Grandad May 9th, 2011
So today is Europe Day?
What the fuck is Europe Day? I had to look it up, and apparently it is “an annual celebration of peace and unity in Europe”
What a load of unadulterated steaming festering shite.
If we had control over our own interest rates over the past decade, the ‘bubble’ couldn’t have happened. Europe knew this and bought bonds and stocks knowing full well that we were heading for a crash. The crash happened, and the result? Europe now owns us, body and soul. It was a silent invasion and we lost without a shot being fired. What the fuck is there to celebrate in that?
We are swamped under rules and regulations from Europe. They are inundating us with laws that we we have never asked for and have no say in whatsoever. Some nameless faceless cunt in Europe dreams up a new law, and we have to obey it. It’s as simple as that. If we object we are told that we agreed to that in the small print of some treaty or other. What the fuck is there to celebrate in that?
Through their various ‘treaties’ we have signed away all autonomy. Through their manipulation of the currency we have lost any shred of financial independence. They own us, and they know it. We are now no more than an outlying county in the ever expanding country that is Germany. What the fuck is there to celebrate in that?
The Irish are only just waking up to the fact that they have squandered everything that we gained since the War of Independence. We used to be a republic; now we are just a relic.
Maybe the Irish will wake up to the true facts when on some ‘Europe Day’ in the near future the celebrations will consist of jackboots goose-stepping down O’Connell Street?
Europe Day?
Go fuck yourselves.
Grandad May 8th, 2011
The damned Interweb is trying to annoy me again.
Here I am on a blustery Sunday afternoon trying to download some porn download some pirated films research the decline of the honeybee, and the fucking Interweb is acting like I am using an old modem thingy. It’s not only slow, but it keeps disconnecting. Fucking irritating.
It could be that the lightning we had last night screwed something up in which case there is fuck all I can do about it.
Or it could be that the trees and hedges have gotten a little out of control and are blocking the signal.
I’ll tell you one thing -
It’s a piss poor state of affairs if the fucking Interweb is nagging me to do some gardening.
Grandad May 6th, 2011
I mentioned a while ago that we were having a census.
I forgot to relate the follow-up to that.
To recap, our illustrious gubmint [working on instructions from our real rulers, the EU] decided to take a stock check and we were all given forms to fill in. We were told in no uncertain terms that we had to fill in the forms or else pay a fine of €25,000. We were also assured that the whole business would be completely confidential. [pause for laughter] Now, I don’t have €25,000 just lying around and it wouldn’t give it to those fucks even if I did.
I filled in the form on the due date and left it out in the porch for collection.
The days and weeks passed until finally there was a knock on our door. It was our enumerator calling to collect the form. Now I happen to know that the enumerator is a local, because he told me. Whatever about faceless bureaucrats nosing around in my business, I draw the line at my private information being bandied around in the pub. I assumed he could be trusted however, and I handed over the form.
Did he put it into a locked briefcase? Did he fuck! Did he even put it in an envelope? In my hole, he did. The little shit proceeded to read the entire thing there in front of me. What was worse, he started to query some of my answers! He queried the fact that I live in a penthouse, and had the gall to cross that out and put in ‘cottage’. He queried the number of bedrooms that I have. He questioned the number of children, stating that twenty eight was a little high. All in all the little bollix went about rewriting virtually all my form.
I complied with the law.
I filled out the form, and returned it.
I can’t help it if my form and the enumerator went missing.
They still haven’t found him.
Heh!
Grandad May 5th, 2011
I was at a session last night.
It’s a long time since I heard any decent music in a pub, as these days the ‘musician’ tends to be some bloke with a keyboard full of gizmos that provides what may be termed as ‘background’. The lads last night however were different. Between the pair of them, they had a fiddle, a bouzouki and a guitar, and the only electronics was a couple of microphones.
I probably mentioned it before, but I used to be a bit of a musician myself. I have played at such auspicious events as the Kilkenny Beer Festival [now defunct], the Bennetsbridge Festival [now no more, as far as I know], the Cambridge Folk Festival [still going strong] and just about every pub in the southern half of Ireland. In other words I think I am in a position to know what it’s like on stage, even though that was nearly forty years ago..
There was a fair crowd there last night. There was a gang of rowdy women who left as soon as the music started [thank God], a few locals and a load of tourists from Holland and America. The old tourist trade seems to be picking up again?
The two lads were good. And when I say they were good, I mean they were fucking good. They not only knew their way around the instruments but had a fair line in banter. They mainly played folk and traditional stuff and in between songs they insulted the audience. At one point he shouted down from the stage, asking what country I was from. He had for some reason taken me for a tourist [*shudder*]. I told him I was from the next village, and he had the grace to apologise.
During the next fag-break I got talking to the two lads. I asked why they had assumed I wasn’t local. They said it was because I was listening to the music. I know what it’s like to play to a packed house only to have half the audience yakking away, and it can be tough.
Sadly, they are right. The only people who will really listen to good music are tourists and ex-musicians.
Some things haven’t changed.
*sigh*
Grandad May 4th, 2011
I mentioned a couple of weeks ago that I had a new SatNav.
For various reasons, I haven’t been travelling too far, so I just brought Roger with me so I could practice shouting at him.
Last weekend however, I found myself travelling somewhat further abroad, and it involved some motorway driving.
I was merrily pootling along and wasn’t too far from the exit I was aiming for, when Roger gave a loud BONG. Nothing else, just a single BONG. I gave him a dirty look, and then realised why he had BONGed – the screen was now showing a picture of the exit ahead, and it showed dirty great arrows in the lane I was supposed to take. How the fuck did it know what the junction looked like? Don’t tell me that it has pictures of every fucking junction in Europe because I would find that very hard to believe. The picture was pretty accurate except for one thing – it didn’t show the Oul Biddy in her Toyota that I carved up before swinging across and making my exit. So it’s not that smart. Hah!
Another thing that annoyed me was that it kept binging at me. BING BING BING in quick succession. It was irritating to say the least. What’s more I couldn’t immediately find out why it was BING BING BINGing all the time. Every couple of hundred feet it would merrily BING BING BING for no apparent reason whatsoever.
Then I realised what was wrong with it.
The little fucker was complaining because I was exceeding the speed limit. The little fucking shit. It’s bad enough having the Nanny State moaning constantly on television that ‘speed kills’ but now Roger is in on the act too.
Somehow I am going to have to try to find some way of overriding that speed limit BING. It’s too fucking annoying.
My SatNav has become a SatNag.
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