Archive for April, 2010

Good news

April 30th, 2010

Will someone please cheer me up?

Is there anyone out there with some news that I am not aware of?

Has there been a very nasty plain crash where our entire government was wiped out and only the crew survived unhurt?

Have real scientists discovered a gene that causes people to be rabid anti smokers, and also causes a very fatal and painful cancer?

Have all the climate change ‘scientists’ been eaten by polar bears?

Has the EU decided that enough is enough and is disbanding?

Have Jedward decided to join a gay monastery?

Has someone accidentally nuked the Vatican?

Come on.

The must be some good news out there?

There are some things I cannot talk about

April 29th, 2010

“Don’t tell them about the mice” says Herself the other night.

“What the fuck are you on about woman?  Who?  What mice?” I replied.

“On that web thing of yours.  Don’t tell them about the mice.”

“But there are no mice that I can tell them about?”

“I know that and you know that, but we don’t want people thinking we have mice in the house.”

“What does it matter what people think?”

“If people think we have mice in the house, they will think we are dirty and don’t clean properly.”

“For fuck’s sake!  I couldn’t give a shite what people think about us, or our house.  If they think we are dirty then it’s no skin off my nose.  Anyway, mice will come into a house because it is comfortable, and there might be a bit of food around.  It has nothing to do with dirt.  I don’t know what you are on about because I haven’t seen a mouse around here for months.”

“Look” says she, “I just don’t want people getting the impression that we have mice around the place.  OK?”

“Ok.”

“You promise you won’t mention the mice?”

“OK.”

“Or the spiders?”

“OK.”

“Or the rat?”

“OK.”

“Say it!”

“I promise not to mention the mice or any of the others.”

-oOo-

It’s a pity about that promise.

There’s a rather cute little fella sitting on the window sill watching me type this.

But I can’t tell you about it.

Bring back capital punishment

April 28th, 2010

I was sitting here yesterday, half dozing and the radio was on in the background. 

Some biddy came on and started moaning about how Ireland still allows the smacking of children.

In the space of a couple of minutes the self righteous bitch managed to illustrate nearly all that’s wrong with Irish society.  “We must stop promoting violence against children” she said.  “We must bring ourselves in line with European legislation” she said.  “We must stop teaching our children that violence is the answer” she said.  “We must introduce legislation to protect our children” she said.

First of all, why should we bring ourselves in line with European legislation?  As far as I am concerned, there is no such thing.  There is English, French, Spanish and all the rest legislation, but there is no such thing as a democratically constructed European entity that can ram laws down our throats.  If we like something that another country does, then we should be free to copy it, but the converse should be true too. 

The bitch talked about violence a lot.  She didn’t talk about smacking, she talked about violence.  If you want to whip up a bit of public support, then do two things – use emotive terms and talk about protecting children.  In my book, clattering a kid until a couple of bones are broken, or blood is drawn is violence.  A smack on the back of the legs is not violence – it’s correction.

Up to a couple of decades ago, physical punishment was the norm.  As a kid, I got clattered at home and I got belted around the place at school.  It taught me that there are some things one should not do, as retribution could be swift.  We respected adults as they were the arbiters of justice.  I think I turned out reasonably well?

Then they banned corporal punishment.

What we have now is a couple of generations of kids who copped on pretty quickly that they could get away with just about anything.  Respect for authority is dead as there is no fear of retribution.

As for the shite that smacking teaches that violence is the answer, I’m at a loss for words.  If this were the case, my generation would be extremely violent, while the younger generations would be a placid lot.  In fact, the reverse is true.  In my day, we didn’t go around murdering and stabbing each other, and the rate of crime was one hell of a lot lower.  Our K8 got a wallop or two as a kid, and I don’t think it did her much harm?  I think she has grown into a reasonably well balanced sociopath? 

And what is the alternative?

When I find a five year old about to drop an electric fire into the bath, am I supposed to sit him or her down and explain Ohm’s Law and the physics of electrical discharge?  Bollox!  If I find a kid playing Tic Tac Toe on my car with a bunch of keys, am I to sit him down and have a reasonably balanced discussion on the rights of property ownership?  My arse!  A good swift kick up the hole and they won’t do it again.

Our little Friend of the Nanny State wants to bring in yet more intrusive legislation to dictate how we bring up our children [and grandchildren]?

She can go fuck herself.

She should be shot.

Confessions of a tree hugger

April 27th, 2010

When I was young and idealistic, I used to be a fierce campaigner for the environment.

I marched at Wood Quay.  I campaigned against a nuclear power plant at Carnsore Point.  I signed petitions and fought at the Battle of  Hume Street.  I cheered on The Green Party and Friends of the Earth, and in my own way, was quite a radical.

What are the thanks I get for all my campaigning?

I am marginalised by the smoking ban “for the greater good”.  I am paying fucking Carbon Taxes “for the greater good”.  At every corner, I am preached at and lectured about “saving the environment” and “reducing my carbon footprint”.  I am sick of hearing about “eco friendliness” and “sustainable living”.  I have had to put up with all that shite about Global Warming and Climate Change.  Worst of all, I have to put up with those insufferable pricks John Gormless and Eamonn “The Joker” Ryan, with their visions of us all driving around in electrically powered shopping trolleys, and freezing to death in winter to cut down on CO2.

I have seen the light.

I have had enough of those tree huggers with their pseudo religion and their fucking CO2 obsessions.

I am collecting used oil and dud car batteries to dump in the landfill.  I am collecting old car tyres to burn in the garden.  I am starting a campaign to build a nuclear power plant at the Lakes of Killarney, and another at the site of that fucking monastic settlement in Glendalough.  They can ram their wind turbines up their arses for all I care.

My name is Grandad and I’m a tree hugger.

But I am recovering.

He is the image of every other baby

April 26th, 2010

I have always been amused at the different reactions babies elicit.

Nowhere is the difference between the emotions of men and women more profoundly illustrated than in the reaction to the sight of a new born baby.

I used to notice this in my working days.  One of the women in the office would be careless, and get herself up the duff.  The inevitable day would come when she would make her grand appearance back at the office, carrying a bundle of blanket.  The reaction would be instantaneous – all the women in the office would make a mad scramble across desks and tables to be the first to see this mewling squawking lump.  A few blokes were outed too, when they forgot themselves and joined in the rush.  There would ensue a nauseating cacophony of squeals and coos and they would all say exactly the same thing – “isn’t he/she beautiful?”.  This always struck me as absurd, as all babies look much the same.  Some are wrinkled and some aren’t but apart from that they are just babies.  While all this was going on, the blokes in the office would remain at their desks, cast their eyes to the heavens and carry on playing whatever computer game they were playing at the time.

Men tend to be far more pragmatic about such matters.

I went down to the pub last night, as tradition demands that I be brought a few pints on being a grandad [again].  In case of argument about my entitlements, I brought a couple of photographs.

Nine hour old Tom

I duly displayed the photographs and apart from a couple of grunts, the general line was “do you know who the father is?”  I ignored that, as my daughter’s private life is her own, but it illustrated perfectly the gender difference in reactions.

Tom and Puppychild Someone else remarked that she was awfully young to be having babies, but I pointed out that that was Puppychild, and not my daughter.

Just to be on the safe side, I examined Tom to see if he resembles anyone.

To me he just looks like a bad tempered drunk sleeping off last night’s binge.

He’s the image of his Da.

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