Head Rambles

Grandad May 25th, 2007

I am depressed.

I am seriously depressed, to the point of despair.

We have more wealth pouring in than ever before. We are one of the fastest growing economies in Europe, if not the world.

Yet the outgoing government failed abysmally to deal with health, education, care of the elderly, crime, the environment; the list goes on and on.

They lined their own pockets and those of their cronies, and wasted hundreds of millions on futile projects with wanton recklessness.

But they make a few feeble promises and they look like they are going to get elected back in. Do the people of this country not remember that they didn’t keep the promises they made in the last two elections? Have the people of this country forgotten the litany of fiascos, scandals and tribunals?

It looks like we are in for another term of government from the Galway Tent. More backhanders. More brown envelopes. More pocket lining.

And worst of all - that little sh*t Ahern smirking at us.

How could you all do this to me?

I can’t decide between a military coup, mass murder or to renew my Prozac prescription.

I think I’ll go for all three.

• Election
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Grandad May 25th, 2007

I was a floating voter up to yesterday.

So I floated down to the polling station to see what would happen.

The place was deserted except for a very bored looking garda and a few people sitting behind boxes. They looked like they were expecting thousands to arrive, and all started fighting to get me over to their table, because I was the only person there. And Herself of course.

Being a very conscientious person, I had recycled my polling card a couple of weeks ago, but that didn’t bother them. I just told them that I was famous and that was good enough.

So I cast my vote and went looking for the Exit Poll that they are always talking about. I found the exit, but no Poles. There were a couple of Lithuanians beating the crap out of each other, so I shot them. There was also a very beautiful blue butterfly on the ground. I carried him to a bush in case someone stepped on him.

I suppose you want to know how I voted?

I’m not in Bertie’s or Harney’s or McDowell’s constituencies so there was nothing I could do about them.

So I crossed the first candidate off the list and printed in Grandad. I gave myself Number One, of course.

Herself did the same. So if noone else turns up, I’m elected.

And the rest?

Well, they are all pretty much the same when the dust settles. I still couldn’t decide. Then it struck me. The perfect vote!

I gave them all my Number Twos.

• Election
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Grandad May 24th, 2007

When I retired, I wondered what I was going to do with my time.

The old cliché is that I take up golf or oil painting or fishing. But I’m not very good at those. They didn’t appeal.

So I set up a little business.

I always wondered what it would be like to run a business; to make my own decisions, with noone telling me I’m late in the morning or that I’m not turning the tread wheel fast enough.

I knew nothing about business. I knew the simple basics like not selling something for less than what you paid for it. I knew that the customer is always right, even when they’re wrong. But that was about it.

I thought it would be nice when someone asked me what I did for a living and I could reply that I ‘owned my own business’ [you have to imagine that last phrase with an Evening Cocktails kind of voice].

As it was more of a hobby than anything else, I decided never to advertise it.

“What kind of eejit starts a business and makes a decision not to advertise it?” I hear you ask. My kind of eejit. I’m weird in that kind of way. Anyway, I hate ads.

“What kind of business is it?” you ask.

“Mind your own business” says I, because that would be advertising [but it's a kind of consultancy business. That'll do you for now].

I thought it would be a handy excuse if ever I was asked to do the washing up ["Sorry, I have to do my accounts"] or go shopping ["sorry, I'm expecting a phone call"]. I didn’t think anything would actually happen.

The damn thing took off and has a life of its own. Even though people had never heard of me, they started contacting me. Strange. I got some very big clients. And they started spreading the word. And I got more clients.

Now this was fine. I was occupied. And money was coming in. I could afford to renew the car. We could go to France on our holidays. There was the downside of course - I had to do book-keeping, which I hate. I never realised there was so much involved, because I had always been an employee and someone else always looked after these things. But now I’m on my own.

Things were actually starting to get a bit hectic. I was actually back to doing a nine to five job. Except, when you run your own business, you don’t knock off at the stroke of five, because there is always something important that has to be done. I was working harder in retirement than I had been when I was working. If you know what I mean.

So, last autumn, I decided to retire from my own business. I would keep my existing clients, in case they needed me, but that was it. No more new work. I could relax and read and do some gardening and play with blogs and the like.

It didn’t work.

The phone calls keep coming in. I still don’t know where they come from so I started asking them [That's called "Market Research" - I'm learning!] . It turned out all my existing clients are telling their pals and giving out my phone number.

The last few days have been hectic. I have two new big clients. One was a tender I had been asked to submit about a year ago. I had forgotten about it but they e-mailed me, and I’m to start work straight away.

New clients are ringing on a fairly regular basis. I don’t like to tell them I’m retired, because that might scare my existing clients if the word spread. I don’t like to tell them to fuck off because I’m really a very nice bloke. The only people I swear at on the phone are call centres and people doing surveys.

So I had an idea. I’d raise my prices, so they would go somewhere else, and my existing clients would think they had a bargain. But they keep accepting the quotes. So I still have more business coming in.

I’m feeling more like Reggie Perrin every day.

• work
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Grandad May 23rd, 2007

I met John, an old school pal last night.

We got talking about the old days, of course and what everyone was up to.

“You missed out on Tightarse Terry’s 60th birthday last summer. You were away” said John.

Tightarse was famous for not spending money. We reckon he has thousands in pre-Euro notes stashed away that he’s afraid to declare.

There was a party once, where Tightarse brought a six pack of beer. He hid it behind a curtain. He drank everyone else’s beer and then collected his unopened six pack as he was leaving. He was the meanest character I’ve ever met.

“I suppose it was a bring-your-own and a packet-of-crisps affair?” says I.

“Ah no. It was big. He organised a full weekend. Two nights in a luxury hotel, food, drink and a round of golf in the K Club.”

“Jayzus! He has changed. Did he win the lottery or have a brain transplant or something?”

“Oh no. He organised it, and then told us it would be €450 a head!”

“So Tightarse throws a lavish party, and the guests have to pay?”

“That’s it. And the word was spread that the presents were to cost no less than €50.”

“Christ! Was it worth it? Did many go?”

John laughed. “No one went. He was left there on his own.”

“Serves him right. Mean fecker.”

“We all sent him cheques for €50 instead of presents.”

“You what? After that, you still sent cheques? Did you sign them ‘Micky Mouse’ or something?”

“Oh no. They were all good cheques, properly signed and everything.”

“Yiz are all mad. That fecker never spent a penny on anyone, and you send him what he asks for?”

“Well, we did write little notes on the back of the cheques.”

“Like what?”

“Mine read ‘for the hire of a pig for one night for sexual services’. Franko wrote ‘Paedoclub Member number 2076′ on the back of his. Bruno the Pen wrote ‘Thanks for a great night. Pity about the size of your dick’ on his. I don’t know what the others wrote but they were all along the same lines.”

“Brilliant! I’d love to have seen the bank cashier’s face when he brought them in!”

“Ah! But that’s the point. He couldn’t do it. He didn’t cash any of them. He was to embarrassed. And they’re all out of date now.”

It was a nice thought. Tightwad sitting on a grand’s worth of cheques and not being able to do anything about it.

Serves him right. Mean fecker.

• Rambles
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Grandad May 22nd, 2007

Anyone who has read this blog might have guessed that I am a pipe smoker.

To a pipe smoker, the pipe is as important as the tobacco.

One of the first pipes I had was a Ronson.

It was a strange affair in that it had a plumbing system. It cooled the smoke and trapped all the gunk and was a very nice pipe to smoke. It was a bit tricky to clean because of all the tubing though.

Later, Ronson produced a different version, which was even cooler and had a simpler plumbing system. It had a round barrel and just two tubes that overlapped in the middle. It was much easier to clean, and was just as cool and clean.

I still have both pipes, but unfortunately, the threads have worn out on the bowls, so I can’t use them. Ronson don’t make pipes any more, and noone makes bowls with that type of thread. That is a crying shame because I loved those pipes.

Another one I had which I liked was my churchwarden.

A churchwarden is a lovely cool smoke because the smoke has to travel further. Though I used to get the odd strange look in the pub. They need special pipe cleaners too, as the regular ones aren’t long enough. The one problem with them is that they are very delicate, and the two I had both snapped. Bugger.

When I was in France last year, I treated myself to a couple. One is a EWA “Aubrac” which is nice and has a lovely carved bowl. The other is a St. Clauds “Amsterdamer” which has a nice feel to it in the hand. I have several others lying around of various shapes and sizes.

But I really miss my Ronsons

• Smoking
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Grandad May 21st, 2007

A strange thing happened on Saturday.

I went down to the shop to get the paper and some tobacco.

No. That’s not the strange thing - I do that every Saturday. But when I got home Herself asked if I had bought bread.

I’d forgotten [short term memory loss again!], but that happens all the time so that’s not strange.

I went back to the shop and bought bread.

When I got back, the strange thing was happening.

There was a car parked in my gateway.

There is more than enough space to park two or three cars in front of the house. In the past I have parked four. But this one was just blocking the gate. So I had to park outside.

I went into the house and the first thing I saw out the window was a bloke wandering around the garden with a clipboard and a camera.

“Who’s he?” says I to Herself.

“I don’t know,” says she “but he showed me identification. he’s from the government or something”. She suffers from short term memory loss too.

I watched him for a while. He was a distinguished looking gentleman. He took tons of photographs and made lots of notes on his clipboard. He waved to me and smiled when he saw me watching, so he was obviously harmless. He climbed in and out of the bushes and took more photographs. Eventually, after about half an hour he and his car just vanished.

My first thought was that he was CIA or had been sent by Bertie. But he was wearing a tweed hat and didn’t have dark glasses, so I dimissed the CIA. And he was much too intelligent looking to be one of Bertie’s pals.

Next thought was that he was from the Ordnance Survey. But it was Saturday, and he was too old for them. I’ve seen them at work. They are young lads and they rush around in a hurry. And they don’t use cameras.

Then I thought that maybe they were going to re-route the M3 through here to avoid the Hill of Tara, and I was about to be compulsorily purchased. But the government have made it plain that they aren’t going to re-route the M3 for anybody. They have their minds made up on that one, and nothing will shift them.

Maybe he was examining the birds’ nests? Maybe they are going to turn my garden into a National Monument? Maybe he was admiring my wee plot of “herbal tobacco”? Maybe Herself got it wrong, and he was from the press - “Excusive Pictures of Grandad’s House” across the front page of Hello magazine? [But then he would have wanted to interview me, so that's out].

Maybe he was just an amateur photographer with a new approach? He wasn’t very good, if so, as he missed the more picturesque parts of the garden. He missed the woodlands, and the pond. He missed the pile of old junk in the back woods. He missed the compost heap. He even missed the huge pile of election posters I’ve been collecting for a bonfire.

Strange.

Never mind. I’ll have forgotten about it tomorrow.

• Around the house
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