They want to build a casino in Two Mile Borris in the middle of Ireland.  They have actually gotten planning permission for it.

The idea is to build a two acre casino, a racetrack and a 500 bed hotel.  They reckon it is going to be a world leader in casinos.  They point to Las Vagas and argue that that started with a single one armed bandit machine.  They reckon that Two Mile Borris is to be the new Monte Carlo.

This little idea is going to cost in the region of half a billion.

There are a couple of things though that they seem to have overlooked.

Ireland has too many hotels.  During the boom years they built hotels like they were going out of fashion.  Every back road in the fucking country seems to have its own hotel, and most of them are having a mighty struggle to survive.  And they want to build another?

They want to build a racetrack, when we probably have more race-tracks per head of population than any other country in the world.

You won’t believe this, but they also want to build an exact full size replica of the White House.

Two Mile Borris?

There is another small snag that they may have overlooked.

Casinos are illegal in Ireland.

Fucking idiots.

You have to laugh.

Else you’d cry.

One hardly used house

As featured on frequent news items television.

Within difficult easy commuting distance of Dublin [so is perfect for those mileage claims]

Experience the life of luxury and live like a senator.

Offers over €650,000 plus expenses.

Ideal as holiday home, but may be used as primary residence for substantial extra cashflow.

The owner is currently unemployed and is anxious for a quick sale.

Full details here

Two of them I have already mentioned – the obsessions with SUVs and electronic gates. 

I can understand these up to a point.

Ownership of an SUV was a public statement – “look at me.  I have arrived!”  It was an ostentatious display of wealth along the lines of a Prada handbag or membership of the K-Club.  The fact that the owners couldn’t drive the fucking things was irrelevant.

Electronic gates were presumably a statement to the world that the owners of the property had vast wealth that needed protecting, and they were much too exclusive to accept casual callers anyway.

But there was another obsession though which baffles me.

Apparently you are considered to be the lowest form of pond life if you don’t have more bathrooms than bedrooms in your house.

I have seen houses advertised with five bedrooms, all en suite, a main bathroom and a downstairs cloakroom.  What in the name of all that’s holy is that all about?  Five bedrooms and seven toilets?

Of course it is de rigeur to refer to them as en suites.  The upper crust don’t have such vulgar things as toilets.  Some referred to them as ‘rest rooms’ which is an Americanism I just don’t understand.  Who the fuck goes to rest in a jax?

Here in Head Rambles Manor, we still have the outside chemical toilet.  I use it now for storing logs, which is kind of appropriate when you think about it?  We modernised a few years ago and got an inside one that actually flushes, if you manage to wiggle the lever in a certain way.  We spend a minute fraction of our day in there, doing what has to be done.

So why does anyone need a jax in every bedroom?  Is there an almighty epidemic of incontinence?  Have people lost the run of their bowels as well as their bank accounts? How many toilets can you use at one time, for Heaven’s sake!

Why the hell can’t they piss in a shoe like the rest of us?

The meeting was held.

My God, it was horrible!

I decided to bring TAT along as my weapon of choice.  I asked our K8 not to feed him for a day or two beforehand, and not to give him his pills that day.

Unfortunately, she got overenthusiastic, and withheld all his medication for 24 hours, including the injections.

I didn’t know this, and when the meeting started, I let TAT loose.

Even I was horrified at the carnage.  They had to call three ambulances.  Two of my neighbours now think they are Napoleon and are emigrating to St Elba.  Three more are in a state of catatonic shock and doctors don’t hold out much hope of recovery.  I was OK because TAT knows my smell [pipe tobacco, and old socks], but for the first time in quite a while, I was scared.

I eventually managed to get TAT caged again.  The meeting was cancelled because the chairman was crying in the toilets and wouldn’t come out.

I think my trees are safe.

Thanks, TAT.

And, bless her little cotton socks, she has passed it on to me.

She wants me to write a post that uses every tag. It’s all very well for her – she only has a few. I have loads. The cow!

Now I may be getting old but I find these difficult. I had a hard days blogging yesterday, as I had a good rant on a podcast to America. That was after I did my post on Cully and Sully.

So today I went for a ramble around the garden, trying to think of a topic. No go. There was no inspiration around the house either, and I’m damned if I’m going around the village or around the town for something so trivial.

Back in the 70′s life was a lot simpler. There were no computers or Internet, or even television so there were no memes. I had no irritating daughter in the family either. We found our pleasures in simple things. I remember learning to drive so we could go on holidays touring in the West, with no worries about flying and Global Warming. We had such simple sports as children in times past, like watching spiders spin their webs, and the designs they’d make. We’d go for rambles through the woods and have picnics of tea and spam sandwiches. We were a lot healthier for it.

Nowadays, work is the new religion and people have lost the use of their imagination. People only get worked up over celebrities and smoking out corrupt politicians. They panic over property prices and have lost sight of the soul of life.

No.

I can’t think of anything.

I elect not to do it.

I’m going to file this under Uncatagorised.

Maybe Sixty should have a bash at this?

Or how about Kirk at Just Thinkin’? I haven’t tagged him before.

And it’s a while since I annoyed Grannymar!!

F*cking memes….

Do you do things and regret it after?

Do you buy very expensive houses, and wake up the next morning after only to realise that you have landed yourself with a massive mortgage millstone for the next thirty years?

I have just the property for you. I found it in the Irish Times.

Note the caption to the photograph….

So there you have your solution.

I am sick of the miserable weather and the high prices.

I yearn for winters that are winters, and summers that are summers. I want to hear the crickets sing in the long grass of an evening as the sun goes down after a scorching day.

I found this advertised on the Interweb..

It needs a bit of work. It looks a bit damp and worn out with a few bits missing. Actually, it reminds me of myself. It is also in a part of France that is absolutely beautiful.

And has a reasonably warm summer

I could sell the house here, spend a couple of hundred thousand doing the place up, and still have a million or so to spare.

And the price of my dream house?

€10,000

Dammit – you couldn’t buy a dog kennel here for that.

We all live in roughly the same area, which is all back roads and lanes. When I first moved here over 40 years ago, it was an event when a car went past.

Unfortunately, it is within commuting distance of Dublin. But everywhere in Ireland now seems to be within commuting distance of Dublin. So this means that the area is very popular for people to live in.

Now people have to live somewhere, and they are as welcome here as anywhere else.

But I have a major complaint.

This is the countryside. If you want to live here, then please respect that. Stop trying to turn it into suburbia.

Dick lives in a lovely old cottage. It’s around 200 years old. A couple bought the house next door to him [another old cottage] and they are trying to turn it into something that wouldn’t be out of place in Docklands. They want to build a two story extension with a high blank wall along his boundary, that would plunge his garden into darkness from midday on. He is livid. Apparently the couple want about five bedrooms, all en-suite, with games rooms and saunas and God knows what else. If they want that, then why buy in the country? There are plenty of houses like that in suburbia.

Ron had wide open fields around his house. They are starting to build housing estates on them. He is depressed. Where the cattle grazed, there will now be radios blaring in the summer, and burgler alarms blaring for the rest of the year.

I’m not too bad at the moment, but they are threatening to build a housing estate the other side of the road. And we now have street lights and footpaths. And I haven’t seen a fox or a badger in a long time.

I’m not against progress. But let the people who want suburbia live in the suburbs, and let the people who want to live in the country respect it for what it is. Countryside.

If you want to build here, build something that is in keeping with the area. If you want a housing estate, then live nearer the city. If you want a five bedroom house then build it where there are other five bedroom houses. You will feel more at home there.

After all, the people who live in the city sometimes want to go for a drive in the country. At this rate they are going to end up in Connemara before they find it.

So we are a dying breed; Ron, Dick and I. Along with the badgers, the foxes, the deer, the corncrakes, the bats, the squirrels, the field mice and everything else that likes a bit of space.

Very spacious penthouse apartment

This is true, because the commuter belt for Dublin now covers the entire country. So if you are selling a cowshed in Clifden, Schull or Glenties, you can now say it is “within commuting distance of Dublin”.

But you must not confuse “commuting distance” with “commuting time”. They are slightly different.

Now just about anywhere in Ireland is within 250 miles of Dublin. So at an average speed of 50 miles per hour, you’ll make it in 5 hours. That is plenty. You get up at three in the morning, do what has to be done, and hit the road. You’ll be at your desk by nine. You leave at half five, get home by half ten, have your dinner, be introduced to your children [who have forgotten who you are] and will be in bed by twelve. This gives you a whole three hours sleep, which is enough for anyone.

What they don’t mention, is that the roads are just a tad crowded. Only a little bit mind, but enough.

So you get up at three, hit the road by four and reach the Red Cow Roundabout by half eight. If it is a good day, [for example, mid August when the schools are on holidays and most people are abroad] you will only take a further two hours to reach the office.

So you arrive at your desk at half ten and now have to make up time. So you don’t leave your office until half seven. It takes you another two hours to reach the Red Cow Roundabout, so you finally hit the open road at half nine. And the chances are it will be the open road. They love digging up roads here and leaving temporary traffic lights. So that’ll add another hour or two to your journey. So you get home at three, just in time to leave again.

But if the weather is bad and it’s a Monday evening, you’ll just about get as far as Kinnegad before you have to turn around and start Tuesday’s commute.

So the main trunk roads are crowded each evening with commuters dashing to see how near they can get to their homes before turning around again. There is a rumour that one bloke in a souped up car once got as far as Sligo before having to turn around again. I don’t believe it though.

They nearly made it home last night

So. If you out and about at around three in the morning somewhere in the wilds of the Irish countryside, and you see a tired looking bedraggled motorist doing a three-point turn in the road, give him a smile. Give him a wave. He needs cheering up

He has just finished one days work, and is starting on the next.