Seven days and one week

A round-up of the week's major news stories as seen through the eyes of an inattentive, misinformed moron.

Mine's a pint 

I've never really understood the value of advertising. Like the dim-witted consumer I am I'm probably not even aware of the subliminal messages being flashed into my brain during my every waking minute, oh look an ad about meat, mmm I'd love a burger now. But when it comes to alcohol I'm acutely aware of the powers of product placement. There's nothing quite so tempting as a picture of a frothy pint, you envisage it sliding coolly down your throat as the busty barmaid looks on lasciviously, the possibilities are endless. We all love drink and it doesn't take much to convince us that getting rat-arsed would be a great idea, even if it is 7.30 on a Monday evening. So why the furore about alcohol companies sponsoring major sporting events?

The official line is that exposing young people to these brands from an early age engenders a dangerous familiarity with the ole boozy woozy. So by the year 2020 there will no more Heineken Cup and no more Amstel (seriously who drinks that shit) adverts during Champions League coverage. I guess it was only a matter of time really, the cigarette companies have been pushed to the sidelines in terms of advertising and now to be a smoker is to be a social pariah. But drinking is different, isn't it? Not according to the powers that be. They have decided that the rise in binge drinking among the current generation can be partly attributed to the ubiquity of alcohol sponsorships. So on that basis it's fair to say that the rise in childhood obesity can be in some way explained by the big golden M of McDonalds which is never far from the screen during most sporting occasions. So why haven't they faced censorship?

Down and dirty

“Eeeww TMI Michael!” we shrieked as we imagined that silver head bobbing up and down between the former Ms Zeta-Jones' thighs. “You mucky bugger, at your age!” Personally I think Douglas was just trying to prove he'd still got it by divulging tales of his sexual prowess, I imagine that once you reach his age (68) you spend most of your time talking about 'that fine young thing I gave it to back in the day'. By attributing his mouth cancer to cunnilingus Michael Douglas gave every man in the world the opportunity to say “sorry love not tonight” and I'm sure he was the curse of many a lesbian get together over the past few days.

But no sooner had he spoken then his words were being questioned by experts in the field. Doctors were quick to quash links between HPV (human papilloma virus) and cancer, and they went as far to say that virtually ever sexually active person alive will have at some point contracted the quite harmless HPV. However more interestingly they went on to say that in terms of HPV “performing cunnilingus (oral sex on a woman) is more risky that performing fellatio (oral sex on a man).” So there you have it ladies in bold print and there's nothing you can do about it. We'd really like to but you know, the doctors said it's dangerous and that so we better not. Now in the meantime while you're down there eh? There's a good girl.

Not tonight lads

One group of people who hopefully have never had HPV are the collective clergy of Ireland. Those poor saps who gave themselves to Jesus at a young age must be wondering if it was all worth it. And surprise, surprise their numbers are dwindling; a vocation which requires a lifetime of celibacy is in danger of becoming extinct, who would have thought it? Thus the calls for a change in the system are becoming louder and louder. Let them marry they say, it's the only way we'll save the Catholic church. And they're right, of course they are. Who among us would have a problem with a priest getting his end away with missus priest after a hard day of massing? I certainly wouldn't. Priests that are getting some = happier priests.

But knowing the Catholic church like we do this proposal will remain just that for many years to come. The Pope and his buddies will dilly dally while bishops, cardinals and priests drop like flies. By the time they finally make up their mind there will only be a handful left, and all of them will be told old to even countenance the prospect of popping their cherry at such an advanced stage of life. Here's a chance for the church to do something good, to brighten up their image, and by Christ if there was ever an organisation that needed some good press it's the Catholic church.

Obama is watching you

So Barack Obama spends his evening wanking over your Facebook pictures, did you know that? Sure he's the most powerful man in the world, he can do what he likes. And when he's not doing that he's reading your emails and plotting how to kill your family. Again this comes with the job so it's okay. Without full disclosure it's difficult to ascertain just how intrusive this 'government surveillance' is. I seriously doubt that anyone within the halls of the White House has any interest in the mundane minutiae of the general public, but in order to track down their targets they may have impinged on thousands of civilian's privacy.

Obama calls it a 'trade-off'. A necessary part of the war on terror. And for once I'm inclined to agree with him. It's not like the US government are installing cameras in your bedroom and watching you undress. They're not looking right at you through your webcam. They're simply monitoring the Internet for signs of the kind of behaviour which has already led to the death of thousands. And besides as long as you're behaving yourself then you've got nothing to worry about have you?

Aware

Stephen Fry is my favourite gay man. What's great about Ste is that he doesn't allow his sexuality to define him, his outlook is simple 'Yes I'm gay, but there is so much more to me than that'. So unlike many of his celebrity colleagues you get none of the camp histrionics, none of the smutty double entendres, just an intelligent bloke who's great at what he does. The fact he's a fellow mental health sufferer helps too, awareness of this illness is at an all time high but there are still too few people in the public eye willing to speak out.

So what Fry did this week was quite remarkable. It's one thing to admit you suffer from depression, anxiety or panic attacks but quite another to do what he did. For a man of his stature, a man so admired by so many, to come out and say that he tried to take his own life does more for suicide awareness than a thousand campaigns. Suicidal people often talk of the isolation they experience and how worthless they feel. But here's this witty, charming TV presenter and he's in the exact same boat as you. Thankfully I have never been as low as to feel suicidal but were I ever in that position I think I would take solace, however slight, in the fact that a man as great as Stephen Fry has been in precisely the same predicament. 

Diary of sobriety

A night out like no other....

It starts off pretty much the same as any other night on the town, as soon as the football's finished texts begin to roll in with suggestions of where and when to meet up, requests of a bed for the night should things not go according to plan, lists of who exactly might be coming out and all the other inane details that go towards making a Saturday night out on the piss the most eagerly anticipated time of the week for a certain section of Irish society. But even at this early stage something feels not quite right, you ponder what to eat safe in the knowledge that no matter what you ingest it will remain safely ensconced in your body with no harmful fluids accompanying it and forcing it to return from whence it came. But even this thought brings little or no comfort, wasn't eating a meal fit for a king, and in the process 'lining your stomach' for the battles ahead, part of the fun? You'd fill yourself to bursting and proclaim yourself ready and able for whatever the great breweries of this world could throw at you only to be left choking on your words and your dinner just five short hours later, this was of course until you became a seasoned drinker and scoffed at the thought of wasting not only the fine pre pub meal but also the tasty beverages that followed it.

Once the arrangements have been made and you've treated yourself to the most lavish of meals preparations can begin in earnest. You lovingly lay out your most coveted threads and after much internal debate give your oh so uncomfortable shoes a quick polish in readiness for a rare outing on their part, but even as you do this you find yourself thinking that in a few hours time you'll carefully remove these expensive items of clothing in a very particular manner rather than wake up in them as would once have been the case. You shower, shave and make yourself as presentable as humanely possible before considering whether a few 'going out tunes' are in order before you brave the elemental forces that surely lie ahead, on goes the kind of song that you can only wish they'd play in your local pub and one that never fails to get you in the mood, but after a half hearted shuffling dance around your living room you decide enough is enough, sulkily grab your coat and you're away out the door, your Saturday night has just begun.

As you march in the general direction of your favourite pub, already feeling inconspicuous amongst the early evening revellers, you ring ahead to get the lie of the land, “Well, whereabouts are ye?”, “We.......n........eo.......s”, “Wha, I can't hear ya”, “IN.......G...H......”, “Grand I'll see ye there”. Despite having no idea as to the whereabouts of your companions for the night you hastily hang up as the sounds of laughter, mirth and general joviality coming from the background are almost too much to bear for your tortured soul, you consider texting but think better of it as any response is likely to be as illegible as the conversation was cryptic. And anyway you know that your friends are only ever going to be in one of a handful of pubs so you decide to track them down reasoning that this will most probably be the most fun you'll have over the course of the night as you cheerily barge and buffet your way the throngs grimacing at the sheer joy of it all.

You finally spot the reprobates you have the fortune to class as friends and after greeting them all in the manner they deserve and finding a less than salubrious pedestal to perch yourself upon it's finally the moment you have been dreading all night. “You drinking tonight then Si?”, multiple responses flash through your mind, “I fuckin am boy and I'm gonna go nuts”, “Yep think I'll get a double Jack Daniels to start”, “You know what, I just think I might”, but no these are the responses of a past you, a younger more carefree you, tonight's response is “Nah man not tonight”. They expected this answer but you still feel like you're bearing the brunt of disapproving looks from all those that are present, you tell yourself that these are your friends and they would never judge you no matter if you never drank again but still the feeling of letting everyone down gnaws at you like a tapeworm gorging on your insides.

sniggers from the table behind, sneering looks from the patrons at the bar and a general air of pity as you patiently wait for the drink which you hope can be mistaken for Captain Morgans or any suchlike before scurrying back to the relative safety of your table. You've survived this time but only barely and you feel sick in your stomach as you realise things are only going to get harder as the night progresses.

But look on the bright side you tell yourself, you're amongst friends, everyone is happy and joie de vivre fills the air, it's a Saturday night for Christ's sake lighten up!! And yes this does work for a while, you sit and chat and have the kind of no holds barred enjoyment that you can only ever have with a group of your mates, but an hour or two passes and you notice a slight change in the cadence of the conversation. Suddenly you don't quite get the jokes or even worse don't even notice that there was a joke, people are doubled over with laughter as you sit there nonplussed as to what's going on and even the mate sitting beside you who at one point had been incisive and cutting in his wit has now begun to make less and less sense as he rambles on about something that you swore he told you just the other week. There is no point in denying it for any longer, the people around you are all now well on their way to intoxication and your feeling of being the pariah of the group has returned and this time it's intensified beyond comprehension. A cowardly man would at this point make his excuses and leave but you tell yourself that ,whether through a moral duty or otherwise, you will see this night out to the bitter end whilst inwardly groaning as the first set of Jagerbombs are presented to great joy and merriment around the table.

It's now a little after midnight and rather than being 'well on' and discussing with great passion which nightclub would be best to round off this quite splendid evening you are instead feeling a little tired and have decided to switch to Ballygowan due to the various minerals making your tongue feel a little furry. Once inside the meat market that is your local nightclub you can't help but notice just how different everything appears through a sober eye, provocatively dancing women bring to mind geriatric pensioners with a bad case of the trots rather than lustful thoughts and you daren't catch the eye of that group of rough looking lads over there for fear they'll come over in search of violence. You pause for a second wondering just what this strange feeling in your chest and stomach is and come to realise that it is fear, that's right you're scared, without the gentle caress of alcohol to desensitise you from the mayhem laid out before you you can now only fully realise just how manic everything appears. It's like travelling back to prehistoric times as man is witnessed in his most primitive modern day state, you imagine yourself viewing all this from afar as mating rituals are carried out, tests of strength abound and pack mentality rules throughout. Ladies that were a lesson in demurity just a few hours ago are now lasciviously pouting their lips whilst grinding scantily clad derrieres into whomever's to hand and lads that looked every inch the apple of their mother's eye as they set off for the night are now dangerously weaving their way around the dance floor as they attempt to create their very own version of Saturday night fever.

Eventually it becomes all too much to take as a feeling similar to that of a fully clothed man at one of Caligula's parties consumes you and a discreet but hasty exit is made without any thought of informing your friends lest you be dragged into the inevitably dramatic farewells. The scene on the street is even more terrifying than the one you've left behind but you'd readied yourself for this and a head down walk fast modus operandi is enough to see you home and into the safety of a place where the nasty neanderthals can no longer bother you. You smile to yourself whilst undressing and muse that all in all it was actually quite an enjoyable night and without even realising it you'd played your part in some new stories created for future telling, but as you lay on your pillow and drift into a restful sleep the main reason for your perma grin is the knowledge that upon awakening you shall be free of the pounding headaches and volatile stomachs which are likely to plague the rest of the participants in this Saturday night out in Ireland.