Saturday, April 11, 2015

Iron Woman

View image on Twitter

Gwyneth Paltrow
is drawing attention to the plight of Americans who have to get by on $29 a week in food stamps.

She will try to survive for seven days on the selection of produce pictured above. Noble.  Yes.  Very.  If you fail, you win.  Right on.  Good girl Gwyn.

But could I ask just one question?  What is it with the fucking limes?  who would go out shopping for essential items, and come home with seven fucking limes? Plantains I would understand.  a big old sack of spuds?  Absolutely.  But limes? Unless you're planning on slipping into your size 0 black cocktail dress and knocking back the mojitos...

I don't know, but if somebody gave me 29 bucks and told me to look after a week's nutrition, you'd be looking at a bit less green in the photograph.  A bunch of Aldi pizzas and a KFC bucket would be rounding out the colour spectrum.

If I had to spend a week surviving on the above crap, I'd be ready to eat an 'Apple'.  Sorry Gwyneth.  Bad joke.  Forget I even mentioned it.  Seriously.

Friday, April 10, 2015

What A Jolly War

Image result for mount street bridge 1916

A lot of talk recently 
about a proper memorial for the Sherwood Forresters who died at Mount Street, Easter 1916.  Twenty-eight dead and two hundred wounded.

In keeping with this pan-European mood of honouring the enemy, would it be inappropriate to suggest a Luftwaffe monument in Leicester Square? 

How about a plaque for Oberleutnant Robert Zehbe who landed by parachute in Kennington and was beaten to death by a mob?

While we're erecting these things, anybody else like to see an inscription on a seaside bench facing the sea at East Wittering?  


"On 26 Aug 1940, the surrendering crew of a crashed Heinkel bomber were lined up on the  beach and shot dead by A Company, 2nd Battalion, Duke of Cornwalls Light Infantry."

Just an idea.  Get out your granite and chisels

What Happened To The Knitting Patterns?


That's it.
I'm cancelling the subscription to Woman's Own. I don't know any of the Celebrities. Who the fuck is Coleen? and why do they keep showing Julianne Moore's death mask. Bit unsavoury if you ask me. Oh! Sorry. My mistake. No seriously. She doesn't look bad for a 54 year old.

CALLOUS CARER CAUGHT ON CAMERA

HEN PARTY HORROR

SNORING KILLED OUR SEX LIFE (Excuse me, but isn't it against the law to have sex with sleeping people?)

I just want the instructions for a six button cardigan with vents and panels.


Great Irish War Films



Most people don't realise
it was initially set in county Meath and it was about an argument between two small farmers. It was called APOLOGISE, NOW! and the famous words spoken by Captain Kilgore, (from a script funded and developed by our own Film Board) were originally:


"I love the smell of Navan in the morning. It smells like… a piggery"

Unfortunately, Francis Coppola got his hands on it and totally screwed it up, notoriously adding Wagner and helicopters to the showdown-in-the-creamery scene.


Why do the Irish make such shite films? Not expecting an answer. Just curious. You know the thing about giving typewriters to monkeys, they eventually come up with Macbeth, or is it Hamlet? Fuck, my monkeys are useless, they keep coming up with sonnets.

Thursday, April 9, 2015

Ya gotta be kidding

Times were tough
in 19th Century London. When the Royal Court Theatre went looking for a new head of the Young Court, the wages were pitiful.

Dickens remarked that the successful applicant would probably need to "continue selling his bottom on the seedy streets of the capital, just to keep himself in tallow and talcum"

BUT WAIT!!! The above ad was actually posted this week. Twenty six grand!! London. Average rent: beyond your wildest dreams. Why, a man would need at least five bottoms to make up the difference between remuneration and reality.



The Old Neighbourhood


 


I used to live around here.  
Sitting in Searsons in a seersucker suit, well, the first part.  Nice day.

What happened to the people I used to know?  There was a guy called Gerry, I think, walked with a limp, used a cane.  A published poet and one of the saddest people you ever met.  Twenty five years ago, he was always good for a moan and a groan.

Ran into him about four years ago.  Smiling.  Chipper. Downright happy
"What happened, Gerry?"
"I quit the fuckin' poetry.  It was killing me.  Dragging me into the grave beside it.  There's no pity in poetry."

I thought that was poetic, and I said so.  He assured me it was just a coincidence.
"I'm not even trying anymore."

He sauntered off.  No cane.  Happy as the day was long.

Did you ever stand around for a long time, wondering what the fuck you were doing wrong?


***

I looked at the booze menu and thought, 18 quid isn't bad for a bottle of whiskey.  And then the penny dropped.  Last time I lived in Dublin, you could rent a gun for twenty quid.  Bullets were a fiver each.  You could kill everybody in Searsons, and still have change out of a fifty.

Happy times.  

Narcotics for Children



Walked into Avoca in Rathcoole, 

met a woman on the way out, her twelve-year-old insouciant daughter dawdling behind her; both were sipping coffee from paper cups.  At what age should you introduce your kids to drugs?

Here's a rough guide:
Nicotine and caffeine at 13.
G&T, no later than 14
Cocaine for the Junior Cert
Heroin for the Leaving.

Anybody can afford smack, but a serious Avoca coffee addiction?  Time to start smashing car windows.

Insouciance.  Love that word.  Used it in a short story the other day, referring to a secretary who casually dumps a bunch of files on her employer's desk.

"She had the sort of insouciance that can only come from fucking the boss"

Just did a search:   "is the word 'secretary' politically correct?" and Forbes magazine says it's sexy and it's making a comeback.  Didn't bother checking if "fucking the boss" was politically correct because I suspect it may not be.

Saturday, March 22, 2014

Dumb In Any Language


I don't hate many words, 

but there's one that really manages get my back up.

I lived in France for three years and never once heard the word 'entrepreneur', but this morning, on RTE radio, it burst forth at least forty times.

A couple of men were blathering on about the exciting, challenging, adventurous, lonely and not always properly rewarded, life of the entrepreneur. They spoke like a couple of battle hardened soldiers. Their wives understood. Their families made sacrifices. Such is the life of an Irishman with a career denoted by a French noun.

An entrepreneur is “A person who organizes and manages any enterprise, especially a business, usually with considerable initiative and risk”.

In other words, what we English speakers used to call a fucking businessman.

Sunday, February 10, 2013

We Need New Memories













Lazarus Shock! 
Bethany Man No Longer "World's Most Famous Resurrected Corpse"  Fianna Fáil returns.

That's right, it's official. 26% of Irish people have forgotten why they are standing knee-deep in shite.

The recent Irish Times/Ipsos MRBI poll shows that the Soldiers of Destiny, even without Beyonce, have managed to win back our hearts. Performance figures show a resurgence with the Working Poor, which is now pretty much everyone.

And furthermore, the poll puts Sinn Fein at 18% or, to quote Gerry Adams, "Eighteen, with a bullet".


Social amnesia has been studied in mice. Their ability to connect with each other is based on a sense of smell. Their brain produces a protein called oxytocin, and mice without this protein are unable to recognize familiar mice or situations. They ramble endlessly in the maze, incapable of finding an exit. 


When they meet another rodent, say a Fianna Fail TD rodent, they are instantly deceived into believing that this well-fed creature has a better sense of direction. So they follow. And it's a very dangerous thing, the inability to smell a rat.

Wednesday, February 6, 2013

Saddle Steak

                       The author, with food group                         

I’ve always been a big horse eater.  

By the time I was fourteen years of age, I was taking holidays in Normandy, the horse eating capital of Europe, if not the world. 

I tucked my bib in some of the very best horse restaurants between Evreux and Cherbourg, including Le Cheval Savoureux and Mon Petit Poney, both of which have the unusual distinction of being mentioned in the Michelin Guide, and the Paris Racing Gazette.  

By the time I was a young adult, I was a regular at chef Edouard Lombardier’s famous equine eatery, Monsieur Ed’s, where the tables are actually located around the horse pens and you get to choose your own filly (see above).  It’s a bit like picking out a lobster, except it’s done with a stun gun and a lasso.


Here’s the thing, It used to be a point of distinction, when I boasted about having eaten a considerable amount of horse, but now that assertion seems trite and commonplace.  These days anybody who tosses a frozen burger under the grill can pretty much say the same thing.  It’s disturbing, but I refuse to be part of the common herd, so to speak.


Next month, in what I can only describe as a new beginning in my culinary lifestyle, I will head to the mountains of Western Sichuan province for a feast unlike anything I have ever had before.  

I will taste an animal that never appears on European menus and is very unlikely to turn up in the shrink-wrapped frozen offerings produced by Monaghan meat packers.  The restaurant is called 大混, which loosely translates as Panda-monium.