess, and i find eyem surprised as to how i came to reside inna jazzy house with two loud bitch beagles and a loving, wonderful wife named Moo Moo . . . there was no plan, i suppose i took a Right Turn in mah twenties and ended up in fairyland.

. . . and here the four ones are; myself inna small dining room typing nonsense onto a narrow screen as Moo Moo reads a paperless read by the bay window with our two small September Gurls for company, and i know if eyed planned this present in my teens eyed find myself in fiasco.

* * * * *

“But how do you get there?” asked the child. “Do you get there by walking to the hills and going over? 

“That is what no one can tell you,” said I. “If people knew how it was done everybody would do it, but the whole point of losing your way is that you do it by mistake. You must be quite certain that you have not lost your way or it is no good. You walk along, and you walk along, and you wonder how long it will be before you get to the town, and then instead of getting to the town at all, there you are in Fairyland.”

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Guilty as Charged?

I used to like weekend radio on RTE Radio One, especially Sunday mornings, although eyem changing my mind as there’s just too much misery porn being peddled on the shows, and this weekend was a great example, as Marian Finnucane began her show explaining to her listeners that the new superstar of Ireland 2.0, Jonathan Rachel Clynch, would not be appearing alongside her, revealing heez “gender fluid” as he didint want The Irish Daily Star, the paper of record (and who revealed the news to a delighted nation), to “dictate when he would or he wouldn’t talk about himself” and thank Caitlin he didint as eyed be subjected to the usual cant relating to the lack of diversity and equality and plurality and tolerance and blah blah blah and who are we to judge C.R.A.P. although myself and the Irish listeners got something much, much worse; Roisin Ingle, explaining her need to tell her abortion story.

And this morning as i drove to the supermarket of Real Food for Real People i listened to Sunday Miscellany, as Alan Keely read his lines and remembered how tough it was for his father raising two boys alone in grim nineteen seventies Ireland and i thought; can we just give it a freakin’ rest, this constant maudlin outpouring of public acts of confession is far too much for any person to take, itz wearin’ me down, man . . .

We currently live in an overprotective, liberal fascistic society, which in order to maintain itz dominance, denigrates our parent’s past by encouraging the heretics of yesteryear to continuously cheerlead for a fanciful future, one, where we all exist, but do not live . . .

. . . no matter what the new priests of the present proclaim

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