Archive for September, 2010

Research has found

September 10th, 2010

Here we fucking go again.

Research has found another load of bollix.

The latest is that apparently sleeping pills “may increase the risk of dying”.  Wow!  If you take a sleeping pill, there is an increased chance of your dying sometime?  Well, smack my britches with a kipper.

What fucking eejit pays these people?  Is there so much money floating around that they have to throw it at “research” that is not only an incredible waste of money and time, but provides results that are utterly useless?

During the week, researchers discovered that people who self harm are likely to have a television in their bedroom.  What the fuck?  What is the point in even publishing that fact?  Are they claiming that the television tells them to self harm?  The only thing that can possibly result from that useless snippet of “research” is that neurotic parents are going to ban televisions from their children’s bedrooms, which may not be a bad thing, but they’d be doing it for all the wrong reasons.

Now they are trying to terrify people who take sleeping pills. God give me fucking strength.

I have some news for them.  There is no “risk” of death.  Death is a fact and it is inevitable.  To talk about a “risk” of death is equivalent to dropping something and saying that there is a “risk” that it will hit the ground.  Are they trying to claim that sleeping pills can cause an early death?  If so, why are they examining people who are 102?  I would have thought that someone who is 102 has a fairly high “risk” of dying anyway?

How do these researchers know what would have happened if their subjects hadn’t jumped through their particular hoop?  How do they know that the people who took sleeping pills wouldn’t have died anyway?  How do they know that the guinea pigs wouldn’t have died even sooner?

The same applies to cigarette “research”.  They come up with bullshit “facts” that smokers have a 25% chance of dying from cancer.  But they forget that there is a 25% chance of dying from cancer even if you are a non-smoker.  How do they know that the smoker wouldn’t have died of cancer if they had never smoked?  They don’t.

Let’s take a simple look at the sleeping pill thing.  Sleep deprivation is not a pleasant thing.  It is so unpleasant that it is a well know method of torture.  Lack of sleep causes hallucinations and depression amongst other things, so I would have thought that a lack of sleep would lead to an increase in suicide?  Ergo, taking sleeping pills can reduce the risk of an early death.

I’ll tell you what.

Just give me half a million or so, and my research will prove an astounding fact.

All researchers are a waste of fucking space.

Swatting Brian Cowen

September 9th, 2010

I do not like wasps.

They are nasty, useless little creatures whose only function in life is to irritate me and to inflict pain.  They are a lot like Brian Cowen, actually only they are a little easier on the eye.

wasp

Living in the country, we have a lot of wildlife around the place, and I won’t kill any of it, apart from wasps.  As far as I am concerned our relationship can only end with them smeared across the window.

Some years ago, I had some problem with a wasps’ nest in the neighbours eaves.  It was a fucking huge one, and was difficult to remove.  I managed in the end by smoking them out.  When the neighbours rebuilt the house after, there wasn’t a sign of the wasps.

The little fuckers are back.

It ‘s a relatively small nest, but it happens to be in the place where I run cables into the house through the eaves.  This means the little bastards have easy access to the outside and the inside of the house.  They are a dopey lot [again, a lot like Cowen] and just potter around waiting to be swatted.  The other day, one crawled inside my shirt and then just happily sat on my chest until I got around to swatting it.

I’m waiting until this evening when it starts to get dark.  They are even dopier around that time apparently [a bit like Brian Cowen].  I am then going to empty an industrial sized can of wasp killer into the hole.

That should do the trick.

I just wish it was as easy to eradicate Brian Cowen.

-oOo-

A bit of an update

I just went out and sprayed the nest.

The little fuckers just won’t take the hint.

They know they are not wanted but they insist on hanging in there.

That reminds me of someone?

Oh yes.

That shit Cowen.

How to cough

September 8th, 2010

I am nearly speechless.

The illustrious people who look after our health were in the news again yesterday.  Once more, they have managed to kill a poor girl with their incompetence.  There is rarely a week that goes by without someone being killed or maimed by our “health service”.

I saw yesterday though that it last they are doing something constructive.

They are providing a week long course on how to cough.

Do you know how to cough?

I would have thought it was a fairly basic action that most of us have got the hang of from a fairly early age?

I can cough if I want to.  If I have a cold, I can cough if I don’t want to.  I’m sure you are in the same situation?  Even our dog can cough, and does so on occasion.

Apparently our health service think that training is required.

I suppose it would make sense if this course was for the benefit of new-born babies, where they could start life off on the right footing and be experts in coughing from the outset.   That would make a strange sort of sense.

But no.  This course is for the benefit of doctors, nurses, dentists and medical attendants.  What in the name of sweet holy fuck is this about?  Instead of teaching them how to correctly diagnose a severe headache, they are teaching them how to fucking cough?  Instead of teaching them that it is better to remove a damaged kidney and leave the good one, rather than remove the good one and leave the poor victim with a damaged kidney, they are giving a course on how to wash their hands?

I find this unbelievably surreal.

This is weirdness to the power of infinity.

There are times when I am at a loss for fucking words.

Fuck!

Reports of my death are greatly exaggerated

September 7th, 2010

I fucking hate funerals.

They are such morbid affairs.

Wakes are grand, as the whiskey and the stout flow, and the dear departed is remembered as the dear departed would probably wish to be remembered – through and alcoholic haze of pipe smoke.  Funerals are different though as the service tends to over-dramatise the whole fucking business with talk of death and dust and ashes and shit like that. 

I have given a little thought as to how I should like to be disposed of.  Not a lot lot thought, I hasten to add, as I don’t intend to partake in that little ceremony for a while yet.

First and foremost, I don’t want some priest rattling on about what a great fella I was, when the little bollix never even met me.  If there are speeches, I want people to tell it like it is.  If they think I was a cunt, let them say I was a cunt and don’t wrap things up just because I’m dead.  If they want to say I was a grand chap, then I’m fine with that too.  After all, I’m not going to be in much of a position to comment one way or the other?

Disposal is a tricky thing.  I don’t particularly like graveyards, as they tend to be somewhat depressing.  I did entertain a passing thought that I should like to be cremated, preferably on a pile of old tractor tyres that have been soaked in sump oil.  Call it my last little gesture to the eco-freaks.  I would then have liked for my ashes to be placed in as many ashtrays as possible and left in as many pubs as possible, with strict orders that they must never be moved or cleaned out.  That would cause a nice little drop of confusion?

Lately however I have been entertaining the thought of being buried on a riverbank, and a tree planted on the spot over me.  I like the idea of listening to running water, and having birds singing overhead.  With a bit of luck, the tree will become a place of romance, and I can watch as young couples shag each other’s brains out in the shade of my leafy tombstone.

There again, why should I worry about all this?  By the time it all comes to pass, I won’t give a flying fuck.

I’ll be dead.

On the FAS track

September 6th, 2010

There has been a lot said about FÁS in the last while.

For those who don’t know, FÁS is a state training agency in Ireland that is famous for spending public money on itself, and precious little on training.

I happen to know a little about the place as Frank, a very close friend of mine had some insight knowledge.

A few years ago, Frank heard there was an opening in FÁS for a temporary teacher, so he applied even though the job wasn’t advertised.  He went for an interview and met Tom who was the teacher that Frank was supposed to be replacing.  The interview apparently went very well, and Tom introduced Frank to Bill who was the head of the department.  Bill proceeded to interview Frank and the upshot was that he got the job, on the spot.  Frank was to replace Tom, whenever Tom was on leave.

Being a sensible sort of chap, Frank asked when he was supposed to start work.  Bill looked at Tom, and Tom looked at Bill.  “When do you want to take leave?”  Bill asked Tom.  “Next week?” replied Tom.  “I could do with a couple of weeks.”  And so it was settled.  Frank was to start work the following week.

Monday dawned.  Well, it didn’t actually as the classes started very early and Frank lived a long way from FÁS so he was up long before dawn, but that’s beside the point.  Anyway, he arrived at FÁS and met Bill who was to show him around the place, and was to introduce him to the class who were already a few weeks into their course. 

Everything went smoothly and Frank was in the middle of getting to know the class when who should walk into the class but Tom, the teacher he was supposed to replace.  Tom had a little office at the back of the class, so at coffee break time, Frank had a quick word with Tom.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on leave?” asked Frank.

“I am on leave,” said Tom.

“Then what the fuck are you doing in this place?” asked Frank who was a little bewildered at this stage.

“It gives me a chance to catch up on some personal stuff,” replied Tom.

Tom apparently decided he needed a three week break, so for three weeks, Frank taught the class while Tom sat in his office playing games on his computer.  Frank was a bit mystified by this, but he was earning in excess of €1,000 a week which was extremely generous for those times, and considerably more than Tom was earning, so he didn’t question things.

Everything went very well, and at the end of the three weeks, Frank said his farewells to the class, and that was that.

Or so he thought.

A month later, he got a call from Tom, asking if he would like to do another three weeks.  Frank said he would indeed, and the whole process was repeated.  For three more weeks, Frank taught the class on his handsome salary, while Tom played computer games in his office.  It was quite apparent that Frank was taken on any time Tom just didn’t feel like teaching.

Frank worked for FÁS for several years.  He did around twelve weeks a year, and on only one occasion did Tom actually go away.  Frank actually found it quite strange teaching the class without Tom being present. 

I don’t know how much Frank earned over the years, but it was a considerable sum.  And when you consider that FÁS were paying Tom as well, and that the latter was turning up every day but just not teaching, it was quite a waste of money [not that Frank complained].

Weird.

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