States of Confusion

When did the Irish become English, and vice versa?

Driving home for the weekend, I pass three garden centres and two car valeting services.  Back in the old days (70s and early 80s) we didn't wash our cars and we didn't plant flowers.

The English were always standing beside gleaming Escorts with hosepipes and chamois, or they were sprinkling seeds and tucking tulip bulbs into freshly turned earth.

The reason we didn't wash our cars was because we were afraid the brittle islands of rust that held the things together would be washed away by soapy water.

We didn't plant stuff because we were all renters, and if you improved the appearance of the place,  the landlord would be obliged to raise the rent.
"The nasturtiums are very nice, Sean, but I'm afraid they'll add an extra two pounds fifty.  Take down the hanging baskets or I'll be forced to make it a fiver."

And look at the Brits, referenda and political confusion.  A division between north and south.  Frustration with the Unionists.  A sense of being bullied by a larger neighbour...

Stormtroopers

Ever notice how many Irish people are "taking New York by storm?"

"Richard Quinn, the fashion scene's biggest rising star... proceeded to take New York by storm."

"Erika Fox, from Kerry, is one of the many young Irish taking New York by storm."

"Irish Furniture Designer, Joseph Walsh from Riverstick in county Cork, takes New York By Storm."

"Irish film, 'The Canal' has been taking New York by storm as critics and filmgoers alike are praising the new psychological horror story."

New York isn't a place where we can go, blend in, strive and perhaps triumph in a minor fashion.  Eventually.

Nope.  We need the sound of jackboots stomping on Broadway, crunching opponents.  Fists of righteousness slamming into the walls of conformism.  We need everybody to know we have indeed ARRIVED!!

Funny though, you never hear of any of these guys, once failed, "storming back home with their tails between their legs."  or "storming through the JFK departures lounge."

The storm, it appears, only ever moves in a westward direction.

Ink.

Okay, you're at the South Pole. It's 40 below. 
The polar bears are jogging to keep warm.  In fact, they've jogged all the way from the north pole, their normal habitat (Hey, I check this stuff before I post it.)


You're a detective, on the trail of a sadistic serial killer who is posing as a penguin hunter in the lowest of latitudes.  Your only clue is the fact that he has a pair of distinctive tattoos:  A grey wolf on his shoulder and a condor on his upper thigh.  How do you find him?

Easy.  The bastard will be wearing shorts and a sleeveless shirt.

You don't get a tattoo because you like the idea of some hairy biker squirting Chinese printing ink under your skin; you get it because you want people to SEE it.

You know what would be really cool and 'out there?'  INTERNAL tattoos.  A remote control needle inserted into your lower latitudes.  "Mom" written on the top of your spleen.  How about a full sleeve tattoo on the inside of your arm?   Or a tramp stamp that will only ever be seen by a proctologist?

In fifty year's time the orderlies in the nursing home will be laughing their asses off when they're giving Conor McGregor a sponge bath.
"Hey, Mr. Mac, what's that thing on your chest?  Kinda looks like a dried-out aubergine with a splash of ketchup on in."
"It's a futtin' gorilla with a futtin' crown on his head and a futtin' heart in his mout'"
"And this one, on your wrinkly old arm, what does it say?  Something about a moose?"
"It's the futtin' Navy Seals motto. Slow is smooth, smooth is fast."
"And that's a leopard on your belly?"
"It's a futtin' tiger."
"Right.  It's just, the moles kinda look like spots."

Two types of Torture

The Mount Wolseley Hotel - Bar.

There is muzak coming from hidden speakers, or perhaps this is what the beginning of insanity sounds like:  The Mountains of Mourne with sax and glockenspiel. 

Several big screen TVs, all of them showing the same thing:  Golf.  Could be worse.  Could be cricket.  Amateur cricket. 

In the 1950s, there was a belief that muzak could be used for brainwashing.  Golf too.  In the mid-sixties, signals were transmitted from the geostationary Echostar Satellite and picked up by anything that resembled an antennae, say, a putter or a four-iron.  The wielders of these implements were instructed to shut down half their brains and find jobs in the banking industry.

The Town I loved so Well on bassoon and kazoo, filling up the background.  Phil Coulter must be turning in his grave.  Wait, you say, Phil Coulter isn't dead.

A man can dream, can't he? 

Absent Fathers

So reads the sign on the M7 Upgrade Project...
But when was the last time you saw anybody working on this godforsaken stretch of tarmacadamed misery?  The only chance you have of killing one of these "dads" is if you track him down to his local pub and smack him over the head with a shovel.

Apparently, they're going to reopen the road "ahead of schedule" in April.  Just imagine how soon it would have opened if they had actually done a stroke of work on it.  There's no apparent overtime on Saturdays, Sundays/holy days/bank holidays/rainy days/windy days or indeed days with the word 'day' in them.  Now, with Lent coming up, we might be looking at forty days of labour abstinence.

In Ireland, when they tell you they're working around the clock, they're usually talking about the minute hand.

Once We Destroy The Earth... The Moon Should Be Easy #2

Once We Destroy The Earth... The Moon Should Be Easy.

Mental Block

Juxt-DUH-position

SO, What sort of calendar are you looking for?  will it be 'SUFFRAGETTES - celebrating 100 years of votes for women,' or would you prefer 'Derrieres 2019?'

Ready for a moment of reflection, followed by a cheeseburger?  Then you've come to the right place...

Take in the Famine Memorial Garden and then waddle over to Eddie Rocket's where the neon EAT sign flashes in the window.