Archive for June, 2011

Being a good sport

June 20th, 2011

I have never made a secret of my dislike of sport.

Having said that, I have partaken in the past.

I once played rugby for my school.  I was damned good at it too, but was suspended from the team after scoring five tries for the opposition. They should have realised that being short sighted was a handicap?

I once played hockey for RTE. For some unknown reason I was co-opted onto the team as an emergency measure.  We won the match too, mainly because the opposing team ran out of players.

I used to play darts.  A lot.  It was the one sport where my abilities radically improved in direct proportion to the number of pints I had consumed.  That fell by the wayside though as I was banned from too many pubs.

I have played golf in the past.  Once.  I even have a full set of golf clubs.  Actually I have two sets, as TAT left his set here and forgot about them.  It’s not a game that would appeal too much though as it involves a lot of strenuous exercise.  Having played it though, I can testify that it isn’t as easy as they make it look on television.

Where is all this leading ……  ?

Oh yes.

Doug over at Broadcasting From A Shed pointed me in the direction of a bit of a kerfuffle about Rory McIlroy and whether he is Irish or British.  He pointed out that The Journal had a vote on it.  For those of you who are sensible enough to dislike sport, apparently McIlroy has won a major golf tournament.

This shite happens every time someone from Norn Iron wins something or loses something.  If they win, the Irish call them Irish and the British call them British.  If they lose then the Irish call them British and the British call them Irish.  It is unbelievably childish but you can regularly witness this phenomenon on both RTE and the Beeb.  Who the fuck cares?  Is it that important?  The fucker played well [apparently] and won the damned thing so what does it matter where he comes from?

The Journal obviously got wind of the fact that I was writing this.  They ran scared and added a third option to their poll.  Yes – they added the ‘who the fuck cares’ option, but dumbed down on the language a bit.  I’m glad to see that that option is in the lead.

Are we actually beginning to see signs of maturity in these Fair Isles?

-oOo-

I forgot to mention…….

If anyone so much as hints that “we are all Europeans now” or any other similar shite, you’ll get what’s coming to you.  The Fourth Reich thrives on acknowledgement.

Fathers Day

June 19th, 2011

Normally they call me Grandad.

For one day only though, I am Dad.

One must make the best of the opportunities life throws one’s way?

Saturday

June 18th, 2011

What is it about Saturdays?

Why is it that I find Saturdays vaguely unsettling?

Why is it that I find Saturdays slightly unnerving?

There is no rhyme nor reason for it.

I do the same on Saturdays that I do on any other day.  There is nothing different about it, apart from buying the paper.

There is only one good thing about Saturday -

It isn’t as unnerving or unsettling as Sunday.

No pro like an old pro

June 17th, 2011

At least once a day people arrive here looking for “the pros and cons of getting older”.

I started pondering that subject again last night having replied to a comment saying that I can be grumpy if I want to.

The single thing I enjoy most is the freedom.  From birth I relied on my parents and had to answer to them.  Then I started school and had to answer to them as well as my parents.  Over time, I left home, but by then I had a job so had to answer to my employers.  In all those years, my life wasn’t 100% my own.  I couldn’t dress exactly as I wanted.  I couldn’t take off on a holiday if I wanted.  I couldn’t even have a lie in if I wanted.

Since I retired, all that has changed.

For the first time in my life, I have total freedom to do what I want to do, and when to do it.  I don’t need anyone’s permission.  Fucking sweet!

If I wanted to, I could climb into the car right now and head off to the West for a weekend away.  Except that it’s raining and I don’t want to.  And that is the point – I am not going, because I don’t want to and not because some fucking jobsworth at work says I can’t be spared.

If I wanted to, I could wander around all day in the pelt.  I grant you that that does lead to the odd sideways glance when I nip [sic] down to the village for baccy, but that’s their problem.

I go to bed when I want to, and I get up when I want to.  If I decide to spend all day in bed then I shall.

No one can even dictate if I write this or not.  It is my choice, and if I want to stop then I wi

Make my day

June 16th, 2011

I’m in a foul mood today.

I mean I am in a really foul fucking rock-kicking shit-shifting mood.

No particular reason.

You can blame the full moon if you like.

Or the lunar eclipse [which I couldn’t see because it was fucking cloudy].

You can blame Bloomsday for all I care.

Herself has locked herself in the shed.

Wise woman.

The dog is hiding under the bed.

Wise dog.

I have to go out now and the car has a fucking puncture.

I think I’ll go and kill someone.

Talk amongst yourselves.

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