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.

Insane in the meme-Slane

I often wonder how different my formative years would have been if social media were around at the time. And then I thank my lucky stars that there was nothing more than the occasional camera and hearsay to document my activities. If Facebook had existed while I was a teen my page would have been full of incriminating evidence. Pictures of my gurning, bug-eyed face, videos of me dancing to cheesy French house music, rambling, indecipherable status updates penned in the dead of the night (wait, I already do that) and ill-advised declarations of lust for womenfolk I barely know – and that's just the good stuff.

Among all that relatively harmless activity there'd surely be something that made me cringe, something that reminded me of a moment I'd rather forget. I'd try to delete it lest my mother feast her eyes upon it, but it'd be too late, she'd never look at me in the same light again. Luckily, mercifully, I'd just about given up my hedonistic activities before Facebook came around. Oh how I laughed at the pictures of my young friends lying in a pool of their own vomit, all the while knowing that it could have been me up there on the tinternet for all to see. Being young and stupid is tough, but having your every mistake highlighted and analysed on a public forum makes it substantially tougher.

And nowhere are you more likely to be young and stupid than at a live music event. Shorn of responsibility and free from the restraints of your local town or village you can go wild, in your own misguided little mind you imagine yourself frolicking through the fields like it's the Summer of Love and you're just another wildchild about to come of age. The reality is far harsher; you get blind drunk on unfamiliar spirits and the rest of the day is a blur of twisted limbs, thumping sounds and corrupted souls. By the time it's over you wander through the exit and somehow manage to find the transport which will escort you home to Mammy and Daddy where you belong.

You wake up the next day and wonder what the fuck went on. But unlike in my day where all I had to worry about was a few texts ridiculing me for my antics there's a judge, jury and executioner waiting for you online. The girl captured on camera at Slane acted foolishly but she didn't do anything that the generations before didn't do. I could recount tales that would make a pornstar blush but that's all they are, tales. Once you put someone at the mercy of the Internet the gloves are well and truly off, and whomever thought if funny to post those pictures on Twitter and Facebook can congratulate themselves, because they have ruined this girl's life forever.

If she'd done that in my day her only worry would be facing the patrons of the bus on the way home. She'd be derided as a slapper and word would get around town, she'd walk with her head down for a few months and struggle to shake off that tag. But eventually she'd meet a nice fella, settle down and look back on her youthful endeavours with nothing more than a tinge of regret. Compare that to this girl. Her parents, her entire family, everyone she knows and beyond, they've all seen what she's done and in graphic detail too. How is that fair? Young girls get pissed and get off with boys, sometimes more than one, it's what they do, until they get a bit of sense and cop themselves on.

I'm not sure how the girl in question can ever come back from this. She's already been named and shamed and worst of all the posting of said pictures has been held up as a sign of all that is wrong with social media. So now the debate has extended beyond her actions and the fecklessness of those who brought them to the masses, we are now discussing the impact of those images and what it says about social media in general. Sadly she has now gone down in internet infamy, likely to be remembered alongside Joseph Kony, Rebecca Black and the girl caught flashing her tits on webcam by her dad. Saddest of all though is that for months she and her friends probably talked excitedly about the forthcoming gig, she went to bed the night before giddy and excited about the day ahead, and she woke up that morning with a spring in her step. Little did she know that by the day's end her life would be in ruins, in tatters, and why? Because she made a mistake, just like every teenager in history has done thousands and thousands of times.

Only in Ireland

Oh the embarrassment of it all, 'twas on Sky Sports News and everything. The Brits were laughing their holes off at the thick ole Irish again. Hawk-eye has been used to great effect in tennis and cricket but wouldn't you just know that as soon as we get our hands on it we fuck it up. I say we, but who I really mean are the GAA. The technology has had teething problems in other sports nut nothing on the level as seen in Croke Park last Sunday. Okay so the GAA can't be directly blamed for their piece of kit malfunctioning as it did, but the decision to slavishly follow it's commendation despite everyone in the stadium, and at home seeing it was wrong, is just so typical of the organisation. “Ooer the machine said it was wide so it must be wide,” “But it went over I can see it with me own two eyes,” “No, no, the machine is never wrong, if it says wide then wide it is.”

Instead of using common sense and discretion the man in the box chose to side with the robots and in the process deny Limerick's minors the chance of All-Ireland glory. Indeed the only saving grace is that this happened in a minor match and not the seniors, can you imagine the outcry if it had been in the following game? As it was the appeals from the losing county fell on deaf ears, gway outta it lads oul' Hawk-eye was just having an off day. But this wasn't any ordinary protest, it's not like they were complaining about a poor refereeing decision which came down to human error. Their case centred on a seemingly infallible contraption proving anything but. There was no precedence and you can't help but wonder if the error had occurred in a senior game, and it had been one of the more prominent counties, would the outcome have been different.

As it is the short-sighted birdie has been put out to pasture. You had your chance and you fucked it up, 'tis back to the boys in the white coats for us. I'm sure Hawk-eye return at some stage, but for the time being it'll have to make do with deciding the outcome of other sports, in other countries.

Misprint

The latest newspaper circulation figures do not make good reading; readership is decreasing across the board and it seems only a matter of time before print media dies out altogether. I don't buy a newspaper anymore, and really I should. As someone with a vested interest in the industry it's my duty to support it any way I can. But still I don't. I, like everyone else, simply gather as much information as I can from other outlets, television, radio, oh and of course, the internet. I know that if I want to read good quality journalism then the best place to go is the national broadsheet, but who has time to sit and read for a newspaper nowadays? That's not how things work any longer.

We just want byte-sized nuggets of info, enough to give us a general idea of what's going on. Once we've acquired that piece of data we look for another, flitting from one story to the next without ever really getting the full picture. Even this blog, I've entitled it “a round-up of the week's news stories as seen through the eyes of an inattentive, misinformed moron.”There's obviously some slight self-deprecation there but as a description it's not far wide of the mark (the moron bit aside) and the same can be said for much of society in the digital age. Occasionally a story will take hold and we'll endeavour to learn more about it through well-regarded, reliable sources. But for the most part we just haven't got time. We're too busy watching three-minute long Youtube videos, tweeting 140 character messages and sharing apparently funny stories that we've only half read. Take the Internet away and suddenly the newspaper becomes King once more, but this world isn't big enough for the both of them and sooner or later one has to go. I know who my money's on. 

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.

IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE

A life is a long time, hell I'm only a young(ish) lad and I feel like I've been going forever. If you were to ask me to sum up my existence so far you'd most likely have died of boredom yourself before my story's conclusion, and I'm really interesting! So when I meet my maker another hundred years (yes I intend to live that long) down the line I'll hopefully have left behind many a fond memory and cheerful anecdote, certainly enough to fill a funeral service I'd imagine. Because that's the bit we all remember about funerals isn't it? They are incredibly painful experiences but through those tears we can sometimes smile as a loved one recalls the lifetime of the dearly departed. It brings a human side to what can often feel like a clinical and impersonal goodbye to someone you cherish.

But not everyone agrees. Bishop of Meath Dr Michael Smith has moved to ban funeral eulogies in his diocese, his reasoning being that the ceremonies have become “dumbed down” as a result.  And here was me thinking the Catholic church was out of touch with modern day society?! Clearly a balance has to be struck here, as much as I'd like to have Biggie Smalls played at my funeral I know it's never gonna happen. Instead I'll be more circumspect and plump for some Stevie Wonder, that's okay right? And herein lies the problem, the Church fully believes that secular material has no place in their house, but who decides what's appropriate and what's not?

It's not just music that they have a problem with however, Dr Smith has banned all texts devoid of a Christian context. So that beautiful poem which sums up everything great about your loved one? No we can't have that I'm afraid, why not read this indecipherable scripture instead? Sadly there is only one solution here, and it involves yet further distancing from the church. If the priest isn't willing to give the deceased the send-off they deserve then we'll just do it ourselves. And this is the way we're headed, most of the upcoming generation have no more than a passing interest in the Church and it's arcane ways. They see it as a decaying institution ravaged by scandal and unwillingness to change. Do you think this latest ban is going to change that? Of course not, it's just going to drive them away further. The times they are a' changing and if the Church doesn't keep up it's going to be left behind, way behind, until it's extinct.

IF A TREE FALLS IN AN EMPTY FOREST

Jimmy Magee, George Hamilton, even Ger Canning, they're all part of Irish folklore, and they've all helped define our sporting memories over the years. Whether it's Hamilton's “the nation holds it's breath”, Magee's listing of every Irish Olympic medallist as John Treacy won his and Ger Canning's...um...let's skip that one. When we think back on our favourite sporting moments it's inevitable that we remember the words that accompanied them, it wouldn't be the same without them. After all we don't prosper on the international scene all that often, so when we do we like to replay the moment over and over and over again, ad infinitum.

And yet as of today, just a few hours after Rob Heffernan became only the third Irish person to win gold at the World Athletics Championships, I have yet to see anything more than brief highlights of his joyous victory. And worse still those highlights were voiced not by Magee or any of his colleagues, they played out to the backbeat of a British commentator on Eurosport. When I first realised our state broadcaster would not be covering these championships I stated that it would hardly inspire our athletes to greater heights. The knowledge that their country's TV network couldn't be bothered televising their exploits must have been quite demoralising for the eleven Irish athletes competing in Moscow.

Or perhaps it had the opposite effect, maybe it served as a motivational tool – they think we're not worth showing? Well we'll show them! And while most of the Irish competitors performed exactly as those at RTÉ had expected one man has left them with large portions of egg on their face. Heffernan's gold should assure him of legendary status in his native Cork but really he should already be a national hero. We saw what the Olympics did for Katie Taylor and the sport of boxing so why shouldn't it be the same for Rob Heffernan and his discipline. Okay so the 50k walk might not be the most glamorous of events but the very fact we have the world's best proponent of it should count for something. But sadly it won't. If we're lucky we might get to see his medal ceremony tomorrow evening but that's about it. And if we want to relive his victory? I hope you have that mute button at the ready.

GINGER AND PROUD

Barely a week can go by in this country without a march of some description. Whether it’s gaudily attired Northerners, proud homosexuals or irate pro-lifers we’ve grown accustomed to seeing swathes of people troop up and down our main thoroughfares. For the most part these protests pass off peacefully and the intended message is received loud and clear. Indeed some might say that the Irish don’t gather in unison to state their collective case enough, we’re too laissez faire they say, we should be more like the French. But the problem is that despite being a tiny little island with a meagre population we possess numerous, wildly varying, opinions on the issues that matter. And as a result we can barely agree on things long enough to stand side by side for a second never mind organise a march.

But salvation is at hand. I don’t know the exact figures, but there is one thing that unites at least a quarter of the population. No it’s not the latest Gallup polls which show the re-emergence of Fianna Faíl, nor is it the shared belief that Giovanni Trappatoni should have been quietly escorted back to Italy after the debacle at last year’s European Championship, it’s something that thousands upon thousands of Irish people are born with, and something that they’re persecuted for during their every waking minute. Ginger hair.

We all know a few gingers, and we’ve all taken great delight in besmirching them for their unfortunate shade of follicle. But now they’re fighting back, and about time too. The first ever Ginger Pride March took place in Edinburgh this week, how fitting that it took place in a similarly plagued country, that of our carrot-topped Celtic cousins. It was a fairly low key event with just 100 participants, but this is surely only the start of a movement, even the civil rights action began as a small-scale event. And the ginger nation equals, if not outnumbers, that of it’s sinned against predecessors.

The worry now for us normal folk is that the gingers will find strength in numbers, they’ll come together and start a revolution. Their goal? The eradication of the sallow-skinned, raven-haired members of society. They’ll stop at nothing, and only when Ireland is restored to it’s rightful state – a country of pasty, freckled redheads – will they be sated. We’ve had our fun, we’ve made our jokes, but it looks like the last laugh will be on us.

KID A

The day I received my Leaving Cert results has long since receded from memory. I vaguely recall ripping open a piece of paper and shrugging my shoulders before asking one of the bigger lads to accompany me to the off-license, the rest of the day (and night) is something of a blur. The contents of that envelope just confirmed what I already knew, that I’d wasted my school years due to an apathy which completely overwhelmed me. Ho hum. It wasn’t that I considered myself too cool to try, and it certainly wasn’t down to being a bit fick (did I spell that right?), I just couldn’t be bothered. What a little shit I was.

It’s probably fair to say that Mark Berney is the polar opposite to my young self. The child prodigy was the only student in the country to receive nine A1s in his Leaving Cert results this week. And even more incredible he only took up one of his subjects in February! I wonder what he does for fun? Of course I’m just jealous, it took me another ten years before I realised that life required hard work if you were to prosper. Clearly Mark is way ahead of schedule on that count, he’s worked his clever little arse off and is now set to reap the benefits. I wish him every success in his future endeavours, not that he needs it.  

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.

AND YOU ARE?

There is one phrase that no celebrity worth their salt should ever have to utter. A phrase so pathetic and self-serving that to speak it instantly labels you a nobody, and not only a nobody but a nobody with an attitude. The phrase is of course “Do you know who I am?” No, we don't know who you are and we don't give a fuck either, now piss off. Usually this utterance is the sole preserve of former boyband members or lower league footballers, but occasionally even the big guns are forced to wonder it, if not come right out and say it.

Oprah Winfrey, despite being largely ignored anywhere outside of the States, would most likely consider herself a big gun in the celebrity world. In all honesty I'm not quite sure what she does anymore, I'm aware that she's queen of the daytime chat show but that alone doesn't explain her fame and wealth. She is what you'd call a brand I suppose, someone who's personality has long since outstripped her worth. And in all honesty if she were walking down O'Connell Street in Limerick City tomorrow I would walk past her with nary a hint of recognition.

So on that basis I have more than a smidgen of sympathy for the Zurich shop assistant who has been branded a racist by Oprah. The shop assistant's crime? Advising Ms Winfrey that a particular item in the store was “too expensive.”Perhaps Oprah sensed something in the tone of this mysterious Swiss racist, something that told her “don't be silly love you couldn't afford this, you are black after all.” Or perhaps she was just a little peeved that the worker in question hadn't the foggiest who she was, Winfrey was even moved to lament “obviously the Oprah Winfrey show is not shown in Zurich.”

It's easy for me, a white man living in a largely white populous, to scoff at Oprah's words, I don't have to carry the burden that every ethnic minority does on a daily basis. But in this instance I can't help but feel she's jumping to conclusions. The worker simply said the item was too expensive, and the likelihood is that he/she would have said the exact same thing to any shopper whom they didn't recognise as being dripping with cash. Maybe Oprah felt a little peeved by this perceived slight, maybe she thought her fame spread all the way through central Europe and beyond, and maybe this is her way of ensuring that if the people of Switzerland weren't aware of who she was before they certainly are now.

SUN DON'T SHINE ANY MORE

As a teenage boy there was no sight more exciting, a glimpse of that red-top and already your mind was racing; who will it be? Sam from Surrey? Jo from Birmingham? Or your favourite, Amanda from Essex? But the red-top in question wasn't draped around the shoulders of a buxom lady, it was emblazoned across the front page of the nation's favourite tabloid, the Sun. And you knew that just one page in all your hopes and dreams would come to life in the form of the page three lovely.

We're all a lot older and wiser now, the sight of a bare-chested lady is something we've come to take for granted given the ease of access to such delights via the Internet. But even now when I see a discarded Sun newspaper I can't resist having a sneaky peek for old time's sake. However the next time I flick through that esteemed publication I may be in for something of a surprise, because instead of ogling a pert pair of breasts on the third page I will be met with a tastefully shot woman in a swimsuit.

Of course the irony of this move by the Irish edition of the tabloid is that nobody really gives a fuck. Who needs Page Three when we've got (insert your site of choice here). If this had happened during the nineties there would have been outrage and many a young lad would have been deprived of his only access to the female form. The Sun claim that their reason for removing the topless pictures is that it has become outdated and archaic, but the truth is that people don't buy the paper for such reasons anymore so why persevere with it? They may try and claim the moral high ground but one glance through the rest of that newspaper will tell you that tits or no tits it's still the same old Sun, and the quality of it's content is unlikely to change any time soon. 

NOW YOU'VE GONE AND DONE IT 

There's nothing worse than a social media faux pas, you concoct what you believe to be a credible argument, press post and instantly forget about it. Then, a few hours later, you log back in and all hell has broke loose. What the fuck have I done? Shit! Usually all you've done is call someone a fat bastard or intimate that someone's baby is ugly, but occasionally you really fuck up and have to go incognito (offline) for a few days until it all blows over. But Derek Medina is going to have to do a lot more than simply go offline before his indiscretion is forgotten about.

The South Floridian had been having some girl trouble of late and in true Facebook style he took to the web to do a little venting. “I'm going to prison or death sentence for killing my wife,” he said on Thursday morning, oh Derek you're such a drama queen shall I send you a pm and we can talk this over? But he wasn't kidding, and to prove his point he followed up his confession with a picture of the wife in question, and she was clearly quite dead. Fucking hell Derek you've really gone and done it now.

The only surprise is that Medina was the first person to do this, when you see some of the shit published on social media sites it's a miracle that it's taken this long. Quite simply if you give people an outlet then it's only a matter of time until they abuse it. The staggering thing is that the picture in question remained on Medina's timeline for up to five hours. Where were the Facebook police then? When I posted a picture of my knob it was taken down within minutes and I got banned for a week.*

The fear in a case like this is that it will start a trend. The Woolwich murders showed how evil people can use the Internet as a tool for their propaganda. At the time we wondered whether Lee Rigby would have been so brutally slain if the act couldn't then be viewed by millions of people. Chances are Derek Medina would have murdered his wife regardless we'll never know, but the story here is not that of a deranged man killing his spouse in cold blood, it is the effect social media is having on society and those who use it.

A GREAT BUNCH

You've all had a great laugh at Kilkenny's expense this summer, the all-conquering Cats finally laid to rest and poor Henry sent off into the bargain. Hahaha, fuckin' hilarious. Well I'm afraid the joke's on you. We're still the best in the country - no not at hurling, not until next year - but at life. To be more precise we are the friendliest, loveliest people in the whole country. And not only that, we are also the friendliest, loveliest people in the whole of Europe. Suck on that Rebel County!

And just in case you think I'm making this up in a last-ditch attempt to save face after a summer of relative failure I will point you in the direction of esteemed travel magazine Conde Naste. It is their readers who placed the Marble City as Ireland's, and Europe's, friendliest, placing it ninth in the world behind such luminaries as Paro, Thimpo and Florianopolis (no I've never heard of them either). And the stats don't lie, us Kilkenny folk are simply a joy to be around bringing happiness and pleasure to all we meet. I presume the votes were counted in advance of the Cats exit from this year's Championship though, because any tourist visiting our fine city from that day onwards is likely to have received a tepid welcome at best.  



* I have never, nor will I ever, post a picture of my junk on Facebook. You should be so lucky!

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.

BALE OUT

At the time of writing Gareth Bale is still a Tottenham Hotspur player. But with an offer rumoured to be in excess of 100 million pounds on the table it appears only a matter of time before the Welshman swaps the white of Spurs for that of Madrid. It really is an outlandish sum of money and the size of the fee has sparked fevered debate among football fans throughout the world - the common theme being “Is he worth it?”But who knows if he's worth it? His value is inestimable when compared to real world finances. However when it comes to money football has always made up it's own rules. Forget about the fact that over half of Spaniards under twenty-five are unemployed, or that Real are heavily in debt and continue to flagrantly disregard the recently introduced FFP; Barcelona have signed Neymar, and the King's club can't have those pesky Catalans outdoing them.

This is what football has become, a willy-waving contest. And in spite of all their prestige and history Real Madrid are by far the worst culprits. The craziest thing of all is that as a squad they have no pressing need for the mercurial talents of Bale, they are already stockpiled with attacking talent and a defensive linchpin is far more of a priority - but lumbering, wonky-nosed stoppers don't sell jerseys. The likelihood is that Bale will end up at the Bernebau and luckily for English football that will mean a stagnant market suddenly bursting into life as a result. The future of many of the league's top names should be decided within the next few weeks bringing an end to many months of mind-numbing speculation.

But the future of a club which once counted themselves among the league's top names for over thirty years is unlikely to be resolved any time soon. This week Coventry City went into liquidation, that's right the same club who regularly tamed the game's big boys at a feverish Highfield Road, the same club who once boasted talents like Dion Dublin, Gary McAllister and Darren Huckerby. How much money the club needed to remain financially viable is not known, but I'd wager that it amounted to little more than a fraction of the price tag placed upon the monkey-headed Welshman.

THE BINGO HALL PLEASE, AND MAKE IT SNAPPY

“Will I do another doughnut Mrs Murphy?” “Yes, go on, do another, WAHEY!” “You asked for it.” SCREEECH!!! “WHEEEEEEE.”

That was a fictional reconstruction of an old-age pensioner in a car with a boy-racer, no grannies nor local amenities were damaged during it's production. But this unlikely alliance may soon become a reality all over the country if Killarney's Mayor Paddy Courtney has his way. Mr Courtney's suggestion is that these young ne'er do wells tearing up the roads in their souped up Micras put their mileage to better use. And how so? By ferrying the nation's grannies and grandads to and from their social activities that's how. Worried about how you're going to get home from mass Mr O'Leary? Fear not help is at hand in the guise of young Liam here. Now just hop in the back seat there, that's right, beside the subwoofers, and away you go, be sure to buckle up tight 'cos it's bound to be a bumpy ride.

The funny thing is that this isn't the worst idea of all time. If you can ignore the legal ramifications and the propensity for mischief for a second it could actually work – sure them young fellas are haring up and down the road all day and night anyway, why not stick an ould wan in the back while they're at it! But then you think back to when you were that age and the whole thing comes tumbling down. Imagine the craic you'd have with a poor, defenceless septuagenarian coming along for the ride. There'd be joints flying around the place, Biggie Smalls blasting at full volume and corners took at death-defying speed, if Mrs McGrath wasn't incontinent before she got into the car she fuckin' will be by the time she gets out.

So sadly it's back to the drawing board for Mayor Courtney. The youth of today are often unfairly criticised and compared unfavourably to previous generations, but in the case I think a little too much trust has been placed in their feckless hands.

IT'S A GIRL!

Back before quiz shows dealt only in cold, hard cash there was a real chance that a single, elderly woman living in a small cottage in the Midlands might end up going home with a speedboat. That was just how it was. There appeared to be no forethought when it came to dishing out prizes, who on earth would want a set of self-folding vacuum cleaners? Doesn't matter just bung it in as prize number seven and away we go. The introduction of Who wants to be a Millionaire changed all that however and now no quizzer worth their salt will appear on anything offering less than a few grand for their efforts. But the producers of Pakistani gameshow Aman Ramzan have decided that cash money is just a little bit passé. Ew fifty thousand rupees, how very boring.

Contestants on Aman Ramzan (which is basically the Pakistani version of The Price is Right) could potentially land the gift of a lifetime, but not their lifetime, someone else's. A recent childless couple who had registered an interest in caring for abandoned children found their wishes coming true in the most unlikely of fashions. Most prospective parents receive news of a child's arrival in more conventional ways than this.

You may say that all's well that ends well. Two overjoyed parents and a child with a new home, perfect. But how the fuck are they going to explain this one to Junior in a few years time? Oh yeah, we err, won you on a TV show, your father wanted to take the flat-screen TV but I convinced him you were the better option. Should be an interesting conversation.

OPEN THE POD DOORS HAL

Uh oh it's finally happened, the robots are taking over and we are all officially doomed. And wouldn't you just know it, it's the Japanese who've set the ball in motion. Their creation Kirobo – who in no, way, shape or form looks like a creepy little monster bent on world domination – is being sent into space to test how machines can help astronauts with their work. Um hello have you not seen 2001: A Space Odyssey? We've already seen how machines help astronauts with their work and it's not pretty. The six other crew members who will be accompanying Kirobo may as well already be dead, it's up to the rest of us to save ourselves now.

And in fact Kirobo has begun his manifesto early by menacingly stating that he “hoped to create a future where humans and robots live together and get along.” Yeah right boy, pull the other one. It starts all friendly and nice and before you know it we're bowing to our new masters and begging for forgiveness. Our only hope now is that Obama or Cameron, or feck it, even Enda, realise the danger this little shite poses to humanity and blows the fucker out of the sky. Because otherwise it'll be curtains for mankind, mark my words. 

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.

FANNY MERCHANT

There are many vulgar phrases used to describe the private parts of the fairer sex. It'd be quite fun to list them here but perhaps I'll leave that for another day. Alongside those unsavoury, descriptive terms lie more socially acceptable names. Muff, that's a nice one, wholly inoffensive and even a bit cute if I do say so myself. Fanny? Hmm, tis a bit dated now really, nobody calls it that anymore. Nobody that is apart from Senator David Norris. Norris has always been a bit of a windbag, anyone that sat through the presidency debates of 2011 could tell you that. But he seemed harmless enough, until now.

Coming in the wake of another Daíl scandal - the now infamous 'lapgate' – Norris' outburst was the last thing the government needed. More to the point it was the last thing he needed. His reputation has always been built upon shaky foundations, the country as a whole got to know him better during his campaign for office and the majority did not like what they saw. Furthermore, as one of the few openly gay politicians in this country, he faces a higher level of scrutiny that your average member of Daíl Eireann. So it wasn't really in his best interests to launch a sexist tirade in the direction of Regina Doherty.

What does it say about the 'lad culture' in our government when even a gay man feels he can have a pop at one of the horrendously outnumbered women? True being homosexual doesn't automatically instill Norris with a better understanding of how women feel, but it does allow him to empathise with their plight as the clear minority in the Daíl. He must surely have faced the same kind of prejudice during his rise to prominence, and yet here he is dealing in petty insults and smutty innuendo. However I'm not sure what's worse, his complete and utter ignorance, or his use of a phrase that went out of fashion years ago.

OOH AAH

We Irish are a cynical bunch, not for us yearly honours and the endless, meaningless letters after your name. No, if you wish to gain our respect you must earn it. You could say we're a nation of begrudgers. So becoming a national treasure in this country is quite the feat. Very few people reach this esteemed level of admiration, and even those that do are invariably loathed within months of doing so. Off the top of my head I would say that currently there are but a handful of national treasures in this country; Katie Taylor, Ray D'Arcy, Brendan Gleeson and Gay Byrne. Everybody likes those people, don't they?

But there is man whose popularity outstrips even that of Gaybo. This is a man who is loved by every man, woman and child the length and breadth of the Emerald Isle. And the crazy thing is he's long since retired from his profession and only comes to our attention when he's done something bad. But still we love him. And why wouldn't we? Sure isn't he the Black Pearl of Inchicore? Arguably the most talented sportsman to ever emerge from this tiny island nation, Paul McGrath. Our love of him is rooted in countless heroic displays for the Irish football team, but plenty of players have performed stoutly in the green without garnering the kind of affection Paul does.

You see what we love about Paul is how typically Irish he is, he may have been one of the first black men in Dublin but a more Irish person you couldn't imagine. Despite his mercurial talents he never quite believed in himself, and this was despite playing for the biggest club of them all, Manchester United. He seemed bashful when praised, embarrassed almost, gway outta that I was only alright. And when coupled with an almost crippling shyness what you had was an incredibly unassuming, gentle giant who just happened to be a world-class footballer. But like so many Irish men before him Paul sought to overcome his social awkwardness in the only way we know how, with drink.

Anyone that has read his autobiography will be fully aware of the tumultuous life of Paul McGrath, it's an astonishing read which leaves you in awe of the man. But by the book's end we are left feeling positive about the future, Paul is seeking help, everything will be okay, he won't go the way of Best and Gascoigne, thank God for that. Sadly in the life of an alcoholic nothing is ever that simple. And so it was that Paul hit the headlines for all the wrong reasons again this week: a public-order offence in which he was accused of acting in a “disturbed manner.” His 'punishment' was a day teaching young kids the finer arts of the game in which he so excelled. But more revealing was his excuse for his behaviour, he admitted to using alcohol as a way of overcoming his anxieties. The crazy thing is he was doing that twenty years ago, is this simply a man that is beyond help? All he want is to be sober and the entire country is behind him in that regard. But you can't help but feel you've seen it all before, and that you know how it ends -  badly.

COPPERS AND ROBBERS

How is your money jar coming along? Getting nice and full in preparation for Christmas? Come on, don't pretend you don't have one, everyone does. Mine is currently full to overflowing and I badly need to cash in. At the moment I've even taken to pilfering the last remaining 50 cent pieces during the more austere times. The pennies and two pennies? I never go near them, why the fuck would I? The reason I wouldn't is because they are essentially worthless. Oh yes they're occasionally handy when you're in a bind but for the most part they never re-enter circulation once they drop into your pocket. That's right the majority of those little pieces of copper only end up being used in one solitary transaction. They either end up in the bottom of your money jar or back with the bank via one of those handy little money bags. Hardly seems worth the effort to even make them does it?

And when you consider that they cost as much to produce as they are actually worth then it's hard to ascertain why we even have them. Well thankfully they might not be around much longer. You wouldn't usually associate Wexford Town or it's denizens with anything approaching forward thinking but they are currently experimenting a system which dispenses with those pesky little coppers. And should this experiment be deemed a success then they will be officially taken out of circulation (the coins, not people from Wexford). The more mistrusting among us may question this initiative and wonder if it's not just another cunning ploy by our government, they're taking our pennies the bastards! But it is has already been implemented in Holland to great success so we can rest easy. Fuck knows how we'll manage at Christmas without our money jars though.

I'll BE THERE IN A JIFFY

No jobs, no money, no women, no drink, the country is fucked, get out while you can. And many have, emigration is at it's highest since the 1980s and shows no signs of slowing down. Who can blame those who have fled in search of better fortunes? Good luck to 'em, we'll let ye know when it's safe to come back. What this has also meant is the slowing down of the mass immigration that occurred in Ireland during the early part of the noughties. No one wants to come here any more, we're fuckin' skint lads turn back. But on the other hand, thanks to the Gathering (aka; the shakedown) our tourism industry is on the up and up. They're falling over themselves to get here and sample our overpriced Guinness and intemperate weather. Why some of 'em are even paddling over on dinghies, from Dorset.

Yes one American man was so keen to set foot on our fabled land that hetook it upon himself to pop over on a little dinghy, sure 'tis only across the water I'll be there in a couple of minutes. It didn't work out like that though and the poor sod was found floundering in the Irish Sea just a couple of miles off the coast of England. Eventually, after much discussion, he was taken ashore and treated for severe sunburn. Maybe he has Irish roots after all, we're renowned for going a bit mad when the sun hits us. Details of his cargo were unconfirmed but he is believed to have had two flagons of Linden Village, eight luncheon sandwiches wrapped in tin foil, an Ipod featuring the hits of The Dubliners and a six pack of Tayto on board. 

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.

REGRETS, I'VE HAD A FEW

Alcohol and work don't mix, everyone knows that. You leave the drinking until the day is over, it's far safer that way. Instead you wait until the annual Christmas party which you mark by telling your boss what you really think of him before getting off with the overweight girl from accounts. You then spend the next few months avoiding both your boss and your smitten paramour before leaving for pastures new. Once you start your new job you make a pledge to never attend a 'works do', but it's only a matter of time before you relent and find yourself knee deep in the alcohol fueled debauchery. Eventually you will learn your lesson but by that time you'll be nearing retirement age and it'll hardly seem important any more.

And although the members of Daíl Eireann are charged with running this fine country they are, in essence, no different to any one of us. They all harbour secret desires, they all secretly resent that high-flying do-gooder and they all like a little drinkie or two. However they usually have the cop on to do what the rest of us do and leave the booze until the day's affairs have been completed. This week though they all had to do a bit of overtime, the poor feckers. And sure all that debating can be fierce tiring at the best of times. Never mind the fact that they were mulling over one of the most divisive topics in the history of the state, these lads and lasses were thirsty!

But seeing as they were working through the night and the accepted closing times for Irish pubs of a week night is 11.30 they would just have to go without a little stiffener to keep 'em going, right? Nope. They have their own special bar don't ya know. A bar that can stay open 'til whatever fuckin' hour it wants, and why not? So while the abortion bill was being discussed at length by our beloved TDs more than one of them was skulling back pints in the Daíl Bar. Beggars belief doesn't it? In truth it was only the small minority, they're not all idiots, but the very notion of having access to alcohol while in the workplace is ludicrous. And the fact that this is not any old workplace makes it even more so.

Thankfully this should be the end of 'refreshments' in Daíl Eireann. Tom Barry saw to that with his drunken mishandling of Aíne Barry which was rather brilliantly caught on film. It makes you wonder what else goes on away from the cameras though. After a few whiskeys even Mary Harney is going to look good. Maybe the Daíl Bar should be left intact but just with one small addition: a hidden camera network which provides Big Brother style coverage of life inside.

GUANTANAMO BEY

There was once a time when those in the public eye used their position for the greater good. John Lennon famously staged a bed-in for peace, Marlon Brando sent a Native American to collect his Oscar and Tommie Smith and John Carlos championed the civil rights cause with their famous black power salute. Nowadays the majority of celebrities have far more important things on their mind. Oh yes you still have the holier than thou Bono and a few others but most of these seem to take as much satisfaction from the acclaim their actions bring than the actions themselves. Yasiin Bey (AKA Mos Def) on the other hand is slightly different.

Anyone with even a passing interest in rap music will be aware of who Mos Def is, his 1999 album Black on Both Sides stands up there with the very best the genre has produced. But there has always been a lot more to Mos than just music. Yes he is also an actor but it is the content of his work which reveals the most about the 39 year-old Brooklyn native. As part of a swathe of conscious rappers that came to prominence in the late nineties Mos Def sought to educate as well as entertain his listeners. His recent output hasn't quite lived up to the high standard he set himself but while the strength of the music has wavered the message hasn't.

I haven't always agreed with the sentiments expressed by rappers like Mos Def but I can't help but admire his most recent political statement. The plight of those housed in Guantanamo Bay is not something that overly concerns me, but maybe it should, I don't know. However having watched Mos Def undertake a procedure which is part of the daily life of Guantanamo's inmates I now find myself taking a keen interest in their situation.

HO LEE FUK

It was a prank so ludicrous that it would surely never come off. Were it to happen on your local radio station you would scarcely believe it, but Fox News? No way could they fall for it. But they did. Hook, line and sinker.

The plane crash in San Francisco this week shocked and saddened us all. The death of three people as a result of the Aisiana Airlines Boeing 777 crash is a tragedy within itself, and the fact that one of those deaths came at the wheels of a fire truck rushing to assist other victims even more so. But when you watch the video below it's hard not to stifle a laugh regardless of the subject matter. You know you shouldn't but inevitably you succumb. You laugh in spite of yourself and feel guilty for doing so. But then you console yourself with the knowledge that it's not your fault those presenters and their researchers are so dumb. Although the death count in the wake of this disaster has remained mercifully low it may yet be added to as heads will surely fall within the corridors of Fox News following this monumental cock-up.

THESE ARE THE DAYS

Oh remember that summer when we little lads, roasting it was! Every day the sun split the stones. It seemed like it would last forever. Oh them were the days. Well lo and behold here we are smack bang in the middle of 'the days'. In years to come people will hark back to the summer of 2013 as the benchmark against which all other summers must compete. 'Tis hot but 'tis nothin' compared to '13, we'll say as we mop the sweat from our brows, now that was a fuckin' summer. We'll forget about the cloudy days, the chilly days and even the rainy days. Twas three months of unrelenting heat the likes of which you wouldn't get in the Sahara desert, animals were dropping dead in front of our very eyes, our skin blistered the minute we went out the door, the beer gardens were full from opening 'til closing. Some feckin' summer that was.

That's what I'll be tellin' 'em anyway. And why wouldn't I? We've already had a week of it and by all accounts we have another week to come. A vintage summer that's what it is. The kind of summer that'll go down in legend. The year Ireland transformed from a rainy outcrop on the Atlantic to a tropical island near the Equator. Everyone was so happy. Everyone that is apart from the miserable bastards who spent the whole time repeating the same phrase over and over again “It's too hot”. Those people won't recount this year's heatwave with quite the same enthusiasm as the rest of us. Instead they'll be sat indoors with big miserable pusses on 'em recanting their mantra to anyone who'll listen “It's too hot.” 

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.

YOU CAN'T BUY CLASS

Remember when you were a little 'un and your Mother told you not to play with (insert name of local ruffian here). You dutifully obliged like the good child you were, but all the while you wondered what it was about that boy/girl that made them so undesirable. Occasionally you'd question your Mam and ask why you couldn't play with him/her, to which the response would be “You just can't, that's why”. Now that I'm older I understand why I couldn't play with that little scamp, it was because he was a menace to society and spent his evenings terrorising the local village folk. Thanks Mammy, I would have hated to spend my formative years in a young offender's home.

But our mothers didn't make those decisions flippantly. Oh no. They knew every kid's family background inside out and their suitability as a friend was based on their findings. On the rare occasion that you made a friend whom your mother knew nothing about she would spend a few minutes assessing his character before passing judgement. If he said please and thank you and looked like he'd bathed within the previous week then he usually made the cut. But do you know what the funny thing was? Even as children we were aware of class, albeit subconsciously. Think back to the kids that were your best friends when you were lickle – they invariably came from a similar environment to you. We naturally gravitate to those we feel most comfortable with, see Mammy all your fretting was for nothing!

But our mother's should consider themselves fortunate – back then we were all either called Johnny, Jimmy, Micky or Paddy, so the notion of avoiding someone based on their Christian name was unheard of. It's a lot tougher these days apparently, take poor Katie Hopkins (no seriously take her), she has an awful time deciding which children are worthy enough to spend time with her precious offspring. Luckily she has a foolproof method which ensures no scallywags come within ten feet of Poppy and India. By simply ruling out children who possess a 'working-class' name she ensures that her own little angels remain unharmed and oblivious to the evils of the world.

So if you're called Tyler, Chardonnay or Brandon this is your lucky day, you're not going to be invited over to the Hopkins' for afternoon crumpets and tea. Phew. Lucky escape there. What the tiny-minded Katie fails to grasp is how damaging this is not only to those children whom she so fecklessly labels but also to her own. What kind of world are they going to grow up in? One where they're taught to turn their nose up at those who are inferior to them. The saddest thing is that those precious little minds which are so eager for information will eventually be polluted by their idiot Mother, until, a few years down the line, they are preaching the same shit to their own progeny.

IT'S A FUCKING DISGRACE

I don't particularly like rugby but I can still say without any hesitation that Brian O'Driscoll is one of, if not the, greatest Irish sportsmen of all time. Very few Irish athletes reach the pinnacle of their sport on a global scale, even less stay there for a protracted period of time. He has been universally regarded as among the best in his sport for the past ten years, in recent times only Roy Keane and Padraig Harrington could lay similar claims. 'BOD' is one of our nation's favourite sons, at least among the rugby fraternity anyway. So when another Lions tour trundled round there was much talk of O'Driscoll finally laying to rest his own personal ghosts. It would be his fourth, and last, tour and his final opportunity to actually win a series.

A less than stellar performance in the second test was summarily dismissed, “you can't drop BOD, it's unthinkable”. But someone was thinking about it, and he just happened to be the most important man of all. Warren Gatland must have expected some raised eyebrows when he shunted O'Driscoll out of the squad for the final test, but the shitstorm that followed must have exceeded his very worst expectations. Like I've said previously I'm far from what you'd call a rugby fan, therefore it's not for me to weigh up the merits of O'Driscoll versus some Welsh meathead. But what I can weigh up is the sheer idiocy of the moronic masses.

These are the same people who campaigned for Ireland's game against France to be replayed in the wake of Henry's infamous handball. These are the same people who spout the same reactionary bollocks every time something not to their liking happens in the sporting world. Off they go creating their Facebook groups, brandishing everything 'an absolute fuckin' disgrace' and generally frothing at the mouth at the sheer injustice of it all. Numbskulls. Football has become infested with nu-age fans with little or no understanding of the game and now it appears to be rugby's turn.

Thanks to the success of the Irish teams in the Heineken Cup rugby is now more popular than ever. And with popularity comes new supporters, people with high expectations and little or no patience. I'm sure most time-worn rugby fans accepted Gatland's decision to drop O'Driscoll. They might not have agreed with it but they understood it and saw the reasoning behind it. And I'm almost completely sure that those same dyed in the wool supporters cringe every time they listened to another outraged caller calling for Gatland to be hung, drawn and quartered for his crimes against humanity. Imagine if the Lions had lost the final test. Imagine how happy those imbeciles would have been. How justified they would have felt. As it was the Lions romped to victory and O'Driscoll got the honour of contributing to a test-winning team. So really everyone's a winner. Except Warren Gatland, 'cos he's a cunt. Right?

THE REFEREE'S A.........GONER

Who'd be a football referee eh? 22 tosspots acting the maggot on the pitch and thousands more giving you grief from the stands, it truly is a thankless task. FIFA constantly harp on about respect within the game but let's face it referees are treated like shit by players and managers alike and that's unlikely to change any time soon. They could always follow rugby union's lead and issue the refs with microphones so we can listen to Ashley Cole's foul-mouthed tirades but even that is unlikely to change things. No, what's needed is a more hands-on approach. For too long these overpaid nancy boys have been taking liberties with the man in the middle. My suggestion? Corporal punishment.

Let us arm our referees. That's right arm the poor sods. How many times have you watched a footballer eyeball the man in black and wonder how on earth he can restrain himself? Well now we won't have to wonder any more. Before each game they'll select their weapon of choice, whether it be a tazer, a cattle prod, pepper spray or maybe just a big fuck off stick. And then, with their armament carefully concealed in their shorts, they will take to the pitch ready to do battle with anyone stupid enough to question them. This new legislation should be trialled at an El Classico in Spain, and of course the players shouldn't know anything about it.

So two minutes in Ronaldo takes a theatrical dive and straight away the ref is surrounding by the loathsome Busquets, Ramos and Pedro. Back off he'll say (or whatever the Spanish equivalent is), back off lads I'm warning you, but it's no use the whinging little fuckers are waving imaginary cards, doing that tiresome pleading to God gesture and generally being a pain in the arse. Then BAM! A tazer to the chest. Down goes Ramos. And for once he's actually hurt. Immediately all the rest of the little shites go on the retreat. No more nonsense.

So what brought on this idea I hear you ask? Take a look at this story. This was a referee that truly meant business. But bringing a knife onto the pitch is a step too far in my opinion. That's just asking for trouble. I mean that's the kind of thing that's likely to get a fella beheaded - or something like that anyway.

CEASE AND DESIST

Sadly we're unlikely to see football referees armed with anything more than a whistle and a few pencils for the foreseeable future. But one establishment that has access to a veritable cornucopia of artillery is the US police force. And by fuck they're not afraid to use it. The debate on American gun law and it's effect upon society seems to intensify any time some fucked up teenager goes on a killing spree, but it's essentially become a Catch 22 scenario and stripping the police of their firearms is not the way to go. However in saying that they should be taught to exercise a little restraint when engaging with the general public, and nothing underlines that point more than the following video.

Horrible to watch wasn't it? I don't have access to US police protocol but if it really says 'shoot a poor defenceless animal if it barks at you' in their rule book then it's probably time for an update. Their motto is “To Serve and Protect”. Who was being served or protected by that cowardly act? It could be argued that the dog was a threat and therefore had to be pacified, but shooting it? Come on. I refuse to believe that the officer in question had no other option. That he couldn't have reached for his pocket and produced something other than a deadly weapon. That he couldn't have subdued the dog in another, non fatal, way. The officer in question has been taken off the streets indefinitely, finally some justice. 'Fraid not – he has been removed for his own safety and has received the full backing of his superiors.