Archive for June, 2010

Green my arse

June 30th, 2010

I have to hand it to the Green Party.

I have never made a secret of the fact that I love animals.

For as long as I remember, I have been against blood sports.  I hate hair coursing, badger bating, fox hunting and most of all, deer hunting.  You would imaging then that I would be pleased with the passing of the stag hunting bill then?

I am fucking furious.

Yesterday I was cheering on anyone who was against the bill.  I was praying that the bill would fail.  But what brought about that change in attitude?

Our Green Party.

In the space of a few short years, they have turned me from an environmentally conscious, animal loving person into someone who will do anything to pollute the world.  I fucking hate the Greens with a passion to the extent that I will argue against anything that they support.

I am sick of that nut-case Gormless.  I am sick of his smug self-satisfied smirk. I fucking hate that Ryan eejit with a passion.  The sight of him grinning at me from everywhere is driving me to murder.   I would love to smash that white-haired witch who never says anything but is always hanging around Gormless’ shoulder looking like she is about to cast a spell on the photographer.

These fools have propped up the most inept, criminally incompetent government in the history of the state.  They have approved all the bank bailouts and every move that is set to bankrupt our country for generations to come.  And all they can come up with is fucking electric cars, CFL light bulbs and stag hunting.  I have reached the stage that I am anti anything they like.

So I really have to hand it to them.  They have changed my life long ideals.  I now steadfastly refuse to have anything to do with anything that claims it’s environmentally friendly.  ‘Sustainable’ is now a dirty word.  I am going into the business of tractor tyre burning and dumping offal in reservoirs.  Fuck them and their namby pamby ‘Green’.

I swear to God, if I were a TD, I would vote for a total ban on smoking and drinking if the Greens were against it.

All mod cons

June 29th, 2010

The first house we stayed in on holidays was a nice place.

It was a wee bungalow not too far from the pub, which was grand.  One of the first things that impressed me was that it had an inside toilet, which is a nice spot of luxury for a holiday. 

That night, I was poking around the main bedroom and looked into what I thought was the wardrobe, but fuck me – another bathroom.  What the fuck was that for?  The next day, I nosed around the far end of the bungalow. There was a room with a washing machine, a tumble dryer and the central heating thingy, which I didn’t trust.  What did I find next to that room?  Yet another fucking bathroom!

At the end of the week, we had to move out.  Herself had insisted on lighting a fire in the main sitting room as neither of us trusted the central heating thingy.  Unfortunately the sitting room didn’t have a fireplace, so we made a bit of a mess, and got thrown out.

We had a problem then, as we had nowhere to stay.

This Interweb thingy never ceases to amaze me.  I went onto it to see if I could find somewhere else to stay and got chatting to Mick, who comments here occasionally.  Mick played a blinder.  He lives in the area, and he pulled out all the stops, even going so far as to place an emergency appeal on Facebook.  I met up with him for a pint or ten, and he gave me a list of houses that not only were available, but that didn’t mind dogs.  I was gobsmacked.

We chose one and moved in.  It was a fucking palace.  I have stayed in smaller, less comfortable hotels.

The house was huge.

Just to be on the safe side, I checked to see if there was a fireplace in the sitting room, and found that there were three sitting rooms, all with fireplaces and fucking huge plasma televisions.

Strangely enough, for such an enormous house, there was no bathroom.  There was a toilet downstairs all right, but no bathroom.  I then poked around upstairs, and found five bedrooms, and each one had its own bathroom.  This was getting ridiculous.  Some were ordinary bathrooms and some were shower rooms.  The biggest bedroom had a place that was just plain crazy though.  It was bigger than our living room at home and had two hand basins, a toilet, a shower and a fucking huge bath on a plinth with nozzle things in it that squirt water at your various private parts which is quite kinky.

 squirty bath

One little feature I thought was very nice was in the downstairs toilet.  There was a special, built in drinking bowl for Sandy.  It was also quite handy for washing my hands.

drinking bowl

I thought that was a very nice touch.

The people of West Cork must be a very dirty shower of bastards.  Why else would they need so many bathrooms?

I must see about getting one of those baths with the nozzles though.

Sharon and myself could have great fun in that.

Obedience

June 28th, 2010

We booked our holiday house on the Interweb.

There were many things going for it, such as a fair price, a good location, and they said that a dog was welcome.  However the main reason we booked it was because it didn’t say “no smokers”.  We booked through an agent and I was a bit wary as the advertisement said “a small dog”.  I rang the agent and explained that Sandy wasn’t what you might call ‘small’.  She contacted the owners, and eventually I received the contract which clearly stated “Okayed a collie dog with the owner”.  Grand.  All was set.

We found the place without any problems.  I had phoned the owner and his instructions were excellent. He even said his father, Dinjo would call in to welcome us after we arrived.

The first thing we noticed was that there were ashtrays in abundance in every room.  Civilisation does still exist if you look for it.  All in all it was a lovely house with a beautiful garden.

A couple of hours after we arrived, there was a knock on the door.  Dinjo had arrived.

He introduced himself, and I introduced myself.  It’s only polite.

Then Sandy came to see the visitor.

Dinjo’s face clouded over.  He had been very pleasant and friendly at first but now I was getting a glimpse of the bollix beneath the surface.

“We only accept small dogs” he snarled.  “That’s not a small dog.”

I don’t like my Sandy being referred to as ‘that’, but I let it pass in the interests of cordiality.

“Your son was informed we had a collie and is quite happy” I replied somewhat frostily.

“Big dogs are a curse.  They shed hairs everywhere.”  I could see he didn’t believe me, and if there is one thing that really pisses me off it’s being called a liar.

“She’s very quiet and obedient” I said. 

“Hmph” said Dinjo.

“Sit” I said to Sandy. Sandy sat.

“She has to be confined to the kitchen” said Dinjo.

“Give the paw” I said to Sandy.  Sandy offered her paw to Dinjo.

“That dog is going to be shedding hairs everywhere” said Dinjo.

“Kill” I said to Sandy.

Luckily there is a wee bog next to the property, and it wasn’t even mentioned in the advertisement.   

No place like home

June 27th, 2010

Holidays are great, but sometimes it’s nice to get back to familiar things.

Some people say they miss their own bed.  Fuckit – when you’re asleep, you’re unconscious so what difference does it make?

My mother used to complain that she missed her own potato peeler.  She started bringing it on holiday with her.  How fucking weird can you get?

There are only two things that I miss when I’m away from home. 

One is my armchair.  It is nicely moulded to my arse, so when I sit in it I don’t slide around or fall out, which is handy after a few pints.  It’s also very cosy for dozing in, which is something I can’t say for other people’s chairs.

The other is my curry.

There happens to be a damned good Indian curry house in Skobieville, and what’s even better is that they deliver.  They know me well, so they always throw in a few extras, like a side order of sauces or that crispy wafer stuff they like.  They give good portions and the meat is always cooked to perfection.  I have never had a large lump of lamb in my curry yet that I couldn’t cut with the side of a fork.  How tender is that?

I have a celebratory Vindaloo last night to welcome myself home.

It was fucking marvellous.

I have been farting like a trooper all night and shitting the squits all day.

Brilliant.

There’s no place like home.

Back

June 26th, 2010

I honestly don’t know why I bothered coming back.

A load of bills that went straight in the bin.

An overgrown garden.

Some very valuable ‘special’ plants that my useless daughter forgot to water.  She’ll have to get her stash somewhere else this winter.

600 unread items in my feed reader [thank God for the ‘Mark all items as read’ button].

A load of snarkey comments on my last post.

Grey skies.

Lizzie coming to visit next year.  HAH!

Lowry lying through his teeth.

Dropping the drink driving limit yet again.

Fuck that.

I should have stayed away.

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