Salt in the wounds
I
was going to talk about the Budget this week. I was going to talk
about the drastic cuts to social welfare for those aged 25 and under.
I was going to talk about the thousands of old-age pensioners who
will have their medical cards taken away. And I was going to talk
about how thankless a task it is for Michael Noonan to implement
these measures without alienating virtually every section of society.
But at this stage, just a few days after the budget cuts were
announced, I think we're all sick to the back teeth of talking about
it.
It
started about two weeks ago; the financial experts and economists
were drafted in for their views on how we were to claw back some of
our debt this year. And as the day drew ever closer more and more air
time was allocated to these analysts and gurus. This isn't so much of
a problem if you're tuning into the six one news for your daily
bulletin, but when you like to have the radio on as background noise
at all times and your station of choice is Newstalk....don't even get
me started. It's bad enough waiting to hear who'll be hit hardest
without round the clock scaremongering from one of the country's most
reputable news outlets.
On
budget day itself I shied away from all forms of media, my reasoning
being that it was better to receive the bad news in one unhealthy
dollop rather than subject myself to death by a thousand cuts as each
reduction
was announced. By the end of that evening I had digested the news and
stopped to ponder what it would mean for me and those closest to me.
And yet the next morning as I still processed this information I had
it all thrown back in my face again. We'd had two weeks of build up,
minute-by-minute updates and now it seemed we were going to be
subjected to some post-match analysis. On and on they droned,
drafting in the views of those most affected to embellish their
points. It was relentless, and ultimately soul-destroying.
And
it continued into the next day, the same thing over and over again.
No fresh angles, just wall-to-wall misery. Luckily by the grace of
God the weekend came to interrupt them or we would never have
escaped. I'm all for hard-hitting news items which dissect the issues
of the day but does anyone else feel like this is overkill? We know the
country is fucked, we know we're all broke and we know what the
outcome of the budget was: don't keep going on about it! Maybe I'm
part of the problem, a typical Irish person who would rather bury
their hand in the sand than address the topic. But I'm also a
realist, and I realise that sitting around talking about things isn't
going to help. All it will do is heap further misery
upon an already disconsolate nation.
Everyone's
a winner baby
Are
any of you talented enough to have a segment of your parent's
living-room dedicated to your exploits? You know the kind of thing
I'm talking about, that glass cabinet filled with cheap, plastic
trophies. These trinkets might not have possess much fiscal value but
to your Mammy they're worth more than the Champion's League trophy
itself. I was never that talented: the sum total of my achievements
can be seen in the two runners-up plaques I received for being a member of the losing finalists in the local seven-a-side tournament. But boy
do I cherish them feckin' plaques.
In
a few years time every mother will have one of those glass cabinets.
It won't matter that their offspring is a drooling troglodyte
incapable of putting one foot in front of the other without falling
on their stupid face – they'll still bring home armfuls of bounty
on a weekly basis. How come? Because nowadays you get a medal for
everything! Run a marathon - finish four weeks after everyone else:
here's a medal. Enter a spelling bee - get T-H-E wrong: here's a
medal. Go to soccer camp - spend two weeks wandering along the
touchline picking your nose: here take this trophy, you've earned it.
What's
the point in handing out awards if you're going to give one to
everyone? “And the winner of this year's Oscar for best
picture........every single film made in the past twelve months.”
Disappointment and failure are all part of life, without them we can
never fulfill our potential. I'm not sure what potential there is
within Tahitian football but judging by the points system in their
domestic football league I doubt it will ever be unlocked. Their
'Super League' offers four points for a win, two for a draw and one
for a defeat, so you can get hammered 24-0 and still say “ah we got
a hard-earned point today lads, keeps us moving up the table.”
Best,
or worst depending your viewpoint, of all is the reasoning behind
this system. The director of the Tahitian FA explains it by saying
“We
just don’t want anyone to be sad. With this system, even if a team
loses every game, they won’t be on zero points at the end of the
season.” But why stop there? Why not dispense with the points system altogether?
And goals for that matter. Just let the lads run around for an hour
and a half and then when it's all over give them each a big cuddle
and a trophy saying 'You're the bestest, most loveliest man in the
world.' You might not have a very competitive league, but the players
will be the happiest, most upbeat footballers in the world.
War of words
When
I was a young, desperate Leaving Cert student I often came up with
ingenious ways to pad out my Irish exam papers. Or my German ones for
that matter. I'd sit there frantically trying to remember what the
Irish for 'potato' was - but to no avail, I was screwed.
Unless....unless....I couldn't.....could I? Feck it I will. And in it
went, the German for potato 'kartoffeln.' No I hadn't lost my senses,
far from it. My reasoning was that the examiner would see my error
and take pity on me, “ah the poor lad is after getting mixed up,
he's probably doing so much studying that he can't tell right from
wrong.” One look at my Leaving Cert results will tell you that I
was afforded no such sympathy. And that was just the written exam,
I'll spare you the details of the orals.
We've
all heard the stories of youngsters today peppering their school
assignments with 'innits', 'y'knows' and 'gr8s' and
wondered how on earth their teacher's put up with it. But these kids
are simply transferring their own language to the page. So how do you
stop this practise? By outlawing text speak in schoolwork? It's been
done to death, it's time to take things to the next level. A school
in London has done just that. They have banned the use of ten terms
or phrases on school premises. No longer can a student begin a
sentence with the word 'basically', nor can they end one with 'yeah',
and under no circumstances can the words 'innit', 'aint' or 'coz' be
included in between.
How
brilliant would it be to visit this school? Scores of children
conversing in the Queen's English while on the school's premises and
then turning into semi-literate, faux gangstas as soon as they're out
the gate. Will it help improve their vocabulary? Perhaps. But as
commendable as the actions of Harris Academy Upper Norwood are, they
are in essence fighting a losing battle. Because a couple of hundred
years from now mankind will have come full circle, years of
shortening words and inventing acronyms will have taken its toll, and
he will communicate with his fellow creatures by simply grunting and
gesturing. I blame internetz
innit, lol.
Ace
Rihanna, Twitter Detective
My
knowledge of pop music and those who peddle it is limited. Rihanna? She sang a song about an umbrella and got a hiding
off her boyfriend – that's all I got. But twice in the past month
I've had to cause to take note of the Barbadian
(I had to look that up) songstress'
actions. First an Instagram photo she posted of herself with a Slow
Loris (Google it, they're cute) led to the arrest of two men for
illegal possession of a protected animal. And now a tweet about the
goings on at a sex show have led to the arrest of a Thai man for
hosting such an event without a permit. Obviously Rihanna didn't
realise her actions would have such consequences, but this is just
another example of the power of the celebrity.
And
this got me thinking. All of those no-mark, wastrels who have someone
conned their way into the public psyche, why don't they give a little
something back? One tweet from an X-Factor hopeful describing the
funny whiff coming from the kitchen of their local kebab house, and a
couple of minutes later the place is awash with Health & Safety
inspectors. Miley Cyrus, how many followers has she on Twitter?
Probably about nine million. She should be out fighting crime instead
of posting pics of her skinny little arse. Real-life
superheroes meting out justice via their social networking accounts:
this is what society needs. It's the least these fuckers can do
having inflicted their shite music/reality TV/awkward dance routines
on the poor, hapless general public.
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