Head Rambles

Grandad July 21st, 2009

Many years ago in the dim distant past when both God and I were children, my parents used to buy The Observer on Sunday.

One of the things I remember from that paper was an estate agent in London who used to advertise properties on a regular basis.

The first thing I would do on opening the paper was to look for his latest advertisements.

Why?

Take a typical blurb from a modern estate agent -

FOR SALE

Three bedroom cottage in the Wicklow Mountains.

This charming old world cottage retains many of its original features, yet has been modernised by the current owners.

While in need of minor repair, this property is a must see and is a bargain at €1m.

Typical?

Yer Man in the Observer would take a different slant -

Absolute rip off in the Wicklow Mountains.

This property contains many of the features of a bygone age such as rising damp and dry rot.

The current owners have attempted to upgrade it and their handy work must be viewed as an example of how not to do things.

If you feel like doing a lot of repairs and have a spare €1m lying around, then this property might be for you.

Not so typical.  And Yer Man had a phenomenal sales record apparently.

Why?

I would have thought that was obvious.

For a start, people could see straight away that he was honest.

Crowds used to apparently turn up to see just how bad the property was.

And last, but not least, they had very low expectations, and were usually very impressed by what they found.

There is a very simple moral to this.  In a world where we are surrounded by propaganda, dishonesty, outrageous claims  and hard selling, honesty pays.

It’s as simple as that.

• Times past
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Grandad July 20th, 2009

I dropped into the newsagent yesterday to buy the paper and some baccy.

“Was that your photo I saw in the paper?” says the bloke behind the counter.

This had me stumped.  I didn’t see any reporters outside the court the other day, and I didn’t think the case would merit reporting anyway.  After all, it was all a simple mistake.

It wasn’t my fault that I just happened to be bending down on the crowded train, just as the driver slammed on the brakes.  It wasn’t my fault that the buxom blonde happened to lurch and plant a boob in each eye.  It was quite traumatic actually.  It took three men over fifteen minutes to remove my face from her cleavage.  In fact, it took four men another half an hour to remove me after I accidentally fell in again.  I should be suing Irish Rail.

Anyway, where was I?

Ah, yes.

“Was that your photo I saw in the paper?” says the bloke behind the counter.

“What paper?” says I.

“You wrote a book, didn’t you?”  He was obviously impressed to be serving a leading author and a giant on the Irish literary scene.

I began to have my suspicions.  “Was it the local paper, by any chance?”

“It was indeed!  Fancy that I never knew you wrote a book!”

I went home and looked up the back editions of the local paper.

The article went out in February.

News travels fast in the countryside.

• Around the village
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Grandad July 19th, 2009

Listen, fuckheads.

When you advertise that you are selling stuff at 50% off or 80% off or whatever, will you please be honest.

You are not doing it because the goods are fantastic.

You are not doing it because you like us.

Tell the truth.

You are doing it out of desperation because the creditors are bashing down your doors.

You are doing it because the kitty has dried up and you need some readies to at least pay some of the wages.

Next time you advertise a sale, don’t try and pretend that you are some kind of fucking Santa Clause.

Be honest.

Admit you have to dispose of any old shite to bring in a few bob to stave off the receivers.

We will appreciate your honesty.

We might even take pity and buy some of your old tat.

Honesty is always the best policy.

• Television
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Grandad July 18th, 2009

There is one expression that crops up from time to time that is guaranteed to send me into a rage.

“Whatever is the new thingy”

Now what the fuck is that supposed to mean?

“White is the new black”.

I defy anyone to tell me what that means.  White is white, and black is black, and some tacky little phrase is not going to change that.

It is obviously a phrase thought up by some pimply little advertising prat who thought he was ever so clever.  It is meaningless, trite and is not even microscopically clever.

Whoever dreamt it up should be nicely impaled on a steel rod and then roasted very slowly over an open fire.  Anyone who continues to use it should likewise be burned at the steak.

I was flicking around the television channels last night and passed across the news.  There was Biffo being interviewed about the Snip thing.  It was an ugly enough sight, but apparently he was caught at a rally encouraging people to holiday in Ireland.

Behind him was a banner declaring that “Holidaying at home is the new going abroad”, or words to that effect.

What is the point of this banner?

Am I supposed to be so fucking thick that I will book a holiday in Ballinasloe under the belief that I am booking Thailand?  Is it somehow supposed to make be feel better?

Listen to me, you stupid fucking dense wankers – Ireland is Ireland and Abroad is Abroad.  I would have thought that was a simple enough concept, but it seems not.  Ireland is cold, wet and fucking expensive.  Abroad is hot dry and a hell of a lot cheaper.  If you can’t tell the difference, then you deserve all you get.  If, on the other hand you are not going to notice these ever so subtle differences just because someone has written a cheap and meaningless slogan on an old bed-sheet and pinned it to two broom handles, then frankly I hope you stay at home and drown.  The human species will be better off for your absence.

“Grandad is the new voice of reason”.

Now, that makes sense.

• Around the house
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Grandad July 17th, 2009

I like a good joke as well as the next man.  [I’m not sure who the next man is, but we seem to be very alike?]

When someone takes the piss out of me, I can laugh.

When someone rapes me though, my sense of humour tends to wane, just a tad.

When I am mugged, I find my sense of humour wearing just a little bit thin.

When someone tries to kill me, I confess my sense of humour has a strange tendency to vanish out the window, and I have even been known to get a little annoyed at that point.

My sense of humour has been put to the test.

All this year, this government can’t decide whether to rape me, bugger me or just mug me.

Being the indecisive cretins that they are, they ended up raping, buggering and mugging me all at the same time.

Now they are trying to kill me with their fucking pig flu.

Oh all right, I know technically the government didn’t start the pig flu thing, but they have caused every other fucking misery, so I might as well blame them for that.

Seeing as there is something like a 30% chance I am going to get that damned bug, I might as well enjoy myself while I can.

I am going to have a party, and everyone is invited.  The main sport at the party will be Whack the Cretin.  Incidentally, the squeamish had better not come, as I have a feeling there will be a lot of screaming, blood and gore.

When you come, please bring a bottle and your Cretin Of Choice.

Seeing as I am holding the party, I’m going to bring three.  Heh!

Bertie Ahern, Mary Harney and that little bollix Gary Lineker.

Any other suggestions?

• Rambles
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