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.” 

Summer Time and the living is easy

And it burns, burns, buurns...

It begins with snippets of gossip which are summarily dismissed, you overhear excited murmurings in the post office “......giving it lovely for tomorrow......” and receive texts with tentative plans for outdoor activities but still you refuse to believe. This so called 'heatwave', ie anything upwards of 17 degrees Celsius, is most likely just an elaborate hoax started by an ice cream van man tired of playing his jingle to a series of empty avenues. Despite your best intentions you chance upon a weather report that evening and it appears Jean Byrne is in on this whole ruse as she cheerily informs us to get the suncream out and avoid UV Rays between the hours of 10 and 4. The first quiver of excitement coarses through your veins and you curse yourself for being so foolish. Better to just banish all hopeful thoughts from your mind you think as you retire for the night certain that upon waking you will be met with the usual drab dismal morning you've become accustomed to.

Irish people are built not physically nor mentally for warm weather climes. A skin tone best described as being slightly south of pale and a approach to life which rests somewhere between sombre resignation and joyless melancholy means that a climate of intermittent rain and drab grey skies suits us just fine. Our relationship with our weather is one built upon trust, it remains thoroughly predictable and in return we don't complain too much about it. Those that aren't happy about it can sod off to another country and deal with hurricanes, tsunamis and the like, everybody else is content to moan incessantly and occasionally threaten to 'head off to the sun'. But for all our acceptance of endlessly overcast days turning into weeks and months we all secretly yearn for guaranteed balmy summers and each and every year without fail we get our hopes up only for them to be dashed time and time again.

So when all of this is taken into account is it any wonder the entire country goes stir crazy at the first sight of that giant behemoth in the sky? Ancient folklore tells of men driven wild by the sight of a full moon but nowhere in the history books does it mention the crazed antics of the Irish once the rarely spotted Sun comes out to play. We take to the streets like stupefied zombies, unsure as to what to do but knowing that we have to be there, attired in all manner of clothing depending on how prepared we were for this momentous time. Straight away you can see those that have been somewhat prepared and those that haven't. You have the types that lie in wait for the summer like stealth ninjas who are dressed like something straight off Bondi Beach determined to not only blister in the heat but look good whilst doing so. Then there's the ones who are moderately equipped and manage to rifle through their wardrobes producing an ensemble that although not exactly 'chic' is passable enough under the circumstances. Then there's everybody else.

Like the result of a fashion parade for the mentally unwell many Irish bask in the heat with little or no self awareness and in some cases little or no items of clothing. You have your stereotypical young white males wearing nothing but a pair of GAA shorts and a well worn pair of Reebok classics, this character will generally only be spotted on the first day of nice weather as he will spend at least a fortnight tending to excruciating wounds caused by first degree burns. Then there's the mix and match brigade, totally taken aback by this sudden increase in temperature they get into a mindless panic throwing on whatever items of clothing they can find before rushing out into the sun without so much as a glance in the mirror. I can only presume that they don't take the time to peruse their appearance before heading out as some of the ensembles witnessed can only be worn by those short of sight or indeed completely blind. Bermuda shorts coupled with tshirts urging you to be part of 'Jackie's army' are casually draped on to bodies which haven't seen the light of day since a sweaty coalescence on Christmas Night. Sunglasses ordinarily worn by pop stars in some futile attempt at irony are brandished without shame and Fedora hats are jauntily perched atop the heads of those that should really know better.

Accompanying this carnival of insanity is of course the ubiquitous 'drink'. Beer gardens which had hitherto played host to nothing but hardy smokers are now bristling cauldrons of drunken reverie as afternoon beverages turn into days on the lash, all fuelled by the blazing sun. But this self contained environment is just the tip of the iceberg, all around the country local parks, fields, avenues, estates, beaches and open spaces of any shape, size or form are awash with topless youths (and some not so youthful) hosting impromptu outdoor shindigs with not a care in the world. Music is provided by whatever means necessary and for once the neighbours aren't compelled to bring complaint such is the feeling of togetherness brought about by the tropical temperature. Untold criminal offences are committed in broad daylight but passing police officers choose to look kindly upon the young ne'er do wells seeing as it's 'a nice day and all'. Fights break out, vomit is spewed, cherries are popped, tears are shed and everyone has splendid fun until it's time to limp home for a night of restless writhing beneath blankets that are far too warm under the circumstances.

avengeance.

Suddenly you can't move for whinging people. Not just the elderly and the goths either, everybody is complaining about the heat and how they can't cope with it anymore. The bonhomie of the previous few days is forgotten as we seek solace by any means possible, grown men hold ridiculous miniature fans to their faces and any outdoor space offering a modicum of shade is snapped up vigorously. We're now content to enjoy the sun but only from afar thank you very much. The government issuing warnings over reservoir levels is the final straw for some, they now have a justified reason to want that odious ball of fire to scuttle off to wherever it came from and aren't afraid to voice their concerns. It doesn't take long before we become a nation on red alert. Scenes of scorched earth with nothing but dying crops are aired on the news as a tearful farmer lambasts the Gods and their cursed weather. Supermarkets tell of record spring water sales as waterworks become increasingly unpredictable in households all around the country not helping the already less than fragrant ambience of many abodes. Where will it end we think, damn you global warming and your devious ways we never asked for this!!

Then just as quickly as it arrived it's gone. You wake up one morning and instead of pitter pattering around the house in a state of undress you notice a slight chill in the air and rush to put on a tshirt. You look out the window and there's these strange yet slightly familiar fluffy objects in the sky obstructing the source of all this commotion just like they're supposed to. You reach into a sock drawer that hasn't seen the light of day for aeons and pull on a lovely woolen pair with relish as your flip flops lie neglected in the corner. It's all over, we've had our fun now things can return to normality. We had a lovely time we really did and look at how brown we all are, I did get roasted at first but sure it was worth it in the end. That was some session we had that Friday, great craic, can't beat slugging a few flagons on a sunny afternoon, ah the memories. Wouldn't want it to get that hot again though, feckin scorching it was how did we manage at all. Thank God for the nice predictable Irish weather and it's cuddly little clouds and cooling minor showers, we wouldn't change it for the world.

A week or so passes, it's the middle of August and the weather is typically Irish, grey, occasionally warm but thoroughly depressing. As you enter your local post office you hear someone speaking to the teller “This weather is a bloody joke isn't it, are we going to get a summer at all this year”.